by Leslie Lehr
Lexi chuckled as they passed the rainbow-colored peace sign staked in the side of the road, up where the Mercedes now waited behind a line of cars. There was always traffic at the driveway descending to the Theatricum Botanicum where Shakespeare was performed every weekend. A Jeep bursting with tie-dye-clad teenagers led a train of cars coming the other way. A dented blue van with surfboards tied to the roof rack raced ahead of a Jag. A Star Tours van rumbled past, packed with tourists snapping photos from the windows.
A motorcycle cop zoomed up behind the Jetta. The red light flashed just long enough for perspiration to prickle beneath Michelle’s blouse. He steered slowly around Michelle’s window and nodded his aviator glasses at her as he passed. He was young and good-looking, like the cop who fetched her from biology class the day they found her mother.
The theater was noisy. The young dancers were aflutter, worrying over their fallen idol. A security guard had found her unconscious, without even a pulse. Michelle was escorted past the yellow tape to identify her mother’s duct-taped toe shoes, the blue ribbon from her favorite corset, and the green stem of a plastic daisy with all the petals plucked. The police thought it was an accidental overdose, from the cheese and crackers and the bottle of wine. But Michelle knew that her mother had planned it. She found her empty pillbox by the stage curtain when they tore down the tape.
When she had already missed her afternoon classes, Michelle talked the detective into dropping her off at the hospital. She was too young to be admitted to the intensive care wing, so when the nurse wandered away, she snuck in.
Elyse’s name was posted outside of a private room, but Michelle barely recognized the wisp of a woman sleeping beneath her sheet. Elyse’s high cheekbones looked like they were wrapped in rice paper; her pallor was tinged yellow, like an old, painful bruise. She was a broken doll of a ballerina, fractured and frail. Machines mimicked life by pumping liquid through thin tubes stabbed into her blue-veined skin and by forcing air through the plastic worming into her nose. The worst part was that she was absolutely still. So still that Michelle wondered if she would ever wake up.
Michelle breathed in time with the compressor, as if her own free will had died along with her mother. After what felt like hours of humming silence, Elyse lifted her crepe-paper lids like a curtain before the show. Her eyes bulged from her sunken face. Her faded irises floated in a bloodstained sea as she stared at Michelle without surprise.
Michelle wanted to shout and break the spell. But she was afraid. If she was too loud, too pushy, her mother might close her eyes again and shut her out forever.
Elyse licked her scabby lips and whispered with all her might. “Three minutes…so peaceful.” She turned her head away from the noise of the nurses in the hall, the machines in the room, the girl by her bed. “I wish I was dead.”
Michelle made herself sit. She watched herself wait. For what, a sign? Would her mother take it all back? Elyse had been gone for three minutes. One hundred eighty seconds of oblivion. Michelle could sing the national anthem in that amount of time, recite the pledge of allegiance in pig Latin, run away and not be missed. Could she hold her breath that long? One, Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi…Michelle swung her leg back and forth. Eight, Mississippi, nine Mississippi…she felt woozy. Where was she, twenty-seven or twenty-eight Mississippi? She let the air go and gasped for breath. Three minutes was a long time.
Elyse didn’t care if Michelle earned an A in biology or wore a sundress in the snow. She didn’t care if she got to see her grow up or get married or have children. She didn’t care about her at all.
“Michelle?” Lexi’s voice cut through the past. They had passed the traffic and were riding the curves once more. “I just asked how much farther it is.”
“Oh, sorry.” Michelle shrugged. “I have no idea. That’s the point, right?”
“What were you thinking? Anything helpful? You sound annoyed.”
“I am. I was thinking of my mother. After all those nights I counted her pills, how did I not know she snuck out? To do it when I wasn’t watching?”
“It wasn’t your job to protect her,” Lexi said.
“Maybe not. But it was my job to protect Nikki. And I know I would have done anything. It would have been so easy, just to—”
“Yank the wheel?” There was a moment of stillness, then Lexi saw the tall cross by the road a hundred yards ahead. She pulled over and parked behind a few other cars. They climbed out slowly and hiked over.
