by Cathy Lamb
“I love you so much, Evie! Hi, Sundance! Hi, Mars and Ghost!”
“I love you, too, Jules!”
“Mack is so smart.” She blew her nose again. “The other night in bed he knew exactly what position I wanted to be in before I even asked!”
Now that is one smart man. Sundance barked again.
We laughed.
* * *
I had to bring Mars, Jupiter, Venus, and Ghost to see Marco. Thank the Lord it was time for their annual exams and shots so I could gaze upon his gorgeousness. I am meticulous about my animals’ health. A healthy animal is a happy animal. But a healthy glimpse of Marco would make me a happy animal, too.
I made an appointment, sitting on my leather couch at home that afternoon, but Marco had no time for a week. My cats leaped onto my lap. One of them jumped off a pile of books leaned up against my pink rose wallpaper and knocked them to the ground.
“He’s jammed,” Gayle told me. “I’ve got you in for Tuesday, last appointment for the day because . . . uh . . . huh . . . because you work late!” she said victoriously. Aw, Gayle. What a pal. “I may see you tonight, Evie. I’m coming to your mom and aunts’ house for Sailor Singing Tunes.”
“I’ll look forward to seeing you.” I would stay for a while and sing along, then leave. I can handle social stuff for a while, then I get overwhelmed.
“I’ve got my sailor hat!” Gayle said.
There. I had something to look forward to. Drunken sailor songs.
I pet my cats as they crowded onto my lap and then started to fall asleep one by one. I can’t get anything done with a pile of cats on my lap, so I pretended to sigh and think of all the things I should be doing like cleaning my house, which is so boring. Or trying to get in shape, which is so painful. I picked up a book and happily began to read as they slept.
Then I daydreamed about making love to my love, Marco.
* * *
That night the singing sailors all converged for dinner on the deck at Rose Bloom Cottage, the red and pink roses pouring over the outdoor trellis. The women all wore sailor gear or sailor hats, with flowers my mother and aunts added. They were loud, funny, and sang on full blast.
When I watch my mother and aunts I don’t fear getting older. After all, if one is allowed to get older or old, you are lucky, indeed.
Plus, my mother and aunts feel grateful to be in their seventies. They have been through the beauties of life. They have been through the hardships of life. They have lost and loved. They have worked hard all their lives. They know what they value the most: Family. Us. Friends. The island. Helping other people.
They laugh, they drink, they grow flowers and run a shop and hang with their friends. They do nice things for people all the time and bring joy to others and to this whole town with their wild shenanigans.
They are gifts. They are living life.
I admire them. I respect them. I love them, funny hats and all.
The sailor songs, which my Aunt Camellia printed out, had a lot of salty language and swear words. They were hilarious. I needed songs to lift my heart, and it was lifted on the sometimes poorly but enthusiastically sung musical notes in Rose Bloom Cottage, a sailor hat with daisies and delphinium on my head.
Sundance howled, joining in. What a cool friend he is to all of us.
Chapter 24
“Serafina kept doing kind things for others. She told her parents that she couldn’t be who she wanted to be if she stopped, so she didn’t. One row of rainbow-colored scales was soon gone, then another, then another, from her waist to the end of her tail. She grew greener and greener, but she found that she liked having a shiny green tail.”
“Like her whole family.”
“Like her family. Serafina knew she could cry about losing her scales, but what would that do? It wouldn’t bring the scales back. Plus, every time she played with her brothers in the waves, or they swam out to sun themselves on a tiny island in the middle of the ocean, or rode on the backs of whales altogether, she knew it was worth it. She never could have been happy without her brothers, if they had been locked in King Koradome’s cage.”
“What happened when she had no more scales left?”
“Well that’s where this story gets interesting.”
Chapter 25
“I love you so much, Evie.”
“I love you, too, Mom.” It was Sunday afternoon, and we were walking the property, greeting the animals. Alpaca Joe was standing close to Virginia Alpaca, as if afraid to let her out of his sight. He’s a little too possessive. We said hello and Virginia Alpaca stuck her nose out to be pet. I hugged her. Alpaca Joe spit.
