Caleb + Kate

by Cindy Martinusen-Coloma

  “Your girlfriend?” I ask with a tone of detached interest, which is a feat deserving an Oscar.

  He nods, staring far across the horizon.

  “What happened?” I ask in my best compassionate tone, but the truth is, I may not breathe until he answers the real questions I’m thinking, Is it over between you? Did you have sex with her? Were you in love with her? Was she in love with you?

  “She was everything I’m supposed to love.”

  “What do you mean by that?” I say, too quickly.

  “There are things . . . expectations, you might say.”

  “Your expectations?” This wasn’t making sense to me.

  “No. Expectations about me. At least there were before I left.”

  “Tell me.”

  He spews a short, sarcastic laugh and then looks at me. “For one, she was Hawaiian. This is very important to my family back home. They aren’t very fond of hales—white people.”

  “Are you serious?”

  He digs into the ground with his foot. “Unfortunately, yes. Everyone said she was right for me. But my parents put this image in me, a romantic streak, that makes me believe in finding a great love.”

  “A great love,” I repeat as if hypnotized, which isn’t all that far off.

  “Throughout history there are countless stories of great loves. I don’t think that’s ended, even if it’s modern time. I saw in with my parents. It’s what I want for my life.”

  How amazing to believe in something like that now? No one had great love, I thought.

  “You mean like Romeo and Juliet?”

  “Yes. But there are many more. Like Popocatépetl and Iztaccíhuatl. There are different versions of the story, but it’s about a Mexican warrior named Popoca who fell in love with the Princess Izta. The chief told Popoca that if he brought back the head of an enemy chief, he could marry the princess.

  “While he was gone fighting in the war, another warrior who hated Popoca sent back a message that Popoca had died in battle. Izta was inconsolable and within a few days, she died of sadness.”

  Caleb looks out beyond the massive rocks that are shrouded in fog, then his eyes return to me.

  “During her funeral, Popoca arrived with the head of the enemy chief, not knowing what had happened. When he found out, he took Izta’s body and walked until he met some mountains. There he ordered his men to build a funeral table covered in flowers. Then he set Izta there, and as he kneeled down to watch over her, he died of sadness as well.

  “That’s awful. It is a lot like Romeo and Juliet.”

  “In Mexico today, there are two volcanoes said to be Itza and Popoca. One is called La Mujer Dormida—the Sleeping Woman— because it looks like a woman sleeping on her back. The legend says Popoca became the Popocatépetl—which means smoking mountain. He watches over his Itza, and he rains fire on Earth because of his rage over the loss of his beloved.”

  “That’s sad.”

  Caleb nods. “That’s one of many. But it’s interesting that these stories are found all over the world and in every culture. Most are tragic, I think, because most people experience such suffering and loss that we’re attracted to the tragic.”

  “But what about your Izta? Will you know her when you see her?”

  He sits quietly a moment. “I’ve seen her.”

  “You have?” An instant jealousy hits me hard. A terrible ache grows angry and strong. I’m sure my face is flushed red and my eyes may emit fire soon . . . except the pain and sudden distance that separates us makes me want to burst into tears.

  “Yes.” He stares at his worn hiking boots.

  My head is pounding. “Where? When?”

  “Recently, and a long time ago.”

  “In Hawaii?”

  He shakes his head, and a fearful hope attempts to come to life, but I’m afraid to allow hope’s existence.

  “I’ll tell you about it sometime.”

  “Was it a dream?”

  His face looks thoughtful. “Sort of.”

  “Please.”

  He stands up and takes a step toward me. I stare up at him, and he reaches for my hands. “Are we ready for this?”

  I sigh and nod. “Yes.”

  Pulling me up, we stand inches apart, completely alone except for the silent pines towering around us and the churning sea below.

  “I want to know.”

  “Let me show you something first.”

  From inside his backpack, Caleb pulls out a harness. I step into it and he snaps everything into place while I’m mostly conscious of his closeness. I want his hands to move from the harness to my body, and it’s surprising the aggravation I feel when he doesn’t.

  “We could probably do without all this.”

  And then I realize we’re back to the trust experiment. I look down the cliff and remember the rope and my heart starts pounding.

  “I’m not the best about climbing and heights and all that.”

  “Remember that for the evaluation. Subject is pushed beyond her comfort level. Will she have faith in her partner when it does not appear safe?”

  “It’s not safe?”

  He reaches out a hand, and I realize that he has no harness.

  “Trust me,” he says.

  “I do trust you. I might have lied earlier about the six.”

  He laughs and says, “Come on, then.”

  The experiment takes us down along the rock cliff. It’s not as difficult as it looks from the top. Step by step, we work our way down. I’m attached to the rope, Caleb is not. He goes first and helps me, showing me footholds and handholds as we take a staggered path between crevasses and outcroppings. We reach a rounded rock where I can’t see over the edge. Only gray water stretches before us, with more black jagged rocks everywhere below and around us, as if some giant dropped a massive pile of stone along the seashore.

  “It’s slick right here, be careful. We’re going over this.”

  “Over it? There’s nothing there.”

