If You're Lucky

by Yvonne Prinz

  “Hey, I made lasagna,” said my mom. “Fin’s staying.” Her cheeks were flushed from the wine.

  Fin looked up at me again with a wide grin that seemed to say I’m in.

  “I’ll check on that lasagna.” I retreated to the oven.

  Over dinner, I started to understand how he did it: how he skillfully deflected any questions that might connect him to a place, a family, or a home, or a past. He responded with here and there and around and this and that. He asked a lot more questions than he answered and he seemed keen to know about other people’s lives, which was disarming and charming at the same time.

  “I hear you’re playing with the Hot Club,” said my dad. “Those guys are pretty good. Where’d you learn to play guitar like that?”

  “Oh, uh, Julliard,” said Fin, as though he were saying community college. Julliard? He went to Julliard? How in the hell did he go from being a street kid to Julliard?

  “Fin, that’s a wonderful school. I’m very impressed!” said my mom.

  Fin shrugged and refilled my mom’s wineglass.

  I wanted to file that piece of vital information for later, but at the moment it was clanging around my head like a pair of garbage can lids.

  “I used to play a little myself but I’m not sure I can keep up with a Julliard graduate,” said my dad.

  “Course you can. I’ll bring my guitar over next time.”

  “I’ll have to dust mine off. I’m not even sure where I put that thing. The strings are probably dead.”

  “I’ll restring it for you if you like,” said Fin.

  Things were getting pretty cozy. I changed the subject. “Is Fin your real name?”

  Fin took a sip of his wine and shot me a bit of a dark look. “It’s a nickname. You know, because I’m in the water a lot.”

  But he wasn’t in the water a lot. As far as I could tell, he hadn’t been surfing once since he’d arrived.

  Fin started a conversation with my mom about her art. Then he asked my dad about oyster farming. More wine was poured and soon the room was filled with laughter and my parents were treating their new friend like he was their long-lost son. My jaw started to clench. My dad started pulling out all his favorite jazz CDs and putting them on. He was getting excited, remembering concerts and clubs he went to “back in the day.” Fin was right there with him. He knew music even better than Lucky had. I gathered up the empty plates and carried them to the kitchen. As I set them down on the counter, it occurred to me again that Fin had slipped right into Lucky’s life like it was a vacant parking space. He hadn’t counted on resistance from Lucky’s little sister, though. I sat down again at the table and Fin’s knee brushed against my thigh. I kept my leg there, with his knee pressing into my thigh. I stared at him, daring him to move it. He held my gaze. It seemed like he was physically trying to coax me onboard with everyone else who was falling for him.

  I excused myself and went to the bathroom. Then I slipped into my bedroom and opened my laptop and looked around till I found a site for Julliard alumni. I typed in “Abel Sacula” and clicked “search.” Suddenly he was there on my screen, staring out at me with those dark eyes. His hair was a lot shorter, but he was the same guy who was sitting at my table with my parents right now. The contact part of his bio was blank. Everything else seemed to match up, though. The dates made sense. He was a Julliard graduate all right. Laughter and music drifted in from the other room. Then it got quiet. I looked up. The knob on my bedroom door turned slowly and the door opened. Fin’s face appeared.

  “Oh, sorry. I thought this was the bathroom.” He looked at my laptop and I resisted the urge to slam it shut.

  “It’s the next door down.”

  “Okay. You coming back? Your mom’s got pie.”

  “I’ll be right there. Just checking my e-mail.”

  His eyes lingered on mine for a few seconds and then he slowly closed the door.

  I listened for the bathroom door to close but I heard nothing. I tiptoed across the floor and turned the doorknob quietly and opened the door an inch, peering out. The bathroom was empty. The door stood wide open. Then I heard footsteps on wood. Fin was in Lucky’s room. I carefully closed my door and waited. I heard a drawer slowly slide open and then closed. Several minutes later I heard him walk back up the hallway. Had he taken something of Lucky’s?

