Life Blood---XXIX---Page No 107



We got picked up by a ragged crew of Mexican fishermen just
before dark. Aside from being sunburned to medium rare, we
were physically okay. The fresh air and sunshine did a lot to bring
Sarah back, though she did have lapses of non-rationality, and
once tried to dive over the side of their fishing cutter. They
dropped us off at the tourist site of Yaxchitan, a Mayan ruin on the
western bank of the mighty Usumacinta, where we joined an
American day-tour on its way back to San Cristobal de las Casas.
There we caught a prop flight to Cancun, and then American
Airlines to New York. We had no luggage, but I flew us first-class,
and I still have the MasterCard slip to prove it.
As things turned out, though, returning Sarah to normalcy—or
me, for that matter—was another struggle entirely. For me, time,
after that rainy morning in the Peten, became an essence that
flowed around me as though I were aswim in the ether of
interstellar space, pondering the conjunction of good and evil. I
suffered flashbacks, late-night reveries of forests and children that
must have been like those Sarah struggled to bury. For weeks
after that, I had a lot of trouble remembering meetings, returning
phone calls, giving David an honest day's editing.
        For her own part, Sarah just seemed to drift at first, to the
point I sometimes wondered if she realized she was back at Lou's
loft. Then abruptly, one day she snapped into her old self and
started sending for re-registration materials from Columbia. I
really needed to talk with her about our mutual nightmare, but she
seemed to have erased all memories of Baalum, except for
occasional mumbles in Kekchi Maya. Perhaps that was best, I
consoled myself. Maybe it was wise for us all just to let the ghosts
of that faraway place lie sleeping.
As for Lou, I told him as little as I could about what happened to her there. He hadn't returned to work, had mainly stayed at his Soho place to be near her, as though he was fearful she might be snatched away from him once more. Frankly, I think all his
enforced closeness was starting to grate on her nerves, though I dared not hint such a thing to him.
In the meantime, Steve returned to Belize to wrap up his
photo essay, and David submitted a (very) rough cut of Baby Love





to the selection committee at Sundance (our hoped-for distribution
deal with Orion was, alas, in temporary turnaround pending yet
another management shuffle). We did, however, squeeze an
advance from Lifetime that lowered the heat with Nicky Russo.
        Nevertheless, the story of how Alex Goddard touched all our
lives still wasn't over. It was two months after we got back to the
city that my dark dance with the man who thought he was Shiva,
creator and destroyer, had its final pirouette, as though his ghost
had returned from his rain-forest redoubt for one last sorcerer's
turn.
Truthfully, it all transpired so fast I could scarcely take it in,
but here's the rough outline of what happened. I was working late
that Thursday evening in the editing room at Applecore, around
seven o'clock. And I was feeling particularly out of sorts, including
a headache and stomach pains from the leftover pizza I'd
microwaved to keep me going. I was re-cutting some new real-life
interviews I'd filmed to replace those of Carly and Paula. (Children
of Light had gone defunct, by the way, the phone at Quetzal
Manor disconnected, but I didn't need any more excitement in my
life of the colonel Ramos variety. The replacement interviews
weren't nearly as bubbly and full of exuberance, but they were
actually much truer to the realities of adoption.)
        Anyway, I listened to my stomach, and decided it was high
time to toss in the towel. I got my things, locked up, and then I ran
into David on the elevator, coming down from the floor above.
        "How's it going?" he asked, ostentatiously checking his watch,
an approving gleam in his eyes. I was glad he wanted to let me
know he'd noticed I was logging long hours. Then he looked at me
again. "Hey, you feeling okay?"
"I've been better," I said, thinking how nice it was that he
cared. "Could be a couple of aspirin and a good night's sleep are called for."
"So now you're a doctor?" he said, following me into the lobby, "Providing self-diagnosis—?"
"David, give me a break. I just happen to feel a little off today, okay? It doesn't mean I'm at death's door."
"Yeah, well, the way you look you coulda fooled me." He
headed down the street, toward the avenue. Then he called back over his shoulder. "I don't want to see you in tomorrow unless you look like you might live through the day. I pay for your health
insurance. Use it, for God's sake."

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