Luna-Sea

by Jessica Sherry

  “No.”

  “Epileptic? Narcoleptic?”

  “No.”

  “What about schizophrenia or depression?”

  “Not yet, but perhaps getting there.”

  “Manic?”

  “No.”

  “Did you experience any other symptoms prior to seeing the woman?”

  I huffed and rolled my eyes. “Maybe.” My voice trailed off, but I couldn’t elaborate. For a moment or two, all I could hear were the sounds of birds in the trees, and squirrels rustling on the forest floor.

  “Then maybe what you experienced was a roadblock,” he suggested a minute later.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Do you know anything about neuropsychology?”

  I smiled. “A bit. It’s what I read about in my spare time. But, please, explain.”

  Chris grinned, and went on. “Think of the way your body intakes stimuli as a road map of the United States and let’s say the central hub of this network leads to New York City. All the travelers must get to New York City, where the information is processed.”

  Chris reached out and gently touched my finger with his. “That touch represents one car jumping on the information superhighway. It set off one neuron, which then passed the information to the next and so on through a series of small electrical impulses and chemical transmitters. The car arrives in New York, and New York decides what, if anything, to do with it.”

  “But, not all days are good for travel,” he continued. “Think of all the roadblocks you might encounter on a trip from California to New York City, for example. Your trip might be impacted by weather, traffic, accidents, rowdy kids in the backseat, flat tires, road-rage. In much the same way, how we perceive the world around us is directly affected by innumerable outside forces. In a strong emotional state, distortion isn’t just possible; it’s normal.”

  “Distortion, sure. But, complete creation?” I argued lightly.

  “When you were a kid, did you ever get scared of the dark?” he asked. I nodded. “Did you ever think you saw something? A shadow, perhaps? Hear a noise?”

  “Course.”

  “Same thing. And probably, the more afraid you became, the more you thought you saw and heard,” he informed. “But, I wouldn’t start calling Dr. Phil or clamoring to get yourself on Prozac without first proving a pattern of hallucinations. One is just… child’s play.”

  I smiled. Maybe it wasn’t so crazy to see something that wasn’t there. Memories of my after-drowning flooded back to mind. The first time I had nightmares of tidal waves, I woke up and felt as though I was lying in water. My dream had mixed with my reality. Though I still didn’t relish the idea of my brain playing such a nasty trick on me (and didn’t quite buy it anyway), I felt better.

  “Um, I’ve never told anyone this before,” Chris said, voice soft, “but the night of my mother’s funeral, I saw her.”

  I watched his face over my shoulder and felt chilled. “Saw her?”

  “It was the sadness,” he spat out quickly. “She wasn’t real. But, there she was. And if you had asked me right then, I would have sworn to it. From my bedroom window, she was standing on the balcony at the lighthouse, watching me.”

  I don’t believe in ghosts. Live people are weird enough. Who needs to worry about the dead ones? Still, his words sent a chill over me.

  Chris shook off the bad memory, and said, “We’re all just one pain away from lunacy.”

  Goosebumps broke out over my arms. Compassion and fear filled me up, trying to imagine how horrible that must have been for him. But, Chris didn’t want to dwell on it. As I was about to offer condolences, he road blocked any more talk of his mother.

  “Real or not,” Chris continued, “you shouldn’t be too hard on yourself. You should be commended on your reaction. You were brave-”

  I scoffed. “I’m the woman who ruined your welcome home party.”

  “You’re the woman who made my welcome home party interesting. The distraction was actually rather perfect. I’d been wanting people to clear out for over an hour, and your outburst sent them all home,” he corrected.

  “Glad I could be of help,” I replied with a chuckle. “I’m not just a party pooper, but a party-ender. I better get back to Willie, get home.”

  Chris smiled lightly. He gave me his hand to help me up, and we headed down the trail to the right. The Peacock came into view a few minutes later. On the way, Chris reminisced about Great Aunt Laura, telling me all the book talks they’d had.

  “We tried to recreate the reanimation experiment once,” he said, as if he were telling me a well-kept secret.

