by Rosa Sophia
“Mom died.” The words are short, quick, delivered in a low, heavy tone that betrays unimaginable sorrow.
“What?” I try to think of her, but I’ve never seen her. I don’t know if Wes takes after her, or his father. All I know is that his mother is the main provider in the family, the CEO of Winder Communications. The vast building is hard to miss in West Palm Beach, its hundreds of shimmering windows catching the sunlight as if made of crystal prisms. I dig my toes deeper into the sand. “What…what happened?”
“Did I ever tell you that Mom’s a runner too?”
“No.” I think of Dad, and that moment when I was little and I raced him across the yard. I don’t think I’ve ever told Wes about that. There’s so much we don’t know about each other, yet we shared a bed once. Nothing seems to stick with us. I wonder if it’s because we have so much in common—too much.
“She runs every other day,” Wes says. “But on Friday mornings, before heading into the office she owns in Cocoa Beach, she runs…she ran…” He clears his throat. “She ran with a group of people from around the area, every week. Well, her running club was heading down a street that’s usually not too bad, toward an intersection. They went to cross. I guess they didn’t really have right-of-way. Mom and another woman were both hit at the same time by a truck, and Mom…”
I take his hand because he’s unable to finish the sentence. I learn this happened while he was away in Australia, and because of his inability to use his phone while abroad, he didn’t find out until a couple days later when his father was finally able to get in touch with him on the internet.
“God, Wes. I’m so sorry.” Tentatively, I put my arms around him. At first, he doesn’t respond. But then he reciprocates, and for a moment it seems like we’re the only ones on the beach. Everything else slips away. The water washes around my legs, but I barely notice it splashing against my calves.
There’s a lot Wes and I don’t know about each other. Some of it had been left out, too difficult to discuss. Once, I told Wes that my father died in a car accident when I was ten. But it wasn’t entirely true. He left his body behind for a year, hanging onto life, and breathing but not mentally present.
He may as well have been dead.
Chapter 7
Eighteen Years Ago
I am going to be eleven next week. Daddy should be at the party, but he won’t be. And there won’t be a party either, because Mommy says she can’t handle it. I know she’s drinking. I’m not stupid. I never drank anything before, but Mommy has this stuff in the kitchen that’s the color of root beer, and she says it makes her feel better. We had this thing at school once where this pear-shaped man with a round face and a thin mustache told us we should stay away from drugs and alcohol, so what she’s doing can’t be right. I’m so angry at her that I slammed my door last night before bed and screamed into my pillow.
We’re at the nursing home, and Mommy left the room. I’m sitting in front of Daddy, who’s in a wheelchair and has an empty look on his face. Daddy looks different. He’s thinner, and his skin is pale, grayish. He’s been like this for almost an entire year, a feeding tube in his throat, his eyes half-closed most of the time.
I remember when the nurse gave us a progress report one day, sounding so excited. “He’s breathing on his own,” she’d said, smiling, looking way too happy about that as far as I was concerned.
I wanted to tell her that up until the car accident, Daddy was running. Talking. Laughing. Living. Doing all that on his own. What made breathing so great?
I turn and make sure I’m alone. The walls are off-white and the air is tinged with an antiseptic smell. Gross. Cheaply framed copies of paintings hang on the walls, depicting landscape scenes.
Mommy had them take Daddy out of bed and bring him into this sitting room, where there’s a picture window overlooking the bright back yard. Outside, an aide is walking slowly beside a fragile looking woman with a walker. A bird swoops overhead and lands on a tree branch. Ibis peck at the grass and scatter away from the passersby. We were hoping if Daddy sat here for a while, he might see something, react. Like a normal person.
“Daddy.” I lean forward, then I stand, peering into his eyes. Mommy isn’t around, so this is my chance. “Dad, we have to talk.” I clear my throat. “Mommy’s drinking a lot. She’s looking for a job, but she has trouble waking up in the morning, and she missed her last interview. She’s going to grief counseling, but it doesn’t seem to help. I don’t know what to do.” My voice cracks. Daddy was always so good at giving advice, and I’m almost angry that he isn’t telling me how to deal with this.
