Rhonda Leverett
I approached the plane off the island, carrying my dark-skinned baby girl, and examined the events leading to this moment. I had initially fallen headlong into the spell of a magical place—then mourned a loss in my own way—and now an officer had stamped "exit" on my visa.
Five years earlier, as American tourists on vacation, the only "island life" my husband John and I had experienced was a day at Galveston beach, an hour's drive from the downtown Houston loft we called home. That was well before I discovered how days spill over into nights, then to weeks—months—even years—so effortlessly in Jamaica.
I've often thought of John's toast that first night—Valentine's night, 1998. With a clink of our glasses, he publicly pledged his undying love for me. "The old John is gone and the new, improved version is here," he added, to answer the question my eyes asked. John had cheated on me, and when caught, sought to make amends with a trip. I forced a smile, grasping for any hope of being happily married again. We had been together since high school, and my lips had never kissed another man.
Beneath a bright orange moon, at our table overlooking the water—the balmy air infused with jasmine—I decided to take his promise at face value. After dinner we danced barefoot to a steel drum rhythm and I laughed out loud for the first time in months.
We talked till dawn, about things we hadn't discussed for a very long time—things you can't wait to learn from someone you've just met, let alone someone you've been married to for a decade. The next morning we walked the beach collecting shells, stopping to kiss along the way. John embraced me more times, and looked into my eyes, longer than he had on our honeymoon—I was in love again.
After two days of reconnecting, mostly in our suite, I answered the phone while John showered. The overnight sail he had secretly chartered for the next day would cost more than originally quoted, and we were given the chance to back out. Surprised by my husband's extravagant gesture, I told the concierge we still wanted to go and smiled at the thought of a day on the water. That night, I watched John sleep and listened to his breath, remembering our former plans to conceive a child. Maybe on this trip, I thought.
The next day we boarded a fifty foot yacht, complete with our own island tour guide, who would serve as captain and cook. The stare of the fit young islander's chocolate brown eyes, when he took my bag, prompted me to zip my cover-up fully. John jokingly whispered that young native men had a thing for long-legged strawberry blonds from Texas.
The sight of colorful fish in the crystal clear waters soon soothed my soul, leading me to shed my inhibitions and warm my body in the sun as we sailed toward a private beach. That afternoon we giggled and cooed like a couple of kids and fed one another lemony, buttery lobster—our cares a million miles away.
My uneasiness returned as I felt two strong hands not belonging to John, on my waist, when the guide "helped," me back into the boat. John said it was harmless and I shouldn't worry.
At dinner time, we waited on deck for our sunset meal, but the young man was nowhere in sight. The only smell that evening was not food, but marijuana smoke wafting from his quarters. My worries heightened at that point.
"This guy's not right. He's got our lives in his hands, and now he's smoking dope. It's pitch black out here and we don't even know where we are."
"Guess he got a sudden urge to party—we'll be fine," John said. His forgiving smile diffused my tension.
I'm too uptight, I decided.
In the cabin I rinsed the salt water from my body, slathered perfumed oil from head to toe, and slid between the sheets.
John said he'd forgotten the champagne on deck; I should stay just as I was, and not move. He would be right back.
I called after him but he'd already pulled the cabin door shut.
Moments later there was a sound—like we rammed into something, but no jolt—then there was a splash. I feared for John and jumped up to discover the cabin door was locked from the outside.
I pounded—then screamed—then listened closely. All I heard was the strike of a match. Sweet, pungent smoke swirled under the door and around my toes.
Trembling and suddenly weak, I slid to the floor and choked out the words I didn't want to say.
"Where is my husband?"