Left on Paradise (44 page)

33

Conceived in Sorrow

Kit opened her eyes. Someone was making love not far away and it was hard to sleep despite the fact that the couple kept it quiet. She pulled a pillow over her ears until the rustling of the couple faded away, then closed her eyes as the first glimmer of dawn began to light the east sky and birds sang love songs from the forest.

Now Kit reached to touch Ryan, but he wasn’t there. She sat up and pulled a blanket over her legs as she leaned forward, her chin resting atop a knee and her hands clasped around her legs. She thought of Ryan; it seemed so long since his touch had stirred passion—except when she was drunk earlier that month. Kit blushed and put the memory out of mind. Quarrels and tiredness had dulled love and the dissolution of her marriage was harder than she expected—as if the invalidation of paperwork also had annulled their love. Even after the tryst on the beach, Ryan seemed uninterested and unaffected. How else to explain he hadn’t proposed? Or hadn’t come to bed for so long?

Baby birds chirped from a nearby tree and Kit wondered how many chicks had hatched even as she remembered her own empty nest. Ryan was wrong to deny her a child and to have talked her into a tubal ligation and he was wrong to be so hard-hearted. Tiffany and Linh understood and so did Ursula. Even Deidra knew the desire for a child. Kit slipped a hand under her nightshirt to touch the tiny incision on her belly—which felt lumpier and longer than ever. However, when she measured it against a fingernail, it remained unchanged.

“He was no more foolish than I was,” Kit reminded herself, “it was my body and I should’ve taken care.”

Kit closed her eyes and remembered Ryan. They had been through so much together, good and bad. She wondered whether she ought to ask him about remarrying to get their life back to normal.

“Even old flames,” Kit told herself, “can be rekindled and I suppose I’d better start burning before Ryan warms himself somewhere else.”

Now the nearby couple began to talk a little too loud for this hour and Kit wondered who it was. The woman’s voice was too young to be Joan or Olivia and too high-pitched to be Deidra. Nor was it Hilary or Lisa—their tents were pitched too far away. Since Tiffany and Linh always showed a rather maternal modesty, the only neighbors left to count were Heather and ...

Kit stiffened and her stomach turned when she remembered that Ryan was the only man Maria had shown any interest in. Quickly dressing even as her stomach knotted, Kit hurried toward Maria’s tent just as the latter emerged through her front flap. As Kit ducked beside a neighboring tent, Maria sauntered toward the Pishon River, clutching her toiletry bag and wearing a wrinkled shirt. Only one man on the island owned a shirt like it: its Italian cut and pastel pattern being a handmade original—a shirt Kit herself had designed for Ryan during a film shoot in Milan.

Kit waited until Maria was gone before she hurried home, already sobbing and covering her eyes. She didn’t emerge from her tent for breakfast and continued to weep when Ryan came to declare their marriage over, explaining that he’d just married Maria and planned to register the marriage in New Plymouth before taking a honeymoon. Ryan hoped a short absence would help Kit recover from the shock and apologized for handling his new relationship so poorly—reminding Kit she’d never done anything to cause the loss of his love and that he’d kept his vows for as long as they were married. He gave Kit the half-built house and wished her happiness. For her part, Kit listened red-eyed and ash-faced from the tent floor without speaking a word until Ryan tried to comfort her with a hug. After she pushed him away and told him to leave, Ryan collected his belongings without further discussion.

The next three days were hard. Though Kit didn’t grieve publicly, her shock was evident. Linh and Tiffany helped talk through the pain while Ursula and Heather tried to comfort her with an array of distractions and desserts. John offered his assistance, but remained circumspect and cautious in everything he said. Mostly, however, Kit was consoled by the presence of the children: the twin boys playing with her on the beach and the older girls begging to learn card games late into the night.

