by Wendy Mills
I munch on a handful of nuts and follow the path to the front beach so I can look at the open water. It’s choppy, sloshing around like giant washing machine, and I see very few boats.
I sit and watch the water turn steel gray and whitecapped, worried about Jason out in those angry-looking waves.
It starts to rain that afternoon, quick showers dumping on my head, and then turning off like a spigot. I run around the campsite, throwing anything needing to stay dry into the tent. I eye the big cooler, and decide to put that in the tent as well. By this time, the wind is whipping through my small clearing, and I am afraid the tent might decide to act like a kite and fly. I think about crawling into the tent and curling up warm and snug with a book, but I am too on edge for that. The air feels taut and heavy and I spend the next few hours going from the cove to the front beach, looking for Jason. Something is wrong. He said he would be here.
But as I look out at the scary rolling water and the froth flying high into the air as the waves smash onto the beach, I know he should not be out in this. It’s too dangerous, and that means I am on my own.
When it gets dark, I finally go back to the tent. Not that I see the sunset. The air grows murkier until I can no longer see the water, just feel its stinging spray on my cheek.
I drop my wet clothes outside and stand in the rain for a few moments to wash the salt off of me, and a bolt of white-hot lightning sends me diving inside the tent. The rumblings turn into full-fledged booms, and the lightning flashes like strobe lights. I am glad I put the cooler inside, because I am not certain the wind couldn’t lift the tent, even with me in it.
I hear something under the crash of thunder, and I strain to listen. I hear it again. It sounds like a boat, and oh my God, please tell me Jason isn’t out in this? Because as much as I want, need him here with me, I know it must be really bad out on the water. I could never live with myself if he died trying to get to me.
I unzip the tent and am hit with a wall of blinding water. Thunder murmurs restlessly as I race along the path toward the cove, lightning splitting the chaotic darkness. I see Jason’s boat slide onto the shore and he gets out, shrouded in a yellow raincoat. He ties the boat to a tree branch and grabs my hand.
“Come on!” he yells over the rush of rain.
We start toward the tent and the world explodes in howling, ferocious light, dazzling, blinding, burning, as lightning hits one of the tall, lanky palm trees near us. The pure, encompassing whiteness is punctuated with a boom that sends us both to our knees.
“Storms … are worse than they thought … ,” Jason says.
“Ya think?” I stare at the top of the tree, which has burst into flames despite the driving rain.
“Had to get to you,” he says and his teeth are chattering.
“Seriously, you almost killed yourself!”
He is shaking, his hand ice-cold.
I shove him inside the tent and crawl in after him. He falls on top of the sleeping bag.
“Can you take your clothes off or do you need help?” I try to sound matter-of-fact. “Don’t look if you can’t take it, but I’m getting dry clothes on.”
“I’ll … close my eyes,” he says through chattering teeth.
“You better,” I say. “Wouldn’t want you to think I was trying to seduce you or anything.” The words are a little bitter but I don’t think he notices.
I strip and pull on dry shorts and a T-shirt, my back turned as I hear him struggle to pull off his wet jeans.
I help him into the sleeping bag and have to zip it because his fingers are shaking so badly. I lie down next to him, outside the sleeping bag, my head on a backpack.
“Why did you come?” I ask after a while, when his teeth have stopped chattering.
“I said I would,” he says.
“But it’s storming! You could have been killed!”
“That’s what friends are for,” he says, a little flip.
“Are we? Friends?”
“I hope so,” he says. “I wouldn’t want to lose you. As a friend. Are you ready to go home yet?”
I don’t answer.
He is quiet for a while and I think maybe he’s fallen asleep, and then he says, “My mom is the strongest woman I know. She was going though chemo when my grandmother died. Mom would go to my grandmother’s room and sing to her and stay with her for hours. Mom had the chemo port her chest, but she would crawl up in bed with Grandma and lie with her. She was there when Grandma died, singing to her. And after Grandma died, Mom got up and went the next day for another chemo treatment. She did that for us, for me and my sister. She knew she couldn’t give up. She knew we needed her. She got up out of that bed and went and did what she needed to do to stay alive.”
