After Elias Read online

  I offered him a sympathetic smile, but his eyes remained focused upward. I could feel him grow distant, as though he were being reeled into the sky.

  A familiar roar broke the silence, and I remembered why we were there in the first place, why this had become one of our favourite spots over the years. I looked across the river at the twinkling lights of the airport as a jet took off toward us, its wheels drifting off the pavement with forceful grace. It sliced through the night sky, navigation lights blinking, before veering south to Los Angeles or Bogotá or beyond. We were both sitting up then, watching the plane arc high above the city as it disappeared into the darkness. I glanced at Elias through the corner of my eye. He was smiling.

  PLAZA PEQUEÑA

  Thirty-two hours after the crash

  I know I am in Vancouver before I open my eyes. The scent is undeniable — damp and wild. The air is steeped in cedar and sweat and ocean, then carried by the breeze to purify the grit of the city. This is home.

  My eyelids flutter open, and I find myself in a familiar place. Beams from the sun above filter through a haze of muted pink. Everything is still except for the branches that sway in the breeze. Surrounding me on all sides are tall brick walls painted white, each with six rows of shuttered windows stacked on top of one another. The courtyard is home to magnolia trees that bloom for only a few weeks of the year.

  Something lands by my side with a dull thud. The pages of the book are worn with age, the cover faded to the point that the title is barely legible. It feels heavy in my hand as I decipher the letters: Peter Pan.

  “Hey — that’s my book!” a voice declares, piercing the stillness and echoing against the walls. I follow the sound to see a figure waving from the rooftop, directly above me. My eyes squint, but I can’t quite see what he looks like. “Hang on,” he says. “I’m coming down.”

  “What are you doing on the roof?” I shout back, but there’s no answer.

  I hold the book with both hands, breathing in the scent of its pages. All I can smell are flowers.

  A few minutes pass before he emerges from the gate with such command that it startles me. There’s a noble quality in the way he carries himself. His eyes are as dark as his hair, but they reflect the light like two satellites in a starless sky.

  “Nice choice,” I say, handing him the book.

  “One day I am going to fly,” the man says. “Just like Peter.”

  • • • • •

  With my eyes closed, I can almost fool myself into believing I am in that courtyard so many kilometres and years away. The softness of the breeze on my skin. The living scent of spring.

  A noise outside my door breaks the spell. What sounds like a pack of hyenas is roaming the halls. I prop myself up in bed to see the dim confines of my room at the Ōmeyōcān Hotel.

  My tablet sits beside me. There’s something comforting in the bluish light of its screen as I power it on. The words I typed earlier appear in jagged lines of text.

  Dear friends,

  By now, you’ve probably heard the news about Elias.

  Please do not cancel your plans. Join me here at the same place and on the same day as the wedding, which will now be a celebration of Elias’s extraordinary life.

  All I ask is that you wear what you were planning to wear to the wedding. This is not a funeral, so let’s save the black for another day.

  Thank you for the messages of concern. I am doing fine. This island truly is paradise. I can’t wait to see you all when you arrive.

  Safe travels,

  Coen

  I read the message three times before hitting send.

  “‘Extraordinary life’?” I hear Elias say. “Nice one.”

  “You don’t approve?” I put the tablet away and stretch my limbs until my body covers every corner of the bed.

  “I like it. I probably would have done without telling everyone what not to wear, but it is your party.”

  “It’s not my party. It’s yours,” I reply to the ceiling. “In fact, it’s not a party at all. It’s a celebration of life — your life. I don’t want it to be all doom and gloom. Do you?”

  “I guess not,” he says. “You should have given it a theme. Remember the party that Vivi hosted years ago? Where everyone had to wear an outfit made of anything but clothes? Now that would be fun.”

  “You looked pretty sexy in your pizza-box shorts,” I say with a smile. Elias had worn two cardboard pizza boxes wrapped around his midsection, and not much else. “It was definitely a bigger hit than my toilet-paper suit.”