  “Like in Frankenstein?”

  He nodded, and chuckled. “Except we used a car battery and a cockroach she found legs up near the dumpster.”

  I raised a crooked eyebrow, even though I could envision Great Aunt Laura doing something like that. Paper airplanes off the balcony. Spit balls off the roof. Beanbag fights. Once, she read a book in which the author described the joy of squishing her toes and fingers in mud pies, and Great Aunt Laura had to try it. We found a patch of dirt on the other side of the alley, dampened the soil, and made mud pies to squish in – our own experiment. She thought the author oversold it.

  “So, what happened?”

  “Fried cockroach,” he chuckled, “it was ridiculous, of course, but fun. Laura Duffy was fearless.”

  With the sun starting it’s slow sink, our forms produced long shadows. If it were working, the lighthouse would be going on soon, pouring out its torrent of light in our dark world, just as Chris had said. Talking to him, thinking about Great Aunt Laura, had been a lighthouse for me in an otherwise gloomy day, which wasn’t over yet.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Paper Nautilus

  The paper nautilus sounds like an elegant ship in a bottle… perhaps an awesome pen, but it’s really just another octopus of about 300 in the species. But, the paper nautilus stands out for reasons other than its interesting name. While there’s nothing particularly special about the male, the female is amazing. She creates her own shell. While this is to protect her eggs, it has a perk. Buoyancy. The paper nautilus shells herself up and floats away.

  I wanted to do the same thing – at least the Delilah Duffy version – just crawl under my blankets and sleep until the sting of embarrassment that comes with being arrested by your boyfriend’s co-workers disappears.

  But, that wouldn’t happen today.

  Sam was waiting on the steps of my apartment. He had every right and reason to be upset with me, and I expected, at the very least, a lecture rivaling the ones my mother used to dish out. She delivered spiels so long, Leo Tolstoy would call her long-winded.

  Still, a light smile crossed his lips when I eyed him from the driver’s seat of my Jeep. Willie bounded out of the passenger side and raced over to say hello, and Sam was always keen on obliging. Wish our relationship could be so simple.

  “How was your day?” I started awkwardly.

  He shrugged. “Mostly uneventful.”

  “I should probably go and check on Henry,” I said, my own float-away inclination kicking in quickly. I gathered up Willie’s leash from where it dragged against the steps, and headed toward the alley. Sam followed, without a word.

  Henry glanced up from his book, exactly the way I’d left him, and looked surprised. “Ah, you’re back.” His remark was so incidental that I was almost offended. I’d been gone for over nine hours. Hadn’t he noticed? Henry got up from his barstool and stretched his legs.

  “Time for a jaunt around the neighborhood,” he decided, speaking to Willie, and though he’d had a tiresome day, Willie was game. The two were gone quickly, and I was left to face Sam’s disappointment alone. A shell, even a paper one, sounded pretty good right now.

  Sam propped himself up on Henry’s barstool, and sat quietly as I fiddled. Nervous energy was getting the best of me. Panic was rising up, like a monster, and roaring inside of me. I straightened the mail on the counter in
to a neat stack. Reviewed the few tickets Henry had written up in my absence. Rearranged the mail, again. All while trying to quell the rapidness of my heart and the sweat now forming on my forehead.

  Finally, Sam stopped me. He grabbed my clammy hand and pulled me into him. I relented, my fears easing, and my heart beating rapidly for a different reason. He ran his hand across my cheek, while the other slipped around my waist.

  Then, he kissed me.

  Though Sam’s kisses had become familiar to me now, each one felt just as amazing as the first, and that had been spectacular. It could’ve gone down in history as the most passionate, perfect kiss, if Guinness had such a category. But, of course, I wouldn’t have wanted to share it. It was mine, and his, and now ours to share and repeat always, or at least as long as he would want to.

  Sam leaned back, only slightly, and he kissed my cheeks, my nose (making me giggle), my forehead.

  “I don’t care how many times you screw up, or think you’ve screwed up. I don’t care how many times you get arrested,” he whispered, “I will love you, Delilah, regardless.”

