To Touch an Underbelly

The two of them, Manuela and Daniel, who founded this operation, have permits to come to the beach so late and bring vans of tourists who want to see the turtles. Tonight’s family, a big white man and his coiffed wife and three girls, ask Manuela as she drives to Playa Grande: what is your name and were you educated and have you always lived here and what do you think of American politics these days? In the rearview mirror, Manuela sees the girls play turtle. They fit one palm over the other hand’s knuckles and wiggle their thumbs. Their turtles zoom all over the car and bang against the window.

She has endured this routine for six evenings of the week for almost a year now, and whenever she wonders why, she thinks of Ana, that woman she loves, slicing plantains in the kitchen and gently pushing them into the crackling stovetop oil. Ana, smiling, and for the first time in so long Manuela will be able to return that flash of teeth without also worrying about the next night’s drive, when she’ll barely be able to coax her mouth into a greeting, let alone the grin the tourists expect. Because tonight she quits. Tonight she will stop looking at the ocean and seeing profit. The waves of before, before Ana’s bed rest and stiffening joints and delicate, butterfly-shaped rash, will return to her. Tonight she will surprise Ana with the news.

Though on this last night Manuela does her best in playing her part, if only for Daniel, who will keep the company even when Manuela leaves it, and needs those word-of-mouth reviews that families give out to other families in hotel lobbies to survive.  She answers the family and asks questions too, because they expect her to be interested: How long have you been in Costa Rica and what parts will you be visiting and are the children on holiday? Standard, and the children roll their eyes, having heard this conversation before, but the parents relish it, become a well-rehearsed duo.

THE WIFE we’ve only been here for a few days now, but THE HUSBAND no, hon, it’s been a week—just doesn’t feel like it THE WIFE you’re right, you’re right, sí, por una seh-mah-nah, anyway, yes, a week now, we came from Arenal, did the whole zip lining and rafting and hiking part in a few days THE HUSBAND insanity, let me tell you, being above the jungle like that THE WIFE but we love it here, love it, absolutely would stay for a month if we could, but the children have school you know, they’re in sixth grade and fourth and it’s very important for them to be there for the lessons at this age THE HUSBAND so Tamarindo’s our last stop THE WIFE and what we really want, more than anything is to see some turtles THE HUSBAND I mean for thirty dollars a person, I’m assuming it’ll happen, Jane THE WIFE well, Manuela, what do you think, will we get turtles, we will won’t we?

Playa Grande is known for its many turtle sightings, Manuela replies. And as you know, we refund your money if there aren’t any.

They say nothing.

Manuela adds, But it is common to see them. I wouldn’t worry.

Then her cellphone rings in the cup holder and when she reaches for it, she sees Ana’s name. She never calls around this time, knowing that Manuela is on the road.

I’m sorry, Manuela says. Do you mind?

Oh. The wife, Jane, looks out the window, as if assessing the road to see how safe it is. I guess not.

I’ll be quick, Manuela says, and then accepts the call, all the while keeping a steady hand on the wheel, guiding the car around a curve she knows well. I want to hear more about your home. Hello?

I didn’t want to tell you, Ana says. I didn’t want you to worry and I thought maybe I was being paranoid. And after all that you’ve already done— She pauses. Oh, shit, you’re working.

Tell me what?

I’m flaring. It’s a flare-up. And then, like she isn’t talking to Manuela any longer. It’s happening again. I’m not better.

Manuela imagines her roaming their little house, straightening photos and opening the medicine cabinet over and over again, like there might be a solution there—after four years together, Manuela has seen enough of these incidences to wish she wasn’t in this car, driving these tourists, who are now joking about building a second pool and using it to house a sea turtle. She wants to fold Ana in her embrace, and lay down on the cool kitchen floor and tell her to breathe. Six months ago, the doctor had claimed the Lupus was in remission, and would be for some time.

I went to the doctor. I was there for hours, Ana says.  He suggested the Prednisone again. But the bottle we have—it’s expired.

