The View from Here

by Rachel Howzell

  My skin tingled as that silky camisole slipped off my shoulders and past my hips.

  Before climbing in bed, I grabbed the laptop and settled on the chaise lounge near the bedroom window. The Four Seasons had suites available June 29 through July 1. I typed in my credit card number, then clicked, ‘CONFIRM.’ I closed the computer, then slipped into bed. Fell asleep as I imagined splashing in the turquoise waters of the Pacific with Truman beside me.

  9

  I rolled over in bed and glanced at the clock—almost ten-thirty. Crap. Didn’t plan to sleep late. But my body didn’t care—it needed rest as it recovered from its “chemical pregnancy.”

  Truman had already left the bedroom.

  Probably fixing the broken latch on the back gate, I thought. Or unpacking one of the fifty boxes we had consigned to the guest room.

  I sat up in bed, and called, “Truman?”

  No answer.

  I slipped over to the window and looked down to the yard. Didn’t see him. I cocked my head and listened for music playing from the downstairs den, or animated gunshots from a videogame. Silence.

  Hunh.

  The empty kitchen smelled of warm sugar. A plate filled with fresh-baked cinnamon rolls sat on the breakfast bar. Truman had also left a fresh-cut peony in a crystal bud vase. I smiled (he’s so sweet) and read the PostIt note he had left near the plate.

  Went 2 the pool w/Penny 2 get in some dive time. Enjoy the sweets, Sweets.

  I crumpled the note and threw it across the room.

  Freakin’ Penelope.

  I leaned against the counter, and gobbled three cinnamon rolls… Because getting fat always keeps a man at home.

  Two hours later, I stood before the ice cream cases at the village market, unable to remember which flavor Truman preferred. He loved ice cream, but he never over-indulged—his mother had died from type-2 diabetes complications, and his father had died six months later from a heart attack. Truman, aware of his sketchy genetics, allotted himself to one pint of Ben & Jerry’s a month.

  And because he only ate a pint, I didn’t want to select the wrong flavor. “Wind Beneath My Wings” blasted on the store’s Muzak system, making it harder for me to focus. So, I plucked my phone from my handbag and called his cell.

  No answer.

  He’s probably 100 feet below right now. I pictured him exploring the Pacific Ocean, silver bubbles burbling from his scuba regulator as he glided past red coral and sea fans.

  After five rings, the phone rolled over to voice-mail. This is Truman. Leave a message.

  “Honey,” I said, shouting over Bette Midler, “I’m at the store. Did you want Brownie Batter, Cake Batter or Cherry Garcia? Call me sooner rather than later.”

  I closed my phone and opened the freezer door.

  Truman’s ring tone—Tonite, DJ Quik—played from my purse. He always returned calls for ice cream selection. And even though he was now in the middle of his first open-ocean dive, he would not let me leave the store with a pint of Chunky Monkey. Happened once. He couldn’t let it happen again.

  “Hey,” I said. “I literally have my hand in the freezer. Which flavor do you want?”

  “… Hello?” A man. Not Truman.

  “Who’s this?” I leaned against my shopping cart already filled with ground turkey, bell peppers, and several kinds of cheeses.

  “Nicole? This is Flex D’Onofrio. Truman’s dive instructor.” He sounded far-off, as though he was calling from Mars.

  “Oh,” I said. “Let me guess: he’s running late.”

  “Where are you?” Flex asked as thousands of people shouted behind him.

  “At the grocery store.”

  “I’ve been trying to reach—” A burst of static.

  “Reception’s in and out in the hills,” I shouted into the phone. “What’s up?”

  Another burst of static, and then, “… been an accident.”

  I kept the phone to my ear, unable to hear all that Flex said. What I did hear made my bladder release. A moment later, I raced out of the market, leaving my shopping cart in the frozen food aisle.

  I don’t remember sticking the key into the Volvo’s ignition, or backing out of that space in the market’s parking lot. I do remember careening down Beachwood Drive as buildings flew into the past, and neon signs melted into one colorless blur. I struggled to breathe—it hurt to breathe. I trembled so violently that my ribs threatened to snap under the stress of the seat belt. If that happened, I’d never reach the harbor, and I’d never reach Truman…

  I raced onto the freeway, then auto-dialed a number on my cell—didn’t know who I was calling.