  A tiny gasp escaped my lips before he kissed them again, and falling into kissing meant that everything washed away – the terrible day I’d had, the woman, my failing business, the panic attack he’d just unknowingly thwarted.

  Finally, I pulled back, and said, “I’m sorry, Sam. So sorry.”

  “You shouldn’t be sorry,” he returned.

  “I’ve made you look bad,” I continued, “made myself look even worse than I have already. Didn’t even think that was possible and it’s unfair for you to kiss me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m losing myself when I should be groveling,” I returned, resting my forehead against his.

  “No groveling necessary. And losing yourself is just what you need,” he smiled.

  “I’ve embarrassed you,” I replied, closing my eyes tightly. “Your co-workers, your-”

  “No, you haven’t,” he cut in surely. “Everyone knows Lewis is a moron, and the charges were dropped. No harm done. Who cares what they think anyway? They’re just jealous. I’ve got the most beautiful, most exciting girlfriend on the island.”

  He smiled, but I winced. “Yeah, right. They’re all just drooling in envy over how lucky you are to have a jailbird whacko as a girlfriend,” I threw back sarcastically. “I don’t want to be a burden. I don’t want you to be the guy who always has to make excuses-”

  “I don’t have to,” Sam countered. “You wanted to see for yourself. I would’ve done the same thing.”

  “Really?” I asked.

  “Course. You followed your instincts,” he replied, “and you should trust yourself. You’ve been right before.”

  I smiled. The shell I wanted to wrap around myself wasn’t needed after all, or so I thought. “You’re too good, Sam. Too gracious.”

  “Not really,” he said. His blue eyes dropped a little when he said, “You could’ve told me, though.”

  I nodded. “You’re right-”

  “And you could have told me about the panic attacks,” he continued, hesitating.

  My eyes darted up to his, and my mouth fell open. I’d managed to keep my panic attacks a secret with one notable exception. Two weeks ago, Raina and I took the ferry to Shawsburg for some shopping. The water, the up and down movement, the spray hitting the Jeep’s windshield, everything reminded me of being lost at sea and sent me into a full blown panic. I hadn’t hyperventilated, but close enough. The rest of the trip, she eyed me like a sick child, continuously asking, you okay, sugar? And her concern only succeeded in making me feel more broken, just as Sam was doing now.

  Like an idiot, I shrugged and said, “What panic attacks?”

  He shook his head, still holding me around the waist. Was he making sure I didn’t run? “I’m worried about you.”

  Sam had disarmed me with a kiss, but now I felt the tension rising in the room again. Still, he held on to me, and I tried to focus on the feeling of his fingers on my back, the smell of his skin, and how much I loved his face, rather than on what he might say.

  “I’m fine,” I returned automatically.

  “You won’t take my money, even though you need it,” he said. “You go looking for your mystery woman without telling me, on a day you knew I’d be gone. You get arrested, but you don’t call me. Jason Kent called me-”

  I grimaced. “Sorry.”

  “And I hear from Raina in the Piggly Wiggly checkout line that you’re having panic attacks?”

  I cringed. My first instinct was to be angry at her for sharing my business (at the Piggly Wiggly or anywhere else). But, on second thought, I couldn’t really blame her. Just like the marriage remark she managed to squeak into the conversation yesterday, I knew she was only looking out for me.

  “It’s not big a deal,” I countered. “She overreacted. It was nothing.”

  “Then why are you pulling away from me?” he noted. I relented, letting myself lean against him. “I get the whole independence thing. You want Beach Read to be a success and you want it on your own terms. I understand that, respect it even. But, this? Why wouldn’t you tell me about this?”

  I shrugged, wanting freedom from his grasp, but making sure I didn’t try. “I don’t know.”

  “There has to be a reason. You don’t trust me, Delilah?”

  “Do I have a reason not to trust you, Sam?” I threw back, half-joking. His eyebrows crept together, leaving a stitch in his forehead.

  He hesitated before saying, “No.”