Sundance walked right beside me, wobbling a bit as usual, while Butch and Cassidy ran around ahead of us. I saw Ghost in the distance, right by the yellow-orange rose garden, and I saw Mars and Jupiter underneath the iris leaves. I think Jupiter had a mouse, but I didn’t look too carefully.
We said hello to Shakespeare and Jane Austen, who whinnied. I gave them each an apple. The lambs filed in as a line of five to see us, and the goats stood on the roof of their little blue house. “Stay in your pen today, Mr. Bob and Trixie Goat,” I called out. I picked up Ghost and gave her a hug after she wound herself around my legs. I love my animals.
My mother was wearing a plain old blue hat today, which was highly unusual. Where was the fluff and frill, her ribbons and flowers? Her mind was elsewhere. She was deep in thought, worried, distracted.
“Mom?”
She turned to me, and I stared. Were there tears in her eyes?
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I was . . .” She cleared her throat, took off her hat, and ran a hand through her neat, bell-shaped hair. “I was thinking about how wonderful it was when I held you in my arms the first time when you were a baby. You were pink and sweet, so tiny.”
“Probably screaming.”
“Yes. You were screaming. You screamed for days. Weeks.” She stopped, as if she’d said too much.
“I didn’t know that. Sorry about that. Hope I didn’t blow your ears out. I didn’t know I was that loud for that long.”
She nodded, her face drawn. “You had a lot to say.”
“Mom, what’s wrong?”
“Time goes by so quickly.”
I put my arm around her. She was pale, her happy energy not there today. We headed out to the pond, then sat down on the red bench, the lily pads floating, so soft, a blue heron taking off in flight, his wings graceful, strong.
“Maybe I’m feeling sentimental, emotional, because Jules is getting married. You own your own bookstore, you’ve turned a run-down carriage house into a home. You’re both so smart and strong and driven, and I love you two. You are my heart, you and your sister, as you both were your father’s heart, too.”
I ached for my dad, a pain in my chest. The pain for a beloved parent never leaves, I think; the grief sneaks up on you sometimes, bringing an aloneness that only that parent can fill. I took a deep breath as she wiped tears from her cheeks. “Mom, what is it? There’s something else. Are you sick? Is Aunt Camellia or Aunt Iris sick?”
“No, no. We’re three healthy, old rebels who sometimes drink too much wine.”
“But you’re upset.” I was so worried. What was this all about? There was something wrong. There had been something wrong for weeks.
She smiled at me, too brightly. “Love for you two makes me cry.”
That wasn’t it. She always told us she loved us and she didn’t cry about it. I pried a bit, and she diverted my questions, changed the subject, I tried again, and she sashayed away conversationally speaking, and we started talking about the flowers she was going to plant for her fall bouquets inside the greenhouse. The blue heron came back, gliding over the pond.
I studied her. She was staring at the heron but not seeing it.
“Mom, please. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, dear. Nothing at all.”
She lied.
My worry ratcheted up another
ten notches.
* * *
Finally, my glorious cat appointment with Marco rolled around. I washed my hair and blew it out into a clean black wave. I put on red lacy underwear and a red lacy push-up bra. Marco would see neither, but I needed confidence. I pulled on a red shirt with ruffles down the front and unbuttoned one button too many. I laid on my bed to squeeze myself into my light blue jeans. I needed to go running or work out. I laughed as I sucked in to button them. Nah. That would hurt. I slipped in my earrings with three red roses hanging in a row.
As usual, I’d scheduled myself for the last appointment of the day. I told Gayle after Marco arrived on the island and I started bringing him my animals that I always needed the last appointment of the day because I worked late. I tried not to laugh when I said that. Gayle tried not to laugh, too. She is anything but dim.
“Of course you do, dear,” she said, so calmly. “I’ll always schedule you to be the last person here. I’ll have to leave, to go home to . . . uh . . . uh . . . to talk to my cats, which will leave you and Marco alone, dear Evie. You and Marco alone. All by yourselves.”
