“I don’t believe in ghosts,” said Vicki as she stepped onto the dock near the tiny red brick boathouse. There were a few sets of oars hanging on one of its walls, and rowboats and canoes were napping on the sandy ground beside it. A rusty pay phone stood out as noticeably as a polished silver fork in a bag of plastic picnic utensils, and a red Coca-Cola machine caught her attention like a glowing UFO landing on Earth.
As she walked up the coconut-palm-tree-dotted path, she didn’t want to run into any woman carrying bricks, so she tried not to look too hard. Instead, she looked only at the natural beauty of the land and declared the tropical jungle her Utopia. No pavement, no light posts, no tourist signs, and no preservatives. It stood completely void of commercialization. Birds chirped, and waves rippled slowly on the shore. Some slapped against the wooden docks.
By the time she’d walked up the hill to the front doors of the slate blue clapboarded restaurant with its white wraparound porch, she felt like she had gone through a facial, a back massage, and an aromatherapy treatment – completely revived.
Inside the shady Florida bungalow stood a variety of different antique wooden tables, some painted pale yellow, others white or faded green. Each had white, straight-back chairs. Shaded by thickly shadowing palm trees that looked like monsters with long, slender bodies and wild, crazy green hair, the inside rooms were dark and cold, and there were ashes in the fireplace. Maritime murals decorated the walls, and in one of the restaurant rooms farthest from the front door, Vicki noticed wallpaper peeling off the walls.
“Go ahead. Give yourself a look around,” said a woman. “I’ll be right with you. Those things you see falling off are post cards of lighthouses. Go, look up close.” She left the room.
The floorboards squeaked as Vicki walked around the dining rooms that encircled the bar. Jimmy Buffet music was playing. It was music she and her friends had played as they huddled in the fraternity houses on winter weekends, drinking and dancing to keep warm. She gave herself permission to sing the words “pencil-thin mustache” out loud as she hurried around the corner and into the bar. She looked around. Pictures and postcards of lighthouses from all over the world, secured with masking tape, covered the walls. Outside the large screened windows, she saw a jungle of Indian banyan trees with ovate, heart-shaped leaves and remarkable aerial roots that grew down from branches to form secondary trunks. Overshadowed by the banyan and fanlike leaves of palm trees framing the window, the rustic bar felt more like a tree house to Vicki, a place where, as Simon said, moments mattered more than minutes.
“I’m Ruth,” said the woman, returning to the room. “I’m the head waitress and manager. It’s going to be a busy day. Every day here is busy, so we may as well get right to the point. Why should I hire you? Why would you be good waiting tables?”
“Well, I have a strong work ethic.”
“A strong work ethic? Explain.”
“I went to school in a small Dutch town where they believe in doing everything to the best of their ability, whether scooping ice cream, waiting tables, or leading a country.”
“I see,” she said.
“And I grew up working our family businesses.”
“Well then, I would love to talk more, but it’s going to get busy quickly around here. Part of the interview includes busing tables. You can show me your work ethic in action. The boat leaves again at three-thirty. Maybe you can work until then?”
“Of course,” said Vicki. “Thank you.” After years of adding exactly one tablespoon of malt powder to make the world’s best vanilla malts, it felt strange having to prove her workmanship to someone else, and it made her sad. She missed her family and the businesses. She wanted to kick herself for looking back, but just as a dragonfly has four powerful wings that move independently, allowing both forward and backward flight, so too do humans have the capacity to reminisce at the same moment they’re moving forward in life.
“If you take the job,” Ruth said, “you’ll have to live here on the island for about twelve days in a row at first, then the boat will take you back for two days off every week. Two days in a row that is.”
“Live here on the island? Where?”
“We have two houses for the cooks and waiting staff. Later, once things slow down, you can go and check out the living quarters. We also provide staff meals here in the restaurant before lunch and dinner serving hours.”
“Does the waiting staff make good money?”