  “I thought you looked very handsome, like an adorable mummy. Your costume ended up being more provocative than mine as it unravelled throughout the night.”

  I cringe. “I was wearing the least flattering underwear. Anyway, I don’t think that would be a very appropriate theme for your celebration. I certainly don’t want to see what my parents would show up in.”

  “I could lend your father my pizza-box outfit,” Elias says. I howl with laughter at the visual until tears are in my eyes. I imagine tears being in his eyes too.

  • • • • •

  Isla de Espejos is a croissant-shaped sweep of sand and stone that curves around a deep lagoon. On the eastern edge sits the main village, a cluster of cobblestone lanes lined with eateries and shops. A few open-air cantinas are scattered between buildings, with lights strung above picnic tables and fluorescent Tecate beer signs hung on the walls. The streets are busy with friendly locals going about their business and tourists taking photos. The place possesses a laid-back, breezy, tropical charm that has a way of slowing time.

  All lanes in the village converge at a picturesque square called Plaza Pequeña. Soaring high above one end are the twin bell towers of the cathedral. Statues of the Virgin and her entourage of saints guard the baroque facade — they watch over the people below, a barrier between human and god. Balconies wrap around the bell towers, suspended high above the square. The pinnacle of each is capped with an ornate cross atop an onionshaped dome.

  A wide circular lawn stretches over the centre of the square. Stone paths divide the grass into quadrants where tropical trees provide respite from the scorching sun. Water spouts from an ornate fountain where the paths meet.

  I take the short walk to the village and find the streets bustling with people. Plaza Pequeña transforms into a buzzy outdoor market every evening, and the sun has just dipped behind the fringe of trees to the west. The stalls lining the outer edges of the square sell things like handwoven blankets, wooden dishes, and plenty of local sweets. Children dart through the crowds of families and tourists. Packs of teenaged boys and girls display themselves to each other on the grass, taunting and flirting. Young men fill the cantinas, gesturing wildly with their hands as they recount tales of their conquests.

  An elderly woman approaches. Our eyes meet, and it takes a second for me to remember why I recognize her. She’s the sad woman in the bright floral dress from the Terrace Bar yesterday. She wears a similar dress tonight, this time blue with hibiscus. I give her a polite smile. She shoots me a disturbed look before diverting course, shuffling away from me as quickly as her old legs can take her.

  After imprisoning myself in my room for nearly thirty-two hours, it feels good to breathe fresh air. I hadn’t thought to open the balcony doors. I kept the curtains tightly closed, peeking outside periodically to confirm that the level of daylight matched the time on the bedside clock. Time seemed to move either too quickly or too slowly. I had one meal while I was in there, ordered through room service. It was placed in front of my door, as instructed, and I retrieved it when I was sure the hall was empty. The shiny cloche on the tray hid a bowl of diced papaya and mango, which I forced myself to eat.

  It took every crumb of energy to shower, shave, and dress myself. My skin appeared paler than usual, the bags beneath my eyes heavier, but the rest of me looked normal. Chestnut hair tidily parted along the side. The tiny cleft in my chin and dimple in my cheek cursing my face
with an excess of youth.

  After twenty minutes of steady breathing, I was ready to walk out the door. The hallway lamps were blinding. I could feel eyes on me as I hurried through the lobby, even though I didn’t dare look at anyone’s face. Now I wonder if their expressions were similar to that of the old woman I just passed in the square.

  I managed to ask the concierge where I could find Maria, my wedding planner, and he directed me to Plaza Pequeña. After completing a full lap around the market, I spot her petite figure by the fountain in the middle of the circular lawn. With her white linen dress and hair flowing loosely around her face, I almost don’t recognize her at first. She looks like a more relaxed version of the professional woman in the navy pantsuit who greeted me two days ago. A girl of about eight stands close by her side.

  As I get closer, I see they’re lighting candles on the ledge of the fountain. Similar candles appear in corners across Mexico, encased in tall cylinders of glass and wrapped in images of holy figures. The locals call them veladoras.

