Beach Glass

by Suzan Colon

  “Did you find a place to teach surfing in New York?” Evan asks.

  Carson shakes his head. “It’s winter there. And even in summer, I won’t have the great deal I had at Emerald Cove.”

  “So what are you doing?” Randy asks. “Kate being the sugar mama?” He winks at me, and I give him a wan smile back. He doesn’t know this is a sore spot for Carson.

  “Kind of,” Carson admits. “She’s been freelancing, and we started a savings account with her book advance. So I, um, will be starting a new job soon, when we go back.” He fills his glass from the fresh pitcher of margaritas as Evan and Randy wait for him to say, “I’m the new manager of Well Tech Insurance, Inc., of Weehawken, New Jersey.” Carson downs his drink, seeming to know that the guys won’t be toasting this news.

  Randy starts to chuckle, but he soon sees that Carson isn’t joking. “Dude,” he says, “You? Desk job? Nuh-uh.”

  Evan looks at me and sees something on my face that prompts him to say, “Probably good money, right?”

  “And benefits,” I add, with a cheerfulness that sounds forced and awkward.

  Randy frowns. “Cartoon, in an office? Come on, you’re kidding. That’s just all kinds of wrong.”

  Carson’s face goes dark as he looks at his half-empty glass. “Yeah, well, this is what people do when they want to have kids and a family. I have to grow up.”

  “You don’t have to trade in your whole life for that,” Randy insists. “People do all kinds of things. I want to get married and have kids, too, but I’m not working no desk job. Besides, you swore you’d never work in an office again. That’s why you came to Costa Rica.”

  “Rabies, it’s their life,” Evan says, gently cutting him off. “If you met someone like the Mermaid here, you’d probably put on a tie, too.” He gives Randy a pointed look, and Randy finally gets it.

  “That’s true, I totally would,” he says quickly. “Well, let’s toast the good life, shall we?”

  The clink of our glasses isn’t quite as musical this time, and silence follows.

  I look at my watch, not wanting to leave, especially after the conversation has listed to the side like a wounded boat. But I still have work to do, and the surf contest tomorrow will take up the whole day, so I force myself to stand. “I don’t want to break up the party, but I have to go back to the room. I’ve got some writing that just won’t wait.”

  “You brought work with you?” Carson asks. “Kate, we’re on vacation. Can’t it wait until we get home?”

  “Baby, it’s okay,” I say, kissing his forehead. “All I have to do is read the revisions and sign off on them. Better I should do that tonight and get it out of the way. You stay here and hang out with the boys, and I’ll be all done by the time you get back to the hotel.” Carson seems appeased. He offers to walk me home, but I assure him I’ll get a cab. I want to be the Good Girlfriend, letting him hang out with his buddies. Especially after I came off like the Bad Future Wife for making him get a desk job.

  Back at the room, I can barely concentrate on the book revisions. The slippery fish thoughts aren’t dancing in my head. They’re flopping around like they’re in distress.

  IT’S DARK IN the room when I hear Carson getting undressed by the bed. I shift to watch him, though I’m not sure he knows I’m awake, because he’s still trying to be quiet. Moonlight shines on his skin, creating shadows on his muscles. I reach up to trace my fingers over their planes. He startles, but then I see his smile, its own light in the darkness.

  He finishes undressing and climbs into bed. I taste salt ocean air on his lips and margarita salt in his mouth as he kisses me. He lies next to me and pulls me close, our arms around each other, my head nestled on his chest so I can breathe him in. We stay that way for long enough that I think he may have dozed off, but then he says, “Let’s stay here.”

  I wish he meant let’s stay in bed tomorrow or let’s stay like this, with our arms around each other. But I know from the quiet but excited hope in his voice what he’s really saying. I close my eyes and sigh. “Carson . . .”

  “Just think about it, Kate. I could teach surfing. You can write anywhere. It’s as cheap as dirt to live here. I bet I could even talk the owner of this place into trading room and board for surfing instruction, like my deal at Emerald Cove. We don’t even have to go back home! We could give up your place, have someone sell all the stuff in it, wire us the money, and we can keep waking up here, every day!”

