Collateral

by Ellen Hopkins

  means I should get dressed. I’ve

  been sitting here in my jammies.

  I slip into the purple bikini I

  haven’t even looked at since

  Hawaii. It reminds me of Cole,

  chiding me for dressing too

  provocatively. Wonder what he’d

  think about my going surfing

  with Jonah. Scratch that.

  I don’t wonder at all. I know

  exactly what he’d think.

  AND YET

  I’m going. I leave my ring stashed

  beneath my underwear. Probably

  the first place a burglar would look,

  but still. I don’t want to wear it

  riding big water. If it came off,

  I’d lose it forever. I hide the bikini

  beneath jeans and a sweatshirt,

  French braid my hair. Grab my

  board, hoping it’s long enough.

  I’ve never attempted swells

  much bigger than six feet.

  These could easily be twice that.

  Excitement and fear collide

  in a heady torrent of blood

  through my veins. For about

  a half second, I consider

  a Xanax. Toss the notion

  aside. This particular variety

  of anxiousness is righteous.

  I want to stay sharp, not feel

  all blurred around the edges.

  I walk by my laptop, where

  a beaming bride poses midst

  a vineyard. Hit Hibernate.

  THE WOODIE IS TOTALLY COOL

  Cooler than the BMW. It’s cherry

  red, with big polished wood panels

  in back. Super clean. Super Jonah.

  “I didn’t know cars like this really

  existed. It’s so . . . Beach Boys.”

  Jonah slides my board up on

  the roof rack, secures it carefully.

  You know the Beach Boys?

  “Well, sure. Doesn’t everyone?

  They’re quintessential California.”

  Yeah, like forty years ago.

  Don’t tell me you’ve heard

  of Jan and Dean, too.

  I wink at him. “She’s the little

  old lady from Pasadena.” It’s a fair

  imitation of the original.

  You are just full of surprises.

  He gives me a lightning-quick sideways

  hug, then opens the car door for me.

  I can still feel the grip of his hand

  on my shoulder as I squish into

  the cushy leather seat. “They built ’em

  for comfort back then, didn’t they?”

  That, they did. Make yourself

  at home. He looks just like I pictured

  him as he motors us to Encinitas,

  except it’s too cool to put down

  the windows so his hair can blow

  back. Still, he’s so Jan and Dean.

  I glance over the seat, where two

  neoprene suits, one Jonah-size, one

  smaller, look a lot like beheaded seals.

  “So, do you keep an extra wetsuit

  around, just in case some girl

  wants to go winter riding with you?”

  It’s a flip throwaway question, so

  I don’t expect the serious answer.

  You’re the first girl I’ve gone

  surfing with since my wife left.

  It was hers. Hope you don’t mind.

  “Uh, no. Not at all.” I forgot he had

  a wife once. He mentioned her

  wanderlust in passing that time.

  “How long were you married?”

  Five years. Well, officially five.

  Velia split after three and a half.

  Met a guy she liked better. An Aussie.

  Last I heard, they’d moved Down Under.

  When I tell him I’m sorry, he shrugs.

  Don’t be. She and I were worse

  than oil and water. We were more

  like kerosene and flame. Volatile.

  Definitely not meant to be together.

  RELATIONSHIPS

  Are just weird. You think

  you belong together. Find

  out you don’t. Some people

  stay. Smart people go. Except

  sometimes you can’t. You have

  kids together or your bank

  account is empty or there are

  special circumstances like your

  husband being a burn victim.

  Or, like my parents, you’re just

  too damn stubborn to admit you

  made a major mistake. How many

  people meet, hook up, commit,

  and find themselves glad they did

  after a decade or two together?

  I muse out loud, “Do you think

  it’s possible for two people to

  stay in love forever? Or at least

  to stay content together forever?”

  Yes. No hesitation at all. I do.

  Too many people get together

  for the wrong reasons—sexual

  attraction. Or escape. If they can’t

  find common interests, build

  a friendship, those relationships

  are probably doomed. He turns

  onto a long boulevard. Too bad

  it doesn’t work the other way

  more often. When love evolves

  from friendship, it must be stronger.

  SWAMI’S

  Is an elongated stretch of beautiful

  beach. I can see why it’s so popular.

  Especially today, with big, rolling breaks.

  Probably ten- or eleven-foot swells.

  As Jonah gathers the gear, I watch

  a couple of rides. Again, that blend

  of fear and anticipation quickens

  my heartbeat. The slight trepidation

  I feel must be obvious somehow

  because Jonah asks, Nervous?

  “A little,” I admit. “They’re a bit bigger

  than what I’m used to. Any tips?”

  First of all, a bit of fear is good.

  It keeps you thinking. Be patient.

  Don’t take the first wave in the set.