  “Gosh, are you sure?” I returned quickly, finding it all too easy to try and turn this around on him.

  “I’m sure,” he stated, “but, you aren’t. Just yesterday you were talking about filling up the gaping holes in what we know about each other and you’re the one forming the Grand Canyon.”

  “This is different,” I tried.

  Sam shook his head, half-smiling. “Only because this is worse.”

  “It’s my issue to deal with, not yours,” I insisted. “And I’m handling it.”

  “Hiding it isn’t the same as handling it,” Sam clarified. I rolled my eyes. “Things like this don’t just go away. They get worse.”

  “You don’t know-”

  “Actually, I do, but you don’t give me a chance. No matter what I do, you shut yourself off from me anyway. Why?”

  Images of shelled up paper nautiluses bobbing on the ocean’s surface filled my head. I shrugged. “Told you I was a terrible communicator.”

  “Nope, that’s not it,” he protested. “You do nothing but talk all the time. You use all those words to hide what you really need to say. Doesn’t make sense.”

  “Everyone thinks I’m crazy,” I reasoned. “Maybe I am.”

  “Just tell me what’s been going on with you.”

  I huffed, defenses rising. I broke free of his grasp. “I don’t want to talk about it! The whole island thinks I’m a fruitcake! Maybe I don’t want you to think that, too!”

  “I don’t-”

  “You should! That’s how I feel,” I fumed back. “Freakin’ out every second about absolutely nothing, seeing things that aren’t even there! Forgive me if I didn’t spill my guts about my lunacy!”

  I went back to restacking the mail, fuming. “It’s not about trust, Sam. I’m ashamed. This thing is running amuck in my head, taking over, and I’m clueless over why and what to do about it, if I even can do anything about it. Whatever I try to fix, only becomes more broken. But, what scares me the most isn’t the panic attacks or the things I think I see or the mistakes I make, like the litany of ones I added up today. The thing that scares me most is that you’ll see how utterly messed up I am, and you won’t want-”

  “There’s nothing that would make me want to leave you,” Sam said. He got up from his barstool, and reached out to me, but I denied him.

  “Right,” I stormed. “Am I just so un-leavable or are you just so loyal? Our track records prove the opposite.”
The woman’s words echoed in my head. Drove her crazy and had her put away. Then, he moved here like nothin’ ever happened. How long would it take for him to give up on me? Sam’s face drooped, and he was about to say something when the bells clanged. We both turned, and Mike Ancellotti grinned, poking his head inside.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” he said.

  Sam breathed out heavily, and muttered, “No, you’re not.”

  “But you’re not going to want to miss this, Delilah.”

  I forced a weak, but thankful smile. Talking about my deficiencies left my heart fluttering and fingers twitching. I couldn’t stand it anymore. Sam grabbed my wrist as I swept by him. He pinched his eyebrows together.

  “Don’t go,” he whispered. “Please.”

  But, my sails were already up, and I left him there anyway.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Mooning

  The verb ‘to moon’ once had dreamlike qualities. It meant either to be infatuated romantically or to roam aimlessly. Mooning is also the word that has long been attached to the crude practice of exposing one’s fanny to prove a point. Sometimes, you can’t be heard unless you do something shocking.

  “Cute shoes,” Mike told me as we stomped up the stairs.

  “Thanks, but they’re totally uncomfortable, lumpy even,” I noted, disappointed. Raina’s gift was so sweet, so unexpected. It sucked that they weren’t as perfect as her intentions had been.

  In our corner, binoculars in hand, Mike pointed to the beach. The hot August sun was sinking behind the sea. Tourists loitered, soaking up the leftovers. Two old men stood there, hands on hips, staring out at the sea, bulging bellies hanging over their swimming trunks.

  I shrugged. “I don’t get it.”

  “Watch.”

  Two swift tugs, and the two men dropped their trunks. I gasped. Two pasty white butts with a forest of curly hairs darted for the sea – two full moons shocking the heck out of tourists and me. My breath caught in my throat and I barreled over laughing.