I call Andrea’s mother to find out if Andrea is still there, which she is. I fly into Akron, a blessedly short trip compared to Thanksgiving weekend. Andrea meets me at the airport. I realize I haven’t driven a car since this ordeal began, but I am sure I haven’t lost my skills. Andrea looks so much better and healthier. She says she is making plans to move on with her life, so we are both going to give each other a lot of valuable feedback. She tells me that her mother needs to make more German food to fatten me up, and I just laugh. I am glad to be with her, but it is so cold here, and I feel lonely, and it doesn’t feel like home, whatever home is, really, at least for me anymore. Andrea says she feels comfortable at her mother’s house, but doesn’t feel that it’s home, either. However, she doesn’t feel like El Salvador is home anymore. “What I have been thinking is that there was so much unrest and all those civil wars, that so many people came to the states as refugees. We were helping the people there, but there are a lot of refugees in California, especially, who could use our help just as much. They have a better opportunity for education and a good life, but they need help like anyone else. And, so many of the kids are getting into the gangs, and I think we could make a big difference if we helped the people here. And, there’s also the people who are going back home, but finding life to be very difficult. There is so much we could do, Hope, you know, you and I could do so many things. We haven’t even begun to scratch the surface.” I haven’t even thought this way before, and I love this idea. I feel hopeful for the first time in a very long time. Starting my life from a point of absolute zero is intimidating enough. There is so much in sub-conscious that hasn’t been destroyed, and I am still the same person, even if my memory has been compromised.
( The rest of it )

Current Mood: relieved

“Listen, Hope” the detective says as he opens a file. “We know about Ignacio, but you just need to give us the information we need, then you will be free to go.” I shake my head furiously. “I won’t betray him!” I shout. “Don’t be foolish, Hope” the detective says. “You can save yourself. If you don’t, I have no control over what happens to you.” I look at Alan and then at the detective. “You can’t fool me” I tell them. “I am an American citizen. You haven’t read me my Miranda rights. You cannot prosecute me for anything.” They look at each other, clearly not realizing that I would figure this out. “And as far as Ignacio, if you need me to prosecute him, you’re barking up the wrong tree. I have amnesia, remember?” I feel like laughing. “Amnesia...remember?” and then I start laughing hysterically. The hysterical laughs turn into sobs. When Alan tries to touch me, I tell him to stay away. “I can get you a lawyer...” he starts to say. “Bullshit!” I scream back at him. “You’ve got nothing. Show me what you’ve got. You’ve got nothing! Read me my rights if you have something to hold me for. If not, let me go. I won’t betray Ignacio. I don’t even know where he is. I know nothing. I remember nothing.”

The two men look at each other again. Finally, the detective hands me the file, on which is written my name, Ignacio’s name, and a couple of scribbled lines. Nothing else. “You’re messing with the wrong person” I tell them. “Alan, I’m sorry you came all this way for nothing. Detective, am I free to leave?” Russ looks at me, rubs his chin, then says, “What about your husband? Don’t you care what happens to him?” I shrug. “You need my testimony, don’t you? And you’re not getting it. Ignacio is a big boy, he can take care of himself.” I am certain they don’t have Ignacio in custody, but I am not sure where he is at all. Again, Alan pipes in. “They have in custody back in Tegucigalpa, awaiting his trial.” So, the police did take him from our house. “Alright, then” I say. “I want to see him.” They look at each other again. I shout at them, “Stop giving each other those secret glances and take me to see my husband!!” They look at me as if a baby has just sprouted fangs and claws. However, the next thing I know, I am in a car on the way to Tegucigalpa. I realize now why they didn’t take me from the house in Siguatepeque. They didn’t have anything. They had to take Ignacio and try to get me to turn him in. I guess thsi is what was also happening before my amnesia, but now I really do remember nothing. Anything is possible, I have been lied to so much.

I am angry, confused and tired when we arrive at the large, over-crowded police station in Tegucigalpa. The rain has caused tremendous humidity, and I am shivering and perspiring simultaneously. I am allowed to see Ignacio in a tiny room with the guard and the detective present. Ignacio is shackled, arms and legs. He looks defeated. I swear to him I didn’t betray him, and he knows that. “It was just a matter of time” he says. Then he tells me that the house in Siguatepeque is in my name, and he says I should sell it. A house like that could go for a million in the states, so some expatriate would jump to buy it for half that price. He tells me to go back to the states and start over. He is fairly certain he will be in prison for a long time, since the gang and drug problem has caused the police to be very hard-line. My testimony would have made prison time a certainty, but Ignacio assures me he has powerful friends. I ask him if he wants a divorce or an annulment so he can marry Pilar. He says, “Esperanza, that is the last thing on my mind.” The guard makes us finish our conversation, and I watch him being escorted back through the door. We don’t get to touch, or even kiss goodbye. He turns around to look at me before he goes through the door, and I start to cry.

The first order of business back at the police station is to tell Alan I never want to see his face again. This will be a difficult task, considering my appointment with Dr. Krishna in two weeks. “Do you know who attacked me?” I ask no one in particular. Detective Russell says that it was a gang connected with the Guatemalan and El Salvadoran gangs who have returned to Honduras after years of civil war. They thought I was smuggling, and I was kid napped at the airport. I guess I was lucky I wasn’t killed, since if they really wanted me dead, they would have shot me without a second thought. Since I wasn’t smuggling, and there is no real evidence that I ever smuggled drugs, there is nothing to hold me on at the police station, in spite of the local police’s reputation for inventing reasons to arrest people. Even though I keep hearing that I need to go “home”, as far as I am concerned, Central America is my home. I don’t want to leave Honduras, and I certainly don’t want to leave the charity I helped to build. I don’t want to be pushed out, but I do appreciate what Pilar has done to rescue the charity from the shadow of our illegal activities. I say “our” activities, rather than just Ignacio, even though I am pretty sure it was mostly Ignacio. It doesn’t really matter anymore. I telephone Pilar to ask for an appointment to talk to her for a civil, adult conversation. She reluctantly agrees.

I travel from Tegucigalpa to Comayagua to meet with her. I want to visit the children again, but I don’t want to step on her toes, so I go straight to her office. She is still very cold to me, but more civil than last time, certainly. I quickly ask her if it would be possible for me to return to the facility only as a teacher, and that I would try not to step on her toes, and that she is free to run the charity as she sees fit. I can see by her face that this is not an idea in which she is even remotely interested. I feel disappointed, but there is clearly some very bad blood between us that I can never really understand. I finally concede that it probably is not a good idea, and I respectfully stand up to shake her hand, which she does, too, reluctantly. I don’t even bother asking if I can visit the children before I go. I need to leave and never look back. I realize this was my office, but I don’t even remember anymore. Before I leave, she tells me that I need to get on with my life and leave Esperanza para los Ninos to her. I am confident she is going to do a very good job. She certainly has excised me from everything, and I cannot imagine where this hatred for me extends from. But, I do as she wishes. She doesn’t mention Ignacio, but I think she knows I didn’t betray him, so it may be a long-standing envy that I can barely remember. I take my leave, and I don’t look back.

Before I leave Comayagua, I stop by Iglesia de Caridad to see Father Felipe. I know that my adopted Catholic faith was important to me, and I still want to do charitable work. I have a nice talk with him, and I make a good confession, and he absolves me and wishes me well. From there, I go back to Siguatepeque to start taking care of business with the house. I know I have to go back to L.A. for my brain scan, and I need to find out the source of these headaches, but I will have to make at least one more trip back to Honduras to close Escrow on the sale. When I arrive, I find Araceli still living at our house, and I am glad. She really is a sweet girl who got caught in an impossible situation. She knows that her cousin is in jail, and that I am planning on selling the house. I say she can stay there until I sell it and the new owners move in. She thanks me, and says she has decided she wants to go back to her ancestral home in Puerto Lempira after Easter, at least for the summer, then decide what to do next. I feel as if I am closing the door on everyone and everything, and I don’t want to. Even if I don’t have extensive memories of my life here, this was my life. I have concrete proof of it everywhere. I stay at the house another day, and decide to make arrangements to ship some of my things when I find out where I am going to be living in the states. I feel very sad saying goodbye to Araceli. At this point, I feel sad leaving the people from my past that I have come to know in the present, not for the lost memories of the people as I knew them before. Every day is like the first day, and it is difficult and challenging, but the emotions are new and raw.

I truly feel I am being given an opportunity to reinvent my life, or even to rewrite it, and to pursue the dreams I had as a college girl in the Peace Corps. I leave the airport in San Pedro Sula without incident this time, and return to Los Angeles in time for my appointment with Dr. Krishna. I am worried about the headaches, and the stress I have been through. My brain scan proves that everything is fine, but the headaches are a point of concern that have been exacerbated by the stress I have been through. Dr. Krishna prescribes more pain pills and suggests I get more rest and eat more sensibly. I am to see him again in 3 months to adjust the medication, because he doesn’t want me to get too dependent on it. I take his advice about rest and sensible eating. I am a mere shadow of my former self. I really am not my former self, in any way, shape or form. I can at least take better care of my health as I recover from the trauma I have been through.

Araceli and I keep in constant touch, and she is also working as a liaison between me and the expatriate American real estate woman, Cheryl, who is working to sell my house. Araceli is also my sole source of information regarding Ignacio, who is still awaiting trial. I don’t know what to feel about that, except that he knows I have not betrayed him, and he seems to have accepted responsibility for his actions. In spite of everything, I ache to see him again, but even if I go back to close the sale of the house, I doubt I will make the journey to see him in jail. I don’t think he would want that. I am in a very odd state of flux at the moment, waiting for the house to sell, and trying to decide what I should do with my life. There is only one person I know of who can help me at this point, and that would be my college friend and Peace Corps ally, Andrea. We are both coming through a long, traumatic illness and re-building our lives after more than a decade in Central America. I decide to go back to Akron to see Andrea, before I go back to Honduras to close the sale of the house. I don’t know what she has planned for her immediate future, now that she has been through so much and away from El Salvador for so long. She is in as big a state of flux as I am, without the baggage of a husband going to prison, not to mention the memory loss. I need to bounce some ideas off her before taking my next step, and she seems to be someone who can put my mind very much at ease.

45,307 words

Current Mood: thankful

Between the bus trip, the overnight stay in San Pedro Sula, and the long wait in the airport for the delayed trip to Los Angeles, I have an opportunity to read a great deal about my life. Ignacio thought that I betrayed him. He thought that I turned him into the authorities. It was true that I was smuggling packages through to the United States, but it isn’t clear that they were drugs. I was concerned that he was using some of the young men and women we helped at our facility to smuggle drugs into the states via Belize. He had a lot of connections in Guatemala. I knew that he was involved in illegal activity, but I did not know it was drug-related. It seems I thought he was dealing in black market goods, and was helping some of our poverty-stricken youngsters to make a new life in the United States. I had a couple of fake i.d.’s and a few disguises, including a red wig, which apparently made Ignacio very sexually excited. I feel like I am reading a piece of crime fiction, but this was my life. I can barely believe any of it.

