The Hardest Part by Carol Vlassoff

I strip off my clothes, damp from the four hour ride from San José, and plunge into the cool water. True to its name - an infinity pool - the turquoise water seems to flow seamlessly into the sky and sea beyond. The long coastline stretches out before me, the waves a brilliant white against the deep blue of the sea and the lavender hills behind. Below, nothing but tree tops, the road completely hidden by green canopy.

I float on my back, listening to the soft chirping of birds and the steady hum of cicadas. The late afternoon air is heavy with the perfume of Ylang-Ylang, clusters of otherwise unremarkable yellow flowers on a nearby tree.

Casa Madrugada, on Costa Rica’s central Pacific coast, is the house I’ve rented for the next two weeks. It’s about halfway between the town of Quepos, two miles to the north, and Manuel Antonio Park, a popular tourist attraction, to the south. High on a hill overlooking the sea and completely enveloped by rain forest, it is sheltered from view on all sides.

The pool is built into a landing about two feet lower than the main floor of the house, with a straight drop from the patio to the water below. I notice that some of its tiles have been replaced, their bright blue and white colors contrasting with the older, duller ones.

I stretch out on the landing to dry off, the tiles cooler now that the sun has started to set. This is my second visit to Casa Madrugada. The first was two years ago with my husband, Ben, who passed away six months later. We planned to do some sightseeing while we were here, but we ended up spending most of our time at the beach or lazing by the pool, browsing in shops, eating in local restaurants, watching sunsets.

Ben... I close my eyes and his body is above me, tanned and glistening with sweat. His mouth pulls gently on my nipples, his tongue traces my belly and slowly moves downward. My body opens to him...

There is a loud ringing and I struggle to the phone in the bedroom. Like all the rooms in Casa Madrugada, it opens directly onto the patio. It’s Jeanne, a neighbor, saying she’d like to drop over. Jeanne and Charles are Americans who live here all year round. I don’t know them well, but Ben and I sometimes ran into them on our morning walks. We had dinner together once, and when Ben died, I let them know. I also wrote to tell them I was coming for this holiday.

In my suitcase I find the pile of unopened mail I threw in just before leaving New York. I pick up a card from my mother with a picture of a large tree with bare branches covered in twisted vines. From a lower bough sprouts a single green shoot. The words, “Be not afraid of growing slowly, be afraid only of standing still (Chinese proverb),” are printed underneath. My mother, who migrated to the United States from China with my grandparents when she was a child, is fond of such sayings.

I open it and read:

“I’m so pleased you’re taking this holiday, dear! It will do you a world of good.

Sabrina, you know you are always beautiful to me. But the last time I saw you, you looked so tired and thin. I know you blame yourself for what happened to Ben, but it wasn’t your fault. It was an accident.

Enjoy your days in Costa Rica. I can’t wait to see you - all tanned and rested - when you’re back!”

I pull a white cotton dress over my head and tie up my frizzy black hair. In the mirror, slant black eyes look back at me, large and anxious, dwarfing the rest of my pale, drawn face.

In a few minutes Jeanne arrives. She is alone because Charles, who plays guitar in a local band, has a gig at a bar in Quepos tonight.

We open a jar of olives, some crackers, and the bottle of wine the rental agent has left on the kitchen counter, and sit down at the patio table. We sip our wine and, in a little while she murmurs, “You are courageous to come back here, Sabrina. I thought you might change your mind.”

I smile. “Are there many tourists here these days?”

“Yes. And did you notice the frenzy of construction on the Manuel Antonio road? New businesses are springing up all over the area.”

“And Casa Madrugada? Have there been many clients this year?”

Jeanne glances away. “I can’t really say. This place is so secluded that I hardly know whether people are here or not.”

I start to refill her glass but she stops me. “No more, thanks. I promised to catch Charles’ last performance. We’re going out for a bite afterwards, if you’d like to join us.”

I thank her and say I plan to turn in early.

“I understand,” she replies. “But remember, we’re just down the road. You can call us any time. Any time at all.”

***

I wake to a deep roaring from the direction of the sea. The roars continue for several minutes, like big gusts of wind peaking and ebbing, ending in a series of muted barks. Howler monkeys!

I close my eyes, only to be jolted awake again by the raucous cries of parrots. Rays of light are inching into the room through a space between the curtains.

I share a morning swim with a black and yellow flycatcher that takes quick dips into the water and flaps its wings extravagantly.

Over a cup of coffee I browse through a travel brochure on the patio table. A picture of a bluish green bird catches my attention. It has a black mask with a startling blue trim, coppery wings, and a long flowing tail tipped with turquoise feathers the color of the patio pool. The elegant creature is called a blue-crowned motmot. How I’d love to see that bird! But the brochure says that motmots sit very still in the forest, entirely camouflaged by trees.