  If you’re not sure, watch me or one

  of the others to know when to go.

  Then paddle in hard. Harder than

  you might normally. Use the power

  of the wave to your advantage.

  Once you’ve done one or two, you’ll

  be fine. And remember, this is fun.

  ALL SQUEEZED

  Into Velia’s wetsuit, I follow Jonah

  to the water’s edge. Stand for a minute,

  watching the surf, and the two dozen

  or so guys and exactly three girls

  working it already. They’re good,

  but I don’t think they’re better than

  I am, so when Jonah asks if I’m ready,

  I flip my head in answer. The initial

  splash into the winter Pacific takes

  my breath. But almost immediately,

  the neoprene goes to work. I’m warm.

  I paddle out after Jonah, admiring

  his contours. We push hard over the breaks,

  finally reach the semistill water beyond.

  Be smart, be safe, and if those two

  things fail, I’ve got your back, says

  Jonah. We watch a couple of sets.

  Finally, I give him a nod meaning

  I understand the water’s rhythm.

  The perfect wave starts to roll in front

  of me. I don’t look right nor left, but

  rely on my instinct and paddle hard.

  Harder than I’ve ever paddled before.

  Instinct yells, “Stand up.” Next thing

  I know, I’m on my feet and a powerful

  force
is pushing me forward and it curls

  behind me in excellent fashion. I don’t

  panic or fall. I just ride. And it is the best

  thing I’ve ever done. At least, for myself.

  Rewind

  AS THE TIME APPROACHED

  For Cole’s last homecoming, I was equal

  parts relieved and worried-as-hell. His

  e-mails were coherent. Outlined, maybe.

  Plotted to sound as reasonable as I hoped

  they would be. Had I only heard from him

  via the web, I would probably have felt fine.

  But his infrequent calls were vaguely disturbing.

  Not so much because of what he said.

  Because of how he didn’t say much

  of anything. “Are you feeling okay?”

  I always asked. “Headaches gone?”

  Mostly, he always answered. Except

  when they’re not. Sometimes they’re

  regular motherfuckers. He was manning

  up, I thought. But I wanted the truth,

  not that I knew how to pry it from him.

  I checked out his Facebook page

  more regularly than at any other time

  in our relationship. His posts remained

  few and spare. From time to time, I saw

  replies from his mother. From Spence.

  Other grunts he knew, or didn’t. A school

  buddy or two. But from Lara, just that

  one post for weeks and weeks. And then

  came a second. YOUR MOM TOLD ME YOU

  WERE INJURED. PROMISE ME YOU’RE OKAY.

  Cole’s response was nothing more

  than congenial. AH, YOU KNOW MOM.

  SHE WORRIES WHEN I GET A BLISTER.

  I’M ONE HUNDRED PERCENT EXCEPTIONAL

  BUT YOU KNOW THAT ALREADY, RIGHT?

  Nothing in the exchange sounded

  like anything but a concerned ex-girlfriend,

  stress on the “ex,” asking about Cole’s

  welfare. His reply was rather ambiguous.

  A little flirty but with no overt hints

  of romantic entanglement. My jealous

  reaction to their ongoing communication

  was totally unreasonable. Probably.

  And my anger at Rochelle was completely

  off the charts. Why were she and Lara

  in such obvious touch? Rochelle knew

  about me. Had welcomed me into her home,

  let me stand next to her son as witness

  to her vows with Dale. Did she prefer

  Lara? Maybe even want Cole to break

  up with me so he could get back with his

  ex? I thought about the letter stash, especially

  the most recent one, which had to have

  been mailed in care of Rochelle, and

  suddenly I felt like a fool, caught up in

  some soap opera conspiracy. Since

  Rochelle and Lara were on speaking

  terms, had they spoken about me at all?

  IT WAS A WOUND

  Left to fester. Truthfully, I might have

  said something except just about

  the time Cole touched down in Kaneohe

  Bay, we got the news about Dale.

  Those bouts of indigestion and heartburn?

  Well, everybody got those, right? And

  what was a little nausea but a bad case

  of the flu? Okay, several bad cases.

  Bloating. Middle-aged spread, and maybe

  he should eat a little more fiber. But then

  the blood in his stools became regular.

  It was probably just an ulcer. His dad

  got ulcers. Cured them with cream.

  But even drinking all that cream

  didn’t help the burn or keep the weight

  from dropping off. Finally, Rochelle insisted

  he go see the doctor. And by then it

  was much too late. When Cole took

  his leave, we went back to Wyoming

  together. The cheerful ranch house

  was shrouded with sadness. Cancer.

  It struck viciously. Without regard

  for the life it had already made ragged

  once. Rochelle had lost her daughter

  to it, and now she would lose her husband.

  Oh, they would try radical treatment,

  but Dale should have gone in sooner.