  “What’s up, girlfriend?” Monica.

  “Truman’s hurt,” I shouted. “Can you come to the marina? San Pedro. Where all the fishing boats dock.”

  Monica said, “I’ll call Lei. I’m on my way.”

  10

  By the time I reached San Pedro, the weather had deteriorated, and now, high winds made the dark Pacific spike with whitecaps. I parked the car somewhere in front of something, I don’t know, and heard a parking guard or someone yell, “Hey, lady!” I had stopped obeying traffic laws, stopped paying attention, stopped being thoughtful. My husband was somewhere out on the ocean, or on a boat, or somewhere...

  Bright red rescue vehicles had converged in the closest parking spaces, and their red emergency lights glowed bright beneath that gray sky. Paramedics dressed in blue glanced at the stormy sky as they wove past looky-loos who had originally come to San Pedro for mariscos and Corona. A Coast Guard chopper hovered over the docks and the 65-foot S.S. Deep-Cee. The white yacht bobbed like a toy boat in a bathtub, dingy in this weather, beneath that zinc-colored sky. Even the red and white of the dive flag flying from its mast looked dull and flat.

  I pushed through the crowds, but a police officer wielding a clip board stopped my progress. He looked young, High School Musical young, too young to keep the peace and tell a grown-ass woman what to do. “Sorry, ma’am,” he said to me, “but you can’t—”

  “My husband’s on that boat,” I shouted. “Truman Baxter. He needs me. They take him to the hospital yet?”

  “Umm...” He consulted a scrap of paper clipped to his board.

  I wanted to shake that kid. Shake him until information dropped off of his body like fleas. Yeah, he had a job to do, but so did I.

  Back on the boat, a lanky paramedic was talking to a middle-aged white man with a grizzled face and toffee-tanned skin. Another paramedic, blond and red-faced, desperately performed chest compressions on someone who lay collapsed on the deck. “One-two… one-two…”

  I pointed. “Who’s that down there? Is that him?”

  The helicopter continued to roar above us, and the boat rocked from choppy waves and violent air displaced by the aircraft’s four blades. The tanned man covered his ears and shouted, “Not responsive. Search and rescue’s still out there but…” To the paramedic performing CPR, he said, “Dude, we did that for ninety minutes. It ain’t happening.”

  The standing paramedic signaled up to the pilots in the chopper. Soon, a stretcher lowered from the helicopter and onto the deck.

  “Flex!” I slipped under the police officer’s arm, and made it a few steps away from the boat before the boy grabbed my hand again. I must have growled at him because his eyes widened as he released his grasp and hopped away from me.

  The tanned man—Flex—turned in my direction and watched as I rushed to the boat.

  By then, the diver had been strapped in, and now, the stretcher rose above the deck and into the air.

  Flex said, “I called in a Mayday as soon as I—”

  “They can’t take him away yet,” I said, my voice strained. “I need to see him. He needs to know that I’m here—”

  The boat pitched starboard, and Flex clutched my arm so I wouldn’t fall overboard.

  “They can’t take him yet,” I shouted.

  “Nicole, listen,” Flex said. “That ain’t Truman up there.�
�

  Confused, I shook my head. “You said there was an accident.”

  The blond paramedic tapped Flex’s shoulder. He held a small notepad and a pen. “What was her name?”

  Flex said, “Penelope Villagrana.”

  Penelope?

  I reeled around to gape at the rising chopper. “What happened?”

  “Ten minutes past their dive time,” Flex said, “I got worried cuz they were cutting into decomp time—”

  “Where is he?” I turned to face him. “Where is my husband?”

  “Penny got caught,” Flex continued. “Her line had tangled on some coral, but Truman got her loose. But she freaked out, and bolted to the surface without decompressing. And that’s the worst thing a diver can do. After a long dive, the body needs to come up slowly. Adapt to the pressure of the surrounding water.”