  When I finally got back to the table, they’d polished off a second bottle of wine. My mom was in the kitchen, slicing up homemade blackberry pie. I watched as my dad offered Fin Lucky’s job at the oyster farm. I felt powerless at what was happening under everyone’s noses. Something snapped in my brain. I had to say something.

  “Really, Dad,” I said. “Lucky’s job? Isn’t it bad enough that he’s sitting in Lucky’s chair, eating dinner with Lucky’s parents with Lucky’s dog at his feet? Next thing you know he’ll be sleeping in Lucky’s bed. Can’t you see what’s happening here?”

  The room went silent. All three of them stared at me with varying degrees of shock. My mom held a plate with a slice of pie on it in midair.

  Fin’s lips curled slowly into a smile. “Wow, George, did you take your meds today?”

  My mom looked at Fin and then back at me. “Honey, he didn’t mean anything by sitting there, and your dad needs someone at the farm. I think you should apologize to Fin.”

  My dad looked confused.

  I was humiliated. My face went hot. Fin darkened when I looked at him again. The smile had vanished. He seemed to be telling me to stop this . . . or else. A flutter of fear ran through me. I stood up and pushed my chair back. I left the room.

  I heard my mom apologizing for me and explaining that I’d had a tough time lately. Fin responded graciously. No one seemed to see what had just happened. Not the way I saw it, anyway.

  Sixteen

  My mother started policing my meds as instructed by Dr. Saul, who put me back on my old dosage. Three times a day she poured me a glass of water, shook a pill out of the bottle, handed it to me, and watched me swallow. She soon stopped asking me to open my mouth and stick out my tongue and lift it up so she could peer under it. She made a big deal about “trusting me.” She never saw me slide the pill between the inside of my cheek and my molars. The bitterness made me fight the urge to gag. As soon as she was out of sight I spit the pill into my hand and threw it out my bedroom window. Then I brushed my teeth vigorously.

  My mom kept me close now. Things that she used to do alone she now did with me. I know that she valued her alone time and she probably resented having me along.

  “Do you wish it was me?” I asked as we drove north along the coast.

  “Do I wish it was you what?”

  “Instead of Lucky, do you wish it was me?”

  She took her eyes off the road to look at me. “No, of course not. Don’t say things like that.”

  “It’s okay if you do. I wish it was me too.”

  She looked exasperated. “Please, Georgia. Stop.”

  My mom was gearing up to do a wood firing. She used to teach pottery classes and her eager students would fall all over themselves to help, but now she’s too busy with her own work and gallery shows to teach, so she’s making me help her. Years ago, my dad built the stone kiln in the backyard. It sits in the middle of a sandpit. It’s hot and dangerous. The fire needs to be stoked every few hours and it has to stay blazing hot. Earlier that morning, we stacked a cord of wood that the wood guy delivered. Then we got in the car. Seaweed is a big component of these wood firings. My mom adds it along with some other organic things like rice and tea leaves to the kiln to give each pot a unique finish. The best seaweed is down toward Fort Ross, right near where we scattered Lucky’s ashes. My mom parked the car in the dirt lot and we trudged down the rocky beach in rubber boots.

  “Gross!” I said, as I picked up the disgusting-smelling seaweed and dropped it into a big garbage bag. “Really gross, Mom!”

  “It’s not that bad,” she said.

  The sun was out but it was c
old and windy and the beach was deserted except for a flock of gulls that sat hunkered down in the sand, watching us with mild interest.

  Thousands of tiny flies swarmed over the piles. I kicked at each pile to scatter them before I could touch the seaweed with my gloved hand, but they still flew up into my face. I was chilled and miserable. With a full bag each, my mom and I started trudging through the wet sand, dragging our heavy bags across the beach to the car. Something compelled me to turn around and look back out at the choppy water. I shielded my eyes from the sun and looked for the spot where we’d scattered Lucky’s ashes. A head popped up out of the water, a seal of course, it had to be a seal, but then I saw blond curls and an arm waving for help.

  “George! Help me!” I heard Lucky calling out to me.