In the light, I can see his throat working, but I don’t see any tears.
“And right after my mom went into remission, my aunt, my mom’s twin sister, she got cancer. After she died, my mom still had to keep on keeping on. I’ve never seen anybody that strong in my life. All she went through, she still can paint, and smile, and crack jokes, and take care of her family. Because she loves us, and that’s what you do when you love someone.”
I’m not sure what to say. I’m not sure why he is telling me this right now.
I ask, “Do you think I was wrong? Wrong for leaving like I did?”
He doesn’t say anything at first. Then, “What do you think, Erin? I mean, I understand, I understand, I do, but yes, I think you were wrong. How many times do you think I wanted to check out, go away, and pretend the bad stuff wasn’t going on? But I couldn’t. I had to be there for the ones who counted on me. We’ve got to, or family doesn’t mean a goddamn thing.”
That hurts. Hurts bad. I sit up and wrap my arms around my knees.
“How can you think of me as a friend,” I say in a low voice, “if you think I’m so terrible?”
“Erin, I don’t think you’re terrible.” He reaches over, grabs my knee, gives it a little shake. “It’s hard. I know it’s hard. But if you want to make it right, you need to grow up, go back, and be there for your mom, like she’s always been there for you.”
I’m crying and I hold my knees tight.
“I don’t know if I can be that strong,” I gulp through my sobs. “I fell apart completely the last time I tried. I don’t know if I can go back and do it all over again.”
“You’ll do what you have to do,” he says.
But what if I can’t?
“It’s going to be all right.” He leans toward me, the sleeping bag falling away from his bare chest, and puts his arm around me. Even though he’s done it many times in the past days, somehow this time it’s different. We both feel it, and I stop crying, staring into his eyes that are eerily luminescent in the flash of lightning. I wonder what he would do if I rubbed my hands over his chest, because suddenly I want to touch him so badly it hurts.
I lean toward him, and I’m breathing fast and shallow. I want it to happen, I want to kiss him and I wonder if he’s feeling the heat like I am, if he’s thinking about kissing me. I feel loose and warm, like frozen honey beginning to thaw and sweeten.
He leans forward to meet me, then … presses his lips against my forehead. He does that for a while, and I close my eyes, tears slipping down my cheeks.
“Good night,” he whispers finally and pulls away.
He lies back down, but I don’t think he sleeps most of the night.
I know because I don’t either.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Though the rain still pours outside, the tent has lightened. Dawn has come creeping, muffled in thick, fluffy clouds.
I look over and see Jason’s eyes are open and he’s looking at me.
“Are you ready?” he says. “To go home?”
Without answering, I get out of the tent and go to the cove. I take off all my clothes and float in the rain-puckered water. The water feels warm, and the raindrops are cold on my skin. I try to find that place of silence and peace of the last
couple of days, but it isn’t there anymore. I am a jumble of emotions—anger, confusion, pain, terror—all raging through my head, and I cannot turn it off.
Jason comes to the beach and looks down at my pile of clothes on the sand. He sighs, raindrops caught in the fine hairs of his unshaven face.
“Erin, what are you doing?”
“Swimming. Want to come in?” I know he knows I’m naked. The water caresses me, a silky bronze veil concealing little. My skin feels hypersensitive and I’m aware of the velvety mud between my toes, the tiny flick of a baitfish’s tail as it rushes past my calf, the delicious touch of water everywhere.
“Erin …”
I don’t know why I’m doing it. Not really. Anger thrums through me, pounding through my veins, souring my mouth. I’m mad at him, I’m mad at myself, I’m mad at everything.
“The water’s wonderful.” I move my arms so the water sweeps against my skin, sending shivers from head to foot. I’ve never felt so aware of myself before. And that’s what I want, isn’t it? I want to know what it feels like to be a woman before I don’t have any of the parts anymore. “Why don’t you come in?”
