Project Eden

Chapter 47

I offer a grandiose sigh as I take in the hotel grounds, which look out onto the shores of Lago de Petén Itza. Flores happens to be an island sitting in the middle of a lake with only a causeway connecting it to the mainland. In some ways that causeway separates it from the rest of the outside world. Here on this little island, vibrant houses compete with one another for which one can grab the most attention based on color alone. It's a touristy place, but there's a fun vibe to it that bridges the gap between tourist kitsch and authentic culture.

"I wish we had time to actually look around. Maybe even be a tourist for once in my many lives. The architecture in Flores is gorgeous and I adore all of the brilliant colors on the buildings. Plus there are some incredible archaeological sites nearby, especially once we get to the village of Carmelita. It's been too long since I've wandered through ancient Mayan pyramids." I glance over at his shaggy head as it emerges from the spacious trunk, our bags in tow. "I'm guessing you've never seen any."

Zee shakes his head, paying more attention to pulling our luggage than to the world surrounding us. "Sadly, no."

"Well," I tell him, "you'll have to visit some one day. You tend to get a bit myopic, especially when working. I'd hate for you to miss out on this—" I sweep my arms around me, gesturing everywhere and nowhere at once "—this life and energy and beauty and so much that isn't located behind a computer screen. I might have numerous lives to spend discovering the world, but you only get one. Use it well."

When I turn back to Zee, his lips are pressed together in a straight line that I'm taking to mean that he's about to spoil my sport. I spin in a circle with my arms stretched out before grabbing the handles of the bags in his hands. "I'll be the pack mule right now if you promise to stop doing for a moment and look around and breathe."

He finally releases the bags once I tug a little harder. "Fine. Look at me. I'm breathing." He takes several quick breaths and then moves to grab his wallet and phone from the back seat. I'm quicker, though, and snatch both from his hands before he has a chance to look at them.

"You, go sit." I point to a bench underneath a tree dripping with leaves so green they all but shout I'm alive. "And don't think anything remotely productive until I get back from checking us in. Got it?"

"Yes, mother."

I raise an eyebrow at him. "Would you respond like that to your mother?"

"No." He looks sheepish, but still just as stubborn.

"Then remember how much she loves me and would totally believe me if I tattled on you."

His gaze hardens a little, but I sense that his overall mood is lightening a little. "You wouldn't dare."

My smile is brilliant. "Are you sure about that?"

He gives me a surly stare, but there isn't much heart behind it. He'd been fine most of the drive, but the last hour or so he started to get sullen. I can't think what would account for it. He wasn't the one having PTSD flashbacks. If anything, I should be grumpy, but I decided long ago that I won't let the terrible things that happen to me stop me from being happy. Easier said than done, obviously, but I try to live it as much as possible.

"You're not still mad about the border guard laughing at your Spanish, are you?"
The accompanying glare is enough to tell me that yes, he is still very much hung up on the guard's reaction to his attempts at speaking to the locals.

"Why do people make fun of me when I speak Spanish?" Zee has a peevish look on his face. "My grammar is correct and I'm conjugating properly."

I smile sadly at him. "True. Pero no tienes accento."

His nose wrinkles in frustration. "I do too have an accent."

"Sure," I say. "A gringo one."

He stares at me gruffly.

I hold up my hands in surrender. "I'm just saying. Would you rather that I lie to you and say that your language skills are perfecto?"

That earns me a scowl.

"Learning a language is so much more than technical precision," I tell him. "It's about understanding the heart of a culture, of coming to know people through the words and phrases they use to describe their world. To me, Spanish is passionate. There's a rhythm and cadence to how it flows and dances on the tongue. There's a fire to it, like the heat of a chile that stings your lips as you eat. But the way you speak . . . it's passionless."

Confusion clouds his face. A different tack, then.

"How about an example," I say. "In English we describe a woman giving birth as going into labor. In Spanish, the phrase is 'dar a luz'—to give to light. The nuance of the wording shows how they view life, especially the beginning of it. In the English language, particularly in America, we focus on the mother's pain, while Spanish portrays birth as giving a child life and light."

Zee stares at me a moment, analysis setting on high. After a moment he nods, like he's finally put the parts into their proper order and is ready to test it out.

"Okay," he says. "I get what you're saying. If someone had explained that to me while I was learning Spanish in school, I might have studied differently and actually learned the language rather than just memorizing vocabulary and grammar."

I smile brightly at him and pat his arm and inch my way toward the inviting shoreline. At least the grumpiness is gone. "Opening minds to all the wonders that this world has to offer is my raison d'être, so I suppose my work here is done."

He grabs my arm before I can make it any farther. "You're not getting out of unloading the car that easily. And I thought you were going to check us in."

My nose scrunches in consternation, to which I add pouting lips. "Why must you always be so mean to me?"