As for Ryan and Maria, the newlyweds enjoyed a honeymoon of surfing, sunning, and swimming at one of the larger motu. After three days, they returned home and slipped into their own tent following a few words with Charles and Deidra. A short time later, Ryan pulled stakes and moved his nylon home further from the main village, beyond earshot of Kit’s tent—a move most villagers thought for the best. Throughout the ordeal, Hilary spent considerable effort reminding villagers they needed to keep schedule regardless of recent troubles since the village was missing its quotas.

The morning after the newlyweds returned to Paradise, Tiffany and Linh journeyed north, carrying bags of live birds and buckets of crabs as they hiked up the coast. It took the women nearly an hour to reach the site where Lisa had been assaulted (the deceased turtles now memorialized with wooden crosses) as the women walked barefoot and burdened through the rocks.

Soon they took a break.

“My arms hurt,” Linh said, “these birds keep jumping around. It’s hard to hold the basket.”

Tiffany looked into her buckets of crabs. “I feel like I’m carrying a whole sea of these crabs.”

Linh took a drink from her canteen, then offered it to Tiffany—who emptied it and pointed to Linh’s blouse.

“That shirt is due for the rag pile,” Tiffany said.

“It’s my best one.”

“Do you realize it’s torn across the back?”

“That’s the least of its problems,” Linh replied. “Look how thin it’s worn. And I don’t own a bra to my name.”

“At least you’re trying to maintain respectability. I haven’t seen Lisa in a blouse for two days.”

“Viet is very private.”

“At least,” Tiffany said, “we’ve discovered why Polynesians were topless. They lacked long-wearing wool.”

“Wool?” Linh said. “Wood wouldn’t wear well around here.”

It took the women another twenty minutes to complete their journey and they soon arrived at a village that looked abandoned; the previous night’s fish dinner hadn’t been cleaned and two gulls fought over the scraps as a small girl—a blond toddler with uncombed hair and a dirty face—played by herself on the beach.

While Linh started for the longhouse, Tiffany approached the child and asked the girl where her parents were.

The little girl dug in the sand with a stick.

“Do you know where your mom and dad are at?” Tiffany asked a second time.

Still, the child said nothing.

“Do they always let you play at the beach by yourself?”

The girl let a handful of sand slip through her fingers.

“Did you know,” Tiffany asked, “the water’s very dangerous?”

“Fish,” the girl said as she pointed to the surf.

“Can I play with you?”

The little girl sat down and dug into the sand and Tiffany did likewise, digging a trench toward the surf as the child scooped handfuls of sand. Before their efforts had made much headway, Linh returned.

“Those people,” Linh said, “are filthy and disgusting.”

When Tiffany motioned toward the girl, Linh lowered her voice.

“They’re heaped,” Linh whispered, “inside that building like swine. There’s food rotting everywhere—it already reeks. Someone vomited in a corner and someone else urinated all over a wall. They don’t care. Anyone not passed out is too stoned to move. We’re supposed to subsidize this crap?”

Tiffany pointed at the girl. “She’s as skinny as a skeleton,” she said. “Who knows what she eats? I’m not leaving her here to be washed out to sea. Of course, that’s the only washing she’d get with these filthy people.”

“Let’s take her home.”

“I’ll ask first,” Tiffany said, “we don’t need more trouble.”

“Don’t bother,” Linh said with disdain to her voice. “They’ll neither notice nor care.”

“It’s best to ask.”

Now Tiffany walked to the longhouse, glaring as she looked inside and realized Linh hadn’t told her everything. Not one person in the building was clothed. Men lay astride women and women atop men. Two women lay arm in arm and one man displayed himself indecently as he slept. The room was hot and humid and the stench boiled outwards. A young man lay near the door, his eyes rolled back and his mouth open. Tiffany kicked him in the ribs.

“Oww,” the young man yelled, “what d’you want?”

“The little girl belongs to you, right?”

“Sort of,” the young man said, “what’s wrong with her now?”

“Wake up,” Tiffany said as she kicked the man a second time. “She can’t babysit herself.”

“Then put her to bed.”