We’ll get you more, Manuela replies. She talks softly and plans, mentally sorting through her schedule and their finances too. It isn’t that they can’t afford to care with their government’s programs. But still, Ana won’t be able to work. Manuela won’t make her do that, on top of everything, even if they have a house to run, parents to help feed, savings to maintain. It means—it means they need the tips Manuela makes here, and the fifty-percent cut she gets of business profits. Meaning, she must get off the phone, she must cater to the family, she must become the welcome they want. She must do it now, again, every day. A little spiral fire of anger smokes in her stomach. She says to Ana, though, The pharmacy will be closed tonight, but I’ll go tomorrow morning. I promise.

And after that, it might be the Cyclo, the Cyclo-something through the IV.

We’ll figure it out, Manuela says. She pauses. I wish you would’ve told me. I’ll come wait at the hospital with you next time, okay?

Ana makes a kissing noise into the receiver. I love you. Come home when you can. Soon. 

I will. I have to go.

The phone weighs down the front of her shirt when she slips in into her breast pocket. Manuela turns to the group in the van, but they aren’t waiting to hear the news. The children don’t cling to the front seat, trying to listen in. She is alone in her terror, and this is a balm, this means she does not need to parse out her fear and present it to them. But then, it is all so startling to remember that to them she is a body who drives, who finds turtles, who guides and then disappears, no history, no life to tether her to reality.

Ten years ago, when Manuela was just turning nineteen, the turtles were fixtures in the waves. Manuela and her friends would come to see them in the nights, and brought beers and put up with the sandmites biting their ankles. The dark bodies appeared from swells and crept up towards them. Sometimes, whomever Manuela was flirting with would rest chilled glass on her neck, to make her jump. But mostly, they watched the turtles, how they were determined to make a full loop up and down the beach to scout out the right place to lay eggs, despite how their fins functioned all wrong out of the surf, despite how the birds cawed with hunger. What a risk, Manuela would say, just to survive. And after, a bonfire.

Today there are no friends, no beer, and her lover is miles away, grappling with how her body is falling into its old attacking patterns. A predator to itself in just its existence. Today, Daniel meets Manuela and the family when they park, his own group trailing behind him. He introduces himself to the family, shaking hands, and promising a perfect evening.

I feel it in the waves, he says, as he does every night. They look calm tonight. We should head down to the beach.

Everyone follows him, stumbling in the sand, and someone comments on how many stars they can see. Manuela nods; the beauty has never faded to her, unlike how it has to other people about other places. In the restaurants she once worked at people told her, We’re from New York, and she said, How wonderful, and they said, Not really, you forget where you are, unless you’re a visitor. In Playa Grande, giant, silhouetted rocks that look like islands tower over the people, and the stars are swirled through the sky, and it’s impossible to see it as less than a piece of glory, this land she was born on, this land she belongs to.

Sit here, Daniel tells the group. Manuela, let’s go look.

They walk halfway down the beach, scanning with their flashlights, which stream red light instead of white, so as to disturb the turtles less.

You wanted to talk? Daniel asks her while they walk.

She was so sure before the call, sure that she wouldn’t have to be a part of the business any longer. Someone would take her place, but she could finally disentangle herself from this nightly ritual, inviting tourists to trample the coast, seeking out turtles that haven’t asked to be found. But the Prednisone, the Cyclophosphamide, and Ana stuffing her blanket in her mouth so Manuela won’t hear her crying, though they both know, of course they do. She will do what she can to release these burdens.

I was wrong, Manuela tells Daniel, though the words seem intent on slipping past her gritted teeth. But she holds. She is not the one who needs sympathy, who needs care. She says, I was mistaken. It’s nothing.

Okay, he says, even as he eyes her. He swings his flashlight in a long arc on the ocean.

No dark oval on the waves. Nothing to report back to the tourists who are waiting and checking their watches and reminding each other of how much they paid for the excursion. Manuela looks back and sees blonde heads resting on their mothers’ shoulders. They yawn, maybe. The girls are bored. The girls want something to happen.

Their voices carry, their clipped whispers are not quiet,

THE GIRL I didn’t even want to go on this stupid turtle trip THE SISTER it was supposed to be fun, okay, sorry I didn’t know it was gonna be lame THE GIRL we could’ve been in the hotel pool right now THE SISTER we could’ve gotten those green coconuts with the straws and made mom buy us those horseback rides THE GIRL now that would’ve been cool THE SISTER how much longer do we have to be here anyway THE GIRL until Dad starts yelling THE SISTER boy, I hope I’m asleep before that.