Michelle felt wobbly as her heels sunk in the soft dirt. “Please don’t tell any of this to the lawyers.”
“I’m not a shrink, Michelle. As far as I’m concerned, this is emotion running amok. And with good cause.” They passed a few teenagers heading back to their cars before seeing the picture of Noah nailed to the cross above a column of shiny CDs. Flowers wilted at the base next to a pair of pink panties and a pile of guitar picks.
They stepped past the shrine to the edge of the cliff behind it. “The only thing I could possibly testify to is the fact that you have a very strong will to live. Or you would not have survived. And we wouldn’t be standing here now.”
Michelle clutched Lexi’s arm and took one more step closer. She had to see the cradle of the canyon where Noah Butler had died.
Nothing was there. A meadow grew, fed by the creek. There was no sign of a life lost or others changed forever. Michelle forgot to breathe, and darkness enveloped her for the slightest of moments.
A hawk cawed as it flew over them.
Lexi nudged her back to the car. “Shall we keep going toward the beach?”
Michelle nodded. She longed to see the ocean, put some space between her and this wooden cross.
They drove slowly through the small town of Topanga in the center of the canyon. Bicycles were locked up outside the organic café. Michelle was tempted to stop for coffee as if this was a regular day. But there were too many people out, from gauze-skirted women holding hands outside the antique barn to art lovers flocking the gallery and wine bistro. She used to love the sequined mermaid statue at the vintage clothing store. Today, she couldn’t even smile at the gray-haired protesters waving Honk for Peace signs by the post office.
A Harley-Davidson howled past. Michelle shuddered. She should have let Noah ride his damn bike home, then she wouldn’t feel responsible. Or maybe she still would. She remembered the sound of the rain, his shouts of protest as she closed her hand around his keys. Now, he was part of the local legend and her name was a rock ’n’ roll footnote.
The car crept across the creek bridge then emerged on the ocean side, where the cliff edged the opposite lane. They drove down, down, down until her ears popped. Michelle’s heart slowed to a steadier beat as they rounded a few more curves, farther and farther from where Noah had died.
Lexi pointed at the puffy tail of a deer bouncing up the mountain beside them. Michelle felt the pressure lifting as they reached the flatland, where lacy ferns lined the creek bed. And there it was, the shimmering sea. Seagulls cawed as they dive-bombed the deep blue water. Barely a whitecap was visible from here to the horizon. Michelle smelled the salt air and felt a sweet rush of relief.
Lexi coasted toward the intersection. “Which way?”
Michelle smiled at the simple choice of turning left or right at the sand. The Pacific Ocean was the ultimate guardrail. They could drive along the edge of the continent and never fall off.
26
Commuter planes flashed like sardines swimming across the sky above the Key West airport. Michelle pressed her nose to the steamy window and watched until her eyes burned. Ten hours after leaving California, she could smell sweat through the layer of baby powder she’d shaken down her back, but she didn’t dare find the ladies’ room to freshen up. Drew’s flight from Miami was an hour late and every minute mattered.
She fanned herself with the postcard she’d written to Wes, wondering if she dare call him for moral support. Here she was, following a hunch that felt craz
ier by the minute. That missed call from Florida lingered in her mind long after her drive through Malibu with Lexi. When she got home and found the disco ball earring, she could no longer resist calling back. An electronic recording answered, but it was the same exchange as the bed and breakfast run by her stepbrother. It had to be him. When she reached him, he denied making the call. But she couldn’t let it go. They were rarely in touch beyond birthday cards, so why wouldn’t he simply ask how she was doing? And if it wasn’t him, then who was it?
For three days, Michelle had done her husband’s bidding and compiled information for the real estate agent. She wanted to go through the motions of cooperating until she could see Drew in person and talk him out of selling the house. That’s when she realized she could talk to him here. If there was nothing to her suspicion about Nikki, they could at least have a family vacation and no one would be the wiser. But that call couldn’t be a coincidence. Michelle knew in her bones, there was more.