  He was staring at the ocean as he talked. Talking to remain calm. Convincing himself that there were rules to the sport, that if you just followed the rules… “Dennis, another diver, saw his line all tangled up in Penny’s line and in the coral, and that probably got Truman panicking and…”

  “Did Dennis free him?” I asked, forcing calm into my question.

  Flex shook his head. “Dennis is a good diver, but he’s still learnin’. He couldn’t get him loose.”

  “Did you go in?”

  He nodded. “I got to the spot with the coral and he wasn’t there. I swam around looking for him. Then, the search-and-rescue guys went in. They couldn’t find him, either.”

  Couldn’t find him? What the hell did that mean?

  “He had two tanks,” I said. “His lungs are strong. He just came back from climbing—”

  “He’s not down there,” Flex said.

  I shook my head again. Bullshit.

  “Even if he shot himself to the top somewhere…” Tears glistened in the man’s smog-colored eyes, and his hand returned to his mouth. “His blood would be foam, his insides… Nicole, I’m sorry. We’re still searching but… I’m sorry.”

  Sorry?

  Flex grabbed Truman’s dive bag from the deck, and handed it to me. Through the mesh, I saw Truman’s paperback edition of Cell, two cans of Red Bull, an open package of licorice and his eye allergy medication. But he was still out there. That’s what Flex was telling me. And no one knew where he was. My husband was just… gone.

  11

  Monica found me standing on the pier—a miraculous discovery in the growing crowd of onlookers and rescue workers. She took my elbow and guided me to the parking lot. There, Truman’s sister Leilani was leaning against her red Honda with her hands pressed against her face.

  “Where’s Tru? Is he okay?” Leilani asked, taking the dive bag from my hands.

  Monica shook her head.

  Leilani paused before asking, “Where is he?”

  Monica shook her head again.

  Leilani whispered, “They can’t find him?”

  “No,” Monica said.

  “So what now?”

  Monica shrugged. “Don’t know.” She pointed at the piece of paper in my left hand. “They gave her an accident report but I guess that’s it.”

  There was no hospital to rush to. No morgue to visit. Truman was just... gone.

  Leilani’s eyes shimmered with tears, and she threw a worried glance towards the ocean, and then at her brother’s dive bag. “So we go home?”

  Monica took her hand. “You okay?”

  Leilani considered Monica for a moment, then said, “No.” She hugged the bag to her chest and dropped her head. “No.”

  The accident report crumpled in my clutch as I gazed past my friends, past the vast sea of Fords, Toyotas and rescue trucks. I couldn’t move—blood slogged through my veins like heavy, clotted cream. Thunder boomed from the approaching storm, and the explosion kicked me out of my daze. “I don’t remember where I parked the car.”

  “Nic,” Monica said, “you shouldn’t drive. And Lei, you shouldn’t drive either.”

  Clear-eyed now, Leilani tugged at the red string around her wrist. “I’m fine. I’m okay.”

  “I’ll drive Truman’s car,” Monica said. “Gary and I will come back later for Nic’s.”

  Monica loaded me into the Honda, and the leather seats chilled my back. The cold made me remember. “I peed in my pants.”

  Leilani didn’t speak as she pulled out of the parking lot.

  “I’m sitting in your nice leather seats, and I peed in my pants.”

  Leilani glanced at me with eyes red from crying. “I don’t care. Pee again if you have to.”

  I gazed at my engagement ring—an oval cut diamond embraced by ruby and sapphire side stones. Truman and I had been sitting on the Hollywood Bowl lawn when he slipped the ring on my finger. I want to spend the rest of my life with you, Nicole. The Philharmonic played “America the Beautiful” as red, white and blue fireworks burst in the skies above the city…

  The heavy rain didn’t keep other cars from speeding past us. After all, refrigerators needed cleaning, clothes needed laundering and floors needed mopping. Strong winds forced rain to fall sideways like drying bed sheets caught in a draft. A miniature river coursed down Rockcliff Drive, and clumps of pine needles, plastic grocery bags and wads of paper blocked the sewer grates. With no available sewers, and no other methods of escape, the foamy sea of debris flooded onto the sidewalks.