  I dropped my bag and start running back toward the water. My boots were heavy and slow in the sand but I kept my eye on the bobbing head and the waving arm.

  “Lucky!” I called out to him, running in slow motion. “Lucky, I’m coming!”

  My mom caught up to me and tackled me from behind just as a wave retreated and I was finally getting some traction on the wet sand. We hit the ground and rolled around.

  “Let go of me!” I shrieked. I couldn’t believe she was trying to pin me. I squirmed around, trying to get out from under her, straining to see above the wave that was fast approaching. I had to get to Lucky.

  “Mom, it’s Lucky. We have to help him. Get the hell off me!”

  My mom got up and pulled me roughly to my feet. “Look!” She pointed. “It’s a seal.”

  I looked out at a glossy black-headed seal, bobbing in a wave, watching the commotion on the shore with curiosity. I scanned the horizon for that blond head. It was gone. I had to wait for him to resurface.

  “I heard him, Mom! He was calling me.”

  “Seagulls,” she said. She wrapped her strong arms around me and pulled me firmly to her. “Stop it, baby. You’re scaring me.” She said this quietly into my ear. I looked up at her, my eyes filled with tears. “I saw him, Mom. I did.”

  She held my face in her rough hands and kissed my cheek. She dropped her hands to her sides and stalked over to her bag of seaweed. I stood watching the water, waiting.

  “Georgia, let’s go!” called my mom. I finally followed her and we trudged side by side up the beach, dragging the bags across the sand. I looked over my shoulder again and again, all the way up the beach.

  Seventeen

  From my bedroom window I watched my mom in her studio. She was examining the pots she’d pulled from her kiln the day before, picking up one at a time and slowly turning them to see every side. She put one down in the center of her worktable and picked up her camera and took a photo of it.

  A few days had passed since the incident at the beach so my mom wasn’t watching me quite as closely anymore. I’d been planning a trip down to Fin’s cottage for a while and now seemed like a good time to slip away unnoticed. I wasn’t entirely sure what I was looking for but I would know when I saw it. I pulled on my jeans and left out the back door. I started down the hill, walking briskly. I knew that Fin was out of his place because I’d listened from my room when he picked up Rocket earlier.

  When I got close to Jeff and Miles’s house, I slowed my pace and tried to look casual, like I was out for a stroll. I turned into their drive. It was all clear. I looked around and quickly crossed the lawn to the cottage at the back of the property. The redwood on the exterior was weather-worn to a smooth silver. Red-and-white-checkered curtains hung in the window. It looked like a fairy-tale place.

  The latch on the wooden door gave easily. Once inside, I walked around the small cabin, making sure that there were no signs that anyone was there. I looked out the window. All was quiet except for the gentle rolling sound of the waves and the crows cawing in the redwoods. An Italian coffeemaker sat on the small stove. The side of it felt barely warm. There were two used coffee mugs on the countertop, one with Sonia’s bright lipstick on the edge. A plastic honey bear sat next to the mugs. Honey dripped down its belly. All around me were mementos of a couple in love: rocks and shells picked up on the beach and carefully lined up on a wooden shelf, candles burned down to nubs, a half-full bottle of red wine with the cork forced back in, and the white sheets on the unmade bed entwined like the ghosts of lovers. On the top of the dresser in a driftwood frame there was a photo of Lucky, Fin, and Sonia. I picked it up. It was taken on a beach in Australia. Sonia is in the middle and has her arms around both guys’ waists.

  Fin’s guitar leaned against a straight-backed wooden chair. I went to it and picked it up carefully. The finish was worn down to the bare wood where a pick had rubbed against it thousands of times. On the back of the neck, the initials YS were burned into the wood in curly script—Yuri Sacula, Fin’s dad. I set it down. I pulled open the wooden drawers on an old carved dresser. Most of them contained piles of Fin’s neatly folded clothing: T-shirts, sweaters, a couple of pairs of jeans. I tried the bottom drawer but it was locked. The lock was old. I looked around for a key but Fin probably had it with him and I’d never picked a lock in my life so that wasn’t an option. I sat down on the floor and braced my feet against the feet of the dresser and gave the drawer a really good yank. The lock broke and the drawer flew open, pitching me backward. Jeff and Miles would die if they saw me do that.