“Listen,” I whisper. “Mommy’s drinking because you’re gone. She misses you. Will you just come back, please? I’ll take care of her, Daddy. I’ll look after her. I’ll make sure she doesn’t get hurt. But you have to promise me something.” I brace my hands on his wheelchair. I can feel the warmth from his arms. How can someone so warm, someone who is breathing on his own, be so unresponsive?
I stare into his eyes, trying to find life inside them. Trying to see something that will confirm he’s coming back to me.
“Daddy. You have to promise me that you’ll wake up. That you’ll come home. I’ll take care of Mommy, but you have to promise me.”
His eyes are moist, but I can’t remember if they were already like that or not. Silence. I hear an announcement over the loudspeaker, from the nurses’ station, but the voice is so muffled I can’t make it out. I concentrate on Daddy. Then, he blinks. Slowly, his eyelids lower, and then lift.
My mouth gapes in momentary expectation, and I can already see him sitting up and telling me he’d orchestrated a cruel joke and wanted to see how we’d react. That he’s okay after all. But he doesn’t move.
He doesn’t move, but he blinked. He blinked.
That’s enough of a promise for me.
Chapter 8
One Week Ago
I lean down and rub my nose against the cat’s forehead, listening to its loud purring. When I first moved in, Jenny’s cat didn’t like me, but he seems to have changed his mind. I guess I passed all his tests. I turn and sit down at the dining table, facing away from the back of the couch where the cat continues to purr, contented. Beside me, Roberta has her nose in Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand.
Jenny calls out from the kitchen, “Coffee?”
“Sure.” Not a bad idea, since I have to be at work for the evening shift. I still have a few hours to go. It’s a hassle having to structure my entire day around a three hour evening shift at work, but Lynn needs someone to help her close the bookstore.
Suddenly, Roberta looks up and says, “I don’t know what they’re talking about.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
Jenny brings out the coffee and places a full mug in front of me, and one in front of Roberta, before sitting down.
“This book,” Roberta says. “Everybody told me it’s boring. It’s really not. I think it’s great.”
I laugh, gently squeezing her shoulder. “You’re one in a million, girl.”
Jenny leans across the shining glass surface. “So. What’s up, Nina?”
“Nothing much.”
Roberta peers over her book. She’s shaking her head, her hair messy as usual. One of her father’s handmade scarves is wrapped around her neck despite the warmth outside. Maybe the air conditioning is too cold for her. “Yeah, okay,” she says. “You’ve been walking around here for the last few days looking ridiculously confused. What gives?”
“Don’t act dumb. Wes is back from wandering all over the place again.”
Roberta grins. “He met her at the race.”
The corner of Jenny’s mouth turns up. “Ah. Yeah, I told him where to find you when he sent me a text message. I should’ve guessed.”
“Guessed what?”
“I knew this hadn’t ended when you went to North Carolina. I knew it was only a matter of time.”
“Jenny, it’s not like we’re dating or something. But
I will admit, I’m a little confused. I just don’t know what to think.” I watch both girls sip their coffee. “His mom died while he was in Australia.”
Roberta slowly lowers her cup. “Wow. Really?”
“Yeah. It was real bad. She got hit by a truck while she was running in Cocoa Beach.”
Jenny slaps her hand over her mouth, then slowly slides it down. “Oh my God. I think I saw that in the news. She runs that huge firm, right? I mean, she ran it…”
“Yeah. Winder Communications. They have at least two locations that I know of in Florida, maybe more. Wes says he and his dad won’t have to worry about anything for a long time, as far as money goes, but…” I slump back, staring at the steam rising from my mug. “I just can’t believe it.”
“Kind of weird, isn’t it?” Roberta says.
