Amy Maxwell's 6th Sense (17 page)

“Wait a minute. You
read
my blog?”
And I used the word cultivate?

Roger shakes his head. “Of course I read your blog. And that’s not the point—”

Oh, it could be the point...I don’t always paint Roger in a favorable light on my blog. In fact, the word I use quite often to describe him tends to be “idiot”. And “moron”.
I chew my lip nervously as he continues.

“The point is, I started thinking how we didn’t really have a wedding, and we’ve never really celebrated our anniversary, so maybe we could have a vow renewal ceremony to make up for it. I called up your mother and Beth and asked them to find out your size and pick you out a dress. I was wondering where we could have a ceremony and reception when my vice principal, Bruce, and his wife came down here for vacation. He showed me pictures and the second I saw the deck on this restaurant, I thought of you. I know how much you love eating on the deck with the ocean nearby.

“And then Bruce mentioned how it was funny that he ran into an old student of ours. When I told him my idea, he gave me the number so I could contact Victoria to set it up. She gave me a lot of good ideas about where to go for flowers and a bakery that made cool cakes. That’s the only reason I’ve been in contact with her. I swear.”

My jaw is on the floor.
Roger was so thoughtful? And kept a secret? And didn’t need my help to plan something?
I have absolutely no idea what to say. So, I say the first thing that had pops into my head.

“You got that out of my rant about exorbitant weddings?”

I had written that piece after I had gotten my third bridal shower invite for the month, and my second bachelorette party invite (in Vegas, no less) of the year. In addition, my sister Joey had been tossing around the idea of getting married to her latest flavor of the month, so she had tons of bridal magazines laying all over the house. I had picked one up and was shocked and appalled to see the articles in the magazine had very little to do with preparing to
be
married. They were all about how to make that six hour time span of your life that your wedding was in, absolutely perfect. I envisioned thousands of brides falling apart when one detail of their wedding didn’t go as planned, and wondered if that was why people were getting divorced so much lately. I had fired off that blog in under an hour.

Still I wasn’t sure how Roger had come to the conclusion that we should have a vow renewal ceremony based my rant. It’s akin to adding two plus two and coming up with nine. Yet, at the same time, such a thoughtful gesture actually captured the spirit of what I was trying to say. We should do nice things for each other in a marriage, unexpected things. And our display of love shouldn’t be limited to just one single day—it should always be evident.

I find myself choking up, tears falling fast and steady.

“Are you okay?” Roger’s eyes widen. “I didn’t mean to make you cry. Shit. I’m sorry—I screwed up.”

I shake my head. “No, no. You didn’t. It’s the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me!” I blubber, finding myself sobbing uncontrollably.
And this time, I am the one who has screwed it up. Royally.

~Nineteen~
 

Roger, who has evidently been keeping the vow renewal ceremony a secret from me for quite a while, is happy to regale me with the details of the whole plan. In fact, he can’t shut up. I am crying, tears running down my face, both from joy that he would do something this nice for me, and from the pain of knowing that we’ll never get to have the ceremony.

Despite my obvious distress, Roger continues to tell me all about the reception he had planned, the reception we will never make it to unless some sort of miracle occurs. I admit, I’ve been in a similar situation once in the past...okay,
twice
to be correct, but in both situations, there was always a glimmer of hope; a cell phone, an entire police force who knew where we were, a DEA agent with a gun...
something
. This time, we’ve got nothing, nada. And to make matters worse, we’re not even in our own country. Who the heck knows what law enforcement around here consists of? I’ve yet to see a police officer, except for at the airport. And I think he had a Segway. I could just see him now chasing after our captors through the jungle with a bow and arrow.

“So your parents arrived the day before we did. I wanted to make sure we didn’t run into them at the airport. Little did I know they would try to go to the restaurant to scope it out, and see if they could get a glimpse of you, like you were a celebrity or something.”

“Wait a minute.” Something clicks in my head. “My dad really was at the restaurant?”

Roger nods. “Yeah, and so was your mother. Apparently she thought the wig would fool you.”

Well, actually, she succeeded. And here I was thinking my dad was traipsing off to the Caribbean having an affair behind her back, and it was just her in a lousy disguise.

“So that’s who you were on the phone with?”

Roger wrinkles up his forehead. “When?”

“In front of the hotel. The day after we saw them in the restaurant.” I blush when I realize I have basically admitted to stalking him.

“Geez Louise, Amy! Did you follow me everywhere? It’s amazing I was able to keep it a secret for as long as I did.” He shakes his head and continues.

“And Beth and Joey are here, but they have the sense to stay away. They came in the day after us. In fact, they’re not even booked at this resort. They’ve been helping me with details because I can’t seem to even get away from you for a minute. I tell you, Amy, you actually would make a good detective. If you could get your motives right.” He smirks, and I am torn between decking him for his sarcastic comment, and beaming at his compliment.
 
