by KL Kreig
She closes the bedroom door, but not before I see her stuff her earplugs into both ears. Earplugs are a saving grace when camping, let me tell you.
She sleeps for the next four hours, then rejoins me in time to stop for a Wendy’s pick-me-up lunch. I order a breaded chicken sandwich; hers is grilled, no bun. We both get Frosties. I eat all of mine and more than half of hers. She lies down again, this time complaining of nausea.
Around dinnertime, I pick up a candy bar and bag of Doritos from the gas station while we fill up. Laurel makes herself a quick piece of dry toast in the RV’s kitchen. She seems to do better with that. We play music and road trip games. We pass a skunk at one point. Laurel gets to it before I do.
“You ate a skunk.” She giggles, pointing a finger at me.
Little does she know I’d eat a thousand stinky skunks to see that childlike joy on her face.
What was supposed to be a fifteen-hour drive turns into over seventeen because of an accident near Roanoke and construction north of Baltimore. She keeps trying to guess where we’re going, but I don’t think she’s going to remember the conversation we had when we were very first dating, trying to make light of what makes her heart happy and her soul sing.
That’s one of the main purposes of this trip. If her soul harmonizes like the Philharmonic Choir, I will have accomplished my goal. I want to give her memories she wants and ones she doesn’t even remember she’s missing.
Memories matter.
In fact, they are all that matter in the end.
Close to midnight, I pull into Coastal Acres campground in Provincetown, Massachusetts, which sits at the very tip of Cape Cod. They have only a handful of spots large enough for an RV of this size and the angels were shining down on me when I made reservations, as someone had canceled only minutes before I called. Otherwise, the entirety of the Cape was booked solid for what I guess is a very popular event this weekend.
Provincetown’s Portuguese Annual Festival & Blessing of the Fleet.
That’s not why I brought her here, but it may be fun to see what’s going on. We’ll get some fantastically fresh seafood, of that I’m sure.
It’s too late for the office to be open, but they told me where to go and to settle up with them in the morning. Laurel has long gone to bed, so I easily find the only open spot and park. I get us hooked up to electric only. I’ll do water in the morning. Then I shuck my clothes and crawl into bed, quietly snuggling up next to her, exhausted and sore.
She stirs, muttering sleepily, “Did we make it?”
“We did, love. Go back to sleep.” I wrap an arm around her waist and notch her perfectly into me.
“Where are we?”
I fully expect her to shoot out of bed and try to figure it out. But she doesn’t move, which is indicative of how wiped out she is. I think we’ll take it easy tomorrow. Maybe go into the local park, set our bag chairs next to the water, and watch the fishing boats come up and go.
“Right where we need to be.” Kissing her on the neck, I whisper, “I love you today, Laurel.”
“I’ll love you even more tomorrow, Roth. I’m sure of it.”
Then, as quickly as she awoke, she falls back into a deep, deep sleep.
It’s nearly morning before I follow suit.
I can’t see a thing.
I blink.
I blink again.
My lids open and close, yet there is nothing but darkness in front of me.
It’s as if I’ve gone blind.
I reach out, groping, desperate.
My search returns nothing but thick air.
It smells of tar and ash.
Anguish lingers on my taste buds.
I can’t spit it out.
A sharp crack startles me.
An immediate earsplitting boom shakes the ground beneath my feet.
I think I may split in two.
Then the sky opens, and torrential shards of rain pelt my flesh.
Each droplet burns like the tip of a pitchfork heated over thousand-degree heat.
My scalp is on fire.
My face is melting.
I welcome the pain.
My sight returns.
I look down.
I am covered in thousands upon thousands of raw blisters.
Blood liberally oozes from each one.
It’s up to my ankles.
It’s rising.
There is so much I may drown in it.
I wait for my flayed skin to fall off.
It does.
It regrows.
The rain doesn’t stop.
The blisters reappear.
The agony doesn’t ebb.
The process repeats.
“Roth.”