We can bring them out tomorrow, Daniel says, but his fist clenches around his flashlight, because so many will not come back. Maybe because it is their last night in Tamarindo, maybe because they have some other entertainment scheduled, maybe because they’ve lost trust in Manuela and Daniel. They’ll lose out on the money, the tips, the word-of-mouth business. To not see turtles hurts more than just this night.

Half an hour later, voice graveled and frantic, Daniel calls from a neighboring beach, which he has been watching while she sits with the tourists and reassures them. The radio crackles, but she can make out his hurry.

He says, The turtle, she’s making her turn now, heading back to the sea. You must come. You must come now.

The tourists heave to their feet and are already walking to the north when he tells her they have ten minutes longer at the most. Hurry—hurry—hurry, the call goes through the group, and the people race on the sand sliding as they go, bodies knocking into each other. When they reach the end of the beach, there is a hill. Manuela passes out flashlights, explaining they must climb it. She’ll take the rear of the line, and she calls out for a leader in the front to look out for snakes. The big white man from her van, Jane’s husband, volunteers.

Come on, girls, he says to his daughters. Let’s rock ‘n’ roll.

Giggling, the children race ahead, careless about the terrain, what they might be disturbing. The rocks are unstable under feet and there are tree branches to trip on, and Manuela takes the tourist’s hands, helps them cross. They pass a small shack with two dogs that growl and buck their hips while they bark.

Shut up, a wrinkled woman says to the creatures from her doorway. It’s the turtlewatchers, nothing more.

Yes, Manuela thinks, nothing more, except that is a lie, because they are the earth’s panic every night, trampling and tearing at the world, trying to take it all in before it disappears. And she is their leader as long as the cash flows. But then she remembers what it feels to buy something and have it forever. To do with it what you will. To break it if you want. To sleep with it under a pillow. And more than things, Ana’s body, soft under her hands, her breath steady, talking of the latest election results, showing off a new stud in her ear, asking Manuela about her last dream and why she was whimpering.

At the second beach, Daniel stands near the water, his dark form erect and watchful. A few meters away from him, the turtle creeps towards the waves. The girls jolt forward, but Manuela stops them. She tells the group, You must move slowly and quietly. Don’t crowd her.

They obey, reverent, as the shell moves forward, a small head bobbing underneath, flippers thumping on the ground and pulling. Someone asks if it hurts her to do this and Manuela replies that sometimes the turtle will even bleed as she brings herself towards the water. As she says it, they ready their cameras, and a few of them zoom in on the viewfinder, maybe trying to glimpse an already-drying ripple of blood.

Can we use flash? Jane asks, already fiddling with the settings.

The answer is no, but Daniel shrugs a little, like he does on most trips. He has told her, every time she confronted him, that they’ll do it anyway, so why not make them happy from the start? Every time she would pick up his flashlight, turn it on, and show him the red light. She would ask him, why use this, then? Why pretend they are better when they aren’t? For the permit, he would remind her and she would go home and replace the conversation in her mind with something better. Her friend saying, instead, Because I want to do what I can, even if it isn’t much.

Daniel beckons at her as the tourists take photo after photo of the same spot, each time trying to get the angle a little better, probably so that they will have proof to show to their friends. Daniel tells Manuela to take her flashlight out and shine it on the creature’s head.

Now, he says. Or they’ll miss the best shot.

The turtle stares up at Manuela, the light blinding. It wants to shut its eyes, but it won’t, trying to understand this predator that looms above with its devil light. It tries to shrink, but its shell is big, cumbersome, so all it can do is hold its muscles steady. Animals like this, they can’t bolt. And anyway, there is rarely escape. And now, what will happen? Maybe the heart, unused to this adrenaline, this pumping of blood will stop and the eyes will close. And maybe those eggs, sheathed inside of this turtle’s body might melt back into organs, cold. And maybe they will make a spit on a fire and roast it and then they can say, we saw it and we ate it and now it is ours.

