What Lies Beyond the Stars

by Micael Goorjian

  “Yes, I made a reservation online.”

  “Okeydoke.” Dorothy turned to her computer screen, “And your name is . . . ?”

  “Adam Smith.”

  “Adam Smith. Adam Smith.” Dorothy clicked her mouse a few times. “Gotcha right here. Let’s see, we have you in one of our Victorian suites.” Dorothy stopped to read something about Adam’s reservation. “And there’s a note here about your credit card?”

  “Yes. My company made the reservation for me, but I’d like to pay for it myself. I just want to make sure that nothing will be charged to that particular card.”

  Dorothy smiled reassuringly. “Okay. So don’t put anything on the card with the name Adam Sheppard?”

  “Yes. No. Don’t use that card. Right.”

  “Okeydoke. Do you have another card you’d like to use?”

  “I’d like to pay with cash.”

  “Cash works.” Dorothy smiled. “Oh, but we still need to run a card for any room charges.”

  “You do?” Adam frowned.

  Dorothy leaned forward, her tone playfully conspiratorial. “Don’t you worry. Nothing actually appears on the card unless I charge it. So even if you go crazy and raid the minibar, I just keep track for you. We’ve got those little sensors inside the bars, so when you take something—bing—it pops up on my computer. But I don’t actually charge anything until you leave, so when you check out, we can settle up with cash!”

  Adam relaxed a bit. “Okay, that’s great. Thanks.”

  “You’re very welcome. So, this your first time in Mendocino?”

  “Well, no, actually, I lived around here as a kid.”

  “Awesome. Whereabouts?”

  “Down the coast a bit. I think it was called Little Creek?”

  “Little River! Oh, wow, that’s cool. So it’s like a homecoming for you, then?”

  Adam nodded, then looked around the room for a way to politely disengage.

  “All right, then. You’re in room 25b, just up those stairs and to the right. Last door on the left. Everything should be set, but if you need anything—extra towels, things like that—don’t hesitate to ask. I’m Dorothy.”

  Dorothy handed Adam two key-cards.

  “One is fine.”

  “Oh, all right. I just thought—” Dorothy bobbled her head as if to say, What was I thinking? One of her dangly earrings got tangled in the longer half of her bob. “Okeydokey. So, my name is Dorothy.” She laughed. “But I already told you that, didn’t I? So if you need anything, just let me know.”

  Like the hotel’s lobby, Adam’s room was furnished with antiques. There was a balcony, from which Adam could look out at the bluff and the Pacific Ocean beyond. The perfect place to be alone and sort out one’s life, Adam thought. That’s why I came here. Isn’t it? Adam stepped onto the balcony and put his hand on the railing. It felt cold and slightly damp beneath his fingers. A lone seagull floated motionless out on the wind, and as Adam watched it, he thought about the envelope he had left on Jane’s dresser, imagining her reaction when she read what he had written.

  There is something in me that knows of a different kind of life. The life I was meant to live, but for whatever reason, I did not.

  He wondered if she would understand. Jane wasn’t dumb, far from it. But she often accused Adam of being frustratingly convoluted. She had once told him that there were crucial links missing between what he was trying to express and what he actually said—the much-needed context required for others to understand him. Adam knew Jane was right about this. And so in the rest of the note, he had tried his best to be as direct as possible, making it absolutely clear she shouldn’t try to find him.

  With night came mist off the ocean, drifting in low across the bluff. Beneath the streetlights on Main Street, glowing yellow cones formed out of the thick sea air. Toward the bottom of Main, a stray cat slipped through a fence and darted under a parked car. From the opposite end of the street came sounds of laughter as a handful of wedding guests hurried down from the Presbyterian Church toward the Mendocino Hotel.

  Up in room 25b, Adam Sheppard was looking himself over in the mirror. He had showered and done his best to neaten the shirt and pants he’d stuffed into the bottom of his bag. He tried combing his hair, but it looked strange, like a toupee. He tried mussing it up, but that only made him look 15 years old. Giving up on his appearance, Adam stared into his own eyes, which very quickly became unnerving. Is this really me? he thought. This sad-looking man. Wasn’t I just a kid not that long ago? How did I end up here, alone in this strange hotel room on my birthday? The sad man in the mirror looked back with such despair that it scared Adam.

