I wake up in a dimly-lit room. The putrid stench of decaying flesh assaults my senses. I look down at my body – it’s heavily bandaged and I’m lying on some sort of narrow stretcher.
My eyes scan the room. It resembles a large tepee – smoky, warm and crowded with all sorts of weird things – small dead animals in jars, bottled herbs, large leaves piled one on top of the other and various bizarre concoctions. Freaky, like I’m in a witchdoctor’s room. I need to get the hell out of here. I try to move, but the pain in my chest is so intense, I stop. Where the fuck am I? How come I’m hurting so much?
Over the next couple of minutes, the fog in my brain clears and I start to remember. Payton Wagner – that’s my name. Twenty-one – University of Los Angeles, on holiday in Mexico with my deadbeat father and bitch of a stepmother. I remember us leaving our five-star holiday resort and visiting my stepsister Paris and her husband Austin in Siempre, a village in remote and mountainous Mexico.
Austin’s an engineer with a year-long contract with the Mexican government – something to do with building bridges in isolated areas of Mexico. At first, I had declined Paris’s invitation to join her, but she badgered us with messages, complaining that she desperately needed company. Since I secretly wanted to see Austin, I went along and a psycho tried to murder me.
The psycho! My breathing is suddenly erratic, there’s roaring in my ears and my mouth gets dry. Am I still in his clutches? Is he here? Why the hell did he shoot me?
I rack my brain. I did nothing wrong – I was just taking holiday photos when I heard a bloodcurdling scream. This swarthy, hairy, giant of a nut job on a black horse, screamed and thundered towards me, his dreadlocks flying all over his angry mug.
I didn’t know what he was saying but it sounded like he was calling me a spy. Like most tourists, my Spanish is limited to vacation words from a traveler’s guide. There were many people around - why me? Fuck, I was scared. Especially when some people around me cowered and whispered, ‘Santa María, ¡es Diablo! ¡Es Diablo!’ while others fell over each other, trying to leg it out of there.
Diablo, as they called him, jumped off his horse, stormed up to me, snatched the camera out of my shaking hands and smashed it to the ground. Then, he grabbed me by the scruff of my shirt, lifted me off my trembling feet and slammed me against a wall. I lay dazed while he ranted in Spanish. Suddenly, he grabbed me by the throat and started to strangle me.
I fought back, like I always do when I’m attacked - dug my nails into his calloused hands. That made him angrier - he shoved me away, pointed his gun at me and fired.
But I’m alive. I survived my own murder. Wow!
My recollection is interrupted by the sound of footsteps. I tense up, expecting the hairy sicko. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!
To my surprise, it’s an old woman.
I exhale. No need to panic just yet.
The woman’s eyes are wide with surprise. She claps her hands. ‘You’re awake,’ she says in English, then yells over her shoulder in Spanish.
Who’s she calling - the crazy dude who tried to kill me? Oh Jesus!
She peers at me. ‘Hola!’ Her smile is friendly and reaches her eyes.
‘H … hola!’ I reply, my eyes scanning the tent for a back door, window – anything.
‘W…who are …?’
‘Call me Enfermera,’ she says. ‘Everybody does.’
She speaks English. Considering the way she looks – zombie like, bent and bony, large, bulging, jaundiced eyes, greenish-brown teeth, hair sticking up in all directions like misplaced antennae, I’m surprised. Her clothing is tattered and torn and she reminds me of a zombie from Michael Jackson’s Thriller video.
But when she speaks, her weird looks recede and all you hear is a beautiful, melodious voice. Amazing – as if someone else is speaking inside her. Have I died and gone to hell?
An old Mexican man shuffles into the room, looks at me and frowns. He’s short, wrinkled and bald and gives me a look that tells me I’m intruding. Still, at least it’s him, not the whack job who tried to kill me.
‘Where am I?’ I ask in a timid voice. ‘Who are you guys?’ I’m already tired from the little interaction I’m having with them.
‘Later,’ Enfermera says, placing a cool, bony hand on my forehead. ‘Rest now. When you wake up, we will talk.’
‘No,’ I protest. ‘I wanna … know …where I …’ I drift into back into unconsciousness.
When I wake up, she force-feeds me gruel. It’s revolting - smells like boiled, unseasoned chicken, but I’m not even sure it is as good as that. I gag but she just shoves it down my throat. ‘You’re going to need your strength,’ she says in a singsong voice.
* * *
A fortnight has passed, I’m propped up on my stretcher and we’re finally having that talk.
‘Enfermera means nurse in Spanish,’ she explains as she puffs on a cigarette she rolled herself. ‘My real name is Gaudelope. Juan doesn’t speak English, so I’ll be your translator.’
At the mention of his name, Juan spits a disgusting glob of snuff or something like that on the ground.
