THE macabre sequence slashed its slow-motion terror across Roque’s vision, goring his mind.
He’d come out on deck, an unreasoning urge taking him to assure himself that Jewel was still there. She had been. Then she’d turned away. Then she’d lurched and fallen to her knees.
Alarm had hit him so hard it had delayed his realization that her boat had hit something. Then terror had begun.
Her boat had shuddered to a jarring halt then veered frighteningly. Right into his boat’s path. His boat had collided with its stern with full force. This time, Jewel had become airborne, her hands clawing for non-existent purchase. A roar had shredded his throat as he’d seen her hit the water, watched it engulf her.
He’d exploded into a run, terror detonating in his gut, and had been knocked off his feet. A sunken tree had lodged in the keel of her boat and launched it at his again. His boat, still going full steam ahead on its upstream struggle, had plowed into her now horizontal boat, right in the middle, rolling it over the tree trunk, starting the unstoppable process of overturning.
His shouts had become stifled. His heart had felt like it was bursting. Horror had been killing him with every heartbeat. Jewel had just broken the surface of the water. Right under the breaking up, capsizing boat.
And he was now pummeling the river headfirst, his arms and legs mad machines slicing through the water, defying the current, propelling him at manic speed, one purpose fueling him.
Shield her. Break the impact with your body. Reach her.
He didn’t—didn’t. Two seconds too late—two feet too far…
The boat crashed down on her on a wet clap of thunder that knocked him out of the water. Shock waves rippled out, conspiring with the current to swat him away—away from her—from where she’d disappeared. Jewel, gone underneath that behemoth!
“Jewel!”
The bellow almost expelled his life force. Then he almost burst his chest on an inhalation. If he couldn’t get her out, he’d join her down there and it would be his last.
He dove after her.
He plummeted through the murky waters, desperation and terror propelling his body downwards. She could have already been swept away—the current here was swift, the visibility almost nil…
Deus, Deus… He prayed, wept. Jewel, Jewel, let me feel you, let me connect with you, just one more time, meu amor. I won’t ask or hope or want anything—anything—ever again. Just let me find you now—and I’ll be happy to lose you later…
Tears bled out of him, diffused in the turbid waters, somehow clearing his vision. The depths below the boat’s receding shadow were littered with all the debris that had spilled out of it—down, down on the muddy riverbeds Jewel. Under a huge piece of hull his boat had torn from hers…
The blast of horror knocked him empty of breath. His lungs burned. He had to go up—get enough air to fuel him all the way down, all through freeing her from her trap…
No! More minutes lost. Water filling her lungs, extinguishing her precious life. No.
His watery shroud was turning blacks Losing conscious-ness… Would be no good to her dead. Go up—now.
He kicked his fury and dread, rocketed to the surface, struggled to take one deep breath through the quakes tearing through him, a time bomb ticking in his arteries, counting down the remaining time until Jewel was beyond salvations He dove down again, like a heat-seeking torpedo now he knew where to find her. He clawed his way through the impeding water, pressure building in his head with his fast descent, almost bursting his eardrums. Only Jewel, only Jewel—lying there like a discarded doll, half-buried under that twisted hulk of metal, colorless, bruised, a cut on her forehead radiating a cloud of red in the water. Blood could bring piranhas—he had to get her out of the water—now.
He reached her, tore the debris away, scooped her limp body in his arms and thrust frantically for the surface. He broke it, expending the last of his breath on a loud cry for help. His next breath was poured down Jewel’s lungs.
He saw faces, felt hands, in the water, on board his boat, all urgent, anxious, helping. Jewel wasn’t breathing, her heart beating a sluggish twenty beats per minute. He nearly died with horror every time he emptied his lungs in hers.
He stumbled to place her on the exam table, barking ragged orders.
The instruments were already falling into his shaking hands and he had no idea how but he intubated her, placed a nasogastric tube and emptied her stomach of swallowed water. Madeline and Inácio hooked her up to a pulse oximeter and cardiac monitor then started positive-pressure ventilation and resumed compressions. All the time a litany of begging and love spilled from his lips, his tears a stream splashing all over her beloved face.
Her face. It was bruised and torn again, and it didn’t matter. It never had. She must live…
But, Deus—warm, fresh water submersion was the worst-case scenario. Inhaled fresh water destroyed lung alveoli, passed from the lungs to the bloodstream, destroying red blood cells. And if she’d been down there for longer than eight minutes, everything they were doing would mean nothing. Without oxygen for longer than that, brain cells died and permanent neurological damage resulted, even with successful resuscitation.
Suffocating with dread, he had to know. “How—how long…?”
Madeline understood, rasped, “A bit under six minutes.”
“Are—are you…?”
Madeline gave a shaky nod. “I’m sure!”
They resumed their resuscitation efforts during his ragged supplications for her to fight, to come back to him.
