We got picked up by a ragged crew of Mexican fishermen just before
dark. Aside from being sunburned to medium rare, we were physically
okay. The fresh air and sunshine did a lot to bring Sarah back, though
she did have lapses of non-rationality, and once tried to dive over the
side of their fishing cutter. They dropped us off at the tourist site
of Yaxchitan, a Mayan ruin on the western bank of the mighty
Usumacinta, where we joined an American day-tour on its way back to San
Cristobal de las Casas. There we caught a prop flight to Cancun, and
then American Airlines to New York. We had no luggage, but I flew us
first-class, and I still have the MasterCard slip to prove it.
As things turned out, though, returning Sarah to normalcy--or me, for
that matter--was another struggle entirely. For me, time, after that
rainy morning in the Peten, became an essence that flowed around me as
though I were aswim in the ether of interstellar space, pondering the
conjunction of good and evil. I suffered flashbacks, late-night
reveries of forests and children that must have been like those Sarah
struggled to bury. For weeks after that, I had a lot of trouble
remembering meetings, returning phone calls, giving David an honest
day's editing.
For her own part, Sarah just seemed to drift at first, to the point I
sometimes wondered if she realized she was back at Lou's loft. Then
abruptly, one day she snapped into her old self and started sending for
re-registration materials from Columbia. I really needed to talk with
her about our mutual nightmare, but she seemed to have erased all
memories of _Baalum_, except for occasional mumbles in Kekchi Maya.
Perhaps that was best, I consoled myself. Maybe it was wise for us all
just to let the ghosts of that faraway place lie sleeping.
As for Lou, I told him as little as I could about what happened to her
there. He hadn't returned to work, had mainly stayed at his Soho place
to be near her, as though he was fearful she might be snatched away
from him once more. Frankly, I think all his enforced closeness was
starting to grate on her nerves, though I dared not hint such a thing
to him.
In the meantime, Steve returned to Belize to wrap up his photo essay,
and David submitted a (very) rough cut of _Baby Love _to the selection
committee at Sundance (our hoped-for distribution deal with Orion was,
alas, in temporary turnaround pending yet another management shuffle).
We did, however, squeeze an advance from Lifetime that lowered the heat
with Nicky Russo.
Nevertheless, the story of how Alex Goddard touched all our lives still
wasn't over. It was two months after we got back to the city that my
dark dance with the man who thought he was Shiva, creator and
destroyer, had its final pirouette, as though his ghost had returned
from his rain-forest redoubt for one last sorcerer's turn.
Truthfully, it all transpired so fast I could scarcely take it in, but
here's the rough outline of what happened. I was working late that
Thursday evening in the editing room at Applecore, around seven
o'clock. And I was feeling particularly out of sorts, including a
headache and stomach pains from the leftover pizza I'd microwaved to
keep me going. I was re-cutting some new real-life interviews I'd
filmed to replace those of Carly and Paula. (Children of Light had gone
defunct, by the way, the phone at Quetzal Manor disconnected, but I
didn't need any more excitement in my life of the colonel Ramos
variety. The replacement interviews weren't nearly as bubbly and full
of exuberance, but they were actually much truer to the realities of
adoption.)
Anyway, I listened to my stomach, and decided it was high time to toss
in the towel. I got my things, locked up, and then I ran into David on
the elevator, coming down from the floor above.
"How's it going?" he asked, ostentatiously checking his watch, an
approving gleam in his eyes. I was glad he wanted to let me know he'd
noticed I was logging long hours. Then he looked at me again. "Hey, you
feeling okay?"
"I've been better," I said, thinking how nice it was that he cared.
"Could be a couple of aspirin and a good night's sleep are called for."
"So now you're a doctor?" he said, following me into the lobby,
"Providing self-diagnosis--?"
"David, give me a break. I just happen to feel a little off today,
okay? It doesn't mean I'm at death's door."
"Yeah, well, the way you look you coulda fooled me." He headed down the
street, toward the avenue. Then he called back over his shoulder. "I
don't want to see you in tomorrow unless you look like you might live
through the day. I pay for your health insurance. Use it, for God's
sake."
After I found a cab, I began to think he might be right. This was no
typical down day. So I decided I'd stop at the Duane Reade on my corner
and talk to the pharmacist.
The second-shift man was on, a gray-haired portly old guy who knew more
about drugs than most doctors. The tag on his jacket said "Bernd" and
that's all anybody ever knew of his name. I sometimes called him "Dr.
Bernd" by way of banter, but nothing I could do would ever make him
smile.
The place was nearly empty and the pharmacy at the rear, with its
spectral fluorescent lighting, looked like an out-take from a
low-budget Wes Craven movie. Bernd, who was in back puttering, came out
and looked me over.
I know it sounds naive, but I trusted him more than I trust half the
young, overworked interns you get at an emergency room these days. I
poured out my symptoms, including the story about how I'd been given
fertility drugs and toad venom. Was it all coming back to haunt me, the
dark hand of Alex Goddard?
He began by asking me some very perceptive questions, about things that
had been puzzling me but I'd sort of managed to dismiss. Finally, he
walked around the counter and lifted a small, shrink-wrapped box off a
rack.
"Try this," he said handing it over, "and then come back tomorrow.
Maybe it's not such a big deal."
You're kidding, I thought, looking at the box.
I got home, collapsed onto the couch, and opened it. Believe it or not,
I actually had to read the instructions. I did what they said, checked
the time, and then decided to run a hot bath.
I filled the tub, dumped in some bubble-bath, put the cordless on the
toilet seat, and splashed in. It felt so good I wanted to dissolve.
Then I reached for the phone.
The clock above the sink read eight-thirty, and I figured rightly, that
Steve would be back at his hotel in Belize City. Sure enough I got him
on the first try.
"Honey, you sitting down?" I said.
"I'm lying down. You wouldn't believe my day."
"You 're not going to believe what I just heard from the pharmacist at
the corner. Remember I told you I've been feeling strange, and some
things were a little behind schedule? Well, guess what. We're about to
find out something. We can't be together, but we can share it over a
satellite."
"You mean . . ."
"I'm doing the test right now. You know, you take the stick out of the
glass holder and if it's turned pink. . . ."