Michelle fanned herself one last time. Wes wouldn’t get the message until she had already missed her next appointment, so phoning was the polite thing to do. Then again, Kenny had warned her about cell phones. The GPS signal could be tracked so far that she had used a gum-encrusted payphone to call Frank. She dropped the postcard in the mailbox.
Michelle looked past the display of shell horns used by ancient sailors, then rolled her suitcase under the bright Welcome to the Conch Republic banner. A map of southern Florida hung on the wall next to the window of blinding blue sky. Michelle imagined Drew pointing out the airplane window, showing Tyler the white ribbon of road winding from island to island over the mint-colored sea.
On their honeymoon, Michelle and Drew had rented a convertible in Miami and sped the entire 113 miles south on the Overseas Highway. They’d imagined moving to a house hugging the shore and fishing for dinner from a rowboat. Drew would quit the film biz to sell bait. “Crickets?” she’d teased. He’d worn a Dodgers cap over a full head of hair, but his face was fried by the time they reached the Seven Mile Bridge. Michelle remembered falling silent as the car climbed high above the sea. The endless pool of aquamarine seemed to seep right into the sky with no horizon. It felt like their love would last forever.
No doubt Tyler would be more impressed by the marvel of engineering than any romantic stories she might share. But there was a toll on every road, so many turns you never took, then you found yourself here, alone in a tiny airport, watching happy families come and go. Soon, Michelle prayed, the Masons would be among them.
Flight 117 was finally announced on the tinny loudspeakers. She pulled the collar of her silk blouse away from her slick skin and tugged down her long sleeve. Then she fluffed out her hair and rolled her suitcase outside where lush palms lined the runway.
When the aircraft door clanked open, Tyler was first to appear. His hair hung below his Yankees cap and he seemed to have grown another inch since she’d last seen him. When the wave of heat hit, he whipped off his letter jacket, tightened his grip on his duffel bag, and rambled down the rollaway stairs.
Michelle put her arm around his shoulder and kissed his cheek. Passengers bunched up behind them until she pulled him aside. “Where’s your father?”
“He couldn’t get away,” Tyler said. “It’s lucky I made it. I was about to go on a school camping trip.”
Michelle’s heart felt as if it had fallen and stuck to the soft tarmac. “I’m sorry it was so last minute. I wasn’t sure Frank had room during high season.” She led him toward the taxi line.
Tyler steered both bags to the end. “Is he really your stepbrother?”
“Technically no, but he still sends birthday presents,” she said. “Nana was only married to Frank’s dad for a few months, but he was a good guy. He came to her rescue once upon a time, like a fairy tale.” Funny how infrequently Michelle thought about that period of time after she left for college. Elyse had eventually married the handsome detective who visited her in the hospital. Michelle shrugged it off and smiled at her son. “Frank is the one who sends disco ball earrings and—”
“Salt water taffy,” Tyler finished. “You said our dentist loves him.”
Michelle laughed. “Which reminds me, I have something for you.”
“I have something for you, too,” Tyler said, “but you go first.”
Michelle pulled his old Dodgers plate from her suitcase. “It’s silly, but I thought you might get a kick out of it.”
Tyler grinned and took the plate. “This makes me hungry for a Happy Meal.”
“Will you settle for a shrimp taco?” Michelle asked.
They climbed into a sweltering cab with a Rastafarian driver. Tyler stuck his face in the bleating air vent, then turned to Michelle and shouted over the reggae blasting from the radio. “Dad says if you watch the sunset toward Cuba, you’ll see a green flash. Can we do that?”
“Absolutely,” Michelle said. She peered out the window between ships’ masts at the marina where the afternoon sun glowed like a burning fuse across the Atlantic. They slowed for a clutch of chickens on a road lined with pastel houses, then turned up Duval Street, the main drag in Old Town. The street was clogged with tourists trawling between bars.
“What’s the drinking age here?” Tyler asked.
“Older than you,” Michelle said. She smiled as the taxi careened around the Conch Train Trolley on the cobblestone street. She scanned the sun-burnt families until Tyler noticed and put his arm around her.
“Don’t be sad. We’ll have a good time even without Dad. Just the two of us.”