Five lifetimes later, Jewel’s pulse began to quicken. Then she started choking on the ET. He pounced to remove it, replacing the oxygen mask over her nose and mouth at once.
“Por favor, meuamor, open your eyes…” he prayed, begged.
And then she did. Looked him straight in the eyes. He almost fell to his knees to kiss the deck in thanks. This was a lucid gaze, disoriented, feeble, but housing her intellect and uniqueness. She was OK!
Her hand rose to the mask.
“Leave it on, amor,” he implored.
“Wh-wha—?” she wheezed behind the mask.
Pain clamped his body. He hunched over her, needing to contain her, protect her. “Shh, shh, amor, you’re fine, fine.”
Her hand lurched to the angry cut on her forehead and his hand jerked, catching hers before he jumped to sterilize and bandage her wound. Her fingers trembled a trail to another cut on her cheek and he again removed her hand, pressed a kiss to her lips, his rigid with the pressure of emotion. “You’ll be fine, amor.”
Dazed eyes stared at him. Then she closed them.
It had been ten days since she’d almost drowned.
Later on the day that Roque had fished her out of the river and resuscitated her, she’d developed adult respiratory distress syndrome and had almost died again.
For four days afterwards it had been like re-entering her old nightmare. So much so, she’d wondered if she’d ever exited it, if the intervening years, Roque and the full, meaningful life she’d led ever since, had not been an unbelievably complex escape mechanism of an irreversibly damaged mind and body.
Two things had convinced her this was a brand-new nightmare. Her body wasn’t injured, just her face. And Roque.
For why would a diseased mind seeking escape into a dream world give her more injuries of the kind she dreaded? Far worse, why create such a man as Roque to love, only to have him not love her back and inflict such intolerable torment?
“Here comes another of my culinary miracles.” Her sluggish stare panned to watch Roque pushing into their cabin, a tray high in one hand, his face alight with forced brightness. “Your last breakfast aboard before we arrive in Manaus, amor.”
He’d cut the expedition short. And all the way to Manaus he’d been devoted to her, to nursing her back to health.
He set the tray down on her lap, brushed his lips on hers then straightened and went to continue packing their stuff. Before he turned away she again caught that new pained expression in his eyes.
But it wasn’t new. She now remembered when she’d seen it before. Right after her first accident.
She’d been so traumatized then it seemed she’d blotted it out. Now another trauma had shaken the memory loose. And now she knew why she’d blotted it out. So she’d survive.
His pity had been the one thing she hadn’t been able to bear.
But had that been why he’d pursued her afterwards? Had she moved him so much he’d tried to heal her the only way he’d known how, with the best medicine there was, a gorgeous man’s desire and attention? The notion was weird, but now she knew the motives she’d thought he’d married her for were ridiculous, it seemed like the only explanation. Why else would someone like him have looked at her then? How could he look at her now?
His behavior now only reinforced her pity theory. He’d started to pull away before the accident but was now deluging her in attention again. It seemed compassion was his strongest motivator.
Not that she’d accept it. Or endure it. If she’d been the unwitting object of his benevolence once, she’d never be again. Up till the accident she’d at least been the object of his honest lust.
But if pity had been why he’d married her, why had he been angry when she’d walked out, proving she hadn’t needed or deserved pity any more, when he should have been relieved?
Easy one, that. She’d behaved cruelly. And if her suspicions were correct, ungratefully to boot. He’d had every right to be furious, to lash back.
But she knew now why she had behaved so badly. Knowing she’d never give him the babies he craved had been what had sent her mad, then vicious with pain. Believing all those lies about him had been more bearable than facing her deficiency; running away had been better than waiting for him to discard her.
And now she knew he was the one man who most needed his own flesh-and-blood family, who would be the most magnificent father, it would have gutted her if he loved her back, only to find out what he’d be deprived of to be with her. She should be glad—she was glad—for him, that he couldn’t love her.
Knowing he didn’t and hadn’t loved her left out his nobility, his monumental compassion, to explain all he’d done for her. But even with the most benevolent of intentions, he must have sighed in relief the moment she’d walked out the door. He would again when she walked away this time.
As for why he hadn’t divorced her, she’d also figured that out. Now that he was wealthy and celebrated, besides being the most fantastic male on earth, he must be wading in women. What better way to ward off the vultures than with a married status? He must have kept her as his scarecrow wife.
She didn’t have cut and dried explanations for why he’d gotten involved with her again, none but the obvious, of course.
A long honk cut through her oppressive reverie and she found herself staring blankly at him. A gentle hand stopped her when she moved to get up.
He smoothed her bangs out of her eyes, picked up her hand, kissed it then placed a fork in it. “Eat your breakfast first, Jóia. We don’t have to jump off the boat the minute we dock.”
She put the fork down. “I’m really not hungry.”
She wondered at the coolness in her tones, the rock-steadiness. Must be the numbness of inescapable doom. The riverboat was already docking. This was it. The end.