  The Hendrickses’ wedding reception had kicked into high gear, and the restaurant and bar area were filled with guests. Adam was actually happy for this unexpectedly cheerful addition to what would have otherwise been a quiet birthday dinner alone. He stood in the bar area while Dorothy checked to see if it was all right for him to eat there since the wedding party had reserved the entire downstairs. As he waited Adam did his best to dodge the gesticulations of the three well-lubricated groomsmen between him and the bar. They were reenacting some adventure that apparently involved having one’s arms outstretched for balance. The men found it hysterical, and one even turned to Adam as if to include him. Adam attempted a smile, but the man must have realized Adam was only pretending to be a human being, and so he quickly pivoted back to his true brethren.

  Dorothy returned, handed Adam a menu with a winning smile, and informed him that it was fine if he wanted to dine at one of the small tables by the front windows.

  “Okeydokey. Enjoy yourself.” Dorothy gave a flirtatious wink and started to leave but then turned back. “I’m Dorothy, by the way. Did I . . . ?”

  “Yes, you did,” Adam said patiently.

  She laughed cautiously, as if finally latching on to the idea that Adam wasn’t living in the same carefree universe she enjoyed.

  Adam looked over the menu. He wasn’t hungry yet he was determined to order things he wasn’t allowed to eat at home: red meat, French fries, gluten, and wine. After ordering, Adam got up and wandered around the lobby, looking at the old photographs on the walls. One showed a cluster of ragged lumberjacks dwarfed by a recently timbered redwood. Another captured Main Street at a time when there were buildings on both sides of the street. The townspeople looked busy to Adam, too caught up in their lives to care about having their picture taken. Near the fireplace and half-hidden by a Tiffany lamp was a photo with the caption, Pomo Indians. The Pomo didn’t look as busy as the white people, and even less interested in being photographed. In another picture a Native American boy stood awkwardly posed next to some rocks with carvings on them. The caption read, Petroglyphs found on the Mendocino Coastline. Markings so old, even Indians have forgotten their meaning.

  As the wedding reception continued, the lone bartender, who had introduced himself to Adam as Pete, struggled to keep up with the tide of drink orders. From his table by the window, Adam watched Pete mix cocktails, recommend local wines, chat up guests. Pete was young, probably in his midtwenties, tall and slim with a well-groomed mustache and dark, pomaded hair meticulously slicked back. Observing Pete, Adam was impressed by how much he appeared to enjoy everything he was doing. He seemed optimistic about life in a way Adam had never been, which automatically made Adam want to hate the guy. Of course, Adam knew he was just envious.

  “How is everything, sir?” Pete called over. Adam’s dinner had arrived, but he had barely touched it. Not that it wasn’t good, it was beyond good. Adam just didn’t have an appetite. That heavy current of dread was back, making him suddenly unsure about what the hell he was doing there.

  “It’s great, thank you.” Adam picked up his fork and took a bite of steak.

  “Cool.” Pete eyed Adam’s empty wine glass. “Ready for another Cab-Franc?”

  Adam knew he must have looked pathetic sitting there alone while the wedding party surged around him. “Sure, why n
ot? Thank you.”

  Pete came over with a bottle of wine wrapped in a cloth napkin. “Forgive me if I’m stepping out of line here, but in my opinion, she’s not worth it.”

  Adam looked confused. “Sorry?”

  “You got stood up. Right?”

  “No. Actually, I’m here by myself.”

  “Oh, sorry. My bad. My bartender-Spidey senses must be off—maybe it’s the big crowd here and all. Usually I’m spot-on. My nickname’s Peter Parker.”

  Adam nodded, obviously not getting it.

  “As in Spider-Man,” Pete added. “Anyway, if there’s anything else you need, don’t hesitate to ask.” Pete and his perfect hair headed back to the bar, leaving Adam and his shitty hair to drink his second glass of Cab-Franc.