I glance up. “Yeah. She was too young.”
“The circumstances are even stranger,” Jenny says.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s just odd, you and Wes.” When I look at her questioningly, she adds, “Your dad was killed because of an accident when you were a kid. His mom was killed in an accident. Both parents were runners, and so are you and Wes.”
“Okay, Miss Philosopher.” I mock her with an exaggerated roll of my eyes. “What is this, some kind of universal truth bullshit?”
“Oh, jeez, Nina. Listen. I don’t know what I believe in, you know that. My parents are hardcore religious, but I was never quite sure.” She sinks back in her seat, still holding her mug. “I don’t know if I believe in coincidences. There are similarities there, for sure. But I think the main thing you have is an opportunity to help him because you understand what it’s like. You lost your dad. I just…I can’t fathom what he must be going through. Just be there for him.”
“I will.”
I know I’ll always be there for Wes, no matter what happens after this. Even if I never saw him again, I would still consider him a friend. Yet, the idea of not seeing Wes again makes me uncomfortable. I feel linked to him, intrinsically connected on a level most people never consider. A level that goes beyond spiritual.
“I want to be there for him,” I say, failing to think before I speak. “But I don’t know what’s going on between us. Or if there’s anything there at all.”
Roberta leans her elbows on the table, tilting her head. “Just let it happen naturally.”
Jenny nods. “Or…not at all.”
“What do you mean?”
“I believe everyone comes into our lives for a reason, Nina. Every single person, right down to the cashier at the grocery store.” Jenny smirks. “But sometimes…sometimes we get really close to people, and we feel like everything falls apart.” She has a wistful look on her face, and I can tell she’s thinking of something in her own past. “But I think even when everything in a relationship or a friendship crumbles, there is still a reason for it. We were meant to learn something from it. No matter what happens between you and Wes, just remember we’re meant to learn something from each person we meet. Then we grow, and we let go. If I were you, I would ask…what did you learn from him? Think about it.”
I gape at her. “I’ve never heard you get so deep before.”
“Girl, you just wait,” she jokes. “I’ve got more where that came from.”
The three of us finish our coffee. I get ready for work, sinking even further into contemplation than before.
Chapter 9
I drive to the bookstore in a daze, thinking of what Jenny had said.
What did I learn from him?
The question is easier to answer than I thought. When I first met Wes during the race a little over two years ago, I was a mess. I was running, in part, to get away from my mother, whose evening drinking transformed her into someone I didn’t recognize. My connection to Wes was instant, but it wasn’t love at first sight. No—it was more like looking into a mirror. In him, I saw what I wanted to be. Strong, adventurous, in control. I was none of those things.
Because I was raped when I was fifteen, I couldn’t stomach intimacy. Wes took me to bed with him and showed me that I could still enjoy sex, helping me to release the trauma of my past. Our friendship is unconventional, and I knew that night wouldn’t last forever, but it was a good start on my path to accepting that I could be intimate with another person without breaking. I wonder if we will stay friends, if the passion between us is temporary.
Again, I ask myself: What did I learn from him?
I learned I could let go, and that letting go didn’t have to mean committing. There was no right or wrong about how I felt. I’d shared something special with him, but I learned I didn’t have to follow societal conventions and force myself into a situation I wasn’t ready for. I had deep feelings for Wes, but because I was uncertain what those feelings were, I protected myself. I didn’t think he fully understood what we shared either.
I’m so lost in thought that when I pull into my parking space at the bookstore, my car slams unceremoniously into the concrete block stopping me from rolling over the sidewalk. I turn the car off and pull the key out of the ignition, hoping no one saw me do that. The parking lot is fairly empty. I climb out, grabbing my things before locking the car doors and heading inside.
Lynn is at the front counter taking books out of a cardboard box. “Oh!” She looks up when the bell on the front door sounds my arrival, and sweeps her curly blonde hair off her shoulder. She’s dressed in a blue blazer and slacks, her gold jewelry shimmering in the light. “Just in time. You can shelve the new shipment of New York Times bestsellers.”
