There is no wedding night because, still lying in Tristan's arms, I succumb to the fever. A heavy sleep overcomes me the moment I close my eyes. After that, days and nights morph into an endless spiral of pain and despair. My body shuts down systematically. Tristan tries to feed me, but my throat forgets how to swallow. My whole body rejects food. Soon, it starts rejecting water too, though it needs it. Oh, so much. I can feel myself cremating from the inside, scorching away until there is a bitter taste of ash in my mouth. And then comes the moment when I feel no hunger or thirst. I know I'm in real trouble when I can't even feel the pain anymore. What grounds me to the world is the intake of air—a whiff of forest air or the smell of Tristan's skin, indicating he's nearby.
I start praying for my body to reject the air, too, along with everything else. Tristan talks to me, but I can't make sense of his words. Of course, that could just be my imagination; maybe Tristan is not talking to me at all, too weak from hunger, or hurt by the jaguars. But if it's a mirage, I'll gladly stick to it.
I know my brain has succumbed to madness when I start hearing voices. Lots of them. Frantic and loud. I try to ignore them at first, because hearing voices in my head is not a dignified way to leave this world. But then I start paying attention. I recognize more than one voice. For the first time, I become aware that at least one part of my body is still functioning: my heart. It slams against my ribcage, reminding me I'm still alive.
For now.
I open my eyes, and force them to stay open for a few seconds, but I get dizzy fast, and my eyes start watering. I push myself up my elbows, but my fever-fried brain perceives this as a disruption equal to an earthquake, and I become nauseous. I can't make sense of much other than there are many people milling around in the plane. People I don't know.
Two of them crouch in front of me, and one of them shouts something over his shoulder. It might have been, She woke up.
I look down at my hands, and I see needles in my veins, and an infusion bag next to me. The rescue team must have arrived. I don't have time to rejoice, because I collapse on my back, my eyes sewing themselves together so tightly I can't open them again, hard as I try. I cling to my senses with my last ounce of energy: to the smell of the forest present in the plane, to the sound of voices calling to me, some with desperation, some hopeless. One with quiet urgency. Tristan's. I can't make out his whispered words, but when he interlaces his fingers with mine, I cling to him.
The last words I hear before I slide into a coma are, "She won't make it."
They belong to Chris.
The rescue team tells me how they learned we were still alive. A few weeks ago a new flight destination was added to the Manaus airport, which passed just outside the prohibition area. Aimee and I were in the visual range of that flight's route. A plane flying on the route noticed the black smoke from the fire Aimee insisted on lighting regularly. The airport instructed the planes flying that route to monitor the area, fearing that it might be a forest fire, doubting the smoke came from a signal fire. After a few more planes reported that the fire hadn't extended, they didn't doubt that it was a signal fire anymore. No plane except ours had crashed in the Amazon in the last five years. They knew it must be us.
The rescue team takes out the jaguars easily with a few shots. They can’t take care of Aimee as easily. She is half dead. There is a doctor on the team, but he doesn’t have the necessary equipment and medicine with him to save her. We set out on foot almost immediately after they arrive, but the place the helicopter is allowed to land is still days away. Chris tells me he tried to obtain a permit to bring the helicopter inside the prohibition area, but failed, despite bribing and calling in favors from everyone. Coming with a car was also impossible, because the trees are too close to each other. Chris and I carry her on a stretcher. He learned about us the minute he entered the plane—his eyes fell on her name scribbled on my shoulder, and my name on hers. He acknowledged it with a stunned expression but didn’t speak about it. Now it’s all about saving her. I hold on to the hope that we’ll reach the hospital in time. But as I watch the woman who means the world to me become weaker by the second, that hope turns to ash.
Life scorches away from her with every step.
Light blinds me when I open my eyes. It's so bright I cross both my arms over my eyes. The darkness calms me. I inhale deeply, but the smell travelling down my throat, filling my lungs, alarms me. It's not the heavy and moist smell of the forest. It's light, tinted with the aroma of alcohol. I search for a strand of familiar. Something to indicate that Tristan is nearby. The smell of his skin. The heat of his body. No trace of either. He's not nearby. Where is he, then? The way to find out is to put my arms down and face whatever is in front of me. It can't be worse than what I left behind—the forest. My leg doesn't hurt anymore. In fact, no part of my body aches. If I'm all right, then Tristan must be as well.
I lower my arms slowly, allowing my eyes to get accustomed to the bright white surrounding me. The ceiling. The walls. The bed sheet and my hospital gown. My heart rate intensifies by the second, the more I take in my surroundings, familiar and strange at the same time. I graze the bed sheet with my fingernails. The softness of the fabric and the smell of fresh and clean almost bring tears to my eyes.
One of the few spots of color comes from the screen of the vital signs monitor next to my bed. On the tray under the screen are at least five different types of pills. I don't remember taking any.
I turn my head in the other direction, to the window. The sight outside would have kept my attention for longer than a few seconds, if not for the sight beneath the window. An orange couch is there. And on that couch is someone who can bring me both relief and dread. Chris. I draw in a sharp breath. He's sleeping sitting up, his head bent slightly backward, a few curls of his light blond hair falling over his eyes and cheekbones. I frown as I inspect the dark circles under his eyes; his overall gaunt appearance. Even in sleep—a time when I always thought he looked no more than twenty—he looks years older than when I left him, though just four months have passed. He's wearing a simple blue polo shirt and jeans. I try hard to recall the speech I prepared when I was in the forest, but before I can, he wakes up, his blue eyes focusing on me.
"Hi," he says. For one brief moment I think he will rise and hug me. But he stays put. So do I, though there is nothing restraining me to the bed. Except my conscience.
"Hi."
"You took a long nap."
"How long?"
"Almost a week. You were in the intensive care unit for a few days, then they brought you here. You kept sleeping. The nurses woke you up several times a day so you could take your pills, but you weren't coherent."
"Where are we?"
"Home. We’re in L.A. We took you to the nearest hospital in Brazil, in Manaus. As soon as you were stable I had you flown here. This is the best equipped hospital in L.A. for these kind of cases."
Of course, always the best for me. Shame crashes over me in waves.
"Thank you," I say weakly, and then I say nothing more. All the explanations—excuses—seem too lame now to utter. Too hurtful. I don't want to open my mouth at all, because I'm afraid my most ardent question will slip out: where is Tristan?
Deep down, I'm certain Chris knows everything. Otherwise he'd be next to me, hugging and kissing me. Holding me tight to him.
"Don't you want to know if you'll make a full recovery?"
"Sure," I answer, grateful for a safe topic, but I don't take in his explanation, because the movement of a crane outside the window in the distance captures my attention.
"Can you… can you open the window?" I ask.
Chris stops talking, and I realize I've interrupted him. But he opens the window. The noise outside is like a shock to my system. For a few seconds, I fear my eardrums will pop, but they adjust, and then Chris snaps the window closed.