Someone calls to me from the shadows.
It’s a blip.
Here, then gone.
“Roth.”
Blip.
Come back.
Save me.
“Roth.”
Blip.
It’s her.
Come back.
Save me.
“Roth, wake up. Wake up.”
Wake up.
Wake up.
“That’s it,” I hear.
It’s her.
She came.
She’ll save me.
I reach for her.
I blink my lids open.
The fog slowly clears, and Laurel comes into view. I immediately drop into familiar puddles of mud. It’s comforting there, soothing my ache. The physical torment I felt is gone, as if it never existed. But my heart…fuck. That’s a different story. It pounds like an angry fist against the inside of my chest.
Was that a nightmare or some sort of premonition? Is that what life will be like without her? Perpetual, unbearable persecution?
Yes.
Fuck…yes. It will be.
“Roth, what’s wrong?” Laurel asks. Her voice sounds muted.
I scrub my palms down my face, unnerved. I study my hands and my arms. There are no blisters. My skin is intact, unmarred.
“Roth, what is wrong? What happened?”
“Nothing,” I mumble. I can’t possibly talk about a nightmare that feels so real I’m still trembling. I sit up in bed, the sheet dropping to my waist. “What time is it? How long have you been up? How are you feeling? Is there any coffee made?”
“That was a lot of questions at once.” Laurel’s eyes are large and apprehensive.
“I’m sorry, I…” I clear my throat and rub the sleepy out with balled-up fists, trying to shake off the last of this lingering edginess.
“Let’s see.” Laurel holds up four fingers. “It’s a little after ten. I’ve been up since eight fifteen. I am feeling much better today, and yes, that’s coffee you smell.” She straddles my legs, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of me. She rests her palms on my shoulders. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
I nod. “I’m sure.” Not even close.
“Want that coffee now?”
I span the smallness of her waist. “I’m supposed to be waiting on you, not the other way around.”
Nibbling the tip of my nose, she utters, “Indulge me.” Placing little pecks along my jaw, she kisses her way down my neck and across the top of my shoulder. Her hips roll in a small, but unmistakable invitation.
I guess she is feeling better, and I may very well kick my own ass later for not taking advantage of it, but that dream… I’d be making love to her out of my own desperate fear, not the adoration she deserves.
I won’t do that.
“In that case, I would love coffee.”
“You got it.” She doesn’t bat a lash, not appearing remotely disappointed as she darts up and pours me a cup.
“Thank you.” I blow on the hot liquid and take a small sip. Exactly what I needed. I lean against the headboard and slide the blackout blinds up. The sun is already high in a cloudless, crisp sky. “What a gorgeous day.”
Laurel sits at my feet, crisscross applesauce, as
she calls it. “Sure is.”
“Do you know where we are?” I ask, feeling better with each passing minute.
“No. I didn’t want to ruin my surprise.”
I’m glad, actually. I wanted to be able to watch her piece it all together. Maybe throw in a clue or two.
“Well, then, what do you say we hop on the bikes hooked to the back and take a look around?”
“I say, I thought you’d never ask.”
Laurel is already dressed in tan shorts and a white tank. She slips on her socks and shoes while I finish my coffee, do my morning business, and get dressed. I snag two waters, a couple of protein bars, and a bottle of sunscreen and throw them into a light nylon bag that I strap to my back. We’re out the door in under fifteen minutes and pedaling away from the Songbird in five more.
The other day when I talked to the manager, she gave me a brief lay of the land and I did quite a bit of research on my own as well. Herring Cove is a couple of short miles from the campground, so that’s where I think we’ll head first.
Tomorrow I have a private pedicab reserved, which takes us around Provincetown and the point. It’s a good way to see a few of the sights in a way that won’t wear Laurel out. But it’s the night after that I’m most stoked about.
“Follow me,” I yell over my shoulder. “And let me know if it’s too much, okay?”
“Sir, yes, sir.” She salutes me, the bike not even wobbling. She is in a sassy mood today.