“Do you want me to watch her for the day?”

“Ask her mother.”

“Do you know who I am?”

“Who gives a shit?”

“I give a shit.”

“What’s she to you?”

“I’m Tiffany. From the west. Tell your wife—who I might add is asleep in that boy’s arms—I have her daughter.”

“Whatever. She ain’t my wife and it ain’t my kid.”

“By the way, what’s her name?”

“Who?”

“The little girl.”

“Brittany,” the man said as he rubbed his ribs, “but you can call her Shittany for all I care.”

Tiffany turned to leave. “We’re leaving,” she said, “birds and crabs for your dinner. We’ll set them in a tent so they don’t overheat.”

No one responded.

Tiffany and Linh started home as the little girl walked between them. It wasn’t long until they brought Brittany to Kit—who was very excited to spend the day with the child, telling stories and playing in the park. When no one came to get the girl by dusk, Kit decided to watch her for the night and the two played dress up late into the night. Brittany was so happy to have a friend that she jabbered until she talked herself to sleep. Only then did Kit slip from the tent to tend her chores.

Ursula sat alone near the fire. She wore an oversized tee shirt and tight-fitting shorts traded from a southern woman (who’d lost ten pounds since arriving) and nibbled slowly at a piece of stale bread. When Sean sat a few feet away to take his supper, she turned her back until she heard him move closer to her.

After several minutes, Sean broke the silence.

“Does it move yet?”

Even under the loose shirt, a slight bulge in Ursula’s belly could be seen over which the pregnant woman now placed her hand.

“I think,” Ursula replied, “I felt a quiver once. It’s hard to say this early. Maybe it was indigestion.”

“A quickening,” Sean said, “is what Thomas Aquinas called it, if I remember my
Ethics of Reproduction
class readings.”

Ursula said nothing.

“Can I touch it?”

“It’s yours too, whether you want it or not.”

“That wasn’t nice.”

“You and Deidra weren’t nice.”

“She was the one who ...”

“Since,” Ursula interrupted, “you’re a father, try to be a man.”

Sean placed his hand on Ursula’s belly. “It’s hard,” he whispered, “to imagine a baby in there.”

“You don’t need to imagine anything. It’s real enough.”

“And that I’m a father.”

“Of sorts.”

“C’mon Ursula,” Sean protested. “Give me a break. Just for tonight.”

“For tonight,” Ursula grimaced, “so I can enjoy some peace too.”

Neither spoke as they watched the fire burn and neighbors move about—Kit slipping into her tent where the northern child slept and Brent romping in the dark with his sons while Tiffany prepared herself dessert.

“You need something to eat?” Sean asked.

“I already fed myself. I’m learning to be a single mother.”

“I’m a jerk,” Sean said as he twisted the palm of his hand into his face, “and I know I’ve hurt you. I know we’re done as a couple; but I’ve been thinking about the baby and I don’t want to be a bad father. My brother’s never even seen his son. I don’t want to be like that.”

Ursula looked up.

“Need,” the pregnant woman said with a scowl, “a little female company since you were tossed out of Deidra’s tent?”

“I’ve tried,” Sean said as stomped his foot and stood to leave, “I’ve done my ...”

“Sit down and take it. I deserve some payback.”

Sean slumped a little, then sat down.

“But I won’t cheat my child,” Ursula said, “of her father—even if he is a pig. But remember this: you’re welcome as the father of my child. Not as the man who shares my bed.”

“Okay,” Sean whispered before he returned his hand to Ursula’s belly.

After a time, Ursula asked whether Sean preferred a son or daughter. Though visibly confused by the sudden mood change, Sean said he’d like a son.

“Me too,” Ursula said as tears formed in her eyes.

Ursula didn’t explain why she was weeping and Sean didn’t ask, but just offered to fetch more juice—though wincing as he put weight on his still-swollen knee. After limping a few steps, Sean looked back toward Ursula, his voice quiet and quivering.