San Andreas Island

by Angela Costello

  I let my eyes close, and my body melts into the mat. This moment feels unreal. I don’t have to do a single thing for the next two hours; not work, not cook, not clean, not pay a bill, not listen to Dylan’s demands, not one thing. All I have to do is lay here in this tranquil room and let go of all my tension.

  Rosie is now blending the music from the wind chimes and tuning forks. I can sense her walking around the room as I hear her getting closer and further from us. My mind is swirling with images. In my mind’s eye I see Lily holding onto my leg, and us in bed as I trace her face. I see my dad stalking me in my recurring nightmares and daydreams, feeling him watching me, standing behind me, pointing a gun at me, taunting me with endless pictures. I see Dylan on the sofa in his pajamas, drinking, vomiting, playing with his drone. I see my coworker asking if I’m ok. I see my therapist’s worried eyes. I see my mom and my brother so far away. I see myself at six years old, how I used to wear big round glasses, so quiet and shy. I feel a tinge of sadness stinging my throat, a tear rolls my cheek. So alone, so small, so sweet, so voiceless, so vulnerable.

  My eyes burst wide open, and I gasp. Natalia hears my gasp, because now she’s leaning close, and wiping the tears from my cheek. She whispers, “Are you ok?” I nod. We both settle back to our mats and close our eyes again.

  Rosie is bathing the room with melodies from instruments I’ve never heard of. I’m on a mental and spiritual island, laying underneath a warm heavy rain shower. I wonder if this is what it feels like for religious people. The images in my mind are now swirls of reds and yellows and purples and blues. I’m on a whole other planet.

  My skin tingles when I feel Natalia’s fingertip touch mine. I feel the rush throughout my veins, that familiar high that I’ve gotten before around her. We’re only touching the tips of our pinkies, and my entire body is exhilarated.

  Rosie’s closer to us now, so close that I can feel her standing directly above Natalia and me, just a foot away from our faces. She’s swaying instruments directly above us, in my personal space. But I’m not bothered by it; I’m wanting more and more. The rush of sound flows into my pores. Natalia and I ride these escalating waves of sound together. She moves the tips of her fingers one single cell at a time, to meet mine. Her patience is building such an intense desire in me. I can feel the pouring raindrops’ taps, and whooshes from the instruments dripping onto us. The wind chimes glide over us.

  Natalia’s hand has made it on top of mine now. My skin is craving yours, her fingertips tell me. We’re communicating with only touch, and I respond back to her by sliding my fingers onto hers, careful not to break contact. With the slowest movements I’ve ever made, I trace the outline of her fingers, adding more pressure as I work my way up to her wrists. In our minds we’re the only two people in this room.

  The sounds are so all-consuming, I can feel my breath getting stronger. The muffled drums are pounding around us and creating a vibration in my bones. The warmth works its way down past my navel, building stronger and stronger. Our hands are now clasped tightly together as we hold on and don’t dare let go. I beg her with my grip to stay in the rhythm with me, until finally I feel the ultimate pleasure. Our breath and hearts respond to this explosion, and we’re riding this rhythmic wave together. My legs muscles are still tight as they intensify the tingles pulsating between my thighs.

  Natalia and I float back down to earth, our bodies are held up by our mats, as I open my eyes and see people are back in the room with us. I can’t believe this just happened. I think I just had an emotional orgasm. My entire body is so warm, my breath is recovering, the blood is pulsating through me, between my legs, tingling across my face, down my neck and all the way down my toes. Natalia brings my hand to her lips and kisses my index finger.

  She’s awoken a part of me that I never dared tap into. She’s breathed life back into me.

  We walk hand in hand to the grocery store parking lot.

  “What else do you want to do in this little time we have here?” she asks.

  “You mean tonight? I really should be getting home. It’s late,” I say, fumbling in my purse for my keys.

  “No, I mean in this little time we have here on this planet. I’m sure you have dreams like everyone else. If you could do anything, besides being a therapist and a mom and a hot date,” she says with a wink, “what would you want to do?”

