Page 87 of That Last Summer

2011

2011 was a complicated year for the Cabana family—not for the members of the clan individually, but for them all as a group. Three of them decided simultaneously—in the middle of Christmas—to share some last-minute good news, and that news was not received well. Not for two of them, at least.

It was the summer of 2011, and Alex and Priscila were devoted to each other. The winters had become harsh: Alex was still living in Madrid and even if he came back whenever he could—almost every weekend—long-distance relationships are not easy. They missed each other. They wanted to share everyday life, in person; embrace, kiss, touch. But they persevered. They lived glued to the phone—whether landline or cell—and that made it somewhat easier to maintain their strength.

In addition to the distance, there was one argument that had started to recur between them: John’s redheaded girlfriend. She threw herself into Alex’s arms every time she saw him. And she would not stop touching him. She would call when he and Priscila were together, keep him on the phone for hours with her problems with John or with life in general. Alex tried to explain that Carolina—that was the redhead’s name—had been dating John for years, she saw Alex as a little brother, her hugs and touches were purely fraternal; he felt that way, and the thing he wanted most, and tried for, was that Priscila would see it that way too. Priscila knew all about fraternal love, and all that touching wasn’t sisterly at all. But they could never agree, and eventually Priscila gave in. She hated fighting with Alex, and she hated revealing her insecurities even more.

Alex was living his best moment. He loved to swim, and he was good at it. Fucking good. He was responding to his training better and better, and his name was all over Europe as one of the favorites for the next Olympics. They would be held in London in 2012, and since that was so close to home, this time his girlfriend wasn’t going to miss them.

Priscila was twenty-one years old, almost twenty-two, and in a couple months, in September, she would start her last year of journalism at university.

They spent the whole summer together, walking, eating, drinking, swimming, dodging jellyfish in Jellyfish Cove. They sunbathed on Alex’s brother’s surfboard, and Priscila went with Alex to get a tattoo. They listened to “Bailando por ahí,” by Juan Magan, Black Eyed Peas’ “The Time,” and “Blanco y negro,” by Malú. And oh, boy, did Priscila love to sing that last song to her boyfriend. It was a great summer.

What happened at the end of August 2011 was an accumulation of many circumstances. Too many, perhaps.

Alex was exultant, full of happiness. Overjoyed. Everything was going great, and he was crazy about his girlfriend.

And except for her encounters with the redhead, Priscila was happy too. She was madly in love with Alex.

Their reunion in early summer was especially beautiful—Alex appeared a week before he was expected, and the high lasted several days.

The end of that summer—the night of August 28th—would mark them forever. Or at least, it would mark their future.

Alex’s parents were, as usual, away from home. They’d gone to Paris, to a newspaper-related event, and since his older brother was thirty-three and had already fled the nest, Alex had the house to himself. The whole house. Needless to say, the room they used most was Alex’s bedroom. Lying in bed, they watched a movie with the laptop at their feet, and when it ended they made love once more that day.

They stayed there, quietly cuddling, half dozing on the mattress, until night fell and the room filled with darkness. Alex got up then and went out to the hallway to turn on one of the bathroom lights. This was routine, Priscila was used to it, but this time she went with him: she had a purpose.

She caught up with him halfway and took his hand.

“Wait,” she said.

“What is it?”

“I want you to try something.”

“What?”

“Wait.” Priscila realized then what she was about to do. “Trust me.”

The St. Claire’s second floor had a huge square in the middle that served as a hallway, connecting directly to the stairs and surrounded by five bedrooms (two ensuite) and another bathroom.

Priscila went into every room, one at a time, and pulled down the blinds; she didn’t leave a single crack open, plunging the hallway into absolute darkness.

Alex began to panic immediately. He didn’t understand the purpose of this; in fact, alone in the middle of the increasingly black hall, by the penultimate room he couldn’t stand it any longer—he went with his neighbor as she closed the last of the blinds. When Priscila was done, she took Alex’s hand again and led him to the center of the hall.

“Sit down here.”

She helped him sit on the floor—on the Persian rug, deep red and white—and sat down behind him.

“What are we doing?”

“My family have always taught me to master my fears. When I was four years old, Adrián and I used to have bathtime together. He’d always turn on the whirlpool function and I’d cry my eyes out because I was scared of the bubbles; I thought I was going to be eaten by them.” Alex smiled. “One day, Marcos and Hugo got into the tub with me, surrounded me and pressed the button. They told me to trust them; that they would protect me. I was terrified for the first few minutes, but do you know what happened soon after?”

“What?”

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing. The bubbles didn’t eat me at all. I still didn’t like them, but they were no longer terrifying. I’ll tell you how I overcame my fear of skates another time, although I didn’t come out of that unscathed, I’m afraid. I can’t promise you your phobia will go away, but maybe you’ll be able to control it after a while. I want you to see for yourself that there’s nothing in the dark; you don’t have to fear it. I’m going to stay by your side all the way, but you have to do it alone.”

“What do you want me to do?” Alex asked, voice trembling.