  I sit up next to him. “Carson, I wish I could say yes. I know you love places like this. But you’re starting a job in a week, a good job, and this vagabond life isn’t what we had in mind for a family. Remember?” I caress his cheek. “We need steady income, a house with room for kids, good schools, a car.”

  Carson stays on his back, his eyes on the thatched roof of our room. “I had the best home money could buy, I was driven to private schools in a limousine, and it didn’t mean a damn thing to me. All kids need is their parents’ love.”

  “Speaking of parents, what about my mother? This is so far from her, and she’s probably going to need me at some point in the future.”

  “In the future,” Carson echoes. “Right now, she has Vic, and they’re both doing great. Her doctor says she’s healthier than before the heart attack.” Carson sits up and looks at me with confusion. “Kate, it’s beautiful here, and we’re so good now, just like we were back at Emerald Cove. I feel like,” he searches for words, “like we’re us again. Why wouldn’t you want to live here?”

  It’s not that I don’t want to live here, I think. It’s that I can’t live this way. Suddenly, the thought so like a slippery fish is in my hand. It’s not just that Carson wants to stay here in Zicatela or return to Emerald Cove or to wherever he ran away in Hawaii before that. It’s that Carson lives like a dream. He wanders wherever he wants and makes temporary homes in places most people go on vacation. He’d be happy anywhere he could surf and get a fish taco. He likes living day to day without plans, letting his decisions be made by the tides and the wind.

  If he’s the sea, I’m land, stable and steady. I can’t live the way he does, floating from beach to beach, working in exchange for food and a room in a communal bungalow. And I can’t imagine raising children like that. I grew up feeling so unanchored, with a parent on opposite shores, literally. I want to put down roots and give my children solid ground to grow in.

  This place reminds us both so much of how we met. I was so attracted to Carson’s passion for life, to what I saw as bravery, that I didn’t see his impulsiveness. He taught me how to take risks, and without him, I’d never have had the nerve to try surfing or go to New Orleans for two months or to write a book. And he saw something stable in me. But now I know he was hoping that stability was somehow portable, something he could carry with him, like his surfboard, from place to new exciting place.

  I wonder if my mother knew about my father what I know now, what I understood when I tried to say goodbye to Carson at Emerald Cove. It’s possible to love someone so deeply you want to hold them forever, and yet you’re both so different you know this love can only last for now.

  “Talk to me,” Carson says, reaching for me. “Please, talk to me, Kate.”

  Kate. Even the name he calls me confirms everything I’m thinking. I’m not the woman he thought I was. And that’s not even the woman I want to be. With Carson’s love, I became a better version of myself. But now, I’m asking him to be someone he’s not.

  I know I should let this shiny silver fish swim back into the ocean, where he belongs. I don’t know if I can. I look at Carson’s beautiful eyes and his handsome face. I smooth back the dark waves of his hair . . . and I think of Daniel. This hurts so much I know I must be doing the right thing. He loved me enough to let me go. Can I do that?

  “I love you,” I start, but any other words cluster around my breaking heart. So I smile to ease the worry from his face. I kiss him and say we should get some sleep because he has a big day at the surf cont
est tomorrow. We’ll talk about this another time, I tell him, and he agrees.

  Slowly, after a while, we fall asleep in each other’s arms. I try not to cry, knowing that if I truly love Carson, this will be the last time we do.

  37.

  THE NEXT DAY, the wind is strong enough to bend the tops of the palm trees flanking the beach where the surf contest is being held. It’s unsettling to me but not to Carson. Surfers love the way a rough atmosphere makes the waves bigger, turning them into even more of an adrenaline rush.

  “Cartoon,” Evan says, his greeting a subdued high-five. “The waves are gnarly today, brother.”

  “As gnarly as my head?” Carson jokes.

  Evan nods ruefully but smiles. “I’m hung over, too. No need for coffee, though. The washing machine in that surf will wake us up.”

  The roaring wind buffets past us and into the crowds in the bleachers behind us. I can barely hear Carson whistle as he looks at the churning shoreline. “Damn, those are monsters. What are they, triple overheads?”