We head out on the blacktop, keeping to the side of the road, and it’s not long until we’re rounding the curve and the first sandy dune comes into focus. The rickety picket fences the Cape is synonymous with should be a dead giveaway.
I look back.
Nothing seems to have registered yet, though she’s grinning ear to ear. There is sand everywhere, piled up on the shoulders, so I slow us down to be sure we don’t hit a patch and wipe out. A few minutes later, we find a place to park our bikes and head to the water. Laurel stops as we approach a sign that can’t be missed.
“Shark warning. Great whites hunt seals here,” she reads. “Huh. Guess a swim is out.”
“I think I’ll keep you company onshore.” Grasping her hand, I lead us to the bay. “Do you know where we are yet?”
“Would it be…” She pauses for effect. “Herring Cove?”
“The girl can read,” I tease.
“Ha ha ha.” She tilts her head back and forth in time. “How about the town of Chatham?”
The sign next to the shark warning did say that, but “Technically, yes.”
“Technically?”
“Do you know where Chatham is?” I ask.
She shrugs sheepishly. “Geography was never my strong suit.” We mosey down to the water. There are people swimming, despite the warnings. “We’re north, right?”
“Very. I’ll give you a hint.”
“A hint would be helpful.” I spot a pod of seals out about three hundred yards taking turns breaking the surface. Laurel spots them too and yelps. After she’s done fawning over them, she says, “Okay, okay, a hint.”
“It’s a great place to be if you like pina coladas and getting caught in the rain.”
Her gaze shoots to mine momentarily before she spins in a slow circle, and when she gets back around, the edges of those candied lips are up so high, they’d be lost in the clouds if there were any.
“The dunes of the Cape,” she whispers.
“I heard you like making love at midnight in them, so…”
Her eyes glisten. Her bottom lip quivers.
“Roth.”
She jumps completely into my arms, legs wrapped around me and everything. It takes me by surprise and I nearly fall on my ass, but I right myself and spin her around as she giggles and cries and tells me over and again how this couldn’t be more perfect.
“How long are we here?” she asks, as I set her to her feet once more.
“How many midnights do you want?”
She doesn’t answer right away, but when she says, “All of them,” it hurts. It hurts so fucking bad. I wish I could give her every midnight from here until eternity.
Maybe Manny isn’t wrong. Maybe we should find a hundred experimental treatments and try them all. Maybe I could convince Laurel that we shouldn’t throw in the towel based on what the doctors have said. What if they’re wrong? They’re not infallible. They make mistakes too. What if they’ve made one here? What if we’re losing precious time by glamping around the fucking United States and we should be on a plane to a specialized cancer center in the Netherlands or Australia?
A fist of horror reaches into my chest cavity and wraps its deathly fingers around my heart. It squeezes and squeezes until it cuts off my air.
What the hell are we doing?
“Laurel, maybe we should—”
“Go for a walk? I was thinking the same thing.”
“No!” I want to scream. “Fuck Cape Cod. Fuck pina coladas and fireflies and every other surprise I have planned! I’m not going to let you die! We need to do something! Anything but this! Why are we simply giving up!”
Only, I don’t say any of that. I don’t suggest we run back to the Songbird and pull up Google. I don’t drop to my knees and beg her to fight.
I don’t, because as I gaze down at Laurel, the stars in her eyes and the resolve in her mind are as plain as her heart is pure.
She has accepted what is to come.
I am the one who hasn’t.
“I’d love to,” I utter throatily.
Holding hands, we turn our task to finding the perfect dune for midnight.
Several years ago, a coworker of mine told me about this tour he and his wife took while on a trip to Boston. He said it was one of the most awe-inspiring experiences he’s ever had, and it’s always stuck in my head as something Laurel and I should do.
And finally, after being postponed for the past two nights due to rainy weather, we’re here. I was honestly worried the reason I brought Laurel to the Cape was going to go bust before we’re scheduled to leave day after next.