“They average about five hundred dollars a week in tips during the summer months.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me. You can only get here by boat. That many people really make it out here?”
“Oh yes, just wait. You’ll see for yourself soon enough.”
“I don’t know about this—about living out here. I can’t give you an answer right now.”
She looked around at the others who were working, and searched for a grandmother, one who wore purples and reds and added much color, even to an ice-cream shop. She didn’t find one.
“Then think about it while you’re working today. If it goes well, I’d like you to start within a week or two. I always lose waitresses before summer starts. I’d love for you to move out here tomorrow, but I understand if you have some things in your life you might need to settle before up and leaving for a remote island. Anyway, I’ll show you where the rags are kept and how to set tables. We’re going to be getting busy soon, so we better get started.”
“Okay, so the fork goes on this rim of the place mat here?” Vicki asked Ruth in a conscientious tone.
“Over this way a little more, and make sure the napkin doesn’t cover up any wording on the place mat.”
Ruth looked to be in her sixties, and she was as small and powerful as a breath mint. Her voice was quiet, but her words were concise, focused, and seemed to have impact. She spoke matter-of-factly, displaying an overabundance of natural common sense about everything.
“Are you okay? You seem a bit out of breath,” she asked Vicki.
“I’m fine. This is a better workout than kick-boxing,” Vicki lied, dropping a rag as an excuse to bend down and gasp for breath. She didn’t know why she couldn’t breathe. No danger lurked and, with the sun directly overhead, night stood hours away yet.
As Ruth explained the busing procedures, both women recognized that they shared common work ethics. They both set up tables with intensity, carefully aligning the silverware with pride. As Vicki folded a napkin neatly, she could almost hear teachers from her past challenging her do everything with pride and to the best of her ability.
While busing her second dirty table, Vicki glanced out at the dock. She was amazed to see boats of varying caliber—big boats, small boats, sail boats, fishing boats and yachts—pulling up to the dock. Within half an hour, voices of every accent, language, and pitch imaginable rang through the three-room restaurant. Sun-tanned people in flip-flops started lining up outside the door and down the walkway. They spoke English, French, and German. A few minutes earlier, Vicki could never have imagined people from all over the world arriving on boats for lunch.
She sprinted from table to table, wishing she had more time to talk to Ruth about island life and the job. What would she decide come three-thirty when she’d have to catch the boat back? As dirty tables piled up, she had no time to talk to anyone, only to bus. Her family used to run around together like this every summer. She felt lonely without them working by her side, and it felt uncomfortably professional to call a boss by first name instead of Mom or Dad.
“Okay, you can stop now. The boat’s waiting for you down at the dock.”
Ruth walked up to the dirty table she was cleaning.
“It’s three-thirty already? It can’t be.” For the first time all afternoon, she lost her breath again.
“Well, you were busy. And you did a fine job. If you’re interested, you can be back on the boat any morning with your suitcases, if that works out for you.”
“You’re offering me the job?”
“That’s right. I’d love for you to return tomorrow, but I understand if you need more time. I’ll give you up to a week to think about it, but remember, you must stay out here and work twelve days in a row.”
“I’ll admit,” said Vicki. “When I took the boat out here, I didn’t realize I had to actually live on the island.”
“Did Denver show you the staff house? I asked him to take you there.”
“I’m not concerned about that,” she lied. No one by the name of Denver offered her a tour of the staff house, but she didn’t care. She couldn’t possibly live on an island with no bridge, and no recliner chair to sit up in; not at this point in her life anyway. “I don’t know about all of this. I’ve got a lot of things to get done this summer.”
“Don’t we all?” Ruth picked up a ripe grapefruit left on a plate and began to peel it, dropping the peelings on Vicki’s tray before pulling the juicy sections apart. “Want some?”
Vicki took one piece. The juice burst inside her mouth, a sweet, tart taste. She’d never eaten grapefruit like this in Michigan.