  Adam turned to look at the darkness beyond the window. The unknown, he thought. Much of the fog had cleared, and even from inside the hotel he could see stars dusting the sky. You wanted to see stars; well, they’re out there. But Adam didn’t move. The quickening sensation of panic was beginning to coil up in his chest like a spring.

  “Seriously, people. Danny and I have been friends since the fourth grade.” In the formal dining room nearby, the wedding party had settled down to listen to the best man’s speech. The disembodied voice coming through the bass-heavy speakers sounded like Sean Penn in Fast Times at Ridgemont High.

  “And, you know, he was like always so goddamn good at everything.” The crowd laughed. “This son-of-a-gun used to beat me at basketball, one-on-one, every weekend. And not just hoops, I mean, any sport we played, any game that required fine-motor skills. Darts, Nintendo, you name it, and I guarantee Danny will beat you! Danny always wins!”

  The crowd roared its approval. Adam took a gulp of wine.

  “What else can I say?” continued the best man. “Danny’s a winner. He’s a great guy, and he’s got a totally awesome bride, and my only hope is to see a Danny Junior come along soon; that’s right, a Danny Junior, so he can beat his old man for me!”

  An explosion of laughs and cheers was loud enough for Adam to press an annoyed finger to his ear. When he finally removed it, the ringing of his tinnitus lingered on.

  “Seriously, folks, this is what life is all about! These two people. This is what it’s all about, right here!”

  Adam could no longer hear anything except for the buzzing in his ear, a warning that his panic levels were about to reach a critical threshold. This place, this reception, these people—it was all horribly wrong. Adam didn’t belong here, and it was time to leave.

  Adam stood up, downed the rest of his wine, and walked over to Pete.

  “Another glass?” Pete asked.

  “Actually, I’d like a bottle.”

  Pete looked to be caught off guard. “Okay. The same one you’ve been drinking, or would you like something different?”

  “If you could drink any bottle of wine tonight, what would it be?”

  Pete appeared blindsided by the question. Just then a DJ started up in the other room, ’80s rock, for Christ’s sake. Adam had to get out of this place, and quick.

  “Look, I’m sorry. I know this sounds weird, but it’s my birthday today, and I’d just like to treat myself to something. A nice bottle that I can take back up to my room.”

  “Say no more.” Pete finally seemed to get it. “Let’s take a look at the reserve list.” Pete pulled out a leather-bound book from under the counter and set it down between them. “Let’s see if we can find you something magical.”

  As they looked over the list, Pete went on to explain his personal theory about wine. For most people a bottle of wine, regardless of vintage or price, fell into one of three categories: drinkable, noticeably better than drinkable, or noticeably worse. Forget the bouquet and the notes of cherry, chocolate, and acorns; in the real world, wine is that simple. “However,” Pete explained, “every once in a long while, a wine drinker will happen upon what I call a ‘magic bottle.’” For Pete this had happened once at a restaurant in Sonoma. It was a bottle of 2004 Flowers Pinot Noir Grand Bouquet he shared with a friend. It didn’t just pair nicely with their lobster bisque and coq au vin, it paired with the hint of jasmine in the summer breeze and with the strains of music from a nearby Blues festival. It went with their discussion about why Roger Moore was, in fact, the quintessential Bond. It even paired nicely with the charms of their waitress (whose phone number Pete magically obtained before leaving).

  Up in his room, Adam sat on the edge of his bed with an open bottle of 2003 Ridge Independence School Zinfandel on the night table. After asking Adam dozens of questions, Pete had settled on this particular bottle, which was certainly delicious. Magical? Adam wasn’t so sure. The music from downstairs—Bon Jovi—could be heard thumping dully through the floorboards. Nothing like a drunken crowd chanting along to “Livin’ on a Prayer” to pair with your wine. For some reason the thought of killing himself crossed Adam’s mind. Not that he was serious about it. But what if I did? What if the reason I came up here was to end my life? Even if it’s not true, it would make a kind of poetic sense. It’s my birthday, so I came back to the last place I can remember being happy to complete the circle of my pathetic attempt at being a functional human being.