  “Bigger,” Evan says. “Twenty-footers. And the wind’s shifting and making them all freaky. Hey, Randy’s up.”

  We look out at the small group of surfers in the swelling sea. I feel my hand closing tightly over Carson’s as I watch the waves tower over the surfers in the water, rolling like freight trains, breaking so hard on the sand that they roar. It’s terrifying to me, but when I look at Carson, all I see is glittering green excitement.

  “Beautiful,” he whispers. He watches for a few more minutes, until all the surfers in this group have taken their rides or tried to. Hardly a man makes it through without getting swamped.

  Surely Carson will sit this out, I think, but I hear him chuckle and say to Evan, “Sweet,” and they high five. Then he crouches down and begins waxing his board.

  I kneel in the sand next to him, my stomach in knots as I search for words that sound like they’re coming from a sensible person, not a frightened girlfriend. “This surf looks pretty rough.”

  Carson keeps waxing. “I’ve surfed waves like this in Hawaii.”

  “That was a long time ago. And you haven’t surfed in a few months. You might be a little rusty,” I suggest, “and you’re totally hung over.”

  “I won’t be in a few minutes. The water’ll wake me right up.”

  “Carson.” I put my hand on his shoulder to make him look at me, and he does. When I needed to be brave, he gave that to me. He needs to be practical now, but will he let me give that to him? I don’t think so. I can see he’s set on going in. I resort to telling him the truth. “Carson, I’m scared. I don’t want you to do this. Please, future husband and father of my children,” I say, “just stay here with me.”

  His smile brings relief to my heart. He touches my face, leans forward, and kisses me softly. The kiss lingers for a moment during which everything we talked about last night disappears.

  It will all work out, I think, feeling his beautiful lips against mine. We can fit together, different but compatible, like the pieces of a puzzle.

  And then he pulls away. “You’re sweet to worry, your gorgeousness, but don’t. I’ll be fine.”

  Before I can protest, a series of numbers is called out over a loudspeaker, including the one on Carson’s rashguard.

  “We’re up, brother,” Evan says.

  As Carson and I rise together, Randy comes trudging up the beach toward us, his surfboard under one arm. He’s laughing but shaking his head, drops of water falling from his wet ringlets. “Gentlemen,” he says, “you’re in for the ride of your life.”

  Words, which I live by, are useless against the pull of the waves on Carson. I clasp his hand to hold him back, my eyes begging him, but he gives me a quick kiss and says, “This is what we came here for, Kate.”

  I WRING MY hands as I watch Carson, Evan, and a small group of other surfers paddle out. It takes them a while; the waves keep knocking them back, like a huge adult pushing a child away from something dangerous. The wind whips my hair around so fiercely it stings my cheeks.

  “Ah, Cartoon is undaunted,” Randy says, standing beside me. “See? He’s in position. He’s okay, Mermaid.”

  A few seconds later, Evan emerges from under a wave, and the two are close enough to high-five each other. But not for long, because the waves they want are forming in the distance. They get them in their sights, and Carson motions for Evan to line up first.

  The wave that comes their way is huge, but it’s a good one, rolling forward perfectly. I watch them paddle toward it. At just the right moment, Carson leaps gracefully up to standing on his board as the wave surges. Evan is ahead on the ride, but the wave starts to crest over Carson. He skims just ahead of the barrel, standing strong, arms extended. Still balancing, riding this water monster, Carson reaches out to touch the face of the wave, skimming it with his fingertips, creating a long white line. People on the beach start to cheer.

  “Sweet ride!” Randy crows.

  I’m reassured and start clapping along with everyone else as Carson fights for balance on the wave and wins. He grabs the nose of the board and starts doing tricks, zigzagging. As others around him wipe out, he keeps going. This is his moment, the most perfect ride he has probably ever had or ever will. Then the wave crests over him, creating a barrel as the sun shines brightly through the wall of water. Even though I can’t see him, I know what’s happening. Carson is in the green room at last.

