Life After Death: A Story of Love, Loss, and Living

by Jamie Hitchcock

  At the end of the lesson, Amara squelched the engine and dismounted, allowing Henry to resume his natural place in the driver’s seat.

  “Want to go for a ride?” he offered.

  She nodded firmly and mounted the seat behind him.

  They rolled out of the lot and headed west toward the coast. The bike was quick, and Amara still had to remind herself sometimes to lean into the turns. They sped along the curvy two-lane road as it climbed higher along the cliff side. The right side of the forest dropped away as the ridge grew steeper, replaced by a low, stone border wall, bleached by salt and sunlight.

  They crested the mountain and began to descend. When they reentered the tree line, Henry pulled off the road and killed the engine. He swung his leg over the seat and balanced the bike while Amara did the same. Once she had dismounted, he paused to adjust the straps of his backpack.

  Amara surveyed her surroundings.

  “Where are we going?”

  Grasping her hand, he replied eagerly, “I want to show you something.”

  Henry led her back up the road about twenty feet, turned abruptly to the left, and ducked under a low branch.

  Intrigued, Amara followed quickly. She didn’t want to lose him.

  The sweeping branches cleared, opening onto a narrow, rocky trail.

  “This way,” he motioned to the west. The path wound down the hillside, crossing back on itself every so often to reduce the severity of the descent.

  Amara followed slowly, stopping periodically to breathe in the scenery: the bracken ferns, the mossy rocks, the looming fir trees, Henry in the lead. Eventually, the trail flattened out as they neared sea level. She scooted down the final slope along the side of a creek, using the unearthed roots of a tree as her foothold. The creek funneled through a pipe below the train tracks that paralleled the shore.

  On the other side of the tracks, huge slabs of sandstone plunged into the water, concave walls of rock worn smooth by the relentless waves. Little holes pocked the flatter surfaces where small pebbles had eroded the soft stone. These made for convenient hand holds as they traversed the wall.

  They clambered over a seemingly endless pile of shale boulders, large chunks of substrate that had been unearthed hundreds of years ago as the hillside slowly fell into the sea. Near the water, Amara stopped to observe the seaweed and anemones that bobbed gracefully in the tide pools. She wished her motions could be as fluid as those creatures, swaying as the pools ebbed and flowed. She was envious of the ease by which they surrendered to the things beyond their control.

  When she looked up, Henry was gone.

  “Henry?” she called out.

  He reappeared from behind a triangular granite slab set back against the hill. A weathered, large dragonfly enclosed by a studded circle decorated the rock, tagged in white chalk. The wings dripped from the moisture in the air, creating the illusion that the dragonfly was slowly melting.

  “This way.” Henry waved to her before ducking back behind the rock.

  Amara swiftly climbed to him. As she reached the summit, she craned to find where Henry had disappeared. She anticipated that he had escaped over the hump of rock and further down the beach. Instead, she found another large slab of dark stone jutting up to meet the triangular one, forming a small tunnel perpendicular to the waterline.

  A smooth sandstone ledge protruded from the hillside, which formed a slightly sloping floor, suspended above the shallow water below. The seaward side of the cave opened back out to the water but was protected enough that its contents could only be seen from a passing boat, if one happened to look toward shore at the exact right moment. At high tide, the cave was practically at the waterline; but at the moment the tide was receding, which left three or four feet of clearance below.

  Henry unpacked a blanket from his bag and spread it on the sandstone. He turned from the water to face her, and flashed a mischievously uneven smile. The spindles of reflected sunlight swirled on the walls and spiraled across his tanned face. The small enclosure accentuated his solid figure as it filled the space. Henry had a brawny build that some would consider stocky, but his height was proportional, which helped to elongate his muscular form.

  Amara ducked through the entrance and crawled over the blanket to sit beside him.

  He handed her a metal water bottle.

  She took it gratefully and drank.

  “How did you find this place?” she wondered in awe.