The pressure to make it a quick one built, made her move the tray away, propelled her out of bed. “Sorry you went to the trouble for nothing.”
Roque watched Jewel getting dressed in silence, her last words echoing in his head.
Had she been telling him something? What her every nuance had been telling him since she’d regained her health after those harrowing days when he’d almost lost her, when he’d hung onto her with all his will and life…?
Deus, he couldn’t bear even the memories.
But that had been when her withdrawal had occurred. Up until the accident, her passion, so different from the past, so deep and giving, had still been at full blast. So much so he’d started to hope it wouldn’t fade this time. He’d also managed to harness his eagerness, giving her the space she needed for her emotions to take root, had started to think her continued desire meant he’d been succeeding.
He’d even made peace with her episodic remoteness, accepted it as part of her character. He really couldn’t expect her to be perpetually aware of him, transmitting and receiving. He’d succumbed to doubts, of course, woken up in a sweat with her in his arms, convinced she was gone, or would tell him she was going. He’d struggled to blot out those episodes.
Then had come her total withdrawal after her brush with death. But that was even more understandable. The last thing he expected now was vivaciousness and passion.
But that was logic talking. Insecurity whispered that with her frailty extinguishing her passion, the truth about her feelings had been uncovered. When her body didn’t respond to his, he ceased to exist for her.
But, no! Her passion hadn’t been just sexual. He may have believed that of her before, but not now. The woman he worshipped had such depth, such consideration, she wouldn’t have given him all that intimacy, all that fire, all that hope, if her emotions had been uninvolved. It wouldn’t have been so beautiful and overpowering without a powerful emotional ingredient on her side. And then there had been the companionship and laughter and dependence and appreciation.
But those were gone, insecurity lamented. And he had to listen. And burn in uncertainty. Had it been her accident? Those minutes when her breathing had stopped and her heart almost had? Had her emotions for him been in the most superficial part of her being, had they been the most fragile that they’d been the first part of her to die? And now couldn’t be resurrected?
He refused to believe that. What they had, had been, was real. And rare. Unique. She was just depleted. He’d wait, revive her, and her emotions. But to do that, he had to have her near. But how, now the expedition was over?
He knew how, had been putting off proposing it to the last minute of the expedition. Then the last ten days had happened and it felt like a replay of the past. And now he was loath to repeat it, to offer her something she might accept only out of a need for support.
But he couldn’t wait any more. He had to ask her to stay with him. He’d continue giving her space, as long as it took, take his cues from her while building up to asking her to share his life, be his wife again, and for real.
He walked behind her out of the cabin that had witnessed so much ecstasy and turmoil, headed down to the lower deck, his hands itching to grab her back, to tell her, ask her…
“Got a minute, boss?”
Berto. Inferno. This had to be about the charter plane he’d arranged to take them all back to Rio. In fuming impatience, he watched her walk ahead, turned to Berto, spilled all responsibility into his lap and turned around to Jewel, his heart tripping—and he didn’t find her!
His gaze jerked around, the irrational panic that had become ingrained in him of losing her, one way or another, turning to stupefaction.
She’d carried her bags, disembarked and was already halfway across the pier.
But she couldn’t walk away—not again.
His mind froze, but his body was on autopilot, running after her. She turned at his grab, looked at him with vacant eyes. Deus, that was far worse than when she’d walked away before. She’d had some life in her eyes then. Being subjected to her indifference demolished him.
Say something. Put in words what she knows she means to you. “Jewel, the past weekss”
She cut him off, her voice tranquil. “The past weeks were incredible, Roque. And they proved to me what a great thing I missed out on, walking out on you.”
Elation swelled in his heart. Until she went on, “I don’t have the words to thank you for everything—for saving my life, for the magnificent time together, professionally and personally. It was great to have an all-out affair and have it run its course, so that there will be no more wondering or wanting. Now that we have closure we can say goodbye with nothing but goodwill.”
He stared at her, expecting her to burst out laughing and say, Fooled you!
But she didn’t say it, continued in that rational tone, “I’m OK with remaining married indefinitely. A man like you must be beset with vultures and a paper wife is the best deterrent. It’s the least I can do for you.” She suddenly reached up and kissed his cheek. “Goodbye, Roque. Be happy.”
Then she turned and walked away.
He remained paralyzed, staring after her as she reached one of the cabs waiting to take tourists into Manaus along its single highway. He stood there until the cab had disappeared.
And she was gone. Again. For good this time.
Jewel. Gone. For good.
And he wondered. Why hadn’t his heart stopped?
So he could live with it? He couldn’t. Deus, was that it? He’d been wrong—so wrong—again?
And again he’d done it to himself. He’d put himself in her path, given her every opportunity to pulverize him, then walk away.
But in the past he’d had the motivation to build himself, his vocation, and the uncertainty about her and his emotions for her, to keep him going.
He had none of that now.
This time, all was lost.
He was.