bittyjane

I remember my mom had a wooden figure – a crude woman, just a painted pink triangle for a dress, a tan circle for a head, wire arms and legs, and knots of twine sticking out at scraggly angles along the top of the circle – with “HOUSEWORK MAKES YOU UGLY” hand stenciled at the base.  I imagine that’s what I must look like as I attempt to work my fingers through the tangles in my hair.  I sit up with a wince, then stretch my arms above me, trying to work out some of the kinks in my back.  What I wouldn’t give for my own bed right now.

I grab a rock off the floor and make a mark on the wall.  49 days.

The doorway to my makeshift hut faces the Eastern beach, and the water and sky are both the nondescript gray of early morning.  I reach for my sneakers, absentmindedly swiping the inside with my hands before putting them on.  Kara got a spider bite on her big toe the first morning.  Making sure there was nothing in my shoes but my feet became just another part of island life.  Like my morning run. 

After a few quick stretches, I start out at a brisk walk.  The morning is cool, but I know it’ll be uncomfortably hot soon enough and am grateful for the way my skin prickles.  As I start to run, I get the feeling I’m being watched.  I often have that feeling, but haven’t been able to find any cameras, not that I’ve spent a whole lot of time looking.  I do my best to ignore the feeling as I pick up the pace.

The sun is just starting to show itself over the edge of the water, the sky brightening with oranges and lighter blues, when I turn around to head back to camp.  A tendril of smoke at the edge of the beach tells me the rest of the camp is waking up.  I pray there’s still a swallow of coffee left when I get back and push myself a little harder.

Thea is holding up two cups, and as soon as I see her, I start slowing.  I’m still breathing heavy when she hands me a cup of hot black coffee.  I inhale the warm steam, holding the cup up to my face.

“Last cup,” Thea says as she clinks the edge of her hollowed coconut shell to mine.

“Like today?” I ask, taking a sip, “or like last cup last cup?”

“Last cup,” she repeats, staring out towards the water.  “Lasted, what? Forty-seven days?”

“Forty-nine.”

She nods.  “Should be an elimination tonight.”

“Should be.  But there won’t be.  There wasn’t last week, at least, and there’s been no change to the current situation that I’m aware of.”  The coffee is already starting to cool.  It’s not great hot, and even worse cold.  I remember how I grimaced at the taste of that first cup the morning of day one.  Better than nothing, Thea had told me.  How right she was.

She nods again and takes the last swallow of her coffee.  “Freddie and Miguel came lookin’ for you earlier.  I told them you was on your run but I’d tell you they was lookin’.”

“Did they say what they wanted?”

“Nah.”

I nod and finish my coffee.  I clink my empty cup against hers.  “Last cup.”

She nods.  “You watch out for those boys, sugar.  I get a feeling they up to no good.”

“Thanks, Thea.  I can take care of myself.”

“I don’t doubt it, girl.  Not one bit.”

She puts a hand on my shoulder, then wanders off towards the campfire.  Going to start cooking some rice, no doubt.

I find Freddie and Miguel trying to use the net we won week two.  They don’t typically have much luck.  Sven used to.  But . . . well . . . fish would be nice.

They’re about waist deep in the water.  Freddie curses as he loses his balance and goes under.  He comes up sputtering and I try to stifle a laugh.

“You can do better?” His freckles disappear and his face turns the same red as his hair.

Probably. “Nah.”

“One more time?” Miguel asks, holding up his ends of the net.

“Fuck no, man.  I’m done.”  Freddie chucks the handfuls of net he’s holding into the water and splashes his way to the shore.  He plops down on the beach.  Miguel drops the net next to him and holds his fist up to me.  I bump it with my own.

“What’s good, chica?” he asks me.

“Same ol’, I s’pose.  Thea said you were looking for me.”

“Freddie thinks we should raid Dilaw.”

“Raid?” I raise an eyebrow.  “What do you mean raid?”

“I didn’t say raid, dude.”

“Pillage.  Plunder.  Robamos.  Whatever.”

“We just go there at night while they’re sleeping, steal whatever we think we need.  I bet they still have some of those granola bars from a couple weeks ago.  They’re probably rationing the shit out of that kind of stuff.  Who knows what else.  Grab and go.”

“And then they come back the next night and steal it back?  Is a raid even allowed?  Isn’t it against the rules?”

“What rules, chica?”

“You signed the contract, same as me.  I know you did,” I say, crossing my arms across my chest.  “It says no stealing.  We’ll get kicked off.”