“Opportunity’s like this ripe grapefruit,” Ruth pointed out. “It’s up to you if you’re going to pick it before it falls from the tree.”
Walking down the path to catch the boat, she could hear a drunken voice singing an old, familiar song.” … with Gilligan, the skipper too, the millionaire and his wife … the movie star, professor and Marianne … here on Gilligan’s Isle.”
Wearing cut-off jeans, the barefooted singer had a beer in one hand and a rope in the other. Next to his tiny, inexpensive, rusty old boat, a seventy-foot luxury yacht and a few cabin cruisers docked side by side, and his boat fit in as well as a grapefruit on an apple tree. As she rounded the path that led to the boathouse, she caught a glimpse of a hammock hanging between two palm trees and craved sleep. She could hardly control the urge and began walking toward the bed that was slowly swaying in the breeze.
“All aboard, and I mean you, dear! I’ll take you back now,” the dock master called out to her, leading her to alter her steps.
“Do you make two boat trips to the island every day, Simon?” Vicki stepped onto the boat, determined to fully understand all island transportation options, including escape routes.
“Yes. I pick up inventory or guests staying in the rooms or couples on their honeymoons, writers looking for inspiration—all sorts who want to escape the busyness in their lives. There’s also employees coming and going from their days off.”
He stared at her and spoke again. “Dear, everyone comes out here for a reason. They don’t always know the reason until many years later, hindsight. The currents of life bring individuals to Tarpon Key. The canals we go down might not make sense as we’re cruising along, but there’s a reason why our motors run out of fuel, get caught up in a mangrove or run aground from time to time. Everyone needs to discover an island where they can stop and think: to think magnificent thoughts they have never had time to ponder before and to notice magnificent details they’ve never noticed before. You’ve got a decision to make, but if you turn it down, you might be pushing yourself against the direction of the wind.”
“You say everyone needs to find an island. What about people living in landlocked cities?”
He laughed. “For them, discovering an island might be more of a challenge, but if they take the time, I’m sure they will find one.” He turned the key in the boat’s ignition, and they were off.
She put on her sunglasses, which once were rose-tinted, but recently had gotten scratched, and noticed a blue heron quietly stalking prey at the edge of the mangrove. She glanced back at the island, then bent down to fidget with her shoelace and to catch her breath.
CHAPTER SIX
SHE HAD SPENT AN interesting day on her island interview. When she returned to the condo, her parents were gone. They had caught an earlier flight back to Michigan and weren’t sure how long they would be gone. The details concerning the recent sale of the businesses might take the better part of the summer to work out.
She spent the evening grocery shopping on the island, at the same store where Grandma used to take her. “Now don’t be shy, you’ve got to eat, and I don’t have much food in my refrigerator. Pick out whatever you want to eat,” Grandma would say in a very loud voice as the two would slowly make their way down each aisle. “Now why are you putting that in the cart? Don’t you want something nutritious?”
After putting the groceries away and cleaning the kitchen, ten o’clock at night crept up quickly. As she watched television, she tried catching her stubborn breath while fighting nausea and a watering mouth. She felt like a woman facing her fear of public speaking, only she feared night or death or falling asleep and dying in her sleep. She took a long shower, then she threw a towel around herself and rushed to the kitchen where she guzzled 7UP. She then devoured Saltines in hopes of stopping the nausea. Little ants were crawling inside her left arm as it fell asleep. She took hold of her arm—the heavy object connected to her shoulder—and shook it frantically. Her fingers stayed numb as she ran to the comfort of the living room. Brief, repetitious, sharp pains struck where she guessed her heart was, like the blade of a windmill breaking off in a tornado and hitting her in the chest. She self-diagnosed a heart attack and silently waited for it to happen, wondering if Rebecca had suffered, if she had tried calling out for help that night, but without a voice. She couldn’t feel sorry for Rebecca, now in the arms of God. She instead felt sorry for herself, not in the arms of God.