I think about Alan, about how we met, and about our baby, and I wonder how he fits into all that is happening now. I still don’t believe he didn’t know more. After all, everyone seemed to know more than they were revealing. And, why exactly did he say to me, “You’ll regret it.” I am drifting in and out of consciousness when I notice a familiar-looking gentleman sitting next to me. He says to me, in very clear English, “You were never very good at judging people’s character, were you, Hope?” I turn to look at his face, and see that it is Detective Russell, the officer who was handling my case in L.A. He was the one who helped me rebuild my identity. And now, here he was, in San Pedro Sula, sitting right next to me. “Come with me, Mrs. Castillo” he says, formally. I look up to see several Honduran police standing behind me. “I think we have some things to discuss.” I dutifully follow the good detective and his new friends to a waiting car. I say nothing. All I can think is that “Russ” never believed me, he always thought I was into something shady and illegal, so, now he has me. What a personal and moral victory it must be for him. I know enough to keep my mouth shut until I can dig up a decent lawyer from the states.

I am silent during the drive to the police station. Detective Russell and I are in the back seat of the police captain’s car. “Why so silent?” Detective Russell asks me. I just turn and shoot him a look. I have no intention of giving him any information whatsoever. “You have a lot of friends, Hope” he says to me, and I have no idea what he is talking about. When we arrive at the police station, he takes me into a small office area. I am not handcuffed, and although I haven’t been read my rights, even though he is an American policeman, I assume American law doesn’t apply here. But, I am an American citizen and deserve my Miranda rights. I am making mental notes of all of this when I look to see who is sitting in the office. “Dr. Feinstein has been very helpful” the detective says to me, and I see Alan sitting there, his long legs looking out of place in the tiny office space. I am devastated. Alan has betrayed me, has turned me in, and turned in Ignacio. I want to slap him, right there. What in the hell is he doing here? Why did he do this?

“Before you get all sorts of notions in your head” Alan says, reading my mind, again, it seems, “You need to know I am here to help you. I am not trying to destroy you.” I don’t believe a word of what he says. “Alan, you’re a compulsive liar, you’re hell bent on destroying Ignacio and getting back at me. I don’t believe a word of what you say!” The detective puts his hand on my shoulder and says, “Hope, we know the truth now. Alan is here to help you. You have to listen to what we have to say.” I slump in the chair, feeling again as if I wished those people who left me for dead had actually killed me. I feel utterly destroyed.

43,148 words

Current Mood: busy

We fall asleep again, and I sleep very well. When I awake, I hear Araceli in the kitchen, getting ready for work. I get out of bed and go to the kitchen for my needed cup of Honduran coffee. She is quiet, and I can hear Ignacio getting into the shower. “Araceli, it’s fine, really” I say. “I am so sorry, Senora” she says, as always, far too respectful to start a conversation first. I cover her hand with mine and tell her, “I have to go home soon.” She looks at me strangely. “This isn’t home, Araceli. It was my own, but it isn’t anymore. I am not needed here. I have no use here.” She tries to protest, but I know this is the truth. It is not defeatist or insecure, it is just fact. I have done all I can do. When I left here, and had my memory taken away, I had my life here taken away as well. Pilar is running the charity quite competently. Ignacio will lie low for awhile, and he will forget about me. I have forgotten so many things, involuntarily. I don’t have a true connection to my former home. I am sure Ignacio and I agreed to move on. I went home for a reason. Although now, “home” is such a relative term, it could mean almost anything. Now, for me, whether or not I regain any more of my memory, it will be starting from scratch no matter where I go. It will be starting from scratch for Ignacio, too. I came back here expecting to find a home, but I know this is my home no longer, and never will be again.

Araceli leaves for work, and I give her a long hug before she goes. I can hear Ignacio getting ready in the master bedroom. As I enter the room, I see that he is pulling his hair back into a ponytail, and he has trimmed his beard. He wears a pair of grey, comfortable sweat pants, and nothing else. I resist the urge for lust, and tell him that I, too, will take a shower now. When I glimpse my reflection in the mirror, I think, I look like my mom did. Except I look like a gamine who has been lost somewhere for a very long time. I think about the dogs you find in alleys who have been mistreated. I don’t want to trust anyone any more. I cannot even trust the woman I was, for I was leading a separate life from the one I barely remember. I feel sad, but very determined. I smile at Ignacio, and he smiles back, and I go into the shower. Halfway through my shower, I hear the tell-tale rattle of the hot water not coming through the pipes. As I turn off the faucets, I think I hear another loud noise, aside from the water pipes. I step out of the shower and wrap myself in a towel. “Ignacio?” I say. No answer. I step out into the bedroom. He is not there. Nor is he in the kitchen, or any other part of the house. It is not raining outside, but it is definitely weather to wear a jacket, and his jacket is still slung over the back of the chair. His shoes and socks are still by the fireplace. His watch is still on the kitchen counter. “Ignacio?!” I cry out. I look out the front window, and see a cloud of dust settling on the driveway. I can smell gasoline and over-heated brakes. The front door is not locked. Something has happened. Whether he left or was taken by force, he did not leave with any preparation. I have no idea what to do. I just stand there in the middle of the front room, helpless.

It didn’t take me a tremendous amount of time to come to a decision. Whether or not Ignacio had been taken by gangsters or the strong-armed police, or whether I was being led into a trap based on my presumed desire to find Ignacio, I wasn’t going to stay here. I had to look out for myself now. With my amnesia, absolutely anything could be possible. It all seemed even shadier than Ignacio had hinted at. I hastily threw my clothes in my suitcase and I packed my laptop and a couple of the photo albums and journals. I called a taxi cab which came and took me to the bus station in Siguatepeque. I bought a ticket for San Pedro Sula, where I could get a plane back to the states. I wasn’t about to go to Puerto Lempira. I can only imagine why we took that circuitous route to Belize when it would have been so much easier just to go via San Pedro Sula to Puerto Cortes. But, that was the route for someone who had a boat and did not have a United States passport. It didn’t attract as much suspicion to fly out of Puerto Lempira, where we were apparently giving scuba diving lessons to the locals, and taking tourists out on fishing and eco trips. I cannot fathom why we needed the huge amounts of drug money, if we had donors and our tourist business in Puerto Lempira, the books of which I had found on the laptop. I perused so many files on the laptop on the long bus ride to San Pedro Sula. I have so much unexplored and unanswered, but I cannot deal with this or risk my life anymore. Ignacio’s departure is far too dramatic, and I wonder why they snatched him from our house without investigating the shower where I was. Everything stinks, and I cannot take it anymore, and I am leaving. I cannot say I am going home. I have no home. I have nothing. But, I know I don’t want to die.

42,380 words

Current Mood: rushed

I am certain that, by now, lying to me will do no good. If Ignacio truly believes I am faking my amnesia, then he could catch me at it quite easily. However, telling me lies and half-truths if he believes I really do have amnesia will not do either one of us any good. He tells me he has been moving around to various parts of the country, never staying in one place for too long. He’s also been spending time at different charity organizations, and even at a monastery. I tell him that, if he is truly hiding from people, he should cut his hair and shave his beard and become less conspicuous. He tells me he is about to donate his hair to Locks of Love, and he will have a much shorter haircut. “I wasn’t raised to be a smuggler or a criminal” he tells me. “I love people, and you and I had a great relationship and we were running a very respected charity. But, you know, the money that can be made smuggling is huge, and we were able to help our charity and other charities and still be comfortable ourselves.” I ask him if I was always supportive of his way of making a living, or if I only found out about it later, and got involved because of the lure of money. I have no way of judging the person I may have become. “You really don’t remember?” he asks me, still sounding extremely cynical. “I have a stack of paperwork that could fill a three-ring binder that will tell you exactly what has happened to my brain. I have to go back to L.A. for another brain scan next month, and I might have to have more surgery. Do I look like I am making this up?” He sighs, and continues.

Although Ignacio’s background is not one of wealth, he went to university and pursued a comfortable life, while always giving back. Poverty runs rampant in Central America, and sometimes the lure of drug smuggling is too much to ignore. It was not a huge problem until about the past six years or so. I was not aware of it for some time, and when I found out, I was extremely upset. It was only after the charity started to lose money that I became involved. I got my pilot’s license and would fly from Puerto Lempira to Belize. The ongoing list of my pre-injury skills continues to astound me. I could fly a plane? I could scuba dive, play piano, speak two languages...but I could remember nothing. He reassured me that we didn’t recruit our street urchin charges to help us, and we were not smuggling them into the states for immoral purposes. Some of the people who came to stay with us were already gang members from El Salvador and Guatemala and, of course, locally. It just became easy money, and the authorities were breathing down his neck. “Did I have drugs on me in California this last time?” I ask him. I must have, why would I have come through California to see my mother in Ohio? Unless, of course, I was going to see Alan, which could be possible. Ignacio swears I wasn’t smuggling that time. He was on the run from the law, and I was going to visit my mother. He also swears he had nothing to do with my attack and doesn’t know who did. I wonder if anyone will ever own up to this.

I am not any closer to knowing what happened that night I was attacked, so I just want to hear our story now. I want to know how we met and fell in love and married. I want to know my role in the charity and how we worked together. I want to know if we had children or adopted children. I want to know if he still loves me, or if he is in love with Pilar or, perhaps, both of us. I want and need to know all these things right now. The rest just hurts too much to think about. I don’t know why Araceli is so frightened, and why she thinks all of our lives are in imminent danger. “Araceli is my second cousin” Ignacio says, by means of explanation. “She comes from my father’s people, the Miskito, on the Mosquito Coast, where Puerto Lempira is located. She came to Comayagua about 10 years ago. She has led a pretty sheltered life, and she is the one who got me to join the church. So, she hasn’t just been my assistant for three years, she’s been my relative for ten years. Ignacio says not to be so hard on Araceli, she’s just a kid, she would do or say anything to protect us, because she adores us. “Did she tell you about my amnesia?” I ask him. He says no, that he already knew. “Word got back this way. There’s a lot of people out there, one person says something, then everybody knows.” I feel pretty ridiculous attempting to hide it like I did, but then I wonder how he can hide. “I’ve earned a lot of respect with a lot of people” he says. “I have more friends than enemies, although the enemies are increasing. I have indigenous people on both the north and southeast of Honduras who are my family and friends and who would die for me. I had an American wife who made a lot of things that much easier for me. I don’t live in the kind of fear that Araceli does.”

Then I ask him, “Were you with me because I was American and could go to the states for you?” He pulls away from me in bed and says, “You have amnesia, Esperanza, and I think you have lost some of your senses, too. No, no, absolutely not. I adore you. We had our problems, sure, but we were committed to each other and to the children we helped.” He tells me that we never had any children together, since I lost my one biological child I wanted only to help other children. We never officially adopted any children, either, but we cared for many children. “We’re good people, Esperanza, but we did some bad things for what we thought were good reasons. We got caught, almost, anyway. I was glad you were saved and going home, but then I heard you might be dead, no one knew what happened to you.” I remind him that Pilar seemed very disappointed that I wasn’t dead. “I know she’s in love with you, Ignacio” I tell him. “And she’s young and gorgeous and can give you children and apparently would do anything to save you. I cannot blame you for wanting to be with her rather than me.” He nods his head again, saying, “No no no, it’s not like that. Yes, I am attracted to her and yes, it’s flattering how much she seems willing to do for me. But, I have never loved anyone the way I love you. You were the only woman I ever met who wanted exactly the same things I did. You didn’t care about the money, not really, you had so many other goals. You’re a good person, Esperanza, a very good person, and I love you, and I always will.” I know there has to be a point where he fills in the blank of whether or not this love he proclaims is enough, and whether or not we have decided to end our marriage. I know in my gut that the plan was for me to go to the states and never return, and to let him lie low until the coast was clear. Then, he could marry Pilar. However, the Catholic church doesn’t allow divorce, so I start thinking he wanted to have me killed so he could marry Pilar. But, the same as when Andrea said that Alan wasn’t clever enough to mastermind my attempted murder, I don’t believe Ignacio is that in love with Pilar, or that he would want to cause me harm for his own comfort. But, I’ve been wrong before, so many times.