“Wake the fuck up, Callie.”  It sounds like something he should yell, but Freddie says it almost in a whisper.  “We’re on our own.  They aren’t coming back.  We need to figure something out.”

I don’t say anything for a minute.  Just stare out at the water.  The production crew left on day thirty-nine.  They said they’d be back in a couple days.  To just keep playing the game.  Like they were still there.  They wouldn’t say why they were leaving. 

“What do you need me for?  Just do it yourselves.”

“More hands.”

“Hmmm.”  The sound of the waves is nice.  Relaxing.  Moments like this make me think I could stay here forever.  If Freddie is right, I just may.

“You in?” Freddie asks.

I shrug.  Anything but rice would be nice.  “Sure.”

“Tonight.”

***

Dilaw is on the opposite side of the island.  Following the shoreline around will take us about three hours.  Cutting across the middle will take about one.  Less, maybe.  We opt for the shorter route.  Thea retires early, like usual, and we wait until we can hear her soft snoring before taking off.  It goes unspoked among us, but I think we all feel it.  None of us told Thea our plan.  She wouldn’t approve. 

When we reach Dilaw, the moon is high.  If it were my plan, I’d have waited until a new moon.  Or at least until a cloudy night.

“We’ll be able to see, at least.” Freddie whispers.

So will they. I say nothing, just watch the camp, looking for movement.  Their fire is just embers.  They have four huts – stick with grass roofs, just like ours.  They still have six in their camp.

“Two to a hut and one for storage?” Miguel asks.

Doubt it.  It would be stupid to keep everything important in one hut.  What if a roof leaked during an afternoon downpour?  What if they got raided?

“Probably,” Freddie says.  “You ready?”

“Is there a plan?” I ask.

“Yeah.  Grab stuff and GTFO.”

Not much of a plan, but Freddie and Miguel are moving towards the camp before I can criticize.  Or offer an alternative.  I follow.

Miguel peeks into the first tent, then shakes his head.  He holds up two fingers, then puts his hands together, closing his eyes and miming sleeping.  We creep by single file.  At the next hut, he holds up only one finger.  I am not surprised.  Freddie motions for him to go in.

“Look around,” he whispers.  I wince.  He’s a loud whisperer.  Miguel shakes his head furiously.

“Pussy,” Freddie bumps Miguel with his shoulder as he goes into the hut.

Miguel watches as Freddie rummages through crudely made baskets.  I back towards the edge of the camp, keeping to the shadows.  I hear the crinkle of a wrapper.  Granola bars?  Then the stirring of someone shifting on the thin grass mat we all use for beds.  I hold my breath.

“What the?” The voice is not Freddie.  Or Miguel.  I hear the confusion.  Then an expletive.  Rage.

Miguel is moving away from the hut, but it seems like he’s moving in slow motion.  Freddie rushes out, a basket in his hands.

“Run you motherfucker!” he screams at Miguel.  “GTFO!”

I’m a few paces ahead of the boys and keep that way as we crash through trees and fumble over roots that seemed so easy to navigate on our trip to the camp.  Dilaw tribe members follow, but only a couple and not for long.  The sounds of pursuit drop off quickly.  We continue on at break-neck speed anyway. 

Until Freddie trips and hits the ground with a curse.  I hear the contents of the basket scatter.

“You okay?” Miguel whispers as he kneels next to Freddie.   The moon is still high and the light glints off the foil packets littering the ground.

“I think I skinned my knee.”

“Ay, pobrecito!” Miguel reaches a hand down to help Freddie up as I pick up one of the packets and turn it over in my hand.  Not granola.  I laugh out loud.

“You guys are assholes.” Freddie whines.

I toss Freddie the packet.  “Thea’s going to love you.”

“What?” he looks down.  “Are you fucking kidding me?  I don’t even drink coffee!”

***

We make it back late and I sleep in the next morning.  I’m awakened by the smell of coffee.  Thea is singing.  I smile and grab a rock off the floor of my hut.  I make a mark on the wall.  50 days.

“Hey Andrew?” I asked as I came out of the bathroom.  “Why is George Washington in our bathroom?”

“Well, there’s a rumor that after the Revolutionary War, Ethan Allen was in London and he was invited to dinner at some guy’s house.  After dinner, he went to take care of some business and saw that the bathroom was decorated only by a picture of George Washington.  When he was done and went back to the parlor or whatever, the guy asked him if he liked the picture.  Ethan Allen said he did.  The guy asked him if he thought the placement of the picture was appropriate.  He was a little disappointed, you know, that Ethan Allen didn’t seem offended that the president’s picture was hung up in the bathroom.  Ethan Allen said that he found the placement appropriate.”

