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E S T E L L E
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Love is a complicated entity. Love is the worst affliction imaginable.
I’m no longer myself. Love changed me.
I’m no longer happy. Love ruined me.
I’m no longer alive. Love killed me.
I’m no longer breathing. Love consumed me.
Taken from the notepad of E.E.
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SEVEN WEEKS
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I’D COUNTED EVERY minute of every day for two weeks—waiting, expecting, hoping Galloway would lose his courteous kindness and demand a different answer to his question.
But he never did.
My secret about eating the leaves hung on my soul like iron shackles. I wanted to tell him what I’d done. I wanted to share the good news that I’d had no adverse reactions. My digestive system had accepted the island salad, and we might have another source of nutrition.
However, because an experiment had to be conducted over and over to ensure correct results (and because I didn’t trust the first success) I ate it again.
And again.
In between the days of physically eating the leaf, I did four more scratch tests with different foliage. Out of the four, only two had swollen. The allergies had been painful and burned rather than itched. The most recent came from a plant with large, lily-pad like leaves. I’d scratched myself with no reaction, but when I’d eaten the leaf, I’d been violently sick. The sharp tang of bitter iron stayed with me for days, and it was only because of a sudden bout of helpless anger that I attacked the plant, ripped it from the soil, and found the tubular crop below.
It was familiar...like sweet potato or...
Stroking the muddy root, a vague memory returned: taro. Instantly, I discounted it as I remembered it was poisonous if not cooked correctly. I wasn’t entirely sure on its preparation and was scared of the risks...but what if it turned out to be a staple like potatoes? The fibre and carbohydrates would be a godsend to our diet.
I wanted to tell Galloway. I wanted to ask his opinion.
But I couldn’t.
I’d learned from the last scratch test not to let him see what I was doing and chose a different place to my forearm for further testing. My hipbones were a good selection. Thin skin, easy to irritate, and hidden away from view.
I kept a t-shirt and shorts on over the course of the two days that a particular swelling took to disappear.
I’d eaten another slightly denser leaf last week, testing the hypothesis from scratch to consuming. And apart from a small twinge in my gut, I’d been fine. However, that couldn’t be said for another sample just a few days ago. That had twisted my insides with agony, dispelling itself with overwhelming cramps.
I’d been weak for a few days, doing my best to hide my affliction from the children and Galloway.
Every day, we ate clams and coconuts washed down by rainwater, and every day, I wanted to bring out the approved leaves and taro and announce a new element to our menu.
But something held me back.
I wanted to try again and again to make sure it was safe. I wanted to use myself as the guinea pig so when I did reveal my findings, Galloway had no choice but to accept it was a good decision.
I’d been terrified of returning to camp the night I left him with my final decision. I’d left it as long as I could before returning with my eyes downcast and guilt heavy on my spine.
But he hadn’t pounced and made me reveal why I’d turned him down. He didn’t yell or shout. He’d merely smiled when I placed a log on the fire and slipped into bed. The children had already returned, and Pippa was fast asleep with my puffer jacket thrown over her shoulders.
Conner had waved as I lay down, blowing me a kiss goodnight.
I’d caught it, barricading my soul from clenching with pain.
I didn’t dare look at Galloway, but as I lay staring at the stars, his voice whispered across the sand. “Friends, Estelle.”
Instead of being relieved, my heart broke, and I sniffed back tears. “Friends, Galloway. For life.”
Ever since that ceasefire, we’d gotten on with our lives. Conner had become better with his spear, and he’d managed to catch three fish over the course of two weeks. The first had been a bright parrotfish that barely fed the children with its bony flesh and tiny fillets. The second had been a silver thing with spines that’d made Galloway bleed as he gutted it. And the third had been the largest—a species of reef fish I didn’t know the name of, but tasted like the ocean and turned flaky when cooked.
The past few nights, Conner hadn’t been successful, and we’d resorted to clams and coconuts (our version of rice and chicken). Meanwhile, I worked on another project to keep me busy.