 

Then I realize that a good detective would be able to figure a way out of this predicament. And I am not coming up with a foolproof plan.—the wheel is turning in my head, but I’m afraid the hamster is dead. Our hands and legs are tied, albeit loosely. And the guy holding us captive at the moment has a spear, which
could
kill us, but likely, it would only maim one of us. I have a feeling I am a heck of a lot faster than Roger, too. For a brief second, I also consider that
Waynedell
might also have a gun stashed somewhere. I’m not sure where. It certainly isn’t on his person. Unless it’s sharing space behind the fig leaf—it is quite the generous bulge. I’m think that we could wait till he looks a little tired—it is practically dawn, after all—and try to make a run for it, but the rest of the gang might be on their way back, and oh, yeah, we have no idea where we are!

We could run right into a pack of mountain lions or bears (or tigers...oh my!). There might be no way off this island except by boat (if I really think about it, that’s most likely, considering that’s pretty much the
definition
of an island). Given the choice, I’d rather be shot by Danny and his thugs before being eaten alive by sharks. Well, actually, given the choice, I would much rather die in my bed at a hundred and five years old, surrounded by my loved ones, but that’s neither here nor there right now.

Maybe I should ask Roger what to do. After all, he’s supposed to be my knight in shining armor. Speaking of knights in shining armor, for a brief second, I wish I had told Jason what I was up to, and maybe he could have saved us. But I shrug that thought off as I pray my husband has the solution to our problem tumbling around in his lovable, balding head right this moment.

It doesn’t seem like Waynedell speaks any English, if his stoic expression is any indication, so I whisper, “Do you have a plan?”

Roger’s eyes expand to the size of saucers. “I was hoping you would tell me that
you
had something up your sleeve. I’m kind of new at this whole bound and gagged thing. I thought you were the expert escape artist.”

“Well we’re only bound, not gagged,” I point out.

“Oh, yeah. I guess that’s true.” Roger’s face falls. And then he stares at the floor, deep in thought. At least, I think that is what he’s doing until I hear the faint rumble of a snore.
He cannot possibly be sleeping…can he?

“Roger!” I swing my bound feet in his direction, momentarily alarming Waynedell. He pokes the spear in my general direction, but it doesn’t touch me. I have the feeling he may be slightly reluctant to injure us, despite his instructions (whatever they may be). We could be able to use that to our advantage.

“Huh?” Roger's eyes pop open and he glances around like he has forgotten where he is.
How can he possibly be comfortable enough to fall asleep? I know we’ve been up all night, but seriously? Besides the fact that we are on a dirt floor, our lives are hanging precariously in the balance! How can he be so laid back? Doesn’t he have adrenaline? I’m over here panicking and he’s waiting for Hawaii Five-O to come along.

It dawns on me just then that Roger’s general laid back attitude is what attracted me to him in the first place. My obsessive need to prove something (to my parents, my sister, the world, myself) is nicely complemented by his laissez faire attitude. Roger is just Roger, without pretenses. He lives his life just thinking about his next meal, his next nap, his next TV viewing marathon. And of course, his family. Despite his laid back attitude, he’s always been a dedicated worker, always providing for us. That’s probably why our marriage has endured for nearly two decades, despite everybody’s fear that it would immediately implode. He is the ying to my yang and every ounce of my being wants to get us out of here in one piece so we can continue on that way. I need to make up for getting us in this predicament to begin with...I can’t believe that I could ever think that he was cheating on me.

“I think we can get out of these ropes if we wriggle our hands a little. Mine is very loose. I’m not sure about the ankles though,” I tell him in a hushed tone.

“I can’t even feel my fingers, Amy. I think he made mine a lot tighter than yours. I think that big guy liked you. He kept looking down the front of your shirt,” Roger complains loudly.

“Shhhh,” I hiss as I glance at Waynedell, and smile through gritted teeth, hoping he has no clue what we are saying. He doesn’t even flinch. In fact, he looks very,
very
tired himself. Like, falling asleep on your feet tired.

I jerk my head toward our guard. “I think he’s getting sleepy. If I can get my arms and legs out, I might be able to untie you, and we can make a run for it.”

Roger’s eyes widen. “I think that’s going to take a lot longer than we actually have. Those other guys could be back any moment. And besides, you think this guy is just gonna let us untie ourselves?”

Roger and I glance at Waynedell at the same time. He is slumped against the wall of the hut, eyes open, but clearly off to dreamland. Colt does this on a regular basis—I recognize all the signs; open mouth, vacant expression, fixed pupils. That could also describe Allie staring at her cell phone, but this guy doesn’t have a cell phone. Which is another point in our favor. If we escape, and he can’t catch us, he has no way of contacting Mario, Jerry, and Danny to let them know.