He stopped talking and looked at me expectantly.  He was waiting for me to ask why so he could deliver the punchline.  I didn’t know (and still actually don’t know) who Ethan Allen was, but I obliged anyway.

“Because nothing makes a British soldier shit faster than the sight of George Washington.”

I rolled my eyes at him and walked away.

I am often amazed at how content I am with my life right now.  And how that feeling doesn’t seem to go away.  There are hard days, to be sure, especially now, but I am overall satisfied.  Which is something I didn’t even know I had been missing in my earlier relationships. 

I met Andrew through an online dating site.  At the time, I had recently left Matt’s dad and was not looking for an actual relationship.  Despite more unsolicited dick pics than I could possibly count and more than a small handful of completely unsavory proposals, I had been having some success in my quest to prove to myself that I was not a serial monogamist.  However, in my online bio, I stated that I’d never had an honest to goodness first date, like pick me up and take me to dinner and drop me off kiss at the front door and I shyly ask if you’d like to come in for a drink first date.  I did have a number of very memorable encounters, but no dates.

Conversation between Andrew and me was easy from the start.  And after a week of texting far later into the night than either of us was used to staying up, he asked me out on a real date.  Well, mostly a real date.  He bought me dinner and drinks, but didn’t pick me up at my house.  We did, though, share an awkward moment at my car as he said goodnight and I thanked him for a lovely evening.

And that, as they say, was that.

I see George in the bathroom every time nature calls.  And I think about how excited Andrew was when he pulled the picture out of Matt’s backpack.  And how proud Matt was that a picture he’d colored had ended up framed on the bathroom wall.  Not just magnet-hung on the fridge, but framed and hung on the wall.  I didn’t know that this was what I was looking for until I found it.  And of all the places in the house to have such a realization, the restroom was certainly not where I expected to have it.  But seeing George Washington in the bathroom every morning somehow reassures me that no matter where I have ever thought my life was going, and despite my best efforts, I have ended up exactly where I’m supposed to be.

I want to write memoir.  Not necessarily a memoir.  Episodic.  A series of vignettes.  Or slices of life.  And maybe that's how memoir should be.  I haven't read enough of them to know.  As part of my bachelor program, I took a course on teaching writing.  The professor was a high school teacher working on. Masters of Fine Arts.  She was writing a memoir, so her students, both at the high school and college levels, were also writing memoirs.  I cried during our meeting about my first draft.  I wasn't ready to write what I'd written.  She held my hand across the table and told me that there was someone out there somewhere that needed to read it.

Leaving my husband was the hardest thing I've ever done.

I've written that sentence more times than I care to admit.  I've erased that sentence more times than I care to admit.  The actual leaving wasn't terribly difficult.  I decided I was done, and I left.  More to it than that, to be sure, but that's basically what it boiled down to.  The evaluating and reevaluating what it meant, that was the hard part.  What it meant about who I was or who I thought I was.  If I was still the same person.  I wonder if that's what I'd center my memoir around.

Am I brave enough to be honest?  To tell the true version of events, not skim over the parts that I'm ashamed of or omit the tiny details that reveal the whole story.  To paint myself as the villain in those instances I was.  

I cried when I found out I was pregnant with my daughter.  And then again at the doctor's office when the nurse confirmed and offered me her congratulations.  It would have been my 15th wedding anniversary.

The cursor blinks.  I type a few sentences.  The cursor blinks.  I erase everything I've written.

The more I write (and erase) about my past, my history, my ghosts, myself, the more I want to write (and erase).  Writing begets writing, I suppose.  Although it's not necessarily want to write more, but more that wants to be written.  I write about my son and the file I open to pull out those memories catches the drawer that contains his father who slips out just a little before I can shove the drawer closed again.  It all ties together.  How can I possibly write any part of myself without writing all parts of myself?

It would be an exercise in discipline and focus to write just one moment.  The night I told Andrew I was pregnant.  No exposition or prologue.  A quick glimpse.  Not too much detail or back story.  No cast of characters.  Just I said, he said.  I did, he did.

The cursor blinks.  I type a few sentences.  The cursor blinks.  I erase everything I've written.

Someday I'll be brave enough.

The cursor blinks.