  Leilani parked in front of my house as Monica drove past to park Truman’s car in the driveway. I climbed out of the car—the rain soaked my arms and hair within seconds. We plodded across the flagstone pathway towards the front door. A vase of white Casablanca lilies, almost fluorescent beneath that sky, sat on the porch.

  Monica ran to join us. “This rain is crazy.”

  I stopped in my step and turned to her. “They made a mistake.”

  “Who made a mistake?” Leilani asked.

  “Flex,” I said. “The search team. The Coast Guard makes mistakes all the time.” I lifted my face to the rain, and closed my eyes. “Remember those Mexican fisherman? Everyone said they were dead since they had been lost for months. But they were alive, remember?” I considered my friends and nodded. “And Truman’s alive. He’s smart and he’s strong and he’ll be found just like those Mexicans.”

  Leilani’s face darkened, and she turned away from me.

  “Nic, hon,” Monica said. “That’s not... Truman wasn’t on a fishing boat. He was…” She sighed, surrendering for now.

  In the bedroom, Monica watched me undress. She leaned against the sink as I showered.

  “I’m okay, Mo,” I said, stepping out of the shower. “You don’t have to hover.”

  She nodded, then handed me a towel and a T-shirt and boxers to wear. Without a word, she followed me back into the bedroom.

  The vase of lilies now sat on my nightstand.

  “Where’s Lei?” I asked.

  “On the couch in the downstairs den,” Monica said. “She’s not doing well. She’s threatening to light up a joint, but she doesn’t want you freaking out.”

  “Tell her that I don’t care. She can do whatever she needs to do… Remember the last time you did this?”

  “Acted like a fretful mother?” Monica shook her head.

  “Senior year. The night we crossed. I drank too much tequila. Threw up in your Celica.”

  Monica pulled a vial from her pocket.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “Valium,” she said. “I found it over on the vanity. You should rest.”

  “I need to stay awake. So I can drive back to the dock as soon as they call.”

  “As soon as who calls?”

  “The Coast Guard.”

  “You shouldn’t do anything right now except sleep.” Monica shook out a Valium, then offered it to me.

  I took the pill, and stared at its rounded perfection in my palm.

  “Here.” She handed me a glass of water.

  “Can you see if the phone’s charged?”

 
Monica picked up the cordless from the nightstand and punched ‘TALK’: a dial tone.

  “Wake me up when they call,” I said.

  Frustration flickered across Monica’s face, then softened into sorrow.

  I placed the pill beneath my tongue. Didn’t need water because my mouth filled with tears and spit. “I don’t care what he says. No more extreme sports. I can’t take it anymore.”

  Monica nodded.

  I reached into the bouquet of lilies and found a small card stuck in its plastic pitchfork.

  Babe, you’re better than a million Everests. I love you. Truman.

  I lay back in the pillows, the card still clutched in my hand.

  Monica clicked off the lamp, and the room fell into darkness. “I’ll be down the hall,” she said.

  Better than a million Everests.

  12

  A sharp explosion blasted against the house, and the windowpanes shuddered. I sat up in bed, yanked from a deep, Valium-induced sleep. The card that came with the lilies was now pulp in my palm, and I placed its remains on the nightstand. Another explosion started low, gaining enough strength to force another blast across the sky. The bedroom brightened with lightning, and thick drops of rain pounded harder against the windowpanes and the patio.

  Truman, hidden beneath the comforter, was sleeping right through the storm. Didn’t he hear all this craziness?

  “Honey?” I whispered. “Wake up.”

  “What?” he grumbled.

  “The storm’s here.”

  “It’s late, babe,” he said. “And it’s rain, not acid.”

  I clicked on the lamp, then turned back to him.

  The bed was empty.

  He had just spoken to me. Heard him as clear as I heard the storm.

  Confused, I climbed out of bed, and tiptoed out of the bedroom. The hallway was empty, and the upstairs security panel glowed green in the darkness. He hadn’t armed the alarm. I crept down the cold corridor, long and unfamiliar in this storm, at this hour. I glanced behind me—the cupola’s windowpane was bright with rain. Another flash of icy lightning made me jump, and I waited until thunder rumbled past.