  He gazed pensively across the water. “Sometimes I just need a quiet place to think. Usually, I just go for a ride. I found this spot while some friends and I were messing around at the beach down the way.” He pointed south along the coastline. “But I didn’t show any of them. I wanted to keep it to myself. Now I come down here when the weather is nice, just to be.”

  Amara nodded in understanding. She, too, felt compelled to seek places of solitude at times.

  After a few minutes of silence, she inquired, “Why did you show me?”

  “Because I don’t feel like I have to hide from you.” He reached for her hand. “I like being with you here more than I like being alone.” He adjusted to face her.

  Their eyes met.

  She watched the color of his eyes shift in the changing light from a lively green to a gentle brown.

  He held her stare intently until she had to look away. The intensity of their connection scared her. Henry lifted her chin gently toward him and leaned forward to kiss her left eyelid, then the right.

  She opened her eyes, determined to meet his gaze, but she only managed a few seconds before her eyes fluttered down to his lips. His upper lip was thin, but the lower one was supple. Faint brown stubble rose on his chin and jawline. She met his eyes again, her pupils dilating into focus in the dim light. Get a grip, she thought to herself, they’re just eyes, just two eyes. Everyone has them. But looking into his eyes was like staring at the sun while falling backward into a black hole. She saw stars in his eyes. She saw the reflection of a pair of white birds drifting in the wind.

  She didn’t know it, but he was watching the same reflection in her own deep brown eyes. Her lips parted slightly and he leaned forward to meet them.

  They spent the afternoon hiding together from the world. Henry came prepared. He unpacked peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, chips, and an apple to share for dessert. He lounged with his head on her lap as she read aloud to him. When her voice tired, they switched places. The cavern was cool, protected from the high afternoon sun.

  By evening, though, the light was sinking quickly to the west and the tide was advancing. Swimming in amorous content, they delayed their departure as long as possible, until they could no longer avoid the inevitable. By the last straggling light of day, they carefully followed the trail back up the hill toward the road. Sunlight was fading rapidly, and what remained was hungrily filtered by the trees overhead.

  Henry stumbled ahead of her on the trail. Amara raced ahead to catch him, slowing his momentum as he fell to a knee.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  He collected himself slowly. “Yes, I think so. Just a bit dizzy. Must have been in the sun too long today.”

  She retrieved the water from his pack and offered it to him. He took a long drink, wiped his lips, and tried to stand. She lifted him gently by the arm.

  “Thank you,” he replied, returning the water to his bag.

  They walked on in the growing darkness.

  *7*

  Nathan hoisted the mainsail as his dad steered them away from the harbor. A fleet of white sails popped up around the bay. It was mid-July and the weekly dinghy races were well underway. Nathan’s dad had taught him how to sail as soon as his hands were nimble enough to tie the knots, and it was the only one of the many hobbies his father had pressured him into that they both truly enjoyed.

  Nathan’s dad had constantly enrolled him in new sports as a young boy, always physical and never by request. Nathan would much rather have spent his childhood dueling his imaginary fri
ends in the backyard and questing to save a fantasy kingdom from unjust rule.

  On one occasion, when he was about ten years old, Nathan distinctly recalled his dad coming home from work to find him tucked away in the bushes against the house constructing an elaborate elf village made of sticks, moss, and random knickknacks from the junk drawer. His dad had been furious with him for “stealing” all his things from the house to use in the “fairy garden,” even though Nathan was sure nothing in that drawer had been looked at in months.

  The very next day he enrolled Nathan in football camp to “keep him from sitting around all summer.” For the next few weeks Nathan spent his days being knocked around by kids twice his size and his evenings pushing full force against his dad in drills.

  Though he secretly enjoyed it, Nathan had also rebelled against sailing for most of his childhood, merely on the principle that it was something his dad wanted him to do. It wasn’t until a few years ago, after he moved out of his parent’s house, that he was able to find peace spending a sunny day like today in the confines of a small boat with his dad.