That day, after the shots were given to my cats, to their utmost outrage, shrieking and meowing, Gayle said with a smile, “See you tomorrow, Marco. Bye, Evie. Tell your mother and aunts I said toodles.”
Marco was polite, friendly, after the cats’ appointment was finished. They were irritated, but they’d get over it.
“Want to watch the sunset?” he asked.
Yes. No. I did! I couldn’t. I shouldn’t. I should leave. “Yes, I’d love that.”
Marco had an area in his clinic for cats to play, and we left the little devils to their own devices. Ghost glared at me one more time for making her get her shots, then she bounded off while Mars wrapped himself around my leg, insecure and shy. Funny how animals have people characteristics.
We walked toward his house, the sun on its way down to sleep.
“Do you want wine?”
If I drank wine I’d probably end up wrapping myself around Marco like a drunken, naked nymph. “No, thanks.”
“Want to watch the sunset from the deck or the beach?”
How about your bedroom? Can we lie on the bed? “Let’s walk to your beach.”
We chatted as we walked down a dirt trail, over a couple of rocks, to the sandy beach. We sat side by side on a log, watching the sun head down. There is nothing more peaceful than watching a sunset on the island. The sun’s rays reflect on the water, the waves roll, the trees sway so gently, like a greeting to each other, the spray from whales shooting into the sky on lucky days, the other emerald green islands a postcard in the distance.
I closed my eyes and breathed. It is only here, on San Orcanita Island, that I get this peace. It’s why I don’t want to leave the island again, or as little as possible. I can be alone in nature yet have the people I love best, my mom and aunts, Jules, Marco, and my animals all right around me.
We sat in silence and watched that magical, moving painting. I teared up because I am a sap.
“You okay?” Marco asked.
“Yes. Sunsets make me cry.”
“I understand. I try to watch as many sunsets as I can,” Marco said.
“I do, too. Each one is like the last gift of the day.” I turned to him and could see the emotion in his face. “I’ve had a lot of practice staring at sunsets to calm my brain down.”
“Same here. There are a lot of nightmares that I battle with pretty regularly. Some are worse than others.”
“Do they keep you up at night?”
“Yes.”
“Do you sleep much?”
“No.” He turned to me. “Do you?”
“I have insomnia. I read until I sleep.”
“And you have premonitions.”
There it was. What we hadn’t talked about, but I’d known he knew. “Yes.”
“All the time?”
“I have them sometimes.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“Do you really want to hear about it? You’ll think I’m out of my mind. Flat-out crazy.”
“I have never thought that about you, and I won’t when you tell me.”
I told him, watching his face carefully so I could determine if and when he thought I was a lying loon, a delusional daisy. I told him when it started as a child and the premonitions I had then, through my teen years, and a few recent ones. I made sure I told him about a few premonitions that came through that could also be proven by others. For example, the little girl who was almost hit by the white truck.
“I heard about that one.”
“Do you believe me, Marco?” Please believe me. “I don’t want you to think I’m lying. I don’t want you to laugh at me.”
“Yes. I don’t know why you have premonitions. If you were to ask me before I met you if I thought anyone could have premonitions, I would have said no. But I do believe you, Evie, and I would never laugh at you.”
I wanted to sink into him, to hold him. “Thank you. It’s a curse. I wish I didn’t have them. I never wanted them. I try to control them as best I can, to shut them down.”
“You said your premonitions eased up when you moved back to the island.”
“Yes.” I told him about moving suddenly to the island as a child, the whispering my parents were doing then, their arguments. “I think they wanted to get me to the island in hopes that the quiet would quiet the premonitions down, and they were right. I have fewer premonitions here. When I go to Seattle or the mainland, they ramp right up. It’s like getting hit with a Mack truck, only the Mack truck is carrying visions of the future for many people. The ocean is calming. The beach in front of my home is calming. The stars, the deer, the elk, all of my animals, especially Sundance, are calming.”