  “Oh, gosh. I never even have time to slow down to think about anything like that. The only thing I can think of is I used to keep a journal, but it’s been a while since I’ve sat down to write anything. I’m always too tired and busy. Does that count?”

  “It could be a start,” she says.

  “It was more like a Dear Diary type of thing, and then I’d write down my dreams sometimes.” I feel a bit of nostalgia.

  “Have you ever wanted to write a novel?”

  “Oh wow, me?” I laugh. “All I’ve ever known myself to be is a therapist. That’s my identity. Therapists write self-help books. Creative people write novels.”

  “Therapists can be creative,” she says.

  “Really?” She’s got my wheels turning.

  “You could start with writing down your dreams and then just see what happens from there.”

  “My dreams, ha. I don’t even think like that anymore. I can hardly get through each day,” I say.

  “It seems like some important stuff came up for you during the sound bath,” she cares enough to even notice. Although I don’t want to talk about it.

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” I say, and chew on the hangnail on my thumb.

  “Ok, well when you’re ready to talk about it, I won’t have any expectations or give you unsolicited advice. I’ll just listen.”

  “It’s my dad,” I blurt out.

  She nods and we both know I’m going against what I said three seconds ago.

  “He’s been trying to contact me for years, like sending me letters, and texting me non-stop with pictures from my childhood. I just have no interest whatsoever to have him in my life.”

  We continue walking while she listens as promised.

  “He feels like my stalker, and I feel angry that he doesn’t move on with his life and leave me alone.”

  “Did he hurt you?” She asks.

  “I don’t know. No, he didn’t. Well, not in the physical way. He didn’t protect me from what my uncle did to me. He still let him come over for dinners and babysit me, even after he knew what his brother was doing.”

  “Have you ever told him why you’re angry and why you don’t respond to his messages?”

  “I haven’t. And he might not even have a clue as to why I don’t pick up the phone.”

  “It sounds like he wasn’t ready to be a dad, or just didn’t know how to handle these kinds of things the right way. Maybe someday you can get real with him, for your own sake and having closure on that part of your childhood. I’m so sorry you went through that,” she says as we reach my car.

  Although we’ve just spent hours together, I’m disappointed we already have to say goodnight, which is opposite of my typical introvert style.

  “I don’t want to talk about the past. I want to savor this very moment. Tonight was pure magic. Thank you,” I say to Natalia. She faces me and holds my waist, pressing me up against the car door.

  “You deserve nothing less,” she says. Her hands move strands of hair away from my face, and her eyes take me in. Our faces are close enough that I can smell her sweet lipstick, or maybe that’s just in my imagination. Or maybe I’m imagining all of this. I smile at her, and follow what my heart tells me. Is this what love addiction feels like? Is this a fantasy? Every touch feels like I’m high on ecstasy, but hopefully without the hangover.

  Her hand reaches up and behind my neck, cupping the back of my head, her fingertips in my hair, pressing into my scalp, pulling me towards her. I’m craving her taste, and my lips part a little. We’re so close, I swear I’m inhaling her breat
h. She stays here in this space with me. Time stands still.

  A man whistles as he flies by us on a scooter. We both laugh a little and loosen our grip on one another. “Goodnight,” I say.

  “Goodnight, for now.” She opens my car door for me. I get in and sigh deeply. She disappears into the night and I turn on Spotify. Sia’s “Breathe Me” is cued up. I sing along with it as I drive back to the West Side: “Be my friend, hold me, wrap me up, unfold me…”

  I graze my top lip with my index finger, imagining what it would feel like to finally kiss her. I feel alive.

  Chapter Ten:

  Drowning

  Surfer’s Park is crowded on this chilly Saturday morning. The Barbies and Kens of Santa Monica are walking advertisements, sporting Lululemon jackets and capris, and pushing their kids in Pottery Barn strollers. Couples are scattered around the park. Parents are in clusters by the playground, with their kids sprinkled everywhere, and a bootcamp group is doing their thing on a patch of grass facing the ocean.