  He already looked wraithlike—ghostly

  white and skeleton thin. I barely recognized

  him. And I didn’t know what to say.

  WHAT DO YOU SAY

  To a man you’ve met only once—

  one you like, but don’t really know—

  when it’s obvious his time is short?

  What do you say to his wife, your

  boyfriend’s mother, who might be

  subtly interfering with the relationship

  you’re trying to build, when worrying

  about that seems trite and petty, in

  the shadow of her tomorrow? What

  do you say to your boyfriend, who

  is struggling to shore up his mother,

  when it’s clear she’s crumbling, but

  determined not to show it because

  that would mean she’s acquiesced

  to the will of fate—not God’s will, no,

  because the God of love could not

  be so capricious or cruel? There was

  nothing to say. So I kept mostly quiet

  for the best part of three days. I held

  Cole when it seemed he wanted me

  to. Gave him space when he required

  that instead. It was boring, and the silence,

  oppressing. Maybe that’s why when

  things finally blew, they blew wide.

  THE ROTTING LESION

  Turned gangrenous with a chiming

  of the telephone. Rochelle and Dale

  had gone to church. Cole was outside,

  tossing hay to the livestock, when the call

  came. It wasn’t my phone. Not sure why

  I answered it. Maybe I was starving for

  two sentences of conversation, but I did

  pick up, and a woman on the other end

  inquired, Is Rochelle there? When I told

  her no, she said, Will you please tell her

  that Lara called? It’s not important. Just

  wanted to ask how Dale is doing. She must

  have thought about who had answered.

  Uh . . . may I ask who this is? A big part

  of me wanted to tell her to mind her own

  damn business, but then I realized it was

  a golden moment. “This is Ashley. Cole’s

  girlfriend.” I waited for that to sink in,

  wondering if she’d be gracious or bitchy.

  Neither, actually. Oh. Well, is Cole there?

  It was a non-reaction, and I couldn’t

  gauge its meaning, but the wound

  threatened to bleed. I started

  to say no, but just then I heard

  the front door close as Cole returned

  from the barn. “Just a minute. Cole!”

  I called, and when he came looking,

  I mouthed, “Lara,” and handed him the phone.

  His face flushed, and as he talked

  into the mouthpiece, closing the distance

  between Lara and him with words,

  his eyes closed and his hand lifted against

  his temple, as if his head had begun

  to throb. He told her about Dale’s condition,

  and said his mom wasn’t taking it well.

  Please do, he said at one point. I know

  she’d like that. As Lara talked into his

  ear, I felt like gum stuck on his shoe.

  Finally, he finished the conversation

  with a not unexpected, You, too. Which,

 
no, didn’t have to mean, “I love you,

  too.” But that’s sure what it seemed

  like to me. By the time he hung up,

  my own head was pounding blood.

  THE PRESSURE

  Inside me was intense, and even though

  I knew it was the wrong time, wrong

  place, I opened the release valve wide.

  “How would you feel if I kept an old

  boyfriend holding on? How can you tell me

  you love me, then keep in touch with her?

  Up until this minute, she still didn’t know

  about me, did she? What the fuck, Cole?

  How can you do this to me? How can . . . ?”

  Stop it! His hands cinched my shoulders.

  Squeezed. I’m sick of you bitching

  about Lara. Goddamn it, just shut the fuck

  up about her, hear? I don’t keep in touch . . .

  “Liar!” I shouted. “You do. I’ve seen

  her posts on your Facebook page.

  What do you think I am, stupid?”

  He squeezed even harder, started

  to shake me. My head snapped back

  and forth. Don’t you ever call me a liar.

  Fury shaded his golden eyes red.

  “Cole, stop. You’re hurting me.”

  Tears spilled down my face. “Please.”

  Some piece of Cole snapped back

  into the proper place. He let go.

  Oh, Jesus, Ash, I’m so sorry. I . . .

  He stepped back and I did, too.

  The space between us was a billion

  times wider than those inches.

  I STUMBLED TO COLE’S ROOM

  On legs as unsteady as a newborn

  foal’s. I thought they might buckle,

  so I sat in the rocking chair by

  the window, staring at the Wyoming

  terrain. Sparse. Ice choked. Alien.

  That place didn’t belong to me, nor

  I to it. It could have easily been

  another planet. As the froth of fear

  and anger inside began to dissipate,

  for some reason I thought about Cole,

  forced into alien environments,

  and charged with taming them, all

  the while knowing that, despite

  every effort, they would likely return

  to wilderness once left to go fallow.

  His call to duty was greater than mine

  could ever be. I understood that

  before, trusted his motives implicitly.

  How could I let this phantom girl—

  a whisper of his past—quake my faith?

  THEN HE CAME TO ME