41,391 words

Current Mood: exhausted

Araceli is visibly shaking, and it isn’t from cold. In spite of her obvious fear, I am holding her arm so tightly that it is already bruising. “Has everyone lied to me?” I scream. “Tell me now, tell me what you know or so help me I will throw you into that wall ” I do not know where this violence is coming from. The young girl sputters through her tears, “The men who deal the drugs, the ones you were taking to Belize..the smuggling...the ones who tried to kill you...” I am stunned into silence, then I hear Ignacio’s voice, very calmly saying, “Araceli...” and she looks up at him like a lost child. He is speaking to her in what must be a dialect, because I don’t understand a word of it. She runs down the hall, and I turn to Ignacio, seething with rage. “What the is going on, Ignacio? Why has everyone lied to me? What is going on?” Ignacio is still remarkably calm. “Don’t try to play dumb, Esperanza” he says to me, as if I know what he is talking about. “Who do you think you’re fooling with this amnesia bullshit?” I find myself throwing something at him, it turns out to be a book, and I am crying now. “It’s not bullshit ” I scream. “Look at my head Look what they did to me How could you not believe me? Have you known this all along? Or did someone scare Araceli half to death to keep these secrets? I don’t know what in the hell is going on, Ignacio. Why were you crying last night? What was that bullshit about my forgiving you?”

I am not shaking more than Araceli, it seems. “We are all a part of this” Ignacio says, walking closer to me, but trying to speak in a soothing voice. “None of us is innocent. I don’t know if you’ve really forgotten or not. But you are just as guilty as the rest of us.” I want to ask him questions, but now I realize it will be a complete waste of time, since he thinks I am faking this, anyway. He walks away from me, back into the master bedroom. I see Araceli sitting on the sofa in the living room, her body racking with sobs as she continues to cry. I retrieve a blanket from the closet and go out to her and wrap the blanket around her. She turns to me and puts her head on my shoulder, and I put my arms around her. “I am so sorry, Senora Esperanza” she cries. “I didn’t know what else to do. I was so afraid. I didn’t think Senor Ignacio would come back here. I don’t want to die...” She is sputtering and sobbing and I don’t entirely comprehend what she is saying, but I don’t want to press it. At this point, finding out more details would be a waste of everyone’s time. It seems pretty clear to me now that I was coming to the states to visit my mother, but must have made a drug drop off on the way. Or else I had no drugs, or they were stolen from me. Detective Russell said I had a spotless record, but I’d been living in Honduras for more than a dozen years, so there was no record of wrong-doing in the United States. Apparently, the authorities were about to catch up with us, and Pilar managed to save us all somehow. However, she pretty much re-invented the charity and her life so she could get Ignacio. I wonder how she could be so certain I wasn’t coming back if she wasn’t behind my attack. And, what was Ignacio apologizing for? Was it the fact I was attacked carrying out his wishes? Or that he had doubted me or thought I had betrayed him?

I imagine Araceli was one of the street urchins we rescued and recreated in our own images. I supposed some of these kids worked for us in the drug smuggling as well. I can see now that we were leaving Puerto Lempira to get the drugs to Belize and Mexico. I imagine the kids went over the Guatemalan border. But, I was an American citizen, so it would have been much easier for me. I wondered how many times I had come to the states with drugs. Were those the times I went to visit my mother? Had I betrayed Ignacio, or was he poisoned by Pilar? Every new revelation brings a new, gnawing set of questions, and I just can’t take it anymore. I am trying to reassure Araceli that we won’t be killed here in the safe house, our refugio, but I don’t know if that’s true. I don’t know what is truth and what is fiction anymore. Everyone has either lied to me or kept things from me or betrayed me. And, from the looks of things, I am certainly not the plaster saint that Alan painted me. And, is Alan involved in any of this? Did he honestly think that confusing me to the point of dementia would keep me away from all this?

I take Araceli to the kitchen and I search the cupboards for something to calm her nerves, and find a bottle of whiskey in the back of one cupboard. I pour some of the whiskey into a warm glass of milk, and I take her to her room and put her into her bed. I smooth the hair back from her head and tell her to sleep and to pray and not to worry. Suddenly I think about Father Phillip and how he said I was a regular attendee at his church. Was I a good Catholic convert? Was I assuaging my guilt? Araceli reaches over to her night stand to retrieve her rosary, and she rolls over, like a child, and begins to pray, silently. “You would be such a good mother” she says to me, as she drifts off to sleep. This now reminds me of Elena and how I don’t know if I had more children or if we adopted more children. This is too much for my brain to absorb, and the headache returns, and I take more pills than I should. I am not even sure if Ignacio is still home. The rain has subsided, and the moonlight is showing through the windows. I walk to the master bedroom and I see the outline of his head against the pillow. His amazing hair is spilled out over the pillow, and I can see he is awake. I stand in the doorway, not moving, just watching him breathe, waiting for him. Finally, he lifts his head and says, “Are you coming to bed?” My response is, “Yes...but are you going to tell me what I need to know.” He sits up, puts his arms out to me, and motions for me to get into bed. He pulls back the blanket and says, “What do you need to know? I haven’t seen you in six months. I don’t know what you have forgotten.” I walk over to the bed, and slide under the blanket. We don’t touch at first, we just lie there, silently. Then, he reaches out to me, and I lie in the crook of his arm, and he takes a deep breath and begins to tell me what I know is the truth. For the first time since I lost my memory, I know someone is telling me the absolute truth. I don’t know how I know this, but I do.

40,015 words

Current Mood: accomplished

I wonder if Araceli will come home and be frightened. I wonder what Pilar told him. I wonder where the hell he has been all this time. I cannot feel anything for him, even though I know I have missed him. But I don’t trust anyone anymore and I have no idea why he or anyone would want to harm me. Even with everything I have read and seen and heard, I still don’t know the answers, and I don’t know if he will give them to me, either. He continues to beg forgiveness and I have just tuned him out, because I don’t know what he wants me to forgive him for. What, for leaving me for Pilar? For risking our lives with gangsters? For nearly having me killed? I don’t know what he is begging for, and how I could forgive him for most of it, but then I was a different person then, and now I feel I am sticking up for some distant relation.

“You are so cold” he says to me, finally. I realize he must be cold, too, and I tell him to get out of those wet clothes. He says, “No, you are cold to me. Do you hate me so much?” While he is undressing in the living room, I cannot help looking at his body, wanting him physically but not feeling much else emotionally. “What do you expect, Ignacio?” I snap at him, not sure if this is coming from me with what I know now or from the person I was before. “Do you expect me to be jumping for joy to see you? After everything that has happened?” I don’t go into details, because so much more could have happened than I could possibly imagine. And I cannot let down my guard and let him know I have amnesia or he will start lying worse than Alan ever did.

He has no answer to my reply. He looks downtrodden. I want to slap him and say, “You son of a bitch, how can you expect forgiveness!” but I still don’t know what he wants forgiveness for. And I cannot say what I want to for fear of revealing that I actually don’t remember. Don’t let down your guard, I say. Don’t say anything. Let him say it. But, he is being about as taciturn as I am. I finally say, “So, Pilar told you I stopped by.” He just nods his head. “You two are as thick as thieves” I say, which is a statement I am surprised to hear myself saying. He doesn’t make eye contact. Eye contact is a dangerous thing down here in Honduras. I remember Mr. Lujan not making eye contact with me when I asked for a ride in his truck. Eye contact means more than touching here. “Look me in the eye, Ignacio” I say. He stands up, wearing only his underwear, and looks me in the eye. But, we don’t talk. If I ask him anything, the gig will be up. We stare at each other. I don’t know what to do. My mind wanders, and he walks closer to me. I cannot remember what it was like to make love to him. I cannot remember what it was like to make love to anyone, ever. Maybe this intimacy will break down a wall between us. How can I sleep with a man who may have nearly gotten me killed? I do not spend much time ruminating on this moral dilemma, as we are both naked in our bed within 10 minutes, making wild, passionate, desperate love.

We lie in bed, silently. The rain is pouring now, and I wonder about Araceli. What if she comes home and realizes that Ignacio is here. For all I know, she returned home while he and I were making love, and I never heard her come in the door. If this was an example of what sex was always like between us, no wonder I fell for him hook, line and sinker. There was the friendship, and then there was the physical. But, had I known about his illegal activities? Or, did I enjoy helping people but also having unknown sources of money? I still have no answers, and I may have just slept with the devil, but right now I feel more rested than I have since this ordeal began. He hasn’t asked about my head or said anything about it at all. I am sure Pilar told him about it and, if she didn’t, he already knew about it. Maybe that was what he was apologizing for so profusely. It just seems strange for him to not even mention it, even if he already knew about it. I am still not sure exactly why he was so filled with grief and begging for forgiveness. Maybe it was the events of the past few months or maybe something far worse than I could ever imagine.

I am lying here in bed with the man I have loved for a dozen years, and I cannot relax or put any positive spin on it whatsoever. He is sleeping peacefully, or maybe he is just exhausted. I inch myself away from him, quietly, and go to the bathroom, then look around in the dark for my discarded football jersey nightie. I find it in the hallway between the living room and the master bedroom. I slip it back on, close the door to the master bedroom, and go back into the living room. Just then, the door opens, and Araceli comes in, soaked to the bone, with mud covering her waitress shoes. I put my arm around her and bring her down the hall, quietly, to her room, while she changes out of her clothes. I close the door, and find myself sitting on the floor, in the corner of her room. She asks me what is wrong. I don’t realize my fingers are pressing against my lips so hard that it is starting to hurt. “It’s Ignacio” I say, very quietly. “He’s back.” Araceli’s eyes grow big and frightened again, and she whispers back, “Where?” I point up the hall in the direction of the master bedroom. She looks more frightened than ever as she whispers again, “He is HERE?” She looks as if she will faint on the spot. “What is wrong?” I ask her. “Senora, we have to go, we cannot stay here, they will have followed him.” I grab her by the shoulders to face me and say, “WHO will have followed him? You said you didn’t know anything. Tell me now or I am not letting you out that door.”

38,743 words

Current Mood: satisfied

When I awake, Araceli is gone, to work, I assume. I take another shower, but encounter poor water pressure, which I am told is a common occurrence in all of Central America. I look through the closet to look through the clothes that were left there. They are very casual, jeans and t-shirts and sturdy shoes. It has started to rain outside, and I put on my long, over-sized football shirt that I wear as a nightgown. I slip warm socks on my feet, and sit down on the sofa with my laptop and a cup of coffee. I haven’t really eaten anything all day, but even though I feel in need of nourishment, I am not hungry. I don’t feel angry or sad, I don’t feel much of anything at the moment. I don’t have any idea what to do next, but I do have a lot of strong suspicions. One of the files I have on the computer is called “Final” which could be as ominous as it sounds or as benign as a title for a typical memo. But, then, why is it password-protected? I fiddle with passwords again and, by some divination perhaps, I stumble across the password, “siempre”, forever. What I read opens my eyes as far as they have been since this ordeal began.

