Dearly Departing

help him back to their room and settle him into bed with a bag of crushed ice pressed against his face. Charlie vomited most of the night away, and when Ray saw him again at the buffet, the arrogant doctor could barely keep down his breakfast which consisted of a single glass of lukewarm apple juice. He looked like one of those mimes that perform in parks and circuses—as white as a ghost with purplish-black rings around his eyes that hadn’t been painted on.
Dooley appeared at their table with a plate of scrambled eggs, six strips of undercooked bacon, and a glass of mango juice. He had a shit-eating grin plastered on his round face. Charlie groaned and looked down at the floor between his knees. Calvin told him for about the hundredth time that he had nobody to blame but himself.
“I didn’t hear you come back to the room last night,” Ray said. “What kind of mischief did you get into?”
Dooley slurped a piece of bacon between his lips and continued to smile. He reminded Ray of a chubby Charles Manson when he grinned like that—minus the little swastika on his forehead and the psychopathic disposition. “Well?” Ray asked. “Are you going to tell us what you did?”
“You don’t necessarily need to be a handsome doctor to have a good time.”
Charlie looked back up. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
“Marta... the waitress. We ended up back at her place.”
Checking out of the resort was quick and hassle-free. Ray had the impression most of the RIU staff would be happy to see them gone, especially the raccoon-eyed Charlie Fitz. The bus ride to the airport took fifteen minutes longer than it had going to the resort seven days earlier due to Charlie’s forced puking stop. He eventually dragged himself back in after the driver threatened to leave.
It took another forty-five minutes of standing in sweltering hot line-ups to weigh luggage, have passports checked, and receive boarding passes. Calvin talked most of the morning away about how much he would miss the heat, the limitless rum, and the freedom of smoking cigars anywhere he wanted. Dooley went on and on about Marta, and how he figured the two of them may have fallen in love. Charlie didn’t speak at all. None of Ray’s friends asked what he’d done with his final night. He didn’t tell them about his mother. Why would he?
Their plane lifted into the air a few minutes shy of one in the afternoon. Ray watched from his window seat as the browns and greens of the tropical island gave way to the deep blue of Caribbean Sea. The distant whitecaps receded, becoming a pattern of a million indistinguishable little waves. It reminded Ray of a carpet—a swatch of ocean the same size as his rectangular window. The swatch changed color again as water turned white and the jet ascended into clouds.
The seat next to Ray was empty. Dooley sat by the aisle, giving both men room to stretch out. Ray pulled his carry-on out from under the seat ahead and found a sweater within. He bunched it up into a ball and rested the side of his head against the window frame. He closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of the engines continuing to power up. Flying didn’t scare Ray, but it didn’t excite him all that much either. Once the push of takeoff had passed, he found it not unlike riding in a bus. The seats were uncomfortable, almost everything around him was constructed of plastic, and the mild turbulence wasn’t all that dissimilar to the small potholes and bumps of a highway. Ray was exhausted with worry over his mother and daughter. The depression that had almost driven him to suicide twenty hours earlier wasn’t helping. He would sleep the five-hour flight away, suspending the troubles of his existence for a short while.
“I’m giving my notice at the hospital when we get back,” Dooley said.
Ray didn’t open his eyes. He held his breath and remained perfectly still. Sleep was what he wanted, not a heart-to-heart with his best friend.
Dooley didn’t take the hint. “I was kind of half-ass joking with Marta, but she didn’t try talking me out of it. She wants me to come back. She thinks I could get work at one of the resorts... you know—maintenance stuff like we do back home. Things are constantly breaking down in the hot climate... air conditioners, compressors. What do you think, Ray? Am I being stupid? Would you call it impetuous behavior?”
Ray placed the balled-up sweater on his lap. “Probably. That’s what most people would say to you. But then again, what do most people know? They work eight to five, sometimes longer. They go home and eat crappy food, watch crappy television, and go to sleep. Then they get wake up and go back to their crappy jobs and do it all over again.”
Dooley paused, remembering the talk the two had started the evening before. “Hey, man, sorry I brought it up. I guess none of us really want things to keep on going like they are. Maybe a change is what we both need. It’s not like either one of us are heading home from that crappy job to a loving wife or kids anymore.”
Ray leaned over and whispered. “If you were smart, you would’ve stayed in the Dominican. Things may or may not have worked with Marta, but at least you’d be doing something different. You’re absolutely right—we don’t have to worry about wives and kids anymore. They’ve left us. You have nobody but yourself to worry about. You know what I’d do if I was you? I wouldn’t even leave the airport once we get back. Buy a ticket and come right back. Marry that waitress and enjoy the rest of your life.”
“Jesus, you’re serious.”
“You knew what I was up to