All she knows about tonight is that we’re going to view the island far differently under the night sky. She has no idea that she will be the star pupil in our own private night photography tour.
We exit the Jeep, the Nikon camera I bought her for our first Christmas together hanging around my neck. I snag the bag I tucked in the back seat that has the other mandatory gear we’ll need for tonight, including a tripod.
Our host, Tim, waves to us. I throw a hand up in acknowledgment.
“Do you know him?” Laurel asks, apprehensive. The sun has almost set and while there are other cars parked, we are the only ones in the lot at Harding Beach.
“Sort of.” I set a palm to the small of Laurel’s back and guide her forward. “It’s all good.”
“Mr. Keswick?” Tim shakes my hand vigorously when we reach him.
Tim looks as though he was plucked straight from Ireland and dropped in the Cape. His beard is thick and red with a streak of white here and there, matching his eyebrows. A painter’s cap covers his hair, but I’d imagine it’s much the same. His glasses are a bit big on his face, but they work for him.
He is artsy, for sure.
“Roth, please.”
“Roth, great. Nice to meet you. And you must be Laurel.”
She gazes up at me. “I am?”
“Are you asking me?” I grin, amused.
“No, silly. I just…” She searches the area for others, then lowers her voice. “Who is this?”
“Sorry, ma’am. I’m Tim Tuttle, organizer of this little nighttime photography rendezvous.”
“Nighttime photography rendezvous?” She can’t hide her bewilderment…or her excitement.
“Did she not—”
“Surprise,” I interrupt.
Tim seems pleased. “Happens more than you think. You’re in for a treat,” he says to Laurel. “Special occasion you’re celebrating or were you simply wanting to learn s
ome nighttime photography skills?” That was addressed to me.
I didn’t mention anything to Tim about why we are here. I don’t plan to now.
“We’re celebrating life, Tim.”
I throw a glance to Laurel. Her eyes are still wide.
“And life is worth celebrating, my friend. It’s a perfect night for stargazing and picture taking. You have all your gear there?”
“We do,” I reply, liking this guy more by the passing minute.
“Great. You two can ride with me. I have water and snacks in the van.”
“You wouldn’t happen to have a little chocolate as part of that snack pack, would you?”
Tim pats his semiround belly. “Don’t go anywhere without it.”
“Sold,” I tell him. Anything chocolate is Laurel’s favorite.
“What are we doing, exactly?” Laurel asks me. Her brows are squished up tight.
I hand my bag to Tim, who loads it into the back of his van, then turn to Laurel. “Exploring the dunes of the Cape, love.”
The lines on her forehead deepen. Her gaze darts anxiously between me and Tim, who’s paying us no attention. “Roth—”
“Not that,” I tell her on a low chuckle. We found a deserted dune on our first night here. I’m still digging sand out of places no one should dig sand from. But it was memorable, if I do say so. Laurel’s shoulders come down from her ears, visibly relaxing. I step into her. “A long time ago, I asked you what you wanted to learn but hadn’t taken the time to yet. Remember what you said?”
She quietly assesses me. I see those cogs a turning, trying to pull that memory up. “Photography,” she finally answers. Her eyes glisten under the light of the moon.
“Photography,” I repeat. “And Tim Tuttle is supposed to be one of the best there is at night photography.”
“I think I’m going to cry.”
“Me too,” Tim piles on. He pretends to wipe moisture from the corner of one eye. Laurel laughs, and that cloud of our certain uncertainty parts. The reprieve couldn’t be more welcome. “Ready?”
“Ready?” I, in turn, ask Laurel.
Her smile is instantaneous and so mind-blowing even Tim sucks in an audible breath. She is something extraordinary. I’m glad others notice it too.
“Ready,” she replies, bouncing on her toes.
We pack into Tim’s van, and he puts her into gear. “First stop is Nauset Light. It’s about a thirty-minute drive. Have you two been there yet?”