“I don’t know where I am going” I write. “Ignacio and I are going to Moskita and then I have no idea where we go next. I have received no mail, I have become a virtual recluse here. I told Araceli that if anything happens to me, she is to come and stay at the refugio, which is what this house has become. I feel like a stranger in my own house. Ignacio and I never talk anymore. I won’t be surprised if I never see him again after Moskita. I still cannot fathom how everything went so dreadfully wrong. I never wanted to hurt him. I would never betray him. He has become so paranoid, now that the police know everything. I knew his family had money, but I never knew how they acquired it. It doesn’t make me love him any less. But, Pilar has used this opportunity to destroy me and our marriage at the same time. He is a fool if he believes any of her lies. I don’t know what more I can do to prove this to him. I suppose when you’ve reached the end of your rope, you can just hold on to whomever gives you their hand. For Ignacio, he needs to reach for Pilar’s hand. He sees my hand, but thinks I will let him fall. Nothing I say will ever make it right again. I will never stop loving him. I make no judgments about him. I am not surprised that Pilar used this opportunity to get what she always wanted. I was clinging to Ignacio by a thread anyway. If I had to lose him, I could live with that, but I would still want to be his friend. I have been his partner, his fellow soldier, I would die for him, but he doesn’t want to see this. So, it’s over.”

These words start to make everything clear to me. Ignacio was involved in something shady, and that is how he made his money. He was caught, and he fled. In the meantime, Pilar saved the charity and, I guess, he fell in love with her. She hates me because she wanted Ignacio. None of this sounds like a reason to have me killed in the United States. This entry was clearly written before I learned of my mother’s illness and left for the states. There has to be something more sinister going on that I may have discovered after this entry was written. I had a sense of foreboding, but clearly not a clue of imminent, life-threatening danger.

I walk around the house, looking in the other rooms. I called this our refugio, our refuge. In one room, a disassembled baby crib sits leaning up against the wall. Did we have children? I must ask Araceli this, but I am thinking we just cared for our children at the facility. I don’t know what to think anymore. None of this explains why I was nearly killed, or why I was running away. Maybe it was the gangsters or drug dealers that Ignacio was involved with. I just don’t know. And, what was Alan’s role, other than someone to intercede for my mother? Why was Pilar blocking all personal communication? Was it to throw the authorities off the scent? You’d think she’d be glad to get rid of me, to have me go back to the states. I feel light-headed and dizzy, so I go to the kitchen to eat some left-over chicken on Araceli’s homemade tortillas. As I am warming up the tortillas on the stove, I look up to see a reflection in the glass door of the oven, which is at my eye level. At first I think I am hallucinating, then, I realize, this should come as no surprise. I knew in my gut that Pilar was the only one who knew where Ignacio was, and that she would surely contact him once I made my grand entrance at the facility.

I turn around to face Ignacio, who is standing on the other side of the kitchen counter. It is not a dream, or a flash of memory, he is standing there, in the flesh. There is nothing unfamiliar about him. He was the very first memory I had after my injury. I’ve never forgotten Ignacio. He was the center of my world. His beard is scruffier and his hair longer, and he has some grey hair at the temples. He is still tall, but thinner, still big and strong. I don’t know what to do. His hair is wet, and he has clearly just come in from the rain. He is still wearing his rain coat. We just look at each other, for how long, I have no idea. Neither one of us says a word. I cannot even imagine what will happen next, but what does happen takes me completely and utterly by surprise. Ignacio removes his coat, and sets it on the back of a kitchen chair. He is dressed all in black, and he makes almost no sound when he walks, like a cat. He walks over to me, and there is only about an inch of space between us. He is so tall, I think. He smells like fruit and rain and sweat. I move my mouth to speak, but no words come out. Then, without a word, he puts his arms around me, and his lips are on mine, and we are kissing, passionately. Then, just as suddenly, his body starts to rack with sobs, and we stop kissing, and he holds my body close to his, and cries like a baby. I don’t cry, not one tear. I wrap one of his thick curls around my finger and I smell his neck, and I feel the water oozing out of his shirt. I feel his heart beating next to my chest, and I hold him tighter, and I rest my head on his shoulder, closing my eyes tightly as I listen to him cry.

I don’t know why he is crying, either out of guilt or shame or a change of feelings or shock and surprise. I didn’t reveal my amnesia to Pilar, so I don’t know if Ignacio knows of it, either. He must not, or we would not have had this reunion. My physical being wants to be with him, but the part of me that cannot remember my feelings is making me feel detached to this big, strong, weeping man in my arms. I do not know what has happened to my emotions. Am I completely dead? Maybe my body lived but my mind feels that it is dead. He pulls away from me, and starts to say, over and over, “I am so, sorry, Esperanza, please forgive me” and this becomes a mantra, “Soy asi que apesadumbrado perdoneme, por favor” he mumbles and sputters. I don’t know if I can forgive him. I do not know if he has tried to have me killed. I still don’t know anything, and I cannot tell him anything. I have to wait and see.

37,652 words total

Current Mood: accomplished

The next day, Araceli gives me a vote of confidence by agreeing to go with me to the facility on the bus. This is quite a big step for her, since she hasn’t been back there since she was let go. She seems a lot more nervous than I do. I have no fear of the unknown because everything is unknown. I suspect it will be a lot like I have predicted; a big welcome from many, and a cold reception from some. I am beginning to feel more and more at home, like I am back where I am most comfortable, in spite of all the mystery and questions. I feel a very motherly connection toward Araceli. Perhaps all the people at the facility became my surrogate children once I lost Elena. I wonder if Elena was buried here or in the states? There is still so much I do not know.
We get off the bus near the church, and go to ask a ride from Father Phillip, who will work as our protector, I suppose. It is about a 10-minute drive from the church to the facility, and as the buildings come into view, I get the most over-whelming sense of deja vu. Everything looks almost exactly as it did in my hypnotic state, when I envisioned the facility and what it looked like, and what would happen when I returned. The main building is a very modern but simple one-story set of offices. Adjacent to this are a neat row of bungalows, and a larger building sits behind that, with a playground next to that building. There is a soccer field immediately behind that. The parking lot contains about a dozen cars, mostly jeeps and trucks. It seems very quiet here and almost abandoned. It must be the time of day, everyone is doing their job or is in class, or something. Araceli says we should go to the school first, not the main offices, since we will certainly bump into Pilar almost as soon as we enter the office building. I agree, and Father Phillip follows close behind us as we make our way in the back of the bungalows. I notice a slide and swing set that I somehow know I brought back from the states. I know exactly what the school room will look like, even before we open the door.

Inside the school room, a group of about a dozen children, ranging in age from about 6 to 12, are listening to a very dark-skinned woman in native African clothing, as she tells them a story. I stand there in the doorway for a moment, taking everything in. A small girl, with wavy dark hair and enormous dark eyes, turns to look at me. She begins to cry. The other children turn to look at me, their mouths agape. The teacher drops her book to the floor, and stands up, and all I can hear is the sound of the chair scraping against the floor. I have no idea what to say. Then, pretty much every suspicion and question is answered as the woman in African clothing says, “Senora Castillo! We thought you were dead!”

Well, I am not dead, but, apparently, someone has wanted me dead, and has told people I cared about that I am dead. I don’t have a chance to really talk to anyone, the children are milling about, the teacher, whose name I learn is Iman, hugs me, and I don’t make any indication that anything is out of the ordinary, in spite of my short-cropped hair, thinner frame, and unexpected appearance. The fuss spills out onto the playground, and more people show up, and they are all shocked and happy to see me, it seems. Until I hear a voice behind me, and I do not have to guess who it is. “What in the hell are you doing here?” I hear a woman spit out. I turn around to see the surprisingly petite Pilar, looking at me with a combination of hatred and fear. I feel incredibly calm as I say to her, “I think I should ask you the same question.” I can see that I have immediately deflated her balloon, and she tells the assembled masses, “Please, go back to what you were doing, I have to speak to Esperanza, alone.” Not Senora Castillo, not Miss Esperanza, no sign of respect, even though I was her boss and I am at least a dozen years her senior. I tell Araceli to stay behind, since she is clearly afraid and I do not want to frighten her further. I insist, however, that the priest go with us. Whatever we say will not be revealed by him, and I need some moral support, in more ways than one.

When we step into the offices, the women in the hallway see me and smile, but Pilar flashes them a look that indicates this is not a social call. We walk into her office, where a young man, I assume her cousin, Joaquin, is sitting at a desk. We go through another door, and she says, “We can do this alone” looking at Father Phillip. “You have nothing to say that Padre Felipe cannot hear” I tell her. She is not happy about this, so she makes Joaquin come in, too, and they sit at the far end of the conference table, both looking uncomfortable, but Joaquin looks scared to death. Pilar, who is a very attractive young woman, I have to admit, looks as if she is going to start spitting nails. I am keeping up the charade pretty well. I feel completely confident that Araceli has told her nothing. I can also tell she is not aware of my memory loss. And, it seems pretty obvious, she is surprised I am alive.

The silence is deafening, so I open with what seems like the only appropriate thing to say. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost” I tell her, sounding a lot more confident than I have a reason to feel. She looks at me as if I am a bug on the wall, and says, “Who do you think you are?” My only reply is, “I think I am the woman who had everything you wanted, and you took it away.” She turns in her chair and says, hoarsely, “What do you know about it? You always thought you were superior to me. Now look at you.” I am becoming angry as well. “Yes, now look at me” I say, pointing to my hair and showing her the scar on my head. “It looks like someone wanted to shut me up forever. You must have been pretty damned desperate.” She stands up, screaming, “Shut up! You don’t know what you are talking about! You are trying to blame me for everything, like always. Well, you’re nobody here anymore. You never existed. I can call the police and have you removed from here and there isn’t a damned thing you can do about it!” I find her rage and threats rather comical, she seems like a little girl trying to act big and important. I cannot understand why everyone quakes in their boots in her presence. Maybe this is why she hated me so much, and why she still hates me. I take a deep breath and stand up. “Don’t worry, Pilar, you won’t have to call the police” I say. “I will leave you to do whatever you think you have to do. You can’t destroy me, no matter how much you want to. Everything you do will come back to you. Mark my words.” Then, I turn on my heel and leave, with Father Phillip following behind me. I do not turn around to look back. I go straight to Father Phillip’s jeep, and he calls out frantically for Araceli, who climbs in the back, and we leave, driving silently all the way back to my house.

Once inside the house, Father Phillip excuses himself to return to his parish, and I hear Araceli thank him before he leaves. I have not said one word since I told Pilar to mark my words. I don’t know what I have done, or what exactly has caused her to hate me so much. I don’t know if she is the person who wanted me killed, or if this is all an elaborate set-up, or, highly unlikely, a strange coincidence. Araceli has gone to make my favorite Honduran coffee in the kitchen, and, as usual, is silent until I speak. Finally, I say to her, “So, could you explain to me what just happened?” Of course, Araceli was not in the meeting room, but she knows the story, as much as anyone does. “Is there something you aren’t telling me, Araceli?” I ask, even though I have grown to trust her. She hands me a cup of coffee and a plate of cookies, but she says nothing. “I swear to you, Senora Esperanza, I do not know what Pilar has done, or why. This all happened so quickly, and no one really knows, I think, except Pilar and Senor Ignacio.” I believe her, and I give her a hug. I am starting to get a headache again, so I go to lie down and take a short nap before I go back to my laptop to try and open the files that will reveal the answers no one else can or will give me.