  Lily’s walking between Dylan and me, with her hands in soft mittens clasping ours. We stop for a moment as Dylan squats down to face Lily and adjusts her jacket. He zips it all the way up so that her neck is covered, pulls the hoodie over her head and she points to her nose. “My little Lilykin, all bundled up and warm,” he says in a playful voice as he gives her a kiss on her tiny nose as she instructed.

  “Lily King, Daddy,” she corrects him with a giggle. I smile as I watch them, and rub the outsides of my arms, an unsuccessful attempt to warm up my cold body.

  “Hey, bro! You guys leaving?” Dylan asks a couple sitting on a wooden bench up ahead, who just uncoiled themselves from cuddles and are now zipping up their own kids’ jackets.

  “Yeah, it’s all yours,” one of the dads responds, pointing at the bench with his chin while he and his partner manage to buckle their kids into a massive double stroller.

  “Thanks, man,” Dylan says. He pats the guy on his shoulder and they already seem like old friends.

  I see a group of teenage girls on the wooden bench near us, adorned by manicured palm trees, with non-fat lattes in hand and trendy scarves snuggled around their necks. They carry on what I imagine are gossipy conversations—Popular Teen Social Requirements 101. I feel the familiar nausea in the pit of my stomach and a sting in my chest when I remember the social cliques back in high school. My throat closes up, my palms are clammy and my feet are cemented into the ground. I wonder if social anxiety ever truly goes away. Thank God it’s nothing like it used to be every day in high school, but these small panic attacks still suck. I can treat patients all day long and help them regulate their moods with anxiety reduction techniques, yet it seems nearly impossible to apply any of that to my own life. My patients are a hell of a lot braver than I am.

  My eyes are burning, and I can’t tell if it’s from the bright sunlight, a new symptom of anxiety that just graced me with its presence, or just the usual insufficient sleep of a working mom. I hear music in the distance, and it gets louder as I turn to see a Surfer’s Park golf cart pull over to the side of the bike path. It’s beach chic, has a cobalt blue body with thin white orchid decals, a teak wooden bench, and an extended compartment with a mobile espresso bar and a display of snacks and merchandise for sale.

  The tall college kid driving it steps out in a white polo shirt with SM Local embroidered in cursive across the back, and green plaid knee-length shorts. Through blue lensed aviator sunglasses, Local is cool as a cucumber while tending to the swarm of kids and parents needing their suntan lotion, overpriced water, and latte refills. I don’t miss those days, I say to myself, remembering one of my first jobs as a golf cart girl in college selling high-priced beer to men who thought they were slick, telling stupid jokes I had to pretend were funny.

  Lily still hasn’t graduated from the swings to the climbing structures like her peers. So here I am, pushing her as she flies into the air, giving me orders. “Mommy, look!” She’s too timid to attempt climbing onto the giant surfboard apparatus in the center of the park with all the other kids. She won’t speak to a single person besides Dylan or me.

  A 30 something-year-old couple is sitting at one of the picnic tables made of vintage surfboards in the large grassy area. They’re in their own little world, and can’t get enough of each other. What ever happened to those days? Once they’re gone, it seems like they’re permanently embedded in the pre-marriage chapters with no chance for resurfacing later on in the love story. Or maybe there is…

  I look over at Dylan, who’s across the playground, standing in the middle of a group of parents. He’s in his element. He’s charming, funny, charismatic, pulling in everyone’s attention as he delivers one of his many stories in the most alluring way. Not one person has their eyes anywhere else but on him. This is the guy I fell in love with, the same way I’m watching his groupies are too. He’s the star of the show and his audience has no idea I’m his passive investor.

  Lily’s over the swings by now. She jumps off and we step onto the walkway, taking our time heading towards the SM Local crowd, which has calmed down by now. I like her timing. It helps with my social anxiety that still rears its ugly head now and again.

  “What do people do all day if they don't work?” Lily asks me, her eyes are on the people around us.