  He smiles and disappears over the rounded ledge. I see his hand reach for me, and I grasp it tightly. Our hands are cold from the sea air, but sweat sends an icy shiver down my spine. A deep breath—this is foolish, I know—and then I slide around the rock, feet first and frantic to find something solid.

  My feet immediately find a place to hold. His other hand takes my arm and I slide somewhat under the massive boulder we went over.

  “You did it,” Caleb says, but I’m not sure what I did. He unhooks the harness and leaves it dangling off the rock. “Come on.”

  We have to crawl under a ledge and then suddenly, we stand inside a tall sea cave.

  “This is amazing,” I exclaim, taking it in. It looks like a half amphitheater open to the sky. The ocean waves wash up toward the bottom of the smoothed stone that reminds me of polished marble.

  “At high tide, the cave gets flooded. We’re almost at low tide, so it’s safe for awhile.”

  Vines and moss crawl up the sides of the cave. Several small crabs take off as we step farther in. It doesn’t go far back, maybe twenty feet, and is shaped like a half oval, with the top of the cave high above us. This place with the smell of the sea, the rhythm of the waves, the sound of sea gulls, it all creates this surreal existence around us as if we’re the only two people in this world of rock and sea.

  “Does anyone else know about this place?” I see that he’s been watching me take this all in.

  “Apparently. See.” He points to a portion of the rock wall farther back where several names are carved into the stone.

  Keith + Sara Billy Poe was here.

  Forever Jenny.

  I imagine our names there, too, and he seems to read my thoughts.

  “How did you find it?”

  “I saw it once from a fishing boat. I could barely make it out with my binoculars, so I came exploring a few weeks ago. I haven’t told anyone else about it.

  “So you trust me?” I smile as I say it, thinking perhaps this day was go
ing both ways in our trust evaluation.

  “You didn’t say whether you’ve ever been in love before.”

  I shake my head. “Not really.”

  “So that means you were a little in love before?”

  “Well,” I pause and enjoy his frown. “I was in love with Johnny Depp for a long time.”

  He laughs. “That’s competition. And with a pirate no less. Tough.”

  I want to ask about his “great love” again, but I’m afraid of the answer. His expression makes a quick change to concern.

  “Watch out!” he says, grabbing my arm and pulling me toward him.

  He holds me against him and pushes my back against the rock, covering my head with one arm and holding me firmly against him with the other. I hear a momentary roar and water sprays around us with surprising force.

  It happens in mere seconds, but in that time, the whole world seems to pause. Or gasp.

  “I’m sorry, a sleeper wave. I should have watched better,” he whispers in my ear.

  He doesn’t release me, but he looks down at me with our mouths inches apart. I taste salt on my tongue from the spray and long for him as I’ve never longed for anything before.

  The roar of another approaching wave breaks the trance and Caleb suddenly grabs my hand.

  “Hurry!” he shouts. “It’s a bigger one.”

  We reach the top of the cliff, shivering and achy in our wet clothing.

  “Seems one or both of us always ends up soaking wet when we’re together,” I say, remembering the night of the prom.

  He nods. “I have some extra clothes. I should have told you to bring some. But that was a surprise. I have towels and a blanket. I need to get you home before you get chilled.”

  Caleb acts distracted now. He’s careful not to touch me longer than is normal. So now I doubt that he might have kissed me in the cave, that I might be the love of his life. As we walk toward the jeep, I go over and over that moment. Have I made up every time I believe we connected? Caleb certainly isn’t giving any indication that our moment happened now. Perhaps he regrets it. Perhaps I’m a distraction from what he really wants in life? His grandfather will never agree to a relationship between us anyway—perhaps that stops him too?

  The word perhaps feels like a loose sail to my ship. It flaps untethered and without direction . . . it offers too many possibilities.

  I imagine asking, Did you feel that moment back there? On the cliff, in the cave, when we first danced at the prom . . . I thought you might kiss me. I almost kissed you. Do you feel anything for me?

  He reaches out to help me around the last boulder before we’re back on the edge of the meadow.

  “Careful,” he says as I wobble and he holds my forearm firmly to keep me from falling.

  There is a pause and I am, as always, shaken by the electric energy pulsating between us. An incredulous look crosses his face. He stares at me as if I’ve just turned a different color.

  “What is it?”

  His usual composure and steady way has given in to an edge of vulnerability.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “No, sorry, it’s nothing.” He shakes his head. “We’d better take off. You are freezing cold.”

  “What is wrong?”

  “Nothing.” He seems to get himself back together. His smile returns, though with a frown in his thick eyebrows.

  As he stares at me, his smile falters again and his eyebrows squeeze into one—that confused expression returns.

  “There it is again. What’s going on? Tell me.” I smoothe my hair, worried at how terrible I must look right now.

  He walks down the trail without saying a word.

  Then I surprise myself by blurting, “I might be falling in love with you.”

  He stops, but doesn’t turn.

  I freeze, terrified that he actually heard me.

  Suddenly, he turns around and walks back fast. My heart pounds. His jaw is set, and his eyes intense.