35,217 words

Current Mood: sore

While I am settling in to start reading all the secrets I hope my laptop will reveal, Araceli comes home, in a waitress uniform. I never stopped to think she would have found another job. She tells me she is working at a local café, and she’s trying to earn enough money to move back home. It turns out that home is in Tegucigalpa, but she had been living in a dormitory at Esperanza para las Ninos for the past three years since moving away. I know she must be trustworthy, because she has been living in this house, and she apparently hasn’t gone through my things. I have to believe in someone or something if I am to get through this.
My immediate concern is with the laptop and what it will reveal, so I set down to business while Araceli gets ready for bed. I don’t question her anymore, I want to see my own words before I find out any more oral history. Araceli seems to understand to leave me alone until I question her further. Even before I read my paper journals and look at photo albums, I open my laptop and find locked files that were apparently my recent journal. There is also an email account in my name, that says it has 2,223 unread messages. I cannot imagine what my passwords might be, but I try a few obvious ones and realize I would have made them more obscure. I close my eyes and try to think. I try to tap into the part of my brain that remembers things that were rote, not memories of people and places and things, but the memory to play the piano, and to speak Spanish. I realize, however, that remembering passwords is a part of the memory I have lost. Finally, I look to see what the password retrieval reminder question is. It is the incredibly obtuse “Donde los ninos juegan?” which means, “Where do the children play?” What could that possibly mean? Is this literal or does it allude to something else? Suddenly, I have a flash of memory, and I see the title on one of my unlocked files is “Where Do the Children Play?” which is an article I was writing for the organization’s newsletter. In the article, I quote lyrics to the Cat Stevens song of the same name. I type several lines from the song, both in English and Spanish, and when I type in “hierba verde fresca” which means “fresh green grass.” I am led to the password page. I immediately think, “Thank youGod” and then, “Thank you, mom” for I feel at that moment she is helping me from somewhere. I had faith in God and man before all this happened, I can’t have lost that.

Scrolling through over two thousand messages is a daunting task, and the messages date back nearly a year. Before I know it, it is nearly dawn, and I am hungry and have eye strain and a headache. But, I have gleaned much from what I have managed to extract from the many emails. There were many emails from Alan, telling me that my mother had contacted him due to the fact she’d not heard from me since the beginning of the year, and that she had written many letters and had none returned, but no replies from me had been forthcoming. Alan sounds genuinely concerned, but I still don’t have a lot of faith in what he has to say. I need to get into my locked journals, to see where the secret of my sudden departure lies. I had not replied to these emails, and I had not received any postal mail. I do not know how I eventually received the letter that I had on my person when I was found unconscious on the beach. All of this has given me another pounding headache, and, before I know it, I have fallen asleep on the sofa, and when I awake, it is nearly 11:00 am. Araceli is in the kitchen, making something that smells delicious. I walk into the kitchen and see she has laid out a plate of fresh pineapple for me, which tastes incredible. She smiles and says, “I am so happy you are back.” She tells me she is making Baleadas, which are like burritos, with fresh crema. She says it was always my favorite food, and she is making it as my welcome home meal. She has also made a fresh pot of delicious Honduran coffee. This is the best meal I have had in ages, and I eat voraciously. “You’re so thin” she says, sounding concerned. “You were always so strong. Much stronger than you looked. Everyone said so.” I need to know as much as she can tell me. So, I sit back, my belly full, and wait for all she can reveal.

I want to know the most obvious things, when I left and why. She tells me that Ignacio and I both left for a vacation after Easter, but that he came back alone. He said that I had stayed in Puerto Lempira. This would match the local’s reports of my being seen there alone at about that same time. He didn’t elaborate. Araceli suspects that either Ignacio was trying to discover Pilar’s motives, or he was in league with Pilar (which she still doubted) or that he was trying to protect me from the investigation that was looming on the horizon. She says that Ignacio was keeping things very quiet, but that he had never been that forthcoming with information to anyone. No one really knew the source of his income, and this house was a secret to virtually everyone, including Pilar. Araceli also suspects that at this time Ignacio was finally able to retrieve some of the personal mail that had been held back by Pilar’s switching of the mailing addresses. He left again for Puerto Lempira, returned saying that I had gone back to the states to visit my dying mother, then he announced he was going to Trujillo to help his mother’s family. His mother was a member of the Grifuna group of indigenous people, who are descended from Afro and Carribean roots. His father’s roots are the Miskito people, which would explain the frequent trips to Puerto Lempira. I guess this would explain his unique good looks, the combination of so many different cultures and races. She doesn’t know much about his history, or how he ended up in charity work in the southern part of Honduras. When she met me, we had already been married about 7 years. She said I told her how we met and came to be a couple, and I want to hear this story most eagerly.

Apparently, Andrea was correct in saying that my relationship with Ignacio developed slowly and was not the cause of the end of my relationship with Alan. We were co-workers and friends, and did not fall in love, or at least admit to each other we were in love, until well over two years from our initial meeting, at the old clinic in Tegucigalpa. I was working there with Alan, who had been in Nicaragua. By the time I met Ignacio, mine and Alan’s daughter, Elena, had already passed away, and I was throwing myself into my charity work more than ever. Alan had already left Honduras and returned to the states by the time Ignacio and I became lovers. After that, it was only a matter of time before we were married, which took place in La Ceiba, on the Carribean coast. We spent time pretty much equally between the facility in Comayagua, and our favorite vacation spots on the Carribean. We didn’t spend that much time at the house in Siguatepeque, which was more of our refuge.

I wonder how the belief that Father Felipe had that Ignacio was in San Pedro Sula had been perpetuated. Araceli says that several people reported seeing him there, and he is a hard person to miss. She thinks he is working in another charity, but no one is certain. Nothing is certain anymore. There are so many rumors and half-truths, and absolutely no one seems to be willing to share any information on what has turned everyone’s lives upside down. It doesn’t seem there is any way for me to find out the truth unless I go to the source. I don’t know which is a bigger risk, going back to Esperanza para las Ninos and confronting Pilar, or taking off in search of Ignacio. I have more information about the facility and Pilar’s location than I have on Ignacio’s location, so I decide on the former, rather than the latter. Araceli is not keen on my going to Comayagua and dealing with Pilar, but then she did say I was always stronger than I looked, and I cannot continue this way without knowing everything I possibly can. I cannot let Pilar know I have amnesia. This will take a great deal of courage and I will need to keep my cards as close to my chest as I possibly can.

34,630 words

Current Mood: accomplished

When I finally wake up, I have no idea how long I have been asleep. I didn’t check the clock before I fell down on top of the comfortable, king-sized bed in the master bedroom. When I wake up, it is dusk, and I am sore and I haven’t taken a shower since I left Los Angeles. Not knowing the time or the day no longer frightens me. I have no fear of the unknown. My mind feels rested for the first time in ages.
I take a shower in the large stone shower in the master bath. It seems Ignacio and I lived rather well. I wonder if the people at the facility knew about this house? Maybe our house and our luxury trips were a completely separate life from the one we led as charity workers. It must have been, and that would explain the reason our mail was received at the facility. Maybe that is what Pilar was trying to find out, if we had hidden finances. I wonder if Ignacio has been back to the house since he left. I wonder if he is even in San Pedro Sula. It makes sense that I would have asked Araceli to live here. She wouldn’t tell Pilar, at least I don’t imagine she would. I know there are still so many pieces of the puzzle left, but I am beginning to see a very big chunk of the puzzle completed.

I am not sure when Father Phillip left, or if Araceli is still here. I don’t even know where she is staying in the house. There are three rooms outside of the master bedroom. I am thinking this was perhaps Ignacio’s home before we were married, or it is a family home. I am not sure how much we actually lived here. It looks as if we endeavored to make it a home. Some of our old clothes are in the closet. My journals and photo albums are in my bureau drawers. And, there is a laptop computer, apparently belonging to me. I wonder at the wealth of information available on that, and I take the computer to the living room to explore. Before I begin this arduous task, however, I go to the kitchen to check the refrigerator. It is reasonably well-stocked, apparently for Araceli. I make some coffee and eat two pieces of pan dulce. I really need a decent meal, and decide the closet I will get is to make some eggs and potatoes. I take a cursory tour around the house. I like the furnishings, I don’t know if they were my taste or not. None of the furniture in the house is very well-worn, which indicates we weren’t here that often. There is a photo on the mantel of myself and Ignacio, on what is clearly our wedding day. This strikes me very strongly, emotionally. I am wearing a white lace dress, with long sleeves, a princess bodice, and a hem that reaches just below my knees. There are flowers in my hair, which is piled on my head in loose curls. Ignacio is also wearing white, a dress shirt and pants, he is clean-shaven, and his hair is shorter than it was in recent photos. We are standing on a boat in a harbor, and we look very happy. The silver frame is engraved, with the words in Spanish, “Ignacio y Esperanza, amigos y amantes para la vida. Ocho Octubre, 1996.” I feel a lump in my throat. “Ignacio and Esperanza, Friends and Lovers For Life. Eighth October, 1996.” I know we loved each other. We were in it for the long haul. I don’t know what happened, but I have a feeling accessing the files on my laptop will reveal more than I’ve ever known before. It is more than anyone could tell me, I am certain.

33,099 words

Current Mood: tired

I don’t know what to say, or think, or feel, as this young woman pours out her emotions. She doesn’t yet know that I remember almost nothing of what has transpired. I have come to her for all the answers I so desperately need, but she is turning to me for comfort. At the same time, I am thinking about the house I was living in with my husband, and how did two people running a non-profit live like this? And the trips, the scuba-diving...and now, suddenly, I have gone missing, Ignacio is missing, my assistant is hiding out, and this other woman has completely taken over our organization. I cannot keep my eyes off the home that was mine. I don’t know how to control my thoughts and emotions. I want to talk to Araceli, but I want to absorb everything in this house, and all the memories it holds, whether I can remember them or not.

All of us sit down on a sofa in the front room, and Father Phillip leaves to get us each a glass of water. I don’t want to tell Araceli right off the bat what is going on, but I need to know. I have traveled a very long distance to get the answers I need for my very survival. She is shaking, and stammering, telling me how she thought I was dead, how she thought she would never see me again, how afraid she has been. I wonder how she ended up in my house. How dearly I want to walk around this house, and explore every corner. Father Phillip returns with the water, and Araceli slowly calms down. I have to tell her straight off the bat, otherwise far too much will be assumed. “Araceli, what is going on? I don’t know what has happened. Four months ago, I woke up in a hospital room in Los Angeles with no memory of my past. I’d been attacked and left for dead on a beach. I had severe brain trauma and I still have amnesia. I have found my way back here slowly, but I need to know everything, absolutely everything. I don’t want to frighten you, but this is more important than you can possibly imagine.”

Araceli wipes her eyes with the back of her hand, and Father Phillip hands her a tissue. “I am sorry I had to be so secretive” he says to me. “I have only recently gotten involved in this, and I was so shocked to see you today. Poor Araceli has been here for 6 weeks now. We don’t know what to do.” Then, since my Spanish is better than Father Phillip’s, I try to coax her as best I can to reveal what exactly has transpired in this past year, particularly the past 9 months. She looks at me and says, “You really don’t remember anything?” I tell her that I have researched some, visited my family and friends, and gone through hypnosis, but I am no closer to solving the mystery of how all of these recent events came to be. “I didn’t even realize this had been my house until I walked inside. I didn’t know where I was until I saw the photographs.” Then, I say to her, “What has happened? Why would someone want to do me physical harm? When did I leave? When did Ignacio leave? Why did you have to come here? Please, I have to know this, I absolutely must rebuild all that is missing.” I realized what I was asking was a tremendous amount to pile onto her all at once, but I was completely lost and desperate and she was my greatest hope.