  Her face creases with compassion as she notices me approaching. The sadness in her eyes moves me. This is Maria, the mother.

  “Señor Coen, how are you feeling?” She places both hands on my cheeks in the way only mothers do.

  “I’m fine,” I say, but my voice comes out like a croak. The feeble smile I attempt is even less convincing.

  “You are strong,” she tells me, staring into the depths of my eyes. It sounds like she believes it, at least more than I do. “But you are not fine, not after what has happened. You must let yourself mourn.”

  “I’ve never been through something like this before.”

  “Of course, of course,” she says reassuringly. She takes my clammy hand and leads me to the fountain. The little girl studies me with curiosity. “There is no right or wrong way to mourn. It is different for everyone. Let your heart decide.”

  I don’t know what this means, but I nod.

  “This is my daughter, Jacinta.” The girl smiles before turning away shyly. She’s wearing a lace sundress the colour of canaries. Maria says something to her in Spanish with that scolding tone loved by mothers around the world. Jacinta offers a little curtsy and very quietly says, “Buenas noches.”

  Looking pleased, Maria turns to me. “We are lighting candles for Señor Elias and those poor people on that plane. It is a tragedy. Life can be unfair.”

  Now that’s an understatement.

  “We must honour the dead and listen to what they have to teach us,” she goes on. “Life is fragile, like an egg. This, I know, is true.”

  My head continues to nod mindlessly. I wonder how long she plans to hold my hand.

  The ledge of the fountain is covered in candles housed in glass jars of all sizes. Many feature the Virgin. She wears a powder-blue cloak in some and robes of white in others. There are candles depicting Christ nailed to the cross or surrounded by beams of light. Flaming hearts wrapped in thorns and pierced by swords are a common symbol — the sacred heart. Together they flicker ominously, casting a glow against the water. It’s beautiful.

  I notice for the first time that the centrepiece at the top of the fountain, above the highest of the three tiered basins, is a small statue of the Virgin. Her hands are crossed demurely in front of her chest. Her stone eyes look down at me with a vacant gaze.

  “Isn’t she lovely?” Maria asks, following my eyes. Stevie Wonder’s voice immediately fills the tunnels of my mind.

  “She is.”

  “Our Lady of Guadalupe,” she continues. “Mexico’s mother. Ever since she appeared to a peasant on a hillside hundreds of years ago, not too far from here, she has been our patron saint. Our very own Virgin.”

  I smile at Maria, and I can tell by her satisfied reaction that it’s more believable this time. She finally releases my hand.

  “Tell me about your love. What was he like?”

  The question catches me off guard. I wince hearing Maria say “was” instead of “is.”

  “Elias was perfect,” I respond slowly. “Handsome. Strong. He was everything to me. I suppose he still is and probably always will be. We were very happy together.”

  I imagine his face, every detail sharp and vivid. I wonder if he cut his hair, like he promised he would.

  “When do you leave for home?” she asks, taking a seat on an empty section of the fountain’s ledge. I sit next to her as Jacinta continues lighting candles.

  “That’s what I want to talk to you about. I’m not going home. Not yet, at least. We’re not cancelling the event.”

  A look of confusion tightens her face.

  “It won’t be a wedding, of course,” I go on. “It will be a celebration of life instead, for Elias.”

  “Do you mean a wake?”

  “Sure, kind of,” I say, uncertain. “It’s a chance for everyone who loved Elias to come together and remember his life, rather than mourn his death. Funerals back home can be so grim. I don’t want that for him, and neither would he.”

  She doesn’t seem convinced. “This is a lovely idea, but you should be home, no? If Señor Elias’s home is Canada, and your loved ones are in Canada, then his life should be celebrated there, in your home, where he belongs.”

  “No.” The word shoots past my lips. My fists clench in defiance. “We were supposed to be married six days from today. It was meant to be the happiest day of our lives. We chose to do that on this island, in your hotel. If this is good enough for our wedding day, it’s good enough for his funeral — I mean, celebration of life. So that’s what we’re going to do. Our guests arrive in four days. We need to be sure this event is as perfect as our wedding would have been. Do you understand, Maria?” The words are sharper than I intend. With a deep breath, my tone softens. “I need your help.”

