He might have sensed the shift in the air because he trailed off and looked at me. Directly at me. And it wasn’t with the softness of his earlier morning gaze. It was different. Heart-poundingly different.
There’s an unspoken rule about how long you can stare like that at another person. No one says it, but we all know it. There is the quick glance we give to strangers, the acknowledgment we exchange with people we know, the private joke, the silent acceptance, the lover’s gaze, the parent’s concern. Our eyes are always different, always speaking. They meet and look away, a thousand nuances expressed without words. And then there’s this. Whatever was passing between Jack and me in the middle of that ancient caldera. Perhaps it was because we didn’t know exactly where we fit—two people bound by a sunny, tragic afternoon, retreating from the edge of attraction—lives that were oceans apart, breaths that lingered in the space between us.
A jeep blaring loud music rattled past us, leaving a film of fine dust on the windshield. Jack drew away and started the car.
“They’re beginning to come in. We should head to the lake before it gets too crowded. There’s a salt lake, not too far up ahead, in the center of the crater.”
I let my breath out and nodded. Something was always crackling between us, waiting to catch fire. It wasn’t something either of us wanted, and so we resorted to distance and distraction.
I stared out of the window, at herds of Cape buffalo, so tame that they didn’t budge as we drove past.
“They are one of the Big Five,” said Jack.
“The Big Five?”
“Lions, leopards, elephants, rhinos, and Cape buffalo. They’re called the Big Five. It’s a term that originated with big game hunters. It has nothing to do with their size, but because they were the fiercest and most dangerous animals to hunt. Now no safari here is complete without spotting all five.”
“I’ve seen two so far. The lion and the buffalo.” I missed Mo in that instant—so much that it suddenly hurt to breathe. I’d been so wrapped up in my goals, I’d let the important things slip. I had my cottage, but I would never have the memory of going on a safari with Mo.
“I’m sure we’ll see elephants, closer to the forest, but leopards tend to be shy, and rhinos have dwindled from all the poaching,” said Jack. “Rhino horns are in high demand, mostly due to the myth about their medicinal value. Truth is, you might as well chew on your own nails for all the difference it makes.”
“Rhino horns. Albino body parts. You ever wonder who starts these myths and how they gain their power?”
“We all want magic, Rodel. We want to wake up rich. Or healthy. Or beautiful. We want to make the person we love stay with us, live with us, die with us. We want that house, that job, that promotion. And so we create the myths, we live them, and we believe them. Until something better comes along, something that suits us better. Truth is that you and I are creating a myth ourselves. With Scholastica and the other children. We think if we get them to Wanza, we’ll save them. And, yes, they’ll be safer, but it’s still a lie. Because it will just keep them cut off from the rest of the world. Eventually, they’ll have to leave, and the world will still be the world. They might be better equipped to handle it, not quite as vulnerable, but they will still be targets.”
“I know.” I followed the swooping flight of a brightly plumed bird before turning to him. “I know it’s not a solution. Nothing will change until the superstitions about them disappear. And who knows when that will be? I don’t have the answers, Jack, but sometimes the only things that keep us from falling off the edge are necessary lies. The kind we tell ourselves, so we can keep going.”
“Necessary lies,” Jack repeated. He took his eyes off the road and glanced at me.
Suddenly, we weren’t talking about the kids anymore. We were talking about the sweet, necessary lies we could tell each other in that moment. We could pretend—exchange phone numbers, promise to stay in touch, to visit, to remember birthdays—just to allow ourselves a taste of whatever was beating hard and fast between us. It would be like sucking on chili pepper candy balls. It would buzz and sting when it was gone, but it would be so, so good. And maybe that was it—the allure of something wild and indulgent to jump-start us back to life. Except we were not those people. We were Jack and Ro. And the last thing we needed was to connect and then let go of yet another person.
I turned away and gazed out of the window as we approached the lake. It sat like a shimmering jewel in the center of the crater.
“A pink lake?” I asked.
“Look again,” said Jack.
“Flamingos!” I exclaimed, as they came into view.
Thousands of pink-feathered birds lined the shore. Their serpentine necks dipped in and out of the water, as if pecking at their tall, slender reflections.
“You’ll get a better view through there.” Jack slid the roof open, and I scooted to the back so I could stick my head out.
As Jack drove closer to the shore, the flamingos scattered around us, like pink petals in the wind. Some soared into the air, unfolding their wings and displaying the red plumage beneath.
My heart lifted with unexpected gladness, for Mo. That she’d seen this incredible sight, that she hadn’t listened when I’d lectured her about finding a real job or renting a real apartment. She had packed so much into her life, living every single day on her own terms, it was as if she’d known there was no time to waste. Some people are like that. They listen to their inner voice even if it’s mad and feral and doesn’t make sense to the rest of us.