Araceli tells me everything she knows, which is quite a lot. First of all, the main reason my relatives were not hearing from me and vice versa was because Pilar had changed the mailing address for personal mail to a post office box in Tegucigalpa at the beginning of the previous year. Her reason for doing this had something to do with organizing donor mail from personal mail, but in the process, no one was getting their personal mail. Pilar was training to take over the managing director position from me, because I had become far too busy with teaching and looking after the children that I no longer had the time or inclination to handle the books and website and fund raising and other administrative duties. I was happy to hand the reins over to Pilar, because I thought she was best able to handle it. However, once she took over, everything started to change. The mail switch was the least of the problems. People who disagreed with Pilar were immediately fired. She cut financial corners to the detriment of those who needed help most. She was slowly but surely re-building the organization in her own image. In the meantime, rumors began to run rampant that Ignacio and Pilar were having an affair and were planning to have me removed from the organization all together. There were also rumors that the organization was being investigated for myriad charges including fraud, extortion, illegal transportation of minors, drug connections, and other as yet unsubstantiated allegations. Esperanza para los Ninos had gone from a dream to a nightmare in half a year.

How could we have let everything slip through our fingers? And how did I come to be informed, finally, of my mother’s illness, which is what seemed to have prompted me to leave the facility after Easter? And, where was Ignacio in all of this? Was he having an affair with Pilar? Were they planning to have me removed? And, where was Ignacio now? Why had we both left at virtually the same time? “Everyone was in love with Senor Ignacio” Araceli explains. “Pilar loved him the most, I think, but I don’t know if they were lovers. Senor Ignacio only loved you.” I viewed this as the romantic notion of a very young woman, since I was starting to get the feeling something very sinister was happening in my life and relationship with Ignacio before all of this happened. I knew the only people who had the absolute answers were Pilar and Ignacio, and I was certain neither one of them would ever tell me the entire truth.

Araceli related how she was eventually fired by Pilar, who would only trust her cousin, Joaquin, as her assistant. “Once you were gone, I had no one” she tells me. “When did I go, Araceli? What happened? Why did I leave? Was it because my mother was ill? But, I didn’t end up in California until the summer, yet I left the facility after Easter. This doesn’t make any sense to me. What could have been happening?”

Araceli begins to formulate the next part of the story, but I am suddenly blinded with a headache and overcome with fatigue. At that precise moment, I want to lie down in the bed I shared with my husband. I want to walk through the house and see photographs and mementoes of our life together. I want to remember on my own. I am so tired of asking everyone else to explain my life to me. I excuse myself to lie down, and I leave Araceli and Father Phillip to their own devices in the living room. Every question brings another question and I cannot handle this anymore. I fear I will collapse, mentally and physically. I haven’t even eaten. The room is spinning. I want to make everything go away. Why on earth did my mother not send my mail here, or contact me here? Why were we hiding? Finally, I drift off to a sleep filled with the first quiet images I’ve had in days. I don’t want to wake up. I just want it all to go away.

32,455 words

Current Mood: exhausted

The young priest gives me a platonic hug, and I realize he is also from El Norte, like myself. That must be why he greeted me in English. This first encounter reinforces to me how difficult if not impossible it will be to pretend I don’t have a memory loss. And, I never saw a mention of any priest in any of my letters. I decide to just talk normally and ask him questions until it becomes clear that I don’t know who he is. I tell him I have just arrived after getting a lift from these gentlemen, and that I wanted to see the church before I went out to the facility. The priest smiles and says, “I haven’t seen you since the Easter procession” and I nod my head. I don’t know what to say, exactly. Finally, I realize this charade won’t work, and I know I will have to tell him I don’t remember him, because I have amnesia. I know I was going to church, and I know this was the church, but I don’t know how well I know this person. Just at that moment, an older local woman approaches the priest, and says, “Padre Felipe?” and he excuses himself to begin hearing confessions. Remembering the sanctity of the confessional, I realize that if there is anyone I can tell the truth to, it should be the priest. I tell the Lujans that they are free to go, and I pay them their money, but the father refuses it at first, only to have it accepted by the son, then taken away by the father. I wait inside the church for the priest to finish hearing confessions. He may not have all the answers, but he is as good a place to start the last leg of my journey as any.

By the time I get to speak to Father Felipe, I have fallen asleep in one of the pews. I had underestimated my fatigue. Everything hit me all at once. Father Felipe led me back to the rectory, where the housekeeper, Blanca, made us tea. It turns out that Padre Felipe is Father Phillip Nolan from Queens, New York. He has only been in Honduras for about a year, and his Spanish is improving daily. He didn’t know me that well, but I always came to mass, and I also played piano for the children in the choir. He doesn’t know my husband that well, either. He heard that I went home to the United States to see my mother, and that Ignacio went to take care of his mother’s family in San Pedro Sula. This all seemed way too convenient and coincidental. Neither one of us had been back, but Father Phillip really didn’t know all the details, only what he had been told.

I then ask him if he knows Araceli, who had been my assistant. He tells me that we used to go to church together, but that she had moved back to Siguatepeque a few months ago. I had no idea what was happening, and I had to ask Araceli. Siguatepeque was only 20 minutes from Comayagua, and Father Phillip said he would take me in his jeep. I was foolish to trust him only because he was a priest but, as had been the case since this ordeal began, I had to go with my gut, since that was all I had without concrete memories to back it up.

When we arrive at what I assume to be Araceli’s house, I notice it is surprisingly modern and well-maintained. I immediately feel very prejudiced for thinking Araceli would live in a less affluent house. As we approach the house, I suddenly feel a sense of foreboding and I want to get as far away as possible, but I cannot. How does Father Phillip know so precisely where Araceli lives? How could an administrative assistant at a non-profit afford to live in such a house? I feel I am walking into a den of lions without any means of escape. Once inside the house, however, I immediately feel a sense of familiarity. This was my home, I know it. I see framed photos of myself with Ignacio. And, in the living room, walking toward me, I see the young woman I know is Araceli, the one I had seen in my hypnotic state, and she throws her arms around me and cries, with her face buried in my chest.

31,140 words

Current Mood: cranky

I would be a complete fool if I did not realize that having Lupe’s husband send his friends and family to ask questions about me had already put me in danger in advance. And, trying to pretend I do not have amnesia is fairly ridiculous. But, pretty much everything that has happened to me so far has been ridiculous, like an old B-movie I cannot turn off. My hair is still very short, of course, but it has grown in enough to sufficiently conceal the wound. However, considering that I am traveling to Honduras during the height of the rainy season, I imagine my head will be covered with a rain hat most of the time. I imagine the many dangerous scenarios that await me, from murder by a jealous lover to drowning in a flood. But, somehow, death doesn’t frighten me as much as it should, perhaps because I have so little real memory of my life and no real life to return to. Also, this really feels like the first time I am going home, not like when I went to Ohio. I feel a tremendous need to re-connect with this place, where I spent so many years of my adult life, and where there is so much unexplained.

There were also some images from my hypnotic state that disturbed me, like the image of Alan sneaking around a corner, and Pilar telling me she erased me. That could have just been my paranoia rearing its ugly head, but anything is possible. I try to think of all the risks I am about to face as an adventure, then I laugh at myself for being such a simpleton. I always feel as if I am someone else, observing my life, and criticizing this person, who is not the person I used to be. I wonder how much the people I used to know will notice the difference in me? I really don’t have any point of reference as to how I have changed from the person I was recently. I know from Andrea that I morphed from party animal to philanthropist in college, but I don’t know what I was like in the past few years. How could I be so devoted to the downtrodden, yet take luxury vacations to the Carribean?

I am physically and emotionally exhausted, and I need to find closure, or at least sew up some loose ends, which seems a very daunting task, considering that this entire situation is composed of loose ends. I wonder if I left anything behind, of the physical, possessions type, or if I wiped the slate clean. Or, worse yet, if the slate was cleaned for me. I need to make myself think the way I often find myself, detached, watching someone else’s life, doing an investigation to find a missing person, even if that person is really me.

On January 10th, I am on a plane bound from Los Angeles to Honduras, with one stop in Mexico. I am so nervous, exhilarated, and terrified, that I can hardly do much of anything on the flight. It is raining when we arrive, and I cannot see much out of my plane window except fog and the outlines of cars and roads. I don’t feel an immediate connection when I step off the plane, and this disappoints me. I have brought the appropriate clothing, and taken a hotel room in Tegucigalpa, since I don’t know if there will be accommodations for me or even a welcome at my old home. Was this my old home? I took all my mail delivery here, but a short conversation with the man at the hotel tells me that the main office of Esperanza por la Ninos is actually in Comoyagua, the former capital city, across the Choluteca River, about 50 miles northeast of the present capital city. I am feeling completely disoriented and tired and dizzy. It doesn’t feel like home. It feels completely foreign to me, even though I instinctively still speak the language. I want so much to recognize something or someone, but nothing is coming to me. All the memories I have are of the Carribean side of the country, or of the facility itself. I think of groups of young people eating dinner, and I try to grasp their faces in my memory, but I cannot.

I have a difficult time coercing someone to drive me to Comoyagua in this torrential rain, even with my offer of $100 American, which is a pretty hefty sum to a taxi driver. I want to tell the man at the hotel to ask someone if they can drive me and I will pay them, then I realize that advertising the fact I am a gringa who has copious amounts of American cash on her person is not the wisest course of action. One day, by chance, and during a break in the rain, I see an industrious-looking man of about 40, loading newspapers off of a truck. A younger man, who I assume to be his son, is returning empty soda bottles, which were stored in back of the newspapers. I see a rosary dangling from a rear-view mirror, and a statue of the Immaculate Conception on the dashboard. Next to that is a photo of a woman, I am assuming his wife, propped up next to the blessed virgin. I decide to take my chances, and I approach the man, who talks to me politely but won’t make eye contact. His son returns from the recycling center, and is more modern, and looks me in the eye as we talk. He then asks his father permission, and they agree to take me Comoyagua. The father tells the son that I cannot sit in the cab of the truck alone with him, and I say I am willing to sit in the now-empty bed of the truck. The father is flabbergasted that I would suggest this. So, as a sort of compromise, the son and I sit in the back of the truck, on opposite sides of the empty cab.

I learn that the father is Augustin Lujan, and his son is Roberto. Roberto calls his father “Jefe” even though he is about 4 inches taller than him. The boy cannot be older than 16. He asks me if I would like some dried papaya, or a bottled soda (he has replenished his supply at the store in town). I politely refuse. He asks me when I was last in Honduras, since I speak local slang, he knows I am not a stranger here. If he only knew, I am a stranger everywhere. I tell him I was working at Esperanza para los Ninos, and he says he doesn’t know the place, but that doesn’t surprise me. My heart is racing as we get closer to the town. It is 50 miles, and the road is fairly well maintained, but it takes 90 minutes to arrive. Once we pull into the town, I see a building that feels incredibly familiar to me. It is Iglesia la Caridad, the Church of Charity, and I know I have been there before. I want to go inside, but I need to ask Senor Lujan if he could drive a bit farther, to the buildings of Esperanza para las Ninos. He says he is willing to oblige, but must ask someone where that is. While he is asking, the son and I go into the church. I immediately smell candle wax and incense and am over-whelmed with melancholy. At that precise moment, a young priest, perhaps 30 years of age, walks toward me and says, in English, not Spanish, “Esperanza, bless God, you’ve come back to us!” I feel a sense of relief and joy and foreboding, but, yes, a great deal of hope.