  She looks at me. Some of the motherly tenderness is no longer there. “I understand,” she says, patting my hand with hers. “As you wish. It will be a beautiful ceremony.”

  “Thank you. Really, thank you, Maria.”

  She turns to the ledge beside her and picks up a tall candle, its glass jar displaying a golden-haired angel in flowing white robes. His dovelike wings spread outward in a burst of white feathers while beams of yellow light radiate around him.

  “Take this,” she says, putting the candle in my hand. “Those we have lost live on beyond this world. They come back to us as long as they are remembered. You must honour your love.”

  He looks nothing like Elias, I think as I stare at the angel’s peaceful face. “How do I honour him?”

  “You create an ofrenda — an altar — in your home,” she says. “For now, the Ōmeyōcān is your home, so place this candle in your room in front of a photograph of your love. Then you must find offerings. Gather your love’s favourite foods, as well as incense and fruit. Put them on the altar. Do you see that woman over there with the flowers? Buy some marigolds from her. Place them around the candle. The scent will guide him back to you from the afterlife.”

  My mouth opens to decline, but I remain silent as I look at the flames reflecting on the surface of the water.

  “Now this is important. When you return home to Canada, build another altar for him there with the same offerings: candles, photograph, incense, food, and marigolds. Every year, on Día de Muertos, he will return to you, but only if he is remembered.”

  She looks at me with such conviction that a sense of comfort wraps around me like a sweater. I consider telling her about my stance on religion but decide again to stay quiet. I just smile. “Thank you, Maria.”

  “He has not left you,” she says. “They never leave us.”

  The candle feels heavy in my hand as I walk away. It seemed like Maria and I were the only people in the square while we talked by the fountain, but now the noise returns. The teenagers scream, wrestling each other on the grass. An audience has gathered around a group of impromptu dancers who twirl to the music of a mariachi band. Vendors try to outshout one another as they compete for the attention
of customers.

  I am making my way through the crowd, toward the hotel, when I come across the flower vendor Maria had pointed out. The woman appears to float in a pool of colourful petals. Baskets overflow with dahlias white as bone and sage as purple as bruised skin. Then I see the marigolds, each one a little burst of yellow and orange flames. The woman reaches toward her feet before holding up a long garland of the fiery petals. She hands it to me solemnly as though she knows exactly what I am looking for.

  TERRACE BAR

  Two days after the crash

  The courtyard of the Ōmeyōcān is a different place beneath the moonlight. The arched doorways that surround it, illuminated by lanterns, create a glowing necklace that flickers as people hurry through the halls. Lights have been strung up in the trees overhead. The magnolias give them a pale pink glimmer.

  A wedding is underway. The bride is dazzling in white. The groom could be a prince from a faraway land. They hold each other closely as they dance beneath the trees, auburn hair cascading past her shoulders from a crown of white flowers. He looks into her eyes as though he’s never seen anything so precious. She lays her head on his shoulder as if he could protect her from every danger in the world.

  They’re so lucky. The magnolias are in bloom.

  From where I stand on the terrace, the scene below me could be a lavish ball from a fairy tale, one in which everyone lives happily ever after.

  Wait and see. Life doesn’t end happily.

  I hear Elias’s voice finish my thought. “It just ends.”

  As the band plays on, I tear myself away and step through the large doors that lead to the Terrace Bar. It’s a relief to shut those doors behind me on the music and light outside, to step into this room that feels dim and accepting.

  The space is furnished in dark cherry wood and sumptuous leather. A chandelier hangs from the centre of the ceiling. The tinted mirrors that cover the walls reflect the muted light, creating plenty of dark corners. It’s a shadow-filled jewel box of a room, which I thought was a strange contrast to the airiness of the hotel when I first arrived three days ago. Now, I feel right at home.