I nod at Roger. “Start wiggling your hands and feet. It’ll loosen it up a bit until I can get to you.”

Nodding, Roger begins to twist his ankles and wrists creating the illusion like he is doing so wacky new dance on the floor of the hut.
The Wriggly Worm
, I think to myself with a little chuckle. It breaks up the monotony of the sound of my heart hammering loudly in my ears. I keep one eye trained on Waynedell, while I work my fingers into the loops on my wrists.

Roger is correct. Mario has apparently not tied me as tightly as he could have. In fact, I’m starting to think he may have done that on purpose. As I easily break free of the hand restraints, I’m reminded of how urgently he wanted me out of the hallway back at the resort.
Was he trying to warn me because he knew this would be my fate otherwise?

I don’t really have time to dwell on it as I quickly lean forward and pulling my flip flops off, I manage to loosen the foot restraints considerably, enough to slip right out.

“Hey, how’d you do that?” Roger asks in an astonished voice, as if I am some sort of magician.

“Keep your voice down,” I warn, glancing at Waynedell.
Yup. He’s either asleep or legal blind and can’t see the fact that I am now bent over Roger and poking my fingers in between the knots around his wrists.

I am sweating and have various stages of burns on my fingers before I can free my husband from his bondage.

“Jesus,” Roger mutters as he flops his wrists around, trying to get feeling back in the digits. “I think he was looking to draw blood or something.”

“No time for complaining. Start working on your ankles,” I command while I lean down and yank his shoes off.

“Um, okay,” Roger mumbles, bending forward at the same exact time I am coming up. We of course bump heads. “Damn!” Roger yelps, startling our guard.

Waynedell glances around in confusion for a second, and then he starts, understanding what is going on faster than we can react.

“No!” he manages to yell. It must be his one word he knows in English. Roger and I quickly exchange panicked glances.

My brain is scrambling to come up with a quick plan. “You distract him and I’ll grab his spear!” I order Roger as I leap to my feet and stick my hand out to help him to his feet.

Waynedell assumes a defensive stance, spear pointed out straight in front of him, dangerously close to my left eyeball. I try not to let him see my body quake.

Roger stares up at me incredulously. “How in hell do you propose I do that, Amy? My ankles are tied and I have no shoes!”

God, Roger! Do I have to do everything? Even when we need to escape from a native waving around a spear in a thatched hut in a jungle? Seriously?

“Grab my hand, and then throw one of your shoes,” I mutter through clenched teeth.

“Are you crazy? Do you know how much those shoes cost?”

My mouth gapes open.
He seriously is not grasping the severity of this situation.
“Roger, I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that. Take my fucking hand and help me out here.”

Roger shakes his head, grabbing my hand and lumbering awkwardly to his feet. Waynedell, still in his defensive stance, points the spear toward Roger now. He is sweating and actually looks slightly nervous.

“This is good,” I whisper to Roger, not sure why, because Waynedell doesn’t appear to speak any English. “I think he’s getting nervous. I doubt he wants to hurt us. In fact, I think—”

I am cut off by Roger’s high-pitched screech as Waynedell pokes his sword into the spot on Roger’s arm where his biceps and triceps meet. “Holy shit!” Roger screams, clasping his other hand tightly on the wound.

I gasp when I see blood leaking from between his fingers. “Oh my God, Roger!”

“Oh, he won’t hurt us now, will he? Got any other brilliant theories, Amy?” Roger asks, voice dripping with a frightening mixture of fear and sarcasm. “I forgot, you were a psych major your
first
time in college. Too bad you didn’t graduate.”

I am incensed. “That’s a little below the belt, don’t you think?”

“Ha! Someone needs to go below the belt in this relationship!”

I feel as if he has slapped me. For a moment, I forget that Waynedell is standing there with the spear in his hand. I forget that my husband has just organized an elaborate vow renewal ceremony for me, inviting my entire family out of the country and I have screwed it up. All I can think about is a tit for a tat.

“Well, maybe if someone would help me out more often at home, I wouldn’t be too exhausted to
go below the belt
as you say.”

“You’re never too exhausted to yap on the phone all night with Laura or have a bottle of wine,” Roger points out, raising his eyebrows. Waynedell, who has no clue what we are actually saying, is moving his head between Roger and me, watching our argument with peaked interest. Maybe it is the type of fight he has at home with his old lady.
Waynedell, I asked you to change the baby’s fig leaf...

Meanwhile, my mind is racing once more, searching for the perfect comeback to my husband’s insults. All I can come up with is, “How dare you—”

Before I can formulate another insult, Roger lunges forward, grabbing the spear from the hands of the startled Waynedell.