In six months, Gwen Johnston turns thirty, and when she does, she vows she'll have her life together. She'll no longer be jumping from one job to another, from one relationship to the next. A new, more mature, Gwen will have emerged. She's giving he...
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I don't know what made me say yes.
That's a lie. Total bullshit.
I know exactly what made me say yes, and I've been cursing myself since we got off the bus. Up until today, every time Gwen asked me to tag along on their expensive and time-consuming sightseeing tours, she was upbeat, but today she seemed resigned, and I didn't want to be the one sliding her dimmer switch to low.
Fucked up, really. I've spent two weeks silently wishing she'd leave me be or that one of the couples on the bus would tire of each other, and I'd have an opportunity to sit elsewhere. My vitamin C intake has skyrocketed just from sitting next to her. A constant craving.
Something about listening to her chat to Esther and Colin over the last two weeks coupled with how she's become the caricature queen of the vacation (I swear she's made one for everyone but me) weakened my hard outer shell a fraction. She's reckless and beautiful and the kind of trouble I don't need to be engaging in when my goal is to return to the DRC, continue the work I promised I'd do.
Yet, here I am, walking up to the pier to meet, apparently, the majority of the tourists from our bus along with Esther, Colin, and Gwen.
What harm will it do? It's just one boat ride.
At the end of today, we'll go our separate ways, and I'll never again lay eyes on Gwen Johnston. She'll be a fun story I tell in the DRC camp about the fish out of water who made the land her sea. It had been pretty clear the first day that she, unlike me, hadn't intended to book the geriatric vacation. But she threw herself wholeheartedly into getting to know Esther, Colin, and the rest of the bus patrons. She's fit in with them in a way I never wanted but that I can't help envying.
The guy in charge of the boat tour doles out pieces of plastic that are supposed to shield us from the water and the drizzling rain. They'd also be damn awkward to swim in if the boat sank. Immediately, my mind runs away with planning how I'd avoid death, and I can't help thinking my line of work has, perhaps, altered me in areas that would petrify most people.
Who looks at a plastic poncho and calculates the steps to avoid drowning and certain death? I'm not even sure I remember what other people would think about a plastic poncho. Cool, I won't get wet. Is that it? Not something that smothers and stifles and confines.
While we're waiting to file onto the boat, Gwen spots me, and a grin splits her face. I saw the same expression at one of the motel check ins when she found her favorite chocolate bar, and I don't hate that I've earned her unbridled enthusiasm just by showing up. Such a low fucking bar, but there's an odd warmth in my chest that I've cleared it. That something I've done caused that smile.
I give a half-hearted wave, and I grimace at my awkwardness. In the field, getting to know people is easy. My role is clear. As the doctor and the expert, I'm in charge. Whenever I'm back in developed countries, I flounder for the right thing to say or do in these informal social situations. None of it feels like me. It's like I forget how to just be.