She knew it was time to prepare for bed. In the bathroom, she examined her pupils in the mirror. Her eyes looked browner than ever, and her black pupils were too tiny in proportion to the brown. Her knees shook.
“I’m having a weird pain in my heart area,” she mumbled as she climbed into bed, choosing that instead of the recliner tonight. “I don’t understand what’s happening to me. I used to love sleeping.”
As she began taking her own pulse, Vicki noticed a spastic dark blue aura around her arm. She’d noticed things like this around everyone lately, even dogs. It meant nothing to her. She wasn’t psychic, didn’t read auras. Her brown eyes were teasing her. They were mad, grouchy, resentfully tired. She knew it. She promised she’d stop applying mascara. They were feeling weak, and makeup only weighed them down. Rebellious, they entered the dream world without her. At first they’d fixate on something for so long that a blink felt like an eight-hour sleep. Soon, they’d spastically begin to blink, enjoying rapid eye movement though Vicki was awake.
Lying on her back again, her heart pounded. She placed two fingers on her neck—b’dum, b’dum, b’dum, b’dum. Two fingers on her stomach—b’dum, b’dum, b’dum, b’dum, b … b’dum. It skipped a beat. B’dm, b’dm, b’dm … it sped up!
Was this what Rebecca felt before dying in her sleep? Imaginary ants crawling from her left arm into her feet? Where’s my paper bag? Turning over to her left side to reach for it on the floor, she suddenly felt a powerful wave of energy shoot up from her toes and spasm in her chest, like being slapped by an octopus all over her body.
Fearful that she might die unnoticed in her bed, she bolted up from her prone position, clutching her chest, and heaved back a silent scream. Her throat felt dry, yet she couldn’t stop heaving. As if escaping the dark, the bed, and the room, Vicki sprinted into the dining room and turned on the overhead light, just as someone nearly reaches the end of the haunted house and sprints past the final creature and makes it through the door.
“A heart attack. I’m sure of it. I’m sure I just had a heart attack,” she cried out loud in the car, just after running a red light on her way to the hospital. “Honk at me all you like, idiot. If only you knew why I’m driving like this.” She crossed intersections as if she had sirens and emergency lights on her car, and her only comfort came from knowing that shortly she’d be in the company of medical professionals, who were awake and alert, as she was, at one o’clock in the morning.
“I’ve got a h
eart attack victim on her way,” she shouted into her cell phone. “She’s only twenty-one years old. I’ve given her aspirins. We’ll be right there. Have everything ready.” The phone went dead.
Running into the hospital’s emergency room, Vicki accepted a nurse’s offer and sat down in a wheel chair.
“Are you the one who called us?”
“Yes. I am.”
“You look so young and healthy,” said the skeptical nurse. “Have you been taking any drugs that might induce a heart attack?”
“Drugs?”
“Yes, cocaine.”
“Of course not. I can’t believe you’re questioning me over this. I’m possibly dying, and you’re asking me if I’m on drugs.”
“The doctor will take a look at you in a minute.” And the nurse walked away.
“A minute? I don’t think I’ve got a minute. This is the emergency room!” yelled Vicki. She turned around to look at an older woman pacing back and forth. “I’ve just had a heart attack!”
“So did my husband,” she said. At that moment, nurses wheeled a man wrapped in white sheets past them, his face nearly green. “Oh honey, I’m here, I’m here.” The woman ran alongside him. “You’re going to live, they tell me. You’re going to be fine, sweetie. I’m with you.”
As Vicki lay on the table, the doctor hooked her up to an electrocardiograph.
“This records the electrical activity of your heart. We’re going to look for irregularities in the muscle, blood supply, or neural control.”
Vicki looked up at the doctor as he placed sticky things all over her chest. Inwardly she felt guilty because she liked the wheelchair better than the recliner tonight.
“Describe your symptoms to me, Vicki.”
“A viselike squeezing sensation beneath my breastbone, pain radiating from the front of my chest.”
Sanibel Scribbles Page 7