  There was something exhilarating about these thoughts, dark though they were. Killing myself is something I have control over; it’s something I could actually do. I’ve been stuck on a merry-go-round of inescapable patterns, habits, repeated actions, day in, day out, going round and round. So, in a way, I’m already dead. In a way, killing myself would be an act of life.

  Adam took a long pull of wine.

  Downstairs Bon Jovi had thankfully left the building. There was a sustained whoop, followed by a brief lull before the next song started. In that blissful moment of silence, Adam could hear the distant crash of an ocean wave through the open balcony doors. It seemed to be calling to him, inviting him to step out of the comfort of this hotel and into the unsheltered night. Outside was something real, something honest. Out there he would face ocean, night sky, and an endless expanse of stars. Out there he couldn’t hide. The more Adam thought about it, the more it scared the shit out of him. Staying in his room might be pathetic, but at least it was safe. At least in here he still knew who he was. Out there he might lose himself.

  “Wild Thing” by Tone Lōc began to play downstairs. Adam grabbed his jacket and the bottle of wine and headed for the door.

  CHAPTER 10

  BEYOND THE STARS

  Making it out of the hotel was not easy. A mob of wedding guests had taken over the lobby, creating a formidable barricade between Adam and the front door. Tucking the wine bottle under an arm like a football, he forced his way inch by inch through the drunken crowd, through the sweaty, psychotic faces bobbing out of sync, chanting in unison to the music, “Bah, bah, bah, bah . . . Wild Thang!”

  Out on Main Street, the cold air was a welcome slap to the face. He moved briskly toward the bluff, the sound of drunken laughter and disposable pop music dissolving in the distance. Once through the opening in the white fence, he struggled to stay on the footpath. Stepping carefully in the moonless night, avoiding large shadowy masses that he assumed were blackberry patches, he made his way toward the cliffs ahead. The sound of waves slamming against the rocks grew louder with each step, pulling him closer, closer, until at last he was there.

  The world’s end.

  Above him endless stars bore silent witness, bending from horizon to horizon, from ear to ear, in their bowl of infinite space. Below the ocean surged from its unimaginable depths, roaring and rumbling its chaotic song. Standing between these two vast domains, Adam struggled to make sense of it all. No need to panic. That’s just the ocean. And that up there, that’s just space and stars. Don’t lose yourself in it. Don’t forget who you are. Then came voices crying up from a deeper place within. Who am I, really? Who am I and why am I here? Why do I feel like I’ve been running away from something my whole adult life? What is it? And why can’
t I remember?

  Adam pulled at the bottle of wine as if attempting to drown his thoughts. The noise inside his head was becoming unbearable, a cacophony of ringing and buzzing and voices uttering random words and fragments of sentences over and over again. Then an eerily calm voice broke through the gibberish. Perhaps you are here to kill yourself.

  Adam didn’t want to start thinking about suicide again, especially out here. But looking at the edge of the cliff in front of him triggered a sudden jolt of adrenaline. It was not a long drop from where he was now, but there were higher points not too far away. Just go take a look, the calm voice coaxed. That’s all. It can’t hurt to just look. He took another swig from the bottle and started to climb.

  It took all his concentration not to trip and spill his wine, but eventually Adam made it to a high point on the cliff. His heart was pounding so loud he could hear it in his ears. Getting down on his hands and knees, Adam inched to the edge of the precipice. Down below the waves thundered against the rocks. That would definitely do the trick.

  Crawling a little closer, Adam set the wine bottle down and slowly stood up. He extended his arms for balance while keeping his eyes on his feet, which were now less than six inches from the edge. Slowly he lowered his arms and then looked up. In a space between waves, everything fell silent. All the noise in his head, all the tension in his body, drained away. He suddenly felt relaxed, his body light as a bird’s. Adam shut his eyes.

  “Are you lost?” a voice called out.

  Adam’s eyes popped open, and he stumbled backward, landing on his ass.

  Who said that? Adam squinted into the darkness behind him. At first he couldn’t see anything, but then a small orange light flared brightly. A cigarette? He started to make out a silhouette, but if that was a person, their head was freakishly large. Then Adam realized he was looking at someone wearing an oversize, hooded parka. Before he could make out any more details, a flashlight popped on, blinding him.