30,390 words

Current Mood: accomplished

I knew that some of things that had been revealed to me in my hypnotic state were actual memories, and some were suppositions. But the faces I saw were almost certainly real. At least now I had something to remember and recognize when I made my journey. There were some things I could not erase from my memory, but some were just thoughts. However, the recurring question for Ignacio, and his answer, “You know where I am” were more than likely real. It didn’t help me very much, but it gave me some hope.

I wish I had a made a hard copy of the web page the way it looked the first time I signed on, before any mention of Ignacio was erased, replaced with all mention of Pilar. I wish I had some idea of what was going on, but I could understand completely why everyone was being so tight-lipped. I would have to be there in person, and try my best not to reveal my amnesia, which might be a lot more difficult than even I could imagine. I could not do this by email or telephone, I had to just show up, like I had in Ohio, only under far more risky circumstances.

Christmas was very quiet, almost no one at the rehab facility received visitors. Everyone was home with their families, and some of us didn’t even know our families. The weather was far too warm, and I wished I was back home, but then I wondered where that was. Most days I spent doing crossword puzzles and watching my hair grow. The hypnosis had done more for me than any of the mental exercises at the facility had. I found I needed a new notebook to transfer all my notes from the yellow pads that were growing too numerous to mention. I didn’t have the kind of money necessary to purchase a laptop computer, which would have come in very handy. I had to make do with high tech from a distance, it seemed.

One memory I had actually tried to avoid in all of my memory work was recalling the person who had assaulted me. The therapist at the facility said that if I didn’t face that painful memory, I could not face anything else that may have happened before. I was much too frightened, mainly because of the fear it could have been someone I knew, or someone who had been sent to harm me by someone who wanted to make me disappear. There were more suspects on my list than ever before, and none of it made any sense. I wondered if, after I had done everything I needed to do to move forward, if I would have a life to return to. Would I have a career, or be financially solvent. I knew I couldn’t return to my life in Honduras. That was not absolutely certain, but it seemed more and more unlikely, as I uncovered more memories and clues about my recent past. I felt such an emotional disconnect from everything, and I wanted so much to feel love and attachment. I had felt it, fleetingly, by reading my mother’s letters and being in the room where she spent her final days. I felt connected with Andrea, but that ended so suddenly. I was certain my relationship with Ignacio was finished, but I was hoping that it wasn’t more tragic or permanent than what I feared.
As the new year began, with all my paperwork straightened out and my identity proven, and with a United States passport issued to Mary Hope Danzig, not Castillo, I purchased tickets on an airline that would take me to Honduras. I had already started to put some pieces together, at least geographically, by this time. Since the last place anyone saw me was in Puerto Lempira, and that area is not accessible by land, I theorize that I took a boat or plane to the Carribean coast of Mexico, and made my way by bus or car or even, maybe, another plane, up to the U.S. border. There had to be a very specific reason I was sneaking into my own country, but there was no record of wrong-doing anywhere, at least in the United States. That seemed like a very complicated trip. I know where Ignacio is. It is not in Tegucigalpa, I know that. And it cannot be in Puerto Lempira, because that is where we have always gone, and I was seen alone. Everyone remembered my companion, and I was only noticed because I was not with him. I could cause myself nothing but grief over-analyzing something of which I have almost no memory and no input from anyone who could answer these questions. I must have been a brave person before all this happened, that hasn’t changed, and I forge ahead, either bolstered by bravery or ignorance, I am not sure. But, this is the final road, no matter what I find out, or what happens to me.

29,082 words

Current Mood: full

It is nearly Christmas, and I am feeling very lonely, indeed. Andrea has called a few times, which makes me feel so much more connected. It occurs to me that I am the sort of person who makes extended family out of friends, and that is what kept me connected. I know that if I have a clearer idea of the people I knew and loved, I can feel a bit more secure about things. I make plans with Lupe to meet Mariana, the hypnotist, at Lupe’s house Christmas week. She is hoping the surroundings, the language, the food and smells, will help my memory. I think this is a wonderful idea. And, if Mariana asks me the questions in Spanish, that will dig deeper into the recesses of my mind as well.

It is a lovely, festive evening at Lupe’s home, where she and her mother and aunts are making tamales, and the men are playing billiards in the garage. I do feel at home, and relaxed, and I realize I must have always been a person who found more sense of family in friends. Mariana arrives, and she is a beautiful woman in, I guess, her late 40's. She has long, wavy red hair, and her eyes are like a tiger. One thing that I have not been told is that, in addition to being a hypnotist, she is also a psychic. I don’t want to think negatively, after all, police use psychics and hypnotists. We eat dinner, then Mariana tells me we have to go to a very quiet place. Lupe suggests Tia Rosalinda’s house, which happens to be on the next street. Since she is at Lupe’s house, and no one else is home, this will be a good spot. So, Mariana and I take her car over there. The house is indeed very quiet, and the furnishings are extremely comfortable. I lie down on an over-stuffed recliner, and Mariana puts a relaxing cd on. I have worn comfortable clothes, taken off my shoes, and Mariana pulls an afghan over my legs. She lights several candles, and dims the electric lights. Before we began, Mariana instructed me that she would tape record our session. I had given her a list of concerns and questions before we began, and I hope that she addresses all of them. I make note of the time when we arrive, and it is 9:35 pm. There is a large grandfather clock in the corner, ticking away.

Mariana tells me to listen to the sound of her voice, and to tune out anything else but the relaxing waves I hear. She instructs me to walk along a beach, to pick up a shell, to look at the sunset. I feel myself drifting off to what seems like a very deep sleep. It feels like the best sleep I have had in ages. I can smell the salty air, and hear the waves, and I am walking along, with my hand in someone else’s hand. I turn to see Ignacio walking next to me. He is smiling. I ask him, “Where are you, mi vida?” He points to the mountains, and says, “You know where I am.” Then I ask him, “Why can’t we go home?” He smiles at me again and says, “We can go home any time you like.” I tell him I want to go now. I turn around, and see a modern-looking white building, and people wearing white clothing, milling around. A young man of about 20 smiles at me and says, “Good morning, Senora Castillo” and then he holds the door for me. The inside of the building is very clean and bright, and I feel myself walking to a small classroom, where about a dozen children converge upon me with hugs and greetings. In the corner, I see Ignacio. “How can you leave this?” he asks me. “I don’t know” I reply.

I ask Ignacio, “Where is Araceli?” He points to an office, which has my name on it, and it identifies me as the Managing Director. I turn to Ignacio and say, “Did you erase me?”, but he doesn’t answer. I walk inside the office where I see a young woman in her 20's turn to smile at me. I know immediately this is Araceli. I ask her, “Araceli, what happened?” She says she cannot tell me now, she will tell me when she sees me. Then she says, “Be careful, please” and I say “I will, mija.” I want to ask Ignacio more questions. I don’t see him anywhere. I walk up the hall, and walk straight into a woman I immediately recognize as Pilar. She says to me, “I erased you.” I walk away from her, looking for Ignacio, and he is nowhere to be found. I hear his voice, somewhere, and he says, “You know where I am, mi joya, come and find me.” I remember that Alan called me La Joya. I turn around, and I see the fleeting figure of Alan going around the corner. I start to chase him, but then I am back at the beach, where Ignacio is walking away from me, and he says, “Please, be calm, be careful, come back to me.” After this, Mariana brings me back to consciousness. It’s is 11:00 pm. We have been doing this for 90 minutes, but it felt like 10 minutes.

28,243 words

Current Mood: busy

On the train back home, I read more of my mother’s letters from me. I begin to think about how it seemed I was leaving Honduras for good, especially since I hadn’t been in contact with my mother during that time. However, I was opening bank accounts and making plans and getting fake i.d.’s Also, I had been seen in Puerto Lempira alone, for the first time without my muy guapo husband. I am not 100% sure if I will be welcome back in Honduras. I may be risking my life more than ever, but I cannot reclaim anything without knowing.

Something that had been gnawing at me increasingly was why, if Alan was stalking me or meant me harm, did my mother correspond with him? He may be a compulsive liar, but even Andrea said she didn’t think him capable of causing me bodily harm. This left a host of unknown enemies in my life south of the border. What if there really was someone from Honduras or elsewhere who wanted to harm me, and all the business with Alan was just a bizarre coincidence? I could be setting myself up for tragedy by going back to Honduras, but I don’t have anyone else to verify anything for me. And, as far as I know, Ignacio and I were still married, but I might have been leaving him and he may not know where I am. If I thought about it too much, I got a bigger headache and I had to think of something else.

Cross country on the train was very relaxing. I ate in the dining car every night and sat at the table with different people from all walks of life. I had a sleeping car I shared with an older woman from Toledo named Peg, who was on her way to visit her daughter in San Diego. I was much more relaxed, and time passed quickly. Once back at Union Station in L.A. I felt a bit displaced, now that the weather was 70 degrees. I took a taxi back to the rehabilitation center, and went back to my routine of physical therapy, psycho therapy, and trips to the library to investigate my new clues on the Internet.

Lupe, the nurse from the hospital, stopped by one day to tell me that her husband, Jaime, had some interesting news from Honduras. One of his cousins talked to Ismail, one of Ignacio’s right-hand men at the charity center, and he said that there had been rumors for some time that Ignacio was having an affair with Pilar Montez, the woman who was posing with him on the charity’s website. Apparently, people think I left because I found out about this affair. This makes sense, but still doesn’t explain why someone would want to cause me bodily harm. It may turn out it was a random crime, but it doesn’t appear to be that way. I have a strong feeling I will not be welcome by the people I lived and worked with, at least not the principal players, but definitely, I am sure, everyone else will welcome me back.

I receive a surprise visit from Alan, and I tell him I no longer wish to see him. I don’t think of him in the vile terms that Detective Russell seems to, but I know him to be a compulsive liar. Even though some of what he told me was true, so much of it was mis-leading and false, and I do not want to hear any more excuses and stories and lies. I ask the security guards to banish him from the premises. He tells me that I will regret it, but it doesn’t sound threatening, more of a warning of what he thinks will happen if I do not heed his advice. Since I don’t believe or trust anything he says anymore, I don’t care if I do regret shutting him out of my life.

I spend a lot of time surfing the Internet, visiting the Esperanza por las Ninos website again, to see it has been updated. The photo of Ignacio, Pilar and Ismail is no longer there. I remember noticing that Ignacio had his wedding ring on in that photo. I had no wedding ring when they found me after the attack, but the police said I had a line on my ring finger that was a tan line from where a ring had been. Either my ring was stolen, or I did not wear it. I am looking for other, more recent photos of Ignacio, hopefully with his left arm around someone again, but there are none. The most recent photo is of a smiling Pilar Montez, sitting behind a desk. This photo links to an article “A Letter From Our New Managing Director”. I don’t know who was the previous managing director. Was it Ignacio? Was it me? Why are there no recent photos of Ignacio? Could it be that Ignacio and I both disappeared? This is beginning to frighten me more. I ask Lupe via telephone if her husband knew if anyone had seen Ignacio recently, and she said no one had spoken to him for several months. I feel terribly frightened, as if I am walking right into my own death sentence if I return. Maybe I wasn’t leaving Ignacio, maybe I was alone because he was missing. I must be insane to even think about going back there.

