This one guy kept badgering the driver about getting his money back. The driver was too busy talking to the other van driver to answer. They seemed to be figuring out a plan. I tried to follow in Spanish, but I knew un pocito espa?ol.
I knew what autobús meant. I knew it meant a bus. I told Bruce a bus was coming to pick us up.
That’s also not what happened.
The van driver told us to get our things out of the van and crossed the road with us all in tow—he held one of my hands and Bruce held the other. He said we would catch a bus. We had to walk about ten minutes in the midday sun to get to the bus stop. Every adult with us, Bruce included, was soaked from sweat. It was past noon. The bus was due any minute. The driver said we would all get a refund, he was very sorry, and we could try to see Tulum again tomorrow.
The Michigan man made his ruined ruin adventure joke again and this time people laughed.
It was a public bus and the van driver took care of our fares. It was crowded and didn’t have air-conditioning but the windows were open.
The people on the autobús stared at us. Some smiled, but not that many. Most of them glared because the Michigan guy was talking so loud and the complaining guy complained about the autobús and wasting a morning of his vacation and I realized that we were the annoying American tourists that give annoying American tourists their reputation. Stupid jokes, expecting luxury, loud—all while riding on a public bus with people who were probably going to work to wash American tourists’ sheets and towels or something. The glares made me uncomfortable, but I got to see a part of Mexico that Mom and Dad would never see from their perfectly lined-up chairs over the rims of their never-ending drinks. I got to see a man spit out the window of an autobús. I got to see a woman hand-sewing the hem of a baby’s white dress. I got to see the driver let a man onto the bus who didn’t have enough pesos to cover the fare.
We got back at three. The bus had stopped what seemed like one hundred times. So much for Tulum. So much for seeing pyramids and cliffs and the real Caribbean sea—crystal clear and turquoise.
Bruce said, as we walked into the lobby, “I’m so sorry, Sarah.”
“Wasn’t your fault.”
“I’m going to be in so much trouble.”
“You didn’t make the van break down,” I said. I said it snippy, though. I was tired and hungry. I wanted to talk all day to Bruce about Mom and Dad and divorce. “Can we go eat something?”
“I have to tell them we’re back. Mom’s probably worried.”
We found them on the beach. Under a thatched umbrella, drinking today’s drink of the day, a Sea Horse. Mom said, “Back already!”
Bruce and I decided, right then, with a look between us, to pretend that everything had gone just right.
“How was it?” Dad asked.
I said, “It was awesome! But I’m starving, so we’re going to go and grab something from the snack shack.”
Snack shack. Fried chicken nuggets and hot dogs. I knew this wasn’t real. I didn’t see one snack shack in my two hours on the autobús. After being in the real world from seven thirty a.m. to three p.m., I knew the resort was just a lie.
After we ate, we went back to the room and Bruce had a shower because he smelled pretty bad. I sat out on the balcony and watched Mom and Dad on the beach. They just sat under that umbrella and drank and drank and Mom read a book and Dad had a nap and they never went near the water. Day Four and I bet they hadn’t even noticed the seaweed. I looked out to sea and asked the sea god to help us. I wasn’t specific. There was no need. We needed help in every department, as far as I was concerned.
? ? ?
Later, after the dinner buffet, Bruce and I sat on the balcony covered in Mexican bug spray. I didn’t know what to say to him so I did a lot of math while Mom and Dad were fake-loving each other in the tent below, having the romantic dinner they earned for sitting through the vacation club presentation.
The math was coming to me. If Mom and Dad hadn’t slept in the same bed since Bruce was eight and I was born when Bruce was nine, then that means they stayed together for an extra year and then—
“I’m an accident!” I said to Bruce.
“Join the club,” he said.
“But I’m a real accident,” I said. “They didn’t even want to be married at all by the time I showed up.”
“It feels the same. Trust me.”
More math. They were married a year before they had Bruce. They stopped loving each other before Bruce was eight. That’s maybe seven years they might have been happy. They had me at least two years after they were unhappy and now they’re married twenty years. Seven happy years. Thirteen unhappy years.
“How do you know they’re getting divorced?” I asked him.
“They told me. I thought they told you, too,” he said. “They said they were going to this time.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “I’d rather know than not know.”
“They were supposed to tell you,” he said.
“It’s pretty obvious they hate each other,” I said.
“True.”
“Last week I heard Dad call Mom the c word.”
“They think they’re being quiet,” he said.