Of course none of this will happen, Manuela knows, but it feels like it, the steady dismantling of the turtle under her hand. Who knows the future? Who knows if this turtle, still disoriented will make it to the surf and swim out into danger and be toothed to death by a shark? Who knows if it will die amongst the gentle swaying ribbons of seaweed? All Manuela can know is that now the turtle is alive and surviving, has probably survived alone and floating for longer than Manuela could. All she can know is that her lover does not like to be alone, not even for a moment if Manuela builds a wall of pillows between them and laughs. All she can know is that a turtle doesn’t know how to love the way a human does.

She wishes she didn’t understand human love either, this feeling so caught up in the sensation of allowing the heart to be grated over and over again.

I want to touch it, one of the girls whines, jabbing her finger in the air close to the turtle’s tail.

They aren’t allowed to place their hands on the turtle’s body, there are rules and regulations against it, but the tourists are drawing closer, and it’s what they want. They are searching for an intimacy that could kill this creature, but if she allows them to own the animal, believe they are one with it, she might find extra bills in her tip, might gain more customers tomorrow. Do it for Ana, she reminds herself. For Ana, she says, blaming.

You can, just get closer, Manuela says to the group. She is not herself any longer, just movement and quickness in her limbs.

Daniel flinches, like he understands the decision she just made—he has always let her keep away from what makes her gag—but it is too late anyway. The tourists have moved. So has Manuela. Daniel joins her just a moment later. He looks at her, and she avoids him, but they move their bodies together anyway, corralling the creature with their legs, their hands so it can’t move away.

And they sing out their permissions.

DANIEL come on, come now, come, come MANUELA get close, as close as you want, people DANIEL now listen, she didn’t lay any eggs today she is waiting to be sure it is safe MANUELA and it is so she will be back DANIEL but she wants to go back in the water, so you must get to know her now before she disappears MANUELA no, she won’t mind at all, look, she’s posing for you DANIEL do you want to touch it MANUELA yes, you can touch it DANIEL it won’t hurt you MANUELA here I’ll hold it for you DANIEL and I will hold the light so your mother can take the photo MANUELA it’s harmless, just put your hands on like this, see, see feel the shell DANIEL have you ever felt anything like that before MANUELA now you can tell everyone what turtle skin is like under yours. 

Their hands on the turtle’s home. Their hands, uninvited. Their hands, intruders instead of guests. Manuela shines the light closer and closer, keeping the turtle still, shaken. In this light, what is blood and what it is body and what is human and what is animal? The mother, Jane, drags her children forth, showing them the shell and the skin, that abstract, rectangulated skin. They are not careful with their fingers. They almost poke the turtle’s eyes as it stares ahead, so close, it can probably smell the salt. Why do they want this, this closeness only gained by trapping? She pretends to understand, she pretends to become one of them, but she only says she is pretending.

Later—after the turtle has sunk back in the waves; after Manuela opens the car doors and the family slips into the seats; after Daniel grabs the back of Manuela’s neck and pulls her in and gives the side of her head a breathy kiss; after she drinks a bottle of water and crushes the plastic in her hand and then drinks another and another, trying to flood her body with a sensation other than hatred; after she drives the family home and the husband gives her ten dollars, not even colones, but full dollars—she pulls the sheet off Ana’s chest, her breasts, her stomach, and she inspects, trying hard to see the sickness, so adept at hiding.

How was it? Ana asks, opening her watery brown eyes. She has been crying—the veins are redder than usual against the white.

They are meant to share everything, but Manuela is exhausted, each of her muscles strained from the tenseness she carried all night, and she isn’t sure that Ana can hear any of her worries right now anyway. She settles into the bed and shrugs.

Ana runs a hand around Manuela’s shoulder and then leans forward and kisses the skin.

Thank you, she says. For going out there for us.

Don’t say that, Manuela replies.

Ana doesn’t ask, maybe aware of all the times Manuela has come home in a bad mood, not wanting to look at anything but the showerhead. She only brushes sand out of the folds of skin in Manuela’s neck.

How do you feel, Ana? Manuela turns her lover over, inspecting the places where she has become less and less over the months. Bone makes angles. There is less to love and more to cling to. She thinks, strangely, of the turtle on the beach, caught by something it can’t understand. Trying to move, but not able to go fast enough. Marked forever by this body violation. Poor turtle, sacrificed for Ana, for the good of another victim. In her mind, the shell is empty, sinking to the bottom of a trench.