  I look across the playground. Dylan’s animated and acting out an apparently mind-blowing story, surrounding him with the laughter and giddy looks from his captive audience.

  “Well, I don’t know. That’s a very good question. What do you think they do all day?” I look over at Dylan.

  He’s not the same man I married. Or is he?

  He’s still the attractive, charming, attentive go-getter I met in college. He’s the same guy who planned a breathtaking romantic surprise proposal in his parent’s gorgeous backyard in front of everyone we know. That’s who I’m looking at right now.

  But in another breath, I’m seething in silent rage. I stare at him and my blood boils as I think about how none of these people have any idea what’s behind the curtain. They have no idea who pays for the roof over his head while he’s on the computer all day doing God knows what in his pajamas, getting drunk, eating and taking up all the space in our lives, while I work like a slave for him, disappear from burn-out, invisibility and lack of appreciation.

  It’s been months since Dylan and I have had sex. I can’t even remember the last time we kissed, other than obligatory pecks when I leave for or arrive from work. The world feels like it’s spinning. All these days are rolling into one. I just can’t seem to come up for air. My sessions are back to back, and I can’t afford to take a break because Dylan still hasn’t found a job. He gets defensive every time I ask if he’s even applied or has any interviews. His favorite line is, “Don’t worry about it. I’ll figure it out.” It’s so frustrating because when I met him we were both were on track to have solid careers so that we could be financially independent. I remember that before we were married, I was so proud of myself for saving $20,000 in my bank account. It was the first time in my life that I had ever seen that many zeros in my account. It was something that hadn’t come easily. I had diligently assigned ten percent of every single paycheck to savings. I made my lunches during the week, and set aside specific cash for spending money on the weekends.

  I ran every morning back then, rain or shine, even if it was just for ten minutes. That was my religion. It was my refueling time, the time that was solely for me to be outside and clear my mind, to recharge and nourish my body, to go for as long or as little as I felt like running. I had figured out the way I preferred to eat, and what foods I wanted to buy from the market. I no longer lived on autopilot, and started making different choices than the way I was raised. I stuck to the outside edges of the market where all the fresh produce and natural foods were, and never set foot in the center of the store where the processed foods were. I felt balanced spiritually, mentally, financially, and physically
. Cut to years later and life feels so overwhelming now and I’m losing myself. I don’t even know which way is up and I can’t breathe. I feel suffocated and exhausted, and have absolutely not one single minute to even think or recharge.

  Weekends don’t really feel like weekends anymore. What happened to sleeping in, and lunches with friends where I didn’t even pay attention to what time it was? What happened to being taken care of by Dylan, like at the beginning of the relationship? I feel like he has incredible marketing skills. He planned and paid for and took care of everything at the beginning. He wined and dined me, and treated me like a queen. He massaged me and touched me, and felt like he really took me in. He pleasured me, and was attentive and cared enough to be patient and take his time until he knew I reached orgasm. He would kiss me slowly, and focus on giving to me.

  When he drank, it was more than everyone else, but he never got sick. He never got out of control. It annoyed me, but it wasn’t something that impacted us much. In hindsight, I should have known. He would hang out with his friends until six in the morning! I would be getting up and ready for work, and he’d come to my place and bring me breakfast at the end of his late-night hangout. I thought it was a little odd, but was so overtaken by his charm, and by him so generously taking care of me in the morning, that I was too distracted to see how his lifestyle was nothing close to mine.

  Now, everything is the opposite. I’m exhausted every single waking moment. I don’t remember the last time I felt rested. I have panic attacks at least weekly. It’s out of control. It’s been forever since we’ve had any pleasure between us. The last time was probably the night we got married. I swear, that’s the last time I can remember. The only pleasuring that happens now is him receiving it. In every which way. Whether I’m housing him, massaging him, pleasuring him until he reaches orgasm…it’s all about him, and he’s completely fine with receiving and taking. I just don’t understand how someone could change so much after getting married. He’s an entirely different person.