  The drawer was empty except for a handmade wooden box. I took it out and opened it. Inside there was a stack of photos, an old necklace, a few guitar picks, and a simple silver signet ring engraved with the initials YS again. I leaned against the bed and looked carefully at the first picture. It was a black-and-white photo of a darkly handsome man wearing a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. It was Yuri Sacula. He was sitting in a wooden chair holding a small, dark-haired Fin on his lap. Fin was grinning at the camera. The resemblance to his dad was uncanny. Behind them on the table were the remains of a meal: a breadboard with a knife, the end of a baguette, a chunk of cheese, and an empty bottle of wine with glasses at two places. The background looked like a bohemian apartment. The photographer must have been Fin’s mom, Sophie. In the next photo, Yuri sat on a stage, playing guitar. He was wearing a finely tailored dark suit. A cigarette dangled from his mouth and his face looked just like Fin’s did at the club that night, like there was nothing in the world but the music. I looked closely at his hands. He was wearing the signet ring. A stand-up bass player and a rhythm guitar player were onstage with him, also in suits. In the third photo Fin and his dad were sitting across from each other, playing guitar. Fin looked about six years old. He was leaning over his small guitar, intently studying his dad’s fingers. Then there was a photo of a very attractive woman in a stylish dress and heels. This had to be Sophie. She was walking up a narrow cobblestone street, carrying a straw bag in one hand. Her other hand held Fin’s little hand. Her deep-red hair was swept up into an updo and she wore bold red lipstick. Almost every detail matched exactly the way Sonia looked now. She was smiling alluringly at the photographer. Fin was looking up at his mother with great affection. He had on a little pair of trousers and a tweed newsboy cap. He looked about four years old.

  The next one was taken on a boat somewhere. A boy, about eighteen, was standing at the railing. He was tan and windblown. He looked like the privileged son of wealthy parents. I wondered how he fit into Fin’s life. The last group of photos were candid, it seemed. They were pictures of Lucky and Sonia. In one they were walking along a beach, talking, looking solemn. There were a few of Sonia asleep in the backseat of a car and one of Lucky and Sonia asleep together in a bed—Lucky’s arm was slung over Sonia’s waist from behind. There was one of Lucky showering at the beach. And then several of Sonia walking, laughing, swimming, reading a book, surfing. Then there were a few of the boy from the boat photo: a couple of him asleep in bed, possibly taken the same night. Had Fin watched him sleep? A few others of the boy were taken through the window of a café where he’s sipping coffee and looking lost in thought, or p
erhaps he was waiting for someone. It was clear to me that these photos weren’t meant to be seen by anyone but Fin. I exhaled. I’d been holding my breath. The photos proved nothing but they offered me a glimpse of a dark side of Fin I’d started to suspect.

  As I put the photos back I noticed a note folded up at the bottom of the box. I removed it and unfolded it quickly. My hands were shaking now. The note was written in French with a fountain pen. I refolded it and stuffed it into the pocket of my jeans.

  I tried lamely to fix the lock but it was no use. The next time Fin opened this drawer he would know that someone had been in here.

  I sat on the bed and looked around. I felt desperately alone. I kept finding myself in places that my rational mind had nothing to do with. The things that I was putting together about Fin were just too sensational to fit into my safe sleepy life here in False Bay. I was scared. I wanted more than anything to go back to the way things used to be but it was too late. Something kept pushing me on, or maybe it was someone. Maybe it was Lucky.

  Eighteen

  I walked home, uneasy about what I’d just done. I sat at the kitchen table, lost in thought, but then I took my laptop into Lucky’s room. Rocket was still on a date with Fin. My mom was still out in her studio and my dad was at the farm. The house was quiet. There were bits of Rocket’s fur on the quilt in the shape of a curled-up dog. No one bothered to shoo him off the bed anymore.