  Then something shifts. I can’t tell what because it’s so quick, but the wave seems to crash into another, swallowing the surfers ahead of Carson, including Evan.

  Randy makes a stung noise. “Shit, Evster. That’s gonna hurt.”

  We scan the wall of churning white foam and wait for the surfers to reappear.

  And wait.

  Another moment. One surfer pops up, his clean-shaven head gleaming in the sun, before he’s swamped under the water again. I see movement and notice the lifeguards are now standing in their high nest. Another moment. The lifeguards, four of them, jump down to the sand. The water continues to surge. Two surfboards pop up and disappear just as quickly.

  “Damn it,” Randy whispers.

  “What is it?” I grab his arm. “What’s happening?”

  “Riptide,” Randy murmurs. “They’re caught underwater.”

  My breath leaves my body. The lifeguards are running to jet skis, hitting the water, getting smacked around by the waves. There are only four lifeguards, and eight men in the ocean.

  Just then, a surfboard pops up, followed by a head and a waving hand. A lifeguard jet ski angles toward it quickly, and the surfer is pulled to safety. Then another. Neither is Carson or Evan. Now, beside me, Randy is gripping my shoulders, either to keep me from running to the water or because he’s as scared as I am.

  Then, there he is. My Carson. He surfaces so far from where he started, his head whipping around, searching. “Carson!” I scream. “The lifeguards! There!” But they’re all far away, and as Carson looks right past them and turns his head in all other directions, I realize what he’s doing. He’s looking for Evan.

  “No!” I shriek.

  I break free of Randy’s grip and tear for the shoreline. I know Carson won’t save himself if Evan, or anyone else, is still in distress. I run, but it’s exactly like being in a nightmare. My feet sink in the sand, and I can’t move fast enough to signal the lifeguards, show them where Carson is before I see him take a deep breath and go underwater again. “Carson!”

  The waves give up another surfer. Then one more. I can’t remember how many have been pulled from the roiling water, only that none of them is Carson. Soon, a small group of men is back on shore, coughing, some of them being given mouth-to-mouth. I count six.

  Another wave rolls in. Within it, arms and legs windmill frantically.

  “Over here!” Randy shouts, plunging into the water.

  My heart leaps when I see Carson’s blue surfboard tombstone up, just the nose poking out of the water. Lifeguards run to R
andy, and together they carefully carry the half-drowned surfer, still clinging to the board, from the white churning foam. They’re bringing him in feet first, and I can see the leash that should bind his ankle to his surfboard has snapped, but the one on the blue surfboard is whole, the ankle clasp undone.

  The man is carried from the water, dreadlocks trailing behind him. Evan.

  I don’t feel myself fall. The sand is soft and kind. Land cradles me as seawater rushes over my empty arms.

  38.

  “ARE YOU READY, Katy?”

  I hear my mother’s voice, but this isn’t a question I need to answer, and the day is so perfect at this moment I’m afraid speaking will disturb it, like ripples making a reflection in water disappear. Outside the wall-long picture window of Carson’s room at the Wakefield mansion, sun makes the blankets of snow draping the grounds glisten. The hedge maze where Carson and I walked and made love is topped in white frosting, held up by a lacy network of brown twigs. The sky is so blue for a late winter’s day in February, as blue as the ocean beyond the garden bedecked with flowers. What a perfect day and place for the wedding I’d dreamed of.

  Instead, I’m going to a funeral.

  No. No, it’s not a funeral, I remind myself, fighting to keep the tears welling in my eyes from falling. This is supposed to be a celebration of Carson’s life, a life anyone would agree was one well lived and too short, so short I can barely breathe. I smooth down my black dress in a daze, vaguely remembering that my sister chose it for me. She and Celia have been here for a while. I don’t know how long. I don’t remember much after the plane ride home from Mexico, the seat next to me empty.

  “Katy,” my mother says softly, but she knows not to say any more as I keep looking out the window. No, Mommy, I’m not ready. No one is ever ready to go to the funeral of the love of her life. But if anyone knows how that feels, it’s my mother. What a sparkler of a day, my dad would have said. He said pretty things like that.