He is looking at me, and his gaze is a heavy, satiny weight touching every part of me, and then he looks deliberately over my shoulder.
“Erin. Stop it. Put your clothes on. We need to go. It’s time to go.”
“Jason …”
“Erin, why are you doing this? What are you afraid of?”
He turns and strides up the path without waiting for me to answer.
I sit in the water with the cold rain falling on my head.
I’m crying as I get dressed. I feel so stupid, and once again, it’s all my fault. Did I really think he would come in? Why do I keep throwing myself at guys who don’t want me?
What are you afraid of?
I walk slowly, the tears falling. I’m going the opposite direction of camp, on a path I’ve never been on.
Behind me, I hear Jason call, “Erin!”
It sounds like he’s following me.
I walk faster.
“Erin!”
I start running. I crash through bushes and scrape myself on sharp palm fronds, and fall to my knees in the leaves, and then get up and run some more. Ahead of me, I see glimpses of water, and I make toward that and suddenly I burst out of the scratchy embrace of the bushes onto the beach. A heaving expanse of water stretches in front of me, steely waves smashing onto the shore. Birds startle for the sky.
I can no longer hear Jason, and I sit down on a smooth, water-silvered log. The rain is still falling, but I’m shielded by overhanging trees.
I look around. There’s not a boat or house to be seen. It feels like no one’s alive but me.
What are you afraid of?
I wipe my face with my sleeve, because it’s not just rain and spray on my face but tears as well. I want to stay on my little island forever, and not deal with anything but whether I’m going to catch fish for dinner. But I told Mom a couple of days and it’s been six, and now Jason says it’s time to go home and I’m not ready.
Oh, Mom, I miss you so much. I don’t know if I can survive without you, and God, it hurts, it hurts, and I want to see you and tell you I’m sorry, and I love you so much but it hurts, hurtshurts-hurts. I can’t bear the thought of you leaving me so I guess I left you first …
A flutter of baitfish throw themselves out of the water as the rain pitter-patters, making dimples on the skin of the water.
What are you afraid of?
A seagull calls and the mangroves rustle in the wind.
What. Are. You. Afraid. Of?
And then I know, and it’s like someone punches me in the stomach.
I’m afraid of the dark. I am afraid of getting cancer. I am afraid I will decide to cut off my breasts. I’m afraid I will decide not to cut off my breasts. I’m afraid Trina will never talk to me again. I am afraid Jason will never like me the way I’m beginning to like him.
I am afraid my mother will die.
But above all?
Above all that?
I am afraid of what Mom dying will do to me.
I changed so much after my dad died. I was a fearless kid before, and then everything got so scary. Like a turtle, I pulled into my shell so that nothing could hurt me.
So what would happen if my mom died?
I’d be a pile of Jell-O on the floor, shuddering and quaking, until I eventually dissolved into a puddle of nothing. There would be nothing left of me.
Nothing.
I hold myself as I sob because there’s nothing I can do about any of it. People die. People lose themselves.
It happens all the time.
And I can’t stop it.
I can’t stop it.
I cry for a long time, and when the tears stop, I sit up. I feel empty, hollowed out. All the messy stuff is gone and all that is left is determination.
I know what I need to do.
When I get back to the cove, Jason is pacing. His eyes are dark with anger and worry.
“Where did you go?”
I was gone longer than I realized.
“I’m sorry,” I say. Will I be saying I’m sorry for the rest of my life for the stupid things I do?
Jason stares at me, his face hard and set, and for a moment I’m almost frightened of him. He looks grown-up, like a man, someone I’ve never met. Then he pulls me into a hug. I clutch him back tightly, feeling the hard muscles under the warm skin of his back, smelling the sweat and salt and wildness on him, and I close my eyes. Trying to remember it. This might be the last time. I don’t know what’s going to happen now.