Not the most sociable fucker, but hey, I’m cool with it considering he’s sharing his gruel and vile smelling potions with me.
‘My name is Payton,’ I say. ‘I’m an American …’
‘Yes, we know,’ Enfermera says, reaching behind herself and removing a bag.
‘My backpack,’ I cry and snatch it from her.
‘It was still on your back when we found you.’
‘Awesome!’ In the bag I find my purse, my student identification card, a picture of my secret crush, Austin, my cherry lip balm, a few dollars. Just what I need - something to connect me with my other life.
‘What are you studying?’ Enfermera asks, squinting at my student card.
Enfermera’s English is amazing and I’m intrigued. I make a mental note to question her about it.
‘Eh, Bachelor of Behavioural Science. Criminology, Psychology majors.’ Wonder if she knows what’s it all about?
‘Aaah. Clever and tough?’
‘Yep. Gonna head New York’s FBI office one day. Gonna kick ass.’
She smiles. ‘I believe you,’ she says. ‘You’re obviously a survivor.’
Juan walks up to me and stabs my shoulder a couple of times with gnarled fingers. ‘Milagro.’
What the fuck did I do to piss him off now?
‘That’s miracle in Spanish,’ Enfermera says quickly. ‘Because you were shot and obviously thrown off the cliff into the sea and yet, you’re still here. Milagro.’
I nod slowly. ‘Wow. That’s what happened? That dude really wanted me dead, huh? It’s like overkill.’
She frowns. ‘Do you know why? I mean, what exactly did you do to him?’
‘Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I was just taking photos. Holiday shots of views … nothing out of the ordinary. Don’t know why he was so mad at me. I mean, everyone was taking photos, so why was he after me?’ I exhale loudly. ‘God, I wish I knew.’
She shakes her Don King-styled head. ‘Mmm … doesn’t make sense.’
She’s right, it doesn’t make sense. The motherfucker failed his mission though, because in spite of the overkill, I’m alive and being christened by witchdoctors. Knowing someone wanted me dead so badly is a humbling experience though.
‘What?’
I slowly lift my head to look at Enfermera. ‘Shot, thrown off a cliff, almost drowned – that’s three lives down, Enfermera. I gotta take it real easy with my other six.’ My voice is grim even though I’m trying to make light of my murder.
She bursts out laughing. ‘You’re funny. You should write a book about your brush with death when you go back to LA. Maybe it’ll turn into a movie.’
‘If I get back to America. It will have to be an action movie, though.’
‘I know who’ll play you – that actress from Friends. What’s her name …?’
‘Friends? The TV …?’
‘The blonde … ditsy …’
‘Aniston?’
‘No, the one that married Troy. Rachel …?’
‘Jennifer Aniston - she plays Rachel.’
She shrugs. ‘But younger …’
‘Really? Wow! Thanks, I guess. She’s a babe, so I think you’re just being nice. Anyway, how the hell do you know about Friends? And how come your English is good, huh?’
‘Used to live in Kansas City many years ago. Taught Spanish to a bunch of racists kids – trailer trash. Then taught English to some immigrants. Had a nervous breakdown and landed in a mental institution. Locked up ...’
‘Wow.’ That explains the hair.
‘I got better, but they just wouldn’t let me out, so I attacked a nurse with a pen and escaped. Found my way to Mexico and roamed the mountains. Until I found Juan. Well, he found me and we retreated into a stress-free, solitary life. Now we heal. Lucky for you, eh?’
I look at the small, dead animals in jars. ‘Yep. Sure am lucky to be rescued by two psychos.’
‘Psychos?’ She throws her head back and guffaws.
She’s still nuts, but she’s warm and caring and she makes me think of my mom.
My mom was a gregarious person. Great sense of humour and pretty, so pretty. Everyone who knew her loved her. I still remember her smile, her tinkling laugh, her gentle voice.
‘Now what?’
I shake my head slowly, my eyes filling with tears. ‘My mom … she spoke to me …when I was like, in the water, drowning. She said … she ... she asked me to …’ I swallow hard, ‘go with her and I’m wondering … is she my guardian angel now? I mean, she said everything was gonna be okay and it is. Like, I’m alive. Still. So I’m wondering …?’
‘My dear, you must have a team of guardian angels if you can survive what you survived.’
‘Yeah?’
‘But yes, I think your mother is watching over you. Maybe she sent you my way.’
‘Yeah, maybe. But right now … I really could do with my mom. Wish she hadn’t died. It’s just like, forced me to grow up. I don’t … I wish …’ I draw the tattered sheet over my head and weep, something I seldom do.
Enfermera takes my hand in hers and sings a Mexican lullaby, which makes me cry harder.
Juan spits on the floor and shuffles off, muttering under his breath.