  The Dragonfly, a sporty racing craft, caught wind as it headed southwest toward the protecting islands. The sky was clear with a cool inland breeze. Salty waves splashed against the boat as it crested over each swell. Leaning out over the leeward side, Nathan inhaled deeply. Blue water filled his mind as far as his eye could see.

  “Ready to tack!” his dad yelled from the helm. “Pull in the main!”

  Nathan sprang into action. The bow of the boat turned into the wind, catching the tall sail on the opposite side. Nathan ducked to avoid colliding with the boom as it swung across.

  As they rounded the first red buoy, a pod of harbor seals dodged below the surface, reappearing a couple hundred yards away to watch the proceedings from a safer distance, their sleek, round heads bobbing lazily in the surf.

  The sailors raced around three more buoys, taking each on the portside, as they sailed through the route.

  A single racer, The Titan, carried the lead ahead of them. The course traced the perimeter of the bay, enclosed by a peninsula to the west and a field of islands to the south, returning along the commercial waterfront. Nestled in the hillside above the city, the most prominent buildings of the university campus caught a glimmer in the high sun.

  With a favorable wind, they made good time, but not good enough to beat the McCreary brothers, their long-time rivals. The stakes, as usual, were a round of drinks after the race.

  Back in the marina, Nathan fastened each line to a cleat, securing the dinghy to the dock before heading up the ramp to the boathouse.

  His dad sidled up next to him. “Not bad, kid,” he said, clapping a hand on his back, “but next time, you could be a bit sharper on the turns. We almost lost it around that last marker.”

  Nathan nodded stiffly.

  Mark, Nathan’s father, was not the sort of man to be challenged. This was something he diligently portrayed in every aspect of his being with his short, military haircut, cleanly shaved jaw, and firmly pressed clothes. Even his boating-wear remained impeccably crisp after a long day out in the salty wind. Sometimes, Nathan couldn’t help but wonder if even his clothes were afraid to move out of line.

  With Nathan in tow, Mark entered the boat house and headed to the bar. “I’ll have a whisky, neat, and an IPA for the boy,” Mark ordered. “And whatever the McCrearys want when they turn up,” he added begrudgingly.

  Emboldened by his drink, Nathan felt compelled to finally confess his transgressions. “Dad, I need to tell you something,” he started.

  His dad leveled his stare.

  “It’s about Cece … and me, really.” The rest of his words escaped him. Squaring his shoulders, he tried again with a more forward approach. “We, Cecelia and I, are having a baby.” He stared into the bottom of his glass, waiting for his father’s reaction.

  “That’s good, son,” Mark said coolly, his expression unwavering.

  Nathan was taken aback by the levelness of his father’s reaction. He’d expected much more volume. “What do you mean ‘that’s good?’” Nathan pressed.

  “It wasn’t the plan, not yet anyway, but maybe this is what you need. Some direction. You’re old enough to start taking life more seriously. And you two have been together for what, four years now? It’s about time you took a step forward. With the job that I got you down at the dealership, you can make enough to support them. When is the wedding?”

  “I haven’t asked her yet,” Nathan said under his breath, still staring at his glass. “I don’t know, Dad, do I want to marry Cecelia?”

  “Why on earth not?”

  “It’s just … well, I never really thought about it with her. We’re good together, just hanging out. But marriage? That’s a big commitment.”

  “Nonsense. She’s going to have your child. You’re well past ‘hanging out’ now. You already made a commitment to her in the eyes of God the minute you got her pregnant. It’s time to step up, time to act like a man. Have you told your mother?”

  Nathan sighed indignantly. “No, I don’t know how to tell her. She'll flip. Did you ever have doubts about Mom before you married her?”

  His father didn’t blink. “Everyone gets nervous before something like that. But, no, I loved your mom, and that’s all that mattered. We made a commitment to each other, for better or worse, and you and Cece are going to do the same. This isn’t something you can run away from. Not this time, kid.”