He asked a few more questions, gently.
“I have no idea why I have premonitions about one person and not the other. I have no idea why I might have several in a week, then none for weeks or even, now and then, none for months. It happens out of the blue, and I can see someone’s future, clear as if I’m watching it on TV.” Except for that one recurring deathly crash premonition....
“It sounds”—he paused—“awful.”
“It is awful. I’ve struggled with it my whole life. After college I thought I was losing my mind. I worked for a chain bookstore, saved my money, then took a trip camping. A long trip. Months. My mind was breaking down and I needed to get away. A few times, when things were relentlessly bad, when I hit the skids, I haven’t wanted to live.”
He dropped his head into his hands.
“Marco.”
He shoved his hands across his face and I could tell he was brushing away tears. “I’m sorry, Evie, I am.”
“Don’t be. There are billions of people on this planet struggling with far harder things.”
He reached out a hand, and I took it automatically. His hand was warm and strong, and mine was lost in it. I was turned on from the second I saw Marco today. Every second with him heightened it. I was a mass of desire and lust.
I sensed his tension, too. I felt the vibes between us. How do you describe the sparks between people? He was looking at me, and I took a deep breath and we leaned in at the same time. Soon I was having the best kiss of my life, multiplied by a hundred. I was utterly lost in Marco, one arm around that broad back, one hand on his muscled thigh, and then he swung me up and over and onto his lap. He kissed so well. All of his attention into it, into me. I pressed myself against him, and he pulled me close.
Don’t pant, I told myself, but soon I was whisked away and could no longer think. I unbuttoned his shirt quick as a lick, then put both hands on that broad, warm chest, exactly as I’d wanted to do since the first time I saw him. He was strong and muscled and smelled like a delicious cupcake and the island winds and Marco himself. Before I knew it my shirt was off and my red bra was somewhere else and we were half naked.
That kiss went on and on and I couldn’t think, didn’t want to
think, until his hands were on the button of my too-tight jeans.
“Oh no. Oh no.”
“What?” he said, still kissing me, wild and free and yummy.
I dragged myself off of him, feet in the sand, panting like I didn’t want to pant, half naked in that sunset.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” he asked. He stood up and towered over me. I wanted to grab him, hold him, tell him that nothing was wrong, and I wanted to straddle him on the sand.
“This is not a smart idea.” I crossed my arms over my boobs.
“Why? Why not?”
“I’m not dating.”
“You’ve told me that before. So let’s not date.” He took a step closer to me, pulled me in again, his shirt all the way unbuttoned because of my lust. “We will remain friends who hang out together.”
“Marco, I’m standing in front of you half naked. That does not seem to indicate we can remain friends. Plus, I’m a mess. You don’t want to date me.”
“I like messes.”
“I have problems, issues. Premonitions that freak me out.”
“I have problems and issues. I do not have premonitions. I do have nightmares and scary flashbacks that take me straight back to Iraq and battles and blood and fighting and people dying and screaming. So if you are a mess who wants a mess, I’m the mess.”
“I’m sorry, Marco. I truly am, but I can’t. I can’t do relationships. I can’t have relationships. It doesn’t work. They don’t work for people who are wrecks.”
“We can be wrecks together.” His voice was low and deep, persuasive.
“No, I can’t.” My voice cracked, pain filling me from head to foot.
He sighed, pulled me in for a hug, his head resting on mine.
“Evie. Can we not try? Take it slow? Take it easy?”
I shook my head. I wanted to cry. Cry because I was rejecting Marco. I love Marco. I always will. “No, I’m sorry.” And I turned, and I stumbled away, tears smearing my vision.
“Evie . . .”
I started jogging back to the clinic. It was when I was jogging, my boobs bouncing, that I realized I did not have my red lace bra or my red ruffled shirt. This was unfortunate, but I was not going to run back for them. I grabbed the cats out of the clinic, two in each hand as they meowed about the indignities of it, and put them in the truck.
