Page 41 of How to Hide in Plain Sight
It’s an island.
“You know,” Manuel says finally, “in Colombia, my family was considered rich.”
He doesn’t say anything after that. He doesn’t have to.
—
OUR FIRST NIGHT ON THEisland, a massive thunderstorm rolls in. It’s a quintessential summertime display of whipping wind and crashing, crackling electricity. The entire family gathers on the porch of my parents’ cabin to watch. We spread blankets and sleeping bags along the cushioned benches, then hunker together beneath them. Under our wool blanket, Manuel grips my hand. His palm is sweaty. I wonder if they don’t have thunderstorms in Colombia.
In the morning, the storm leaves behind its usual destruction. I look over the cracked branches and fallen trees. It gives me an idea.
“Come on,” I say to Manuel, “I want to show you something.”
When I tell him we’re going into the woods, he looks unsure. He peers up at the sky, as if nervous that at any minute it will open up again.
“Trust me,” I say. “This will be worth it.”
All his fear disappears as soon as we enter the forest. The middleof Cradle Island, a jungle even on the driest of days, has come alive. Leftover raindrops drip from pine needles. Damp leaves stick to our shoes as we walk. I hop from rock to rock, careful to avoid thriving clusters of Moss People. Rock cress and wormwood blossom in tight clusters. Bristleleaf and wild rye wave in the breeze. Manuel reaches out and runs his fingers through it all.
I haven’t visited the Fort since before Henry’s death. I had no desire to sit in the middle of the forest alone last year. The idea depressed me. But something tells me the time has come.
I’m right.
Manuel falls in love with the Fort right away. It becomes our headquarters for the summer. Every morning, we shovel Lucky Charms down our throats and clear out of Sunny Sunday as quickly as possible. We nap in the Fort. Play cards in the Fort. Manuel reads. I write. When I finish a piece, Manuel reads it aloud so I can hear how it sounds. I stop him periodically to make notes. Sometimes, if I ask nicely, he translates the story into Spanish, painting an entirely new canvas of words onto the back of the page. I crawl up onto the top of the Fort and—stance wide, face tilted to the sky—perform a dramatic reading of the translation. I don’t know most of the words on the page, but I take my best guess. The higher my confidence, the louder my volume. The louder my volume, the worse my pronunciation. Manuel rolls around the clearing with laughter.
“You’re a regular Don Quixote,” he tells me, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. I have no idea what that means. I grin anyway.
“Where do you two go all day?” Mom asks one morning.
“To the office,” we say in unison.
Karma snorts. “They’re definitely sneaking off to make out in the woods.”
We look at each other and make identical gagging faces. Then we fill two Ziploc bags with Oreos and race out the back door.
—
MY DAYS ON CRADLE WITHManuel are the closest I come to real contentment. We read dystopian thrillers on lounge chairs while our bodies bake under the sun. We beg Clarence to take us tubing because he drives the fastest. We chug cans of root beer while the adults sip wine. After dinner, Taz appears with kindling and matchsticks and volunteers to fire up the sauna. In half an hour the tiny wooden hut is hot enough to burn itself down. We strip to swimsuits and pile in, all of us, eight half-naked bodies packed into one eight-by-eight room. Pale, perspiring sardines. We lock ourselves inside as long as possible. Toss cup after cup of water onto the blazing-hot rocks. Grit our teeth when it hisses back into the air as clouds of steam—the most delicious form of torture. Then, just when the steam becomes so thick it feels like you’re drowning in a pot of boiling water, someone throws open the door and we all rush into the night and sprint down the dock and dive into the moon-bright lake.
Then we run back to the sauna and do it all over again.
And again.
And again.
By the end of the night, we’re exhausted. When we fall into bed, we pass out in seconds.
—
EVEN WITH MANUEL, THE PERSONwho makes me happiest, in the place that makes me happiest, the Worries don’t leave. At every moment, I live half in this world and half in another. One world is physical, the other invisible. I’m perfectly capable of remainingengaged in the physical one—the “real” world, the one with action and dialogue and the ever-present passage of time—while silently running through my standard list of Worries, one leading right into the next, like the endless all-caps ticker that sprints across the bottom of a newscast.
The ticker contextualizes the physical world. Provides the set of rules by which I must live. The Worries might have nothing to do with what’s actually happening at the moment—in fact, most often they don’t; most often they’re leftovers, past wrongdoings or passing thoughts onto which I graft meaning. And although I might look happy on the outside—I might smile with my teeth and laugh with my belly and dance with my feet—at every moment, inside my mind, the ticker runs on.
—
OUR LAST MORNING ON THEisland, Manuel and I wake before sunrise. We gather everything we need for the day into one backpack, and as soon as the first glimpse of sunlight peeks over the horizon, we’re out the door. The air is cool and brisk, the first sign of fall.
One year has passed since I first lost my mind.