  Mark hailed the bartender for another round.

  “Better ask her soon, before the kid comes out. You can’t have a baby without a wedding. What would God think?”

  What would God think? Nathan hadn’t even stopped to consider God’s opinions on the matter. His initial reaction was to think it unlikely that God paid much attention to his uninspired life so far. Why should He concern himself with such trivial players now? After being dragged to church every Sunday since before he could remember, Nathan knew this was not a sentiment that he could share readily with his conventional father, so he swallowed it with a gulp of beer.

  “You’re right, Dad. I’ll ask her,” was all he managed to say in reply.

  *8*

  Walking through the brick courtyard, Amara welcomed the light mist as it swept off the pillar of water in the large fountain and drifted over her arms. The dampness was a refreshing surprise in the stifling late August heat.

  Red Square, aptly named for its monochromatic brick architecture, was the central hub on campus during the cooler months, bordered by the library to the east, a student café to the west, lecture halls to the polar ends, and a large circular fountain in the center. Amara had discovered recently that the predominately stone structures enclosing the courtyard also soaked up all the heat from the blazing sun, which made this area insufferably hot in the summertime. Fanning herself with one of her notebooks, Amara quickened her pace to escape the brick inferno.

  She walked down the long brick path that cut through the center of campus until she came to a cooler resting spot. Here, outside the science building, Amara found a place to sit at the top of a grassy knoll. Being a bit higher off the hot bricks, she relaxed into a subtle breeze as it rustled through the grass. Amara unpacked her books and settled in to study here until her next class.

  As she skimmed through pages of her biology textbook, she caught sight of a large shadow as it stretched over her from behind. She turned to find Henry stepping up next to her bag on the grass.

  She cocked her head in surprise. “What are you doing here? I thought you had class right now.”

  Henry bent down to kiss her on the forehead. “I do, I mean I did, but it got cancelled. My professor’s sick. Technically, we’re supposed to be doing study groups instead, but I’d rather be outside with you.”

  Amara beamed at his unexpected visit. “Great! I’ve got over an hour until my lab.” She shuffled her notes farther to the left to make room for Henry. He gratefully took his seat next to her and unpacked a
sketchpad and coloring pencils. Amara returned to her studies.

  Every so often, Amara felt Henry’s eyes on her as he sat cross-legged in the grass facing her direction. His gaze flitted from the paper up to her, with a long pause periodically as he studied her features, and back again. Then his pencil began to move quickly, sometimes in long, smooth lines, other times in fast scribbles. Curious, Amara raised her head and strained her neck upward to see what he was drawing.

  Henry covered the top of the page with his left hand.

  “Are you drawing me?” Amara probed.

  Henry’s hand movements paused for a moment as he replied, “Maybe.”

  Intrigued, Amara pushed further. “Can I see it?”

  “It’s not done yet.”

  Amara huffed impatiently. “So?”

  “So … I don’t want you to see it until it’s done.” He moved the blue pencil in long, fluid sweeps around the edge of the page.

  Amara scowled in disappointment.

  “Don’t do that,” Henry instructed. “It won’t look right if you make that face.”

  “Fine,” replied Amara. She squinted her eyes and plastered a toothy smile across her face. “Is this better?”

  Henry chuckled. “No, just act normal. Pretend I’m not here.”

  Amara relaxed her face and sighed. She tried to settle back into her book but remained keenly aware of Henry studying her. Every so often she wrinkled her nose or stuck out her tongue just to mess with him.

  After another half hour, the alarm on Amara’s cellphone beeped, indicating it was time for her next class. She stood and stretched herself upward, releasing the tension pent up in her hips after sitting in one position for so long. She peered over to Henry’s lap as she stretched, trying to catch a glimpse of his artwork.

  Again, Henry blocked her vision with his hand. “Not yet,” he scolded warmly.