Michelle couldn’t bring herself to tell him the real reason they were there. He deserved her full attention. She saw several cats lounging in a patch of sun by a patio restaurant and remembered his allergies. “Did you bring your inhaler?” she asked.
“Of course. I’m not a baby,” Tyler said.
Michelle was about to say he would always be her baby when they pulled into the circular driveway at the historic Curry Mansion. Tyler whistled at the sight of the gracious white Victorian. From the New England widow’s walk to the Southern columns, the inn was a testament to the treasures plundered from turn-of-the-century shipwrecks. Ragtime music was playing from the grand piano on the wraparound veranda, and a bear of a man growled from the porch.
“Mademoiselle Michelle!”
She waved, then let Tyler help her from the taxi.
Frank finished pouring a pitcher of mojitos into cups for hotel guests, then hurried down the wide stairs to welcome them. “And Master Tyler! So grown up!” He paid the cabdriver, then carried their luggage up. “Where’s hubby?”
“Stuck in New York,” Michelle said, following Tyler up to the porch.
“What a shame.”
She nodded, grateful that Frank hadn’t mentioned her bad arm or how bedraggled she must look. She surveyed the tables ringed with hotel guests enjoying the daily happy hour. Had any of them seen her daughter?
Frank poked at the albino cat sleeping on the porch rail until she stretched out a six-toed paw. “See the toes? Descendent of Hemingway’s cat, Snowball.”
Tyler petted the cat, then sneezed. “Dad said to make sure to see the Hemingway House. There’s a jillion cats there, right?”
“At least—and we’ll see them all.” Michelle gave him a smile, then glanced over his shoulder at the old man in a tuxedo playing ragtime at the piano by the serve-yourself bar. His Afro was now a cap of white curls, but his keyboard style was unmistakable. “Is that Bojangles?”
“Who else? He’ll outlast us all.” Frank opened the glass door to the house, where a welcome blast of cold air met them in the dark maple entry. Tyler whistled at the eighteenth-century furniture in the roped-off parlor. The dining table was set with so much crystal and gilded china that it seemed dinner would be served any moment.
“It’ll be a few minutes until the Madame Deveraux Suite is ready, but if you’re hungry, there are peanuts on the veranda.”
“Deveraux?” Tyler aske
d. “As in Nana? She comes here?”
“A few weeks every winter. She’s very popular.” Frank led them through the narrow hallway lined with framed sepia photographs of the historic building. “Especially with my dad.”
Michelle hadn’t known, but it made sense. He pointed to a newspaper clipping of her mother wearing a cape and a crown as she rode in the annual bed race, being pushed by a royal court of drag queens. “She didn’t come until April last year and everybody missed her so much, she was appointed Queen of the Conch Festival. She judged the Key Lime Pie Contest.” Frank tapped the top button of his bowling shirt. “I won.”
Michelle pointed at a photo of a burly man on a live-aboard sailboat. “Is that your dad?”
He nodded. “He retired from the force and moved down here—about the same time your mom started visiting. He still does a bit of surveillance on the side.” Frank grinned, then opened the door of the office. “Even checked out my partner here, before I took him on. Sterling, this is Madame Deveraux’s daughter.”
“Ah, VIPs,” he said, pushing a stack of proof sheets aside to reach for her limp hand. Michelle startled as he pressed his lips against it.
“Nice to meet you, Sterling.” Michelle pointed to the proof sheet with shots of the Curry Mansion. “You’re not changing the postcard, are you? That watercolor is classic.”
Frank nodded. “Unfortunately, classic means ‘outdated’ in the tourist trade. While our guests enjoy our escape from modern life, they do make reservations online. We need to keep the website current.” He handed her a postcard from the shelf of discount fliers by the office door. “Collector’s item.”
Michelle smiled and surveyed the tourist attractions. “Tyler, why don’t you take some brochures out to the veranda and plan our week while I check in. Which do you recommend, Frank? Aquarium? Cheap cruise ship connection to Miami?”
Frank shook his head and gave a few fliers to Tyler. “Deep sea fishing, that’s the ticket.”