You’re home, Ana says, and she digs into Manuela’s forearm with her nails. It always feels easier when you’re here.

They link hands and for a moment Manuela thinks this will be enough for the two of them. She nuzzles the skin at Ana’s collarbone and whispers into it.

MANUELA I can do anything you need ANA I don’t know what I need right now but I am trying to find out MANUELA tell me so I can give it to you, tell me as soon as you know ANA I promise MANUELA when we’re like this it’s almost like before, don’t you feel it? ANA it’s easy enough to forget right now MANUELA maybe if we don’t remember none of it will be wrong, none of it will be real ANA sometimes lying is how I make it through the day, my love MANUELA a lie is safety ANA a lie is our dream MANUELA lay with me, beautiful

They kiss the way someone sucks water out of a coconut, lips never leaving the straw. The way the ocean, too rough to really snorkel, leaps into the breathing tube, again and again, its salt invading the throat, the lungs, the burn of it surprisingly clear. They kiss and they kiss, but Manuela sometimes wishes her lover’s mouth didn’t keep her in Tamarindo. She wants to go elsewhere, to know that her life could throb on away from the coast and the daily trek to the stall to sell experiences.

Ana leans back into the pillow, and Manuela reads it as come closer, sink into me. She reaches into Ana’s thick hair and rubs at the roots, a massage that she knows Ana likes. But her lover shakes her head and pushes feebly at Manuela’s shoulder joint.

I’m so tired today, she says. I want to. I do. I just—I’m so tired.

Maybe it’ll make you feel better, Manuela suggests, though she usually doesn’t.

Ana jerks her head upwards, and Manuela thinks that she could be offering her neck for a kiss, for the gentle pulling of skin with teeth, for a mark that suggests they could be a regular couple. But she isn’t. She’s moving away, as far as she can under Manuela. The woman who is meant to love her, who she is meant to love, is curling into herself, away, away. Manuela feels the guilt before she processes it, a stabbing in her abdomen and sweat on her upper lip.

Not tonight, maybe, maybe another time, later, another day.

Her voice, pleading, and Manuela understands—of course she understands, after so many months of seeing Ana curl up in frustration on the bathroom floor. In a memory, Ana bangs her head against the cabinet under the sink, almost hitting her eyeball with the handle. It’s too much, she says, over and over again, in rhythm with the slow, methodical smack of her forehead. It’s not, Manuela says. They lie on the tile together, for a long time, and Ana picks at the grout. She says, Do you want someone better? Manuela shook her head against the floor and told Ana, Better is for people who don’t want to give in to love.

But still, those moments felt easier once, Manuela realizes. She is still hovering over Ana’s face, balancing now on her knees and hands. What she said long ago, that wasn’t a lie. She doesn’t understand the concept of someone better. How, when the person she gouges her heart for is under her with dewy eyes? But something slips in and out of her consciousness, this idea of wanting, of wishing, not for someone else, but for a whole changed life, one without the iron-hot taste of loneliness that accompanies the acceptance of a terrible and necessary responsibility.

In the kitchen, Manuela heats a pot of milk on the stove, circling the wooden spoon through, so that the white fluid doesn’t stick to the metal and burn. She told Ana to close her eyes again, but not to sleep, because she needs something healthy in her belly to tide her over to the next morning. She had a sense that Ana had wanted her to stay, but Manuela had slipped from the mattress before Ana could grasp the hem of her shirt, the flap of her pocket.

As the milk starts to bubble, Manuela dips and raises the spoon, watching the white cling for a moment and then ripple off. This is what it is to be with Ana, she realizes. To hold on and hold on and then finally let go, but the spoon dips back in, disrupting again.

Maybe tonight is the night that she leaves everything: the turtles, the pain in their breath as they stare, paralyzed in red light; Ana and her butterfly rash; the bottles of medicine, their caps rough against her palm; the bed, which sometimes she doesn’t think she even really sleeps on, just lies on, waiting for a change to come—a better or worse one, just something that will make them move.

And maybe, she thinks, it’s time for her to force the shift.