“Slow today?”
“I was busy until about thirty minutes ago, then everyone left.”
“How come that always happens right before I get here?” I shove my things under the counter.
Lynn shrugs. “Well, we have plenty of time to get some extra stuff done, which should make tomorrow go smoothly. We have that book signing, and then the local writers’ group is meeting here in the late afternoon.”
“Sounds good.”
After a quick chat, during which she asks me about the race, I get to work stocking books. I enjoy the quiet of the bookstore, only interrupted by the occasional customer coming in to browse the shelves. An old man sits down in one of the cozy armchairs to read the newspaper. It is a slow, relaxing evening.
“Hey,” a deep male voice intones.
I gasp and startle, dropping a stack of Florida history books as I turn on my heel to find Wes standing there. I can feel my cheeks heating.
He chuckles, bending to pick up the books for me. I take them out of his arms, brushing against him in the process. “Sorry.”
“What are you apologizing for? I’m the one who made you drop the books.” He watches me shelve them, then tugs an envelope out of his back pocket. “I got you something.”
“What’s this?” I ask, taking it from him slowly.
“Don’t look so suspicious.” He winks, the dimple in his cheek deepening with his smile.
I tug the slim item out of the envelope and laugh. It’s an oval bumper sticker that reads ‘13.1’. “Really?” I glance up at him, tucking the sticker back into the envelope.
“Well, you did just run your first half-marathon, and I couldn’t stand the idea of you driving around in a car that fails to proclaim it on your bumper.”
“Classy,” I tease, heading back for the counter.
“When are they letting you out of here?” Wes nods hello to Lynn, who offers a surreptitious grin before ducking into the back room for something.
“We close at six o’clock.”
“Okay, I’ll pick you up then.”
“Why, what are we doing?” I ask.
“You’ll see.” And with that, he gives me a quick wave, and leaves the shop.
***
I had grown up in the area, and I had viewed the Jupiter Lighthouse many times from the shore at Dubois Park, but I had never once climbed the lighthouse. I knew from friends that there were one hu
ndred and five steps. To me, that meant one hundred and five chances to fall. One hundred and five moments in which I would not feel safe, not firmly on the ground.
Wes parks the car and I look ahead, my lips parted slightly as I stare at the tip of the lighthouse peeking over the trees.
“Uh…”
“Come on,” he says, jumping out of the car. When I don’t follow, he opens the passenger door for me.
“Why are we here?” I ask, climbing out.
“Lighthouse sunset tour. Have you ever climbed up before?”
“No…and I don’t really want to now.” My anxiety must be apparent. He begins to scrutinize me, his brow crinkling as he locks the car doors.
As he strolls through the parking lot, I follow alongside him. “Are you afraid of heights?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Wow. You didn’t even hesitate.”
“Well, it’s true.”
“There’s a lot you’re afraid of, isn’t there?”
I feel my cheeks heat at his direct question. Recalling the night in the hotel, and the passionate time we spent together before I left him there, I can’t deny there are a lot of things I’m afraid of. Chief amongst them is Wes himself, though the fear has lessened. Passion frightens me because I can’t help but feel there might be a moment when passion turns into something I cannot control, becoming altogether loathsome. Anything I can’t control worries me, which is why I get nervous whenever I go somewhere and someone else drives.
I think of the dream I had, when Wes drove and crashed the car, but before I woke up he looked at me and said, “With impact comes change.”
He brushes his hand against my arm. “Hey. Did you hear me?”
“What?” I realize we’re standing on the porch of the building in which the lighthouse museum is housed, and there’s a sign that displays the cost of the tour. There are groups of people standing around wearing colored stickers that display the words, ‘I climbed Jupiter Lighthouse!’ All of them seem to be waiting for the tour to start. A few of them glance at watches and cell phones.