  He takes my face with two hands. His eyes drink in every part, and then a slight pause, hesitation perhaps. For a moment, he turns away and then with the same intensity as when he closed the distance between us, he pulls me against him and kisses me. He kisses me firmly with his soft and hungry mouth. He tastes salty and sweet, and I fall deep into a blinding torrent of wonder.

  He pulls away slightly, still holding my face with two hands, and my legs feel like they might not sustain my weight.

  “What did you say?” he whispers.

  “I might be falling in love with you,” I whisper, finding it hard to focus on his face.

  “Kate,” he says, almost sadly.

  “What? You might be falling in love with me too?” My voice is hopeful, pathetically hopeful.

  He shakes his head.

  “You aren’t falling in love with me?”

  He doesn’t respond. I touch his face carefully with the tips of my fingers. His skin is incredibly soft above the line of hard jawbone. I touch his silky black hair. His eyes close and I want to kiss his eyes, but I’m afraid. Afraid of all of this. This could destroy me.

  He opens his eyes. “Kate, I’m already in love with you.”

  Chapter Twelve

  This is the very ecstasy of love.

  WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

  Hamlet (Act 2, Scene 1)

  CALEB

  It’s insane.

  So this is love—the sweetest insanity, a blinding wonder, a fear-tinged joy.

  It’s torment being apart from her, and when we’re together, I can hardly stand that there will be a parting.

  Today was filled with pain, as I went to work and she went to church with her mom and brother. Her dad nearly gave me a heart attack with his phone call from New York, apologizing for being rude to me. The conversation was cut short before I could decide whether or not to mention my grandfather’s offer or to even consider telling him that I’m in love with his daughter. It’s ironic how much I love her. I love her more than my grandfather hates the Monrovi family. Perhaps that was part of God’s plan.

  Now we’re sitting on the ledge that is my favorite view on the grounds of the Monrovi Inn. There is little space to sit, so we’re at a right angle from one another. We touch on one edge whenever one of us moves.

  “So is the trust experiment over now?” she asks.

  The weekend has worn through every muscle and my emotions don’t have their usual composure. I want to sleep now, and I want to sleep with her beside me, her head on my shoulder where I can smell her hair and feel her body curled to my side. I won’t let my mind go farther, though it constantly tries and sometimes I fail to keep it contained, for this image alone is painful enough.

  My cynical nature thought she’d be too rich-girl-acting to even get in the jeep the first time. I expected her to give up at the cliff ’s edge, and yet, somehow I knew she wouldn’t. I’ve been deceiving myself to keep being close to her, to show her the sea cave, to drive with her, to be near her. I never actually wanted her to fail.

  “Why did you trust me?” I ask.

  She shrugs, starts to say something, then stops.

  I’m in love with her. I’m in love with her crooked pinky finger and matching crooked pinky toe. I’m in love with her blonde wavy hair, and the freckles on her jaw near her ear. I’m in love with her small ears, with her perfect mouth, and that indention on her chin. This love for her consumes my brain like a fire and pounds through every cell in my being.

  She speaks in a lighter tone, smiling a little, and I want to memorize every one of her smiles and every one of the sounds she makes.

  “I’m a little disappointed, actually. I thought you were going to teach me how to surf.”

  This makes me laugh—so I’m transparent to her sometimes too. “That was my first plan. But I didn’t think you could handle the cold, even with a wet suit. Someday I’ll teach you in Hawaii.”

  The implication isn’t lost on her.

  “I’m going to hold you to it. Hawaii. Surf
ing lessons.”

  “That’s a deal.”

  And even this simple agreement of a tomorrow is a first promise between us.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

  WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

  Sonnet 18

  KATE

  When I wake Monday morning, early, in the time before dawn when it’s gray and silent and smelling of the freshest earth and reminding me of hope, I know something is different.

  Two days ago I woke in fear that the trip to the sea cave and Caleb telling me he loves me had all been a dream.

  Today I wake with a heart aching with amazement. I wish I could fix time here, stop its ticking, so I can savor the perfection of knowing I love someone and that someone loves me.

  Sitting in the window seat, I look out to a world gray and deep green, with first light warming the foggy meadow and mountains beyond it.

  How I want to love him like this, and he love me, in maybe five or six years from now. I picture years stretching forward, turning from my window to see him sleeping or rubbing tired eyes, then he stares at me as if I’m the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen—even after years and decades together. I imagine coffee brewing and staying in bed all day. A fire cracks in a fireplace in our room. He washes my hair in the bathtub, and we talk about dreams and plans. I picture a place that was ours alone with his books and music mixed with my books and music. Our food in the cupboards, furniture we picked out together. I want normal to be us and this. Love and passion.

  What if it never happens? The thought whispers, and doubts about the longevity and truth of love creep over me. Now that I love him, it creates an even greater gulf between dreams and reality. I have not seen what I feel. This is the fairy tale alive and real. I’ve briefly experienced its touch through the pages of a book or while watching certain movies, listening to a song— but this has engulfed me heart and soul.

  If I could just remain right here, unmoving and untouched by real life things—homework, filling up my gas tank, college applications, Allie chewing on my shoe—or if he and I could run away together, get married without anyone saying we’re too young or people gossiping about us. If he and I could go to some protected place that keeps out the mundane.