“It’s over,” I say when he lets go of me. “Take me home. I’m ready to go home.”
“Are you sure?” Jason studies me with his turbulent sea-colored eyes and he is so glorious, so full of life.
“Yes.” I start to cry because it is the end or the beginning, I don’t know which, but it’s sad and scary and I’m still not sure I can do it.
Chapter Thirty-Five
It is near dark by the time we get to Jason’s house. It sits on a secluded canal, blue with white trim, with a little deck on top overlooking the waving sea of mangroves.
Jason helps me up on the dock and a woman—tall, with a short nest of curly hair and startling blue-green eyes—comes out of the house and hurries toward us.
“Just in time for dinner,” she says. “I was worried about you, Jason.” She looks at him, relief and love plain on her face, and then turns her gaze on me.
“Mom, I want you to meet Erin,” Jason says, almost shyly. “She’s been staying out on my island the past few days.”
Jason’s mother studies me in silence for a moment. Her eyes, so amazingly like her son’s, drink me in. She smiles, open and luminous. “It’s nice to meet you, Erin. I have a feeling we have a lot to talk about. Let’s get you into a shower and dry clothes.”
And without any questions, she takes my hand and leads me toward the house.
“Do you think,” I say, “do you think I can call my mother?”
Mom cries the entire time I am on the phone with her. She keeps telling me she loves me, she loves me, God, she loves me and she has been so worried and then I cry too.
After I shower, Mrs. Levinson—Miriam—sits me and Jason down and we tell her the entire story. When Miriam asks why Jason didn’t tell her I was on the island, Jason says simply, “You would have just worried and she needed to be there.”
And that was that.
Dinner is a jumble of conversations, happy, a family, and I miss Mom so badly I want to jump in a car and drive to her. But Mom says she’ll come for me tomorrow and says to wait right there, please don’t go anywhere.
Jason and his mom look alike, tall and big and somehow untamable, while Jason’s dad is thin, with dark hair and eyes and a deliberate manner. He does not talk often but when he does the whole family shuts up and listens.
A skinny, dark-haired girl wanders in when we a
re finishing. She is carrying a violin case and studying a music score as she walks, and when she looks up, she blinks at me in surprise.
“Ashley,” Miriam says, “this is Jason’s friend Erin. She’s visiting from Georgia.”
This is the real Ashley.
Ashley throws a look at her brother and walks over and offers me her hand. “It’s nice to meet you,” she says quietly.
Ashley gets a plate and sits down and their family is complete. We continue to talk, but I am fascinated with Ashley. Where Jason is bold and bright, Ashley is self-contained and serene, like a jewelry box with all the gems hidden away. You get the feeling maybe she only shares the treasure of herself with the people she trusts.
We eat and talk, and for a little while I’m able to forget everything that is waiting for me.
After dinner, Miriam announces she wants to talk to me alone. I throw a panicked look at Jason, who shrugs, What can I do? Miriam tucks my hand firmly under her elbow and draws me with her onto the vast screened porch scattered with colorful outdoor couches and a birdcage holding a large, grouchy-looking green parrot.
“You must be excited to see your mom tomorrow.” She sits on a couch and pats the cushion beside her. I sit, and try not to show this whole let’s-have-a-talk thing is scaring the bejesus out of me.
“Yes,” I say. “I’ve missed her every minute I was gone.”
“I know she’ll be happy to see you safe and sound.” I hear no judgment in her voice.
“I feel so … incredibly guilty,” I say, not surprised that I can talk to Jason’s mom as easily as I can talk to him. Both of them have a straightforward quality that inspires honesty. “I ran away when she needed me most. I let her down once, and I … I’m not sure I’m as strong as I need to be. I need to be there, and I wasn’t the last time. I hope … I hope I can do it this time.”
“Your mom is going through chemo, and you just found out you have the BRCA mutation. Give yourself a break. It’s not surprising you felt overwhelmed,” she says. “The important thing is what you do now.”