When the milk heats through, she pours it into a glass that is scalding to the touch. She uses a towel to grasp it and opens the door to the bedroom with her shoulder. On her tongue, the intention to say it. To say, Ana, I can’t any longer. This bout is yours this time. Find me after, in twenty years if you must.

Ana is not lying down any longer; rather, she has propped herself up with a pillow and is hunched over, inspecting her toenails. She traces their shape and slides her soft finger over the ragged edges. When Manuela enters, she raises her head a little, but does not smile. Her face is impassive and hard, like the time alone has solidified something in her.

Here, Manuela says, creeping closer to the bed, holding the drink out.

You must think about leaving, Ana says. She does not take the glass from Manuela’s hand. She does not look anywhere but her knees.

Leaving what? Manuela asks, acting. She puts the milk on the bedside table and sits close to Ana, with her legs dangling off the side off the bed. It frightens her, suddenly, that they will not face each other as they say these things.

Me. This. Ana shrugs, the bone moving under the skin grotesquely. You think I’m a child who needs you.

I heard you on the phone today, Manuela says.

Being alone will be better anyway, Ana continues, seemingly ignoring Manuela’s interjection. Her voice rises, sharpens into only a few decibels less than a shriek. Do you know the burden? To think of you every time my body is betraying me? I want to focus. I want for once to think of myself before I worry about your eyes. Before I think that telling you what’s wrong might ruin everything for you.

Slowly, Manuela leans backwards, until her spine touches the mattress. She sees the ceiling and Ana’s toe in her peripheral vision. She reaches a hand above her head and caresses that foot, that ankle. The arch, still delicate and strong. Those same ragged toenails that Ana had just been tracing. The feeling that over comes Manuela—waves of tenderness for the body before her. How can she leave? How could she ever even think it? How, when it is she who is selfish, dark in her wants?

How long have you been thinking silly thoughts?

Since you went to go get that. Ana flings her other hand out and points to the mug of milk. They aren’t silly.

Stupid, then.

Manuela, Ana says, I want you to go.

No, Manela replies, you don’t. And I don’t want to leave either.

And Ana unfolds a little bit, her limbs relax, her head starts to tilt to one side, like sleep is coming. Manuela climbs up the bed and sits next to Ana, urges her to rest on a waiting shoulder. Ana rubs her nose against Manuela’s shirt.

I’m so tired, she says again, and Manuela understands better than before that she isn’t talking about just her organs and her skin and her bones, but also the pressure that hums around her head, as she tries not to think. But also, the volatile rawness of her emotions, like a whole other body that has been flogged, then soothed, then flogged again.

Let’s sleep, Manuela suggests and once Ana adjusts the pillow to cushion her neck, once Ana closes her eyes, she rises to turn the lights off.

In the dark, under her closed eyelids, she remembers her time on the beach. She wonders if the turtle will return to that sand, likely where it was born, where it feels at home. Despite everything, she imagines it will. Creatures are attracted to where they feel connection, not where they feel safety. She wishes she could protect it, could save it from the inevitable fate of its repeated torture, but she is starting to understand that choices are not always easy, and that if anything, she will hurt the things she wants to help. Even herself, trapped by the red light of someone’s love.

In the dark, she aligns herself with what must be done.

MANUELA tomorrow there is work to be done MANUELA there is money to be made MANUELA there are people to please, whose smiles mean that the job is done right MANUELA so clean the car and check the batteries in the flashlight MANUELA steel yourself and give up MANUELA there is no point in worrying about this further MANUELA you are who you are and you will never be anything else MANUELA you are a visitor in a place owned by outsiders MANUELA you are making a living MANUELA you have a lover to care for MANUELA a dream to feed MANUELA a house to clean, bread to buy, fans and showers to run MANUELA take care, stop trying to give up what little you are lucky to have.

_______________
Eshani Surya is recent graduate of the MFA program in fiction at the University of Arizona in Tucson, where she also taught undergraduates. Her writing has appeared in or is forthcoming in Catapult, Paper Darts, Joyland, and Literary Hub, among others. She was the 2016 winner of the Ryan R. Gibbs Award for Flash Fiction from New Delta Review. Eshani is also a Flash Fiction Reader at Split Lip Magazine. Find her @__eshani or at http://eshani-surya.com.