In the shower I instinctively look up at the window above my head. One day, when Ben and I were showering, three white-faced monkeys appeared on the tree above. Eyeing us closely, they grabbed fistfuls of leaves and hurled them in our direction. We laughed about it at the time, but there was unmistakable hostility in their bright, watchful eyes.

I dress, thinking I’ll need to call Jorge, the agent, to remind him about my rental car. But when I look out the window, a Suzuki SUV is pulling into the parking area. Jorge waves as I go out to meet him, almost tripping over an iguana, the width of the door, on the path.

“Your car, Seňora Sabrina.” Jorge bows slightly and hands me the keys.

“Just in time!”

“Muy bien. I hope you had a good night.”

I nod and he continues, “Seňora, I need to ask you a favor. A big favor.” He hesitates and I wait for him to go on. “A couple who rented Casa Madrugada last year, Mr. and Mrs. Calder, have come back to the area for a visit. They want to stop by at the house. Just for 15 minutes or so - if it’s not too much trouble.”

“Will you be with them?”

“Sí, Seňora. I will accompany them.”

“Then it’s fine.”

“Muchisimas gracias. It will mean a lot to them. Can they come, say, in half an hour?”

“No problem. I’m going into town for breakfast. They’re welcome to come while I’m away.”

***

At the Café Milagro in the dusty town of Quepos, I settle onto the bench where Ben and I liked to sit. I spot Carla serving another table. Her round face lights up when she sees me and she hurries over and gives me a hug. “Sabrina! Welcome back!”

“Pura vida,” I say. “How’s it going?”

“Same as always. Lots of tourists this time of year. We have our hands full.”

She motions to the chair opposite me, and my stomach lurches. “But you’re alone?”

I look down at my half finished coffee. “Ben died in an accident 18 months ago.”

“Oh, Sabrina. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.” We are both quiet for a moment and then she adds, “You two seemed so happy together.”

I swallow. “Yeah... But being back here will help, I think.”

***

After breakfast I buy some groceries and head back to Casa Madrugada. I’m surprised to see Jorge’s car in the driveway. I’ve been gone for nearly two hours.

When I enter the house a man and woman are standing by the pool with their backs toward me. Jorge is leaning against the wall. The woman’s shoulders start to tremble and the man turns to pull her to him. In the same moment he sees me and whispers something to her. She pulls a tissue from her pocket and dabs at her face.

“Forgive us,” says the man. “We stayed longer than we planned.” His attempt to smile only enhances the pain in his pale blue eyes.

“Not at all. I’m sorry for interrupting. I hope nothing here has upset you?”

He shakes his head and takes his wife’s arm. “We must be going.”

The woman turns, glances back at the pool, and walks numbly to the door. She doesn’t seem to see me.

“Seňora Sabrina. Welcome back to Casa Madrugada.” It’s Isabel, the housekeeper, coming out of the bedroom.

“Oh, Isabel, I didn’t realize you were here. Do you know that man and woman who just left?”

“Si, Seňora. Mr. and Mrs. Calder. They stayed at Casa Madrugada last year.”

“They seemed so upset!”

She nods. “Their story is muy triste. Very sad. You see, Seňora, their son drowned here last year.”

“Oh!” I gasp. “How in the world did that happen?”

“I can only tell you what I heard because I wasn’t here at the time. They brought a nanny with them to look after their little boy. Timmy was his name. One afternoon they went to the beach and left him with her. She fell asleep in the hammock with Timmy beside her. When she woke up he was gone. She found him floating face down in the pool.”

“How old was he?”

“Almost two.”

I study the patio pool, rippling in the late morning sunlight. Shadows from the trees are dancing across it; the circulating water washes over its surface like tears flowing down its face.

“You know what I think, Seňora?” Isabel says, her small black eyes filling up. “I think - if it happened to me - I could never forgive myself.”

Wordlessly, I stumble into the stark whiteness of the bedroom where I slept so peacefully only a few hours ago. A bouquet of red and yellow haleconias is arranged in a vase by the bed. Isabel must have remembered how much I liked them. But now I take no pleasure in their spiky stalks and waxy, sharp-edged flowers.

I grab my keys and stride to the door, past Isabel sweeping the kitchen floor. “I’m going out for awhile. Please lock up when you go. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Isabel stops sweeping and leans on her broom, a deep frown clouding her face. “Si Dios quiere,” she mutters. God willing.

***

I rent a room in a cheap hotel by the beach and sit propped up on the bed, the blinds drawn against the hot sun. That day, the day of Ben’s accident, plays over and over in my mind.

***

At about three in the afternoon my boss calls me to her office. “I need you to replace me at a reception tonight,” she says. “Something’s come up and I have to leave for Seattle immediately.”

“I’m sorry, Helen, but I can’t. It’s ...”

“There’s no one else I can ask,” she barks. “The Secretary of Health is hosting a reception to announce a new policy on generics. We need high level representation.”