I must find out if Ignacio is alive or dead or missing before I take the next step. Visiting Honduras during the rainy season is foolhardy enough, but signing my own death certificate is absolutely ridiculous. My mother stopped hearing from me completely six months ago. I was seen without my husband in Puerto Lempira during that time, and I ended up with amnesia on a southern California beach shortly after that. The last letter I wrote to my mother was in October of the previous year, more than a year now. That is also the date of the most recent photo of Ignacio, with his arms around his employees or co-workers, or whatever they were. I read the last letter I wrote over and over, memorizing names and places, trying to see if there are any clues. There has to be someone who knew me then who can tell me what happened. Looking through the last few letters, I see that I mention someone called “Araceli” quite a few times, as being my “right arm” among other endearments. I don’t mention Pilar at all. I call all the children at the facility “my children” but I get the strong impression I had children of my own with Ignacio, maybe adopted, but I don’t know. If I could just find out if Ignacio is safe, if I could contact him or someone I could trust, then I would feel less trepidation. I wonder if it is best to stay invisible, with no memory, if my husband and I are both wiped from the memory of this place. I cannot imagine why anyone would want to have someone killed just to take over a charity group. There were those rumors that Pilar was having an affair with Ignacio. Maybe that has something to do with it, or Ignacio is lying low. I cannot even drum up any common sense ideas at the moment.

I search the website to find any mention of Araceli, either in an article or on a photo. However, I don’t have a last name, and Araceli is not an uncommon name in the Spanish-speaking world. I keep searching this site and others related to it to see if there is any mention of me at all. I could not find myself except on someone else’s personal website, and I am becoming more discouraged than I can express. I feel like picking up the phone and calling someone down there and asking what the hell is going on. But, it’s a different world there, people need to protect themselves and cannot give out information to just anyone. I know the best way is to show up in person, and with so little memory, the reactions of people to me will help lead me to the right conclusion. Why on earth would someone kill Ignacio? Was he involved in something shady? There is no mention of his death on any of the searches I make, so I decide that he is elsewhere. Jaime said that someone in Honduras told him that Ignacio’s wife “left and he doesn’t know where she went” but no one has seen Ignacio. I cannot sleep at night wondering what I should do next.

27,208 words

Current Mood: stressed

I spent the evening reading more letters and memories, and noticed someone in my college years I hadn’t known about. I had a good friend named Andrea who joined the Peace Corps at the same time I had. She would certainly be a source of information, but I wouldn’t know where or how to find her and, if I did, what would I say? It would be very disconcerting to have your former best friend show up out of the blue, not to mention when I told her I have amnesia. It would be like a bad tv show. But, if we had been best friends, I should be willing to give it a try. Since I knew her in college, and she joined the Peace Corps, I wonder how I would find her at all. I ask aunt Betty later that evening if she remembers a girl named Andrea Pozner who was my friend in college. Aunt Betty smiled, saying, “Everyone knows Andrea” which didn’t help me very much, but was comforting to know. Then Betty says, almost to herself, “Didn’t she join the convent for awhile or something? Or she was a missionary in El Salvador or something like that, I don’t remember. Anyway, she came back home because she was sick, that’s all I know.” I am concerned about this. “Was she very ill?” I ask. Betty says she had ovarian cancer, but that she had caught it in time and had surgery, and was now back living with her mom, right there in Akron. I knew I had to see her. She would have the answers no one else seemed to have, I was sure of it.

I spent most of Friday out and about, first taking the bus to Youngstown to the cemetery where my parents were buried. It was a very simple plot in a well-manicured cemetery. My mother’s headstone read, simply, “Helen Mary Danzig, May 11, 1948-June 5, 2006 nothing about who she was or any kind of indication of her being a mother or a wife or a pillar of the community. My father was not buried in our family plot, as aunt Betty had told me, but rather in the Vietnam Veteran’s section, close by. “Steven Edward Jordan, October 5, 1947-September 30, 1969 Beloved Son He Died for His Country.” Beloved son, but not beloved father. Because I never knew him, and he never knew me. I think I liked him. I think he would have been a good dad.

I leave flowers for both of my parents, walk to a local diner for lunch, then catch the bus back to Akron. I am feeling very tired and I don’t have the energy to go on a tour of my early life, so I go back to aunt Betty’s to sleep. I decide to call Andrea’s mother later that night, but I sleep until 9:00 pm, which probably is for the best, so I decide to see Andrea the next day. I don’t know how to make a telephone call explaining what little I know, so I decide to bite the bullet and go directly to Andrea’s mother’s house in a taxi. I walked up to the door and rang the bell, and an older woman, whom I assumed to be Andrea’s mother, answered the door. Almost immediately I said, “Hello, I don’t know if you remember me...” which was a bit ironic considering I didn’t remember anything. Before I could say another word, the woman said, “Oh my God, Hope Oh my God, do you have Cancer, too?” She was making note of my close-cropped hair and kerchief. Before I could explain, she led me into her charming front room which housed at least a dozen koo-koo clocks. It was a very peaceful and warm home. I sat down on the sofa while Mrs. Pozner fetched tea and cookies. I apologized for just showing up at her door, much like I had done with aunt Betty. Mrs. Pozner said that was fine, but that I had missed Andrea, who was at her radiology appointment. Her father had driven her and would bring her back. “She has to go five days a week, and she’s very tired” Mrs. Pozner said. “But, thank goodness, no more chemo. That was a nightmare.”

I have to tell Mrs. Pozner about my brain injury and amnesia, and she is very sympathetic. “Oh my goodness, that explains why you were not at your mother’s funeral ” I feel as if I have been vindicated in some way. “We couldn’t believe you wouldn’t come to see your mother. We thought you were either stuck in Central America or were just a terrible daughter, and we knew you weren’t a terrible daughter.” This made me feel a bit better. I explained as much of my situation as I could, and Mrs. Pozner seemed to understand much more than aunt Betty had. I told her about how I had spent three nights sifting through letters I had written my mother, trying to piece together my life. I had stumbled upon Andrea’s picture and some letters, and my aunt had told me she was living at home again. Mrs. Pozner nodded, saying, “Yes, I am so glad she came back from El Salvador to get treatment. She’s been taking care of everyone else for so long, she needed us to take care of her.”

I don’t know if springing my surprise visit on Andrea right after radiation therapy is such a good idea. Mrs. Pozner agrees. “She’s so exhausted afterward. She didn’t go the past two days, that is why she went today. I can tell her you stopped by and tell her the situation and have her call you and then you can come over. How does that sound?” It sounds fine, even though I have tentatively decided to go back to L.A. on the train starting this Monday. I haven’t bought the tickets, and a few extra days won’t hurt, at least I don’t think so. I take the cab back to aunt Betty’s where I can take a long nap and rest my mind, before I get a chance to talk to Andrea.

As it turns out, Andrea calls that very evening and asks me over to her parent’s house for dinner. She sounds tired but happy, and clearly understands the present situation, because she doesn’t bombard me with questions. I get ready, and this time aunt Betty drives me over and drops me off. When I ring the doorbell, Andrea answers. Neither one of us looks very much like our fresh-faced Peace Corps photo. Andrea is very thin, and her hair is very thin and short. However, she recognizes me immediately, and I know her instantly from what my memory has made of her photograph. We hug, and I actually feel like I belong somewhere for once. I am anxious to ask Andrea so many questions, but I will enjoy dinner and her parent’s company before I bombard her with my many queries. The dinner is very pleasant, and I imagine that Andrea’s family was like a second family to me. I’d like to think that, anyway.

I end up staying the night, in Andrea’s room, like a couple of young girls at a slumber party. She understands that I have amnesia, and wants to know how much I actually remember. I tell her I only remember bits and pieces, and I have assembled the rest from other sources, some not very reliable. Andrea decides to tell me a bit about her life, how she had spent the past decade in El Salvador, and had risked her life many times only to be almost taken down by Cancer. “My aunt told me you wanted to be a nun” I say, and she laughs. “No no!” she continues to laugh. “No, I was a missionary, not a nun! I’m not even Catholic!” That statement takes my mind back to Alan again, but I need to hear what Andrea has to say. “You always said I was a bit of a saint, though” she smiles, realizing I don’t remember this. “I did?” I reply, wishing I could remember. “You were quite the party girl when you started college” she tells me, and this is the first I have heard that I was not the plaster saint of Alan’s musings. “You settled down by the time we graduated, and you wanted to join the Peace Corps because I was joining. I didn’t think you’d be able to handle it, but you surprised me. We didn’t end up together, and that was when you wanted to leave. I was in Guatemala, and you were in Nicaragua.” This meant that she most likely wasn’t around when I met Alan or Ignacio, but we were friends, so we must have shared our lives with each other.

I have to ask her about my life in Nicaragua and then, the long haul in Honduras. “After we finished our time in the Peace Corps, I joined a relief organization, and you went to L.A. to have your baby.” I ask her about Alan, and all the things I have discovered. “I didn’t know him very well at all” she says. “But what I did know, I didn’t like.” She confirms the fact he was indeed running from alimony payments, and was not a widower re-building his life. “You made him more philanthropic” Andrea tells me. “You really changed down there, and I was so proud of you. I was sorry you got involved with him. Our friendship was kind of strained during this time, until you...until you...lost the...baby.” I ask her to tell me what she remembers about the baby, that I can handle it, and she hesitates at first. “I think you both wanted to go to Honduras, because you were getting involved in that charity there, but you wanted to wait until Elena was a year old. It was all just an unfortunate set of circumstances. I came down to be with you, and you had changed so much, you’d grown up, and you were so driven by your grief to do something more.” I tell her the story that Alan has been feeding me, and all the things I’ve discovered since, and how I came to be in L.A. with a brain injury and amnesia. “I don’t know if he’s capable of all that” she says, thinking carefully. “It may just be an odd set of circumstances. You didn’t leave him for another man, you left him for your charity work. I went to El Salvador and you stayed in Honduras and he ended up back in L.A. after the divorce was final. That was the last I heard of him.” I am surprised she says that I didn’t leave him for another man. “You’d met Ignacio by that time, of course, but you had just been through so much hell with Alan that you weren’t looking for romance. The thing with Ignacio didn’t happen for a couple of years.” I am completely surprised by this bit of information, which fuels even more speculation about everything, and it causes me to re-write some of my theories. However, I don’t feel discouraged, I feel that I am finally getting to a vastly improved picture of everything that has happened.

Talking to Andrea that evening makes me feel very human again. We are both ill, in our own ways, and we have both been through very similar things. She never married or had children. She tells me my children were in the orphanage and the charity center. She doesn’t know a whole lot of my life in Honduras, so she cannot offer an opinion on my marriage to Ignacio. “Were you at the wedding?” I ask. Andrea nods her head no. “Nobody was, really” she says. “I think you got married on a vacation or something. Ignacio had a lot of money, apparently, and you took vacations, but I am not sure if you were conflicted about that, because no one really heard from you in quite some time. You didn’t write many letters. You visited your mother a couple of times, but you were very secretive. I think you’d be confused no matter what. None of this fits together precisely the way it should, I think.” Andrea’s pragmatism comforts me, and I don’t feel discouraged by the continuing stories of my becoming a virtual outcast in Honduras, losing touch with everyone, and returning under false identities to visit my mother. I realize, however, that the only way I will get the complete truth of those missing years is to go back to Honduras, and to stay away from Alan.

Andrea and I drift off to sleep, then I leave the next day, and make a reservation for the train to leave the next day. I promise to keep in touch with everyone as soon as I am settled. I feel much stronger than I did before I left. I need to recuperate as best I possibly can, and I need to get as far away from Alan as possible, and get to the bottom of all this mystery, once and for all.

25,757 words

Current Mood: cranky