I call Ben.

“But Sabrina, it’s our anniversary!”

“I know, and I feel really badly about this, but I can’t say no to Helen.”

“Come on, Sabrina. A cocktail party?”

“Ben, it’s important for us - for the company I mean. All the major pharmaceuticals will be there.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, the job comes first. The job always comes first.”

“You know I wouldn’t do this if I didn’t have to,” I plead.

After a pause he says, “No problem. I’ll cancel the reservation,” and hangs up.

I arrive home at 7:30, having excused myself from the gathering immediately after the Secretary’s announcement. Ben isn’t there. His helmet and jacket are gone and his work clothes lie in a heap on the bedroom floor. His cell phone is charging on the table by the bed.

The call comes just before midnight. The officer tells me that Ben was killed instantly. That he swerved to avoid a tractor trailer, but it suddenly changed direction and crushed him from the side.

The officer explains that the driver fell asleep. He assures me that Ben was not at fault.

***

It’s around five in the afternoon when I slip on a wraparound and walk down to the beach. The sun is beginning to set and I take off my sandals and walk barefoot on the sand. The waves are warm against my ankles. Banks of scarlet and blue, like rows of thick frosting layered one upon the other, gather in the sky.

At a beachside café I stop and pull out a chair.

“Out for a stroll?”

I turn to see the couple from Casa Madrugada sitting at the bar. The man motions to a stool.

“I’m Paul Calder,” he says, extending his hand, “and this is my wife, Sally.”

I sit down next to Sally, a small, delicate woman about my age.

“What would you like to drink?” she asks.

I give my order to the waiter and in a few moments my drink arrives.

“I’m so glad we ran into you,” Sally says. “I’ve been feeling badly about this morning.”

“It’s ok. I shouldn’t have interrupted.”

“No, really, I’d like to explain. You see ...”

I reach over and touch her arm. “Sally, Isabel told me about Timmy. I’m terribly sorry.”

Paul is the first to speak. “It happened a year ago today. At Casa Madrugada - well, you know that already. We came back to Manuel Antonio not really knowing what we were going to do. All we knew was that we needed to spend this day in the place where Timmy died. But we couldn’t bring ourselves to stay in Casa Madrugada again.”

Sally clears her throat and continues, “We arrived two days ago, and after being here for awhile - being so close and all – we knew we had to go to the house. When Jorge told us it was rented we were afraid that we wouldn’t be able to visit. It was very kind of you to accommodate us.”

We sit in silence watching the sky until all the color has drained from it. A bright star appears below the moon.

“Venus,” says Paul. “Have you noticed how different things look down here? You never see the moon in that position at home.”

Tears fill my eyes. Ben called it a sleepy moon. “Because it looks like it’s lying on its back in a cradle,” he said.

Eventually I say, “Returning here is a kind of pilgrimage for me too. I stayed in Casa Madrugada two years ago, with my husband. He was killed a few months later.”

“How awful,” Sally whispers. “How did it happen?”

I tell them everything. When I finish, I stare out at the now-dark sea, my face slick with tears.

We sit without talking for awhile, only half aware of the pounding of the incoming tide.

Finally Sally says, “For more than a year I blamed Joanne – the woman who was looking after Timmy when he drowned. But gradually I came to accept that it was an accident. It was only after I forgave Joanne that I could begin to deal with my own feelings.”

“I know she suffers every day,” Paul adds softly. “Maybe even more than we do.”

Sally turns and looks into my eyes. “If I’ve learned anything from all the suffering it’s this: that the hurt can’t be healed until you forgive. And that’s the hardest part. The hardest part is learning to forgive yourself.”

“And have you?” I ask. “Forgiven yourself?”

“Oh yes. But I have to do it over and over again every day. Every single day.”

We say goodbye and I walk alone back to the hotel. The sky is a wash of stars. The sleepy moon never leaves my side.

***

The next morning I return to Casa Madrugada. At the door, I hesitate before turning the key. A flock of gleaming white egrets flies by, their wings picking up speed as they make their way to the marshy grassland where they will spend the day.

The house is exactly as I’ve left it, though it seems that a long time has passed. The fan spins slowly above the glass table on the patio. I walk toward it and stand by the pool - a dazzling sapphire today.

A low cooing sound catches my ear. I turn and draw in a sharp breath. There, on a branch overhanging the pool, is a magnificent bird, nonchalantly flapping its long, feathery tail. It’s the bird from the brochure – the blue-crowned motmot!

I gingerly approach it, softly imitating its call. The bird gazes at me for a moment, bobs its colorful head, and flies off into the forest below.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Carol Vlassoff is from Canada but lives in Costa Rica. She has been published in Audience and Quepolandia. During her career with the World Health Organization she has had many nonfiction articles published on social and health issues. Some may be found in World Development and the Journal of Tropical Medicine and Hygiene.

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