Ren: The Monster's Adventure

by Sarah Noffke

  “Can we stop? Pretty please,” Adelaide asks, her voice excited. What was in that food?

  “What?” I say, perturbed on a whole new level. My clothes are gross and I’m longing for a shower and a clean bed. “No, we can’t stop,” I say but dumb Dahlia is already exiting.

  “Of course, dear. What would an adventure be without a sense of spontaneity?” Dahlia says.

  “Why are we stopping?” I say.

  “Because I want to put my toes in the water,” Adelaide says.

  “The ocean is always right outside our door every-fucking-day,” I say.

  “Yeah, but Malibu is full of jerks. They like to stare to see if I have the latest XYZ and I always want to make them drown themselves,” she says.

  “Thanks for refraining. That would be a bloody mess to cover up all those drownings,” I say, throwing my head to the rest behind me.

  “This beach looks quaint and exactly like the kind I want for Lucien to see,” she says and then goes to rustling the finally peaceful toddler with tickling fingers.

  I want to continue my protest but seeing her smile and imagining the child’s sleepy face she’s torturing by waking pauses me. Adelaide and Lucien have come a long way and I know it hasn’t been an easy journey for either of them. My daughter unsurprisingly isn’t a natural mother like some. She has to work to be nurturing. I see it constantly in her. Adelaide has to continually figure out how to be kind when she’s never experienced that kind of unconditional love. And Lucien, from my observation, isn’t the cuddling type. Not with most anyway. He’s more like me and would rather be left alone. But still he’s found ways to bond with the mum who won’t give up on him. In many ways Adelaide and Lucien remind me of my mum and me. An unlikely pair. And yet perfectly matched.

  Dahlia pulls the SUV up to a space in a parking lot. A long stretch of sand dunes separates us from the ocean.

  “I’ll wait in the car,” I say as the three filter out of the vehicle.

  Dahlia has a giant bag slung over a shoulder when she stops back by her open door. “Ren Lewis, please stop being a dipshit and join us.”

  “I’m afraid being that which you’ve labeled me is all I know,” I say.

  “Then when I’m dead and gone, as you prophesied all those years ago, a full two to three decades before you, you’ll have one less memory of me,” Dahlia says and she’s trying to be a witch but her true emotions come through. She’s pleading. Clinging a bit to me out of fears. But it’s not something I can tolerate right now. Maybe ever. That’s why I allow her to walk off without me. I watch from the car as Adelaide and the little monster make it all the way to the water’s edge. They’re laughing most of the time. Lucien is cradled against Adelaide’s hip because the newbie still can’t figure out walking.

  I look to the center console where I notice the sunscreen is perched like it was placed there and then left as an afterthought. Doesn’t Adelaide realize that she and Lucien are going to melt into a trillion freckles inside a ten-minute period? It doesn’t matter that it’s almost sunset. The bloody sun doesn’t care. If it can give our skin the kiss of death then it will.

  “Fuck my life,” I say, grabbing the spray and throwing the door open.

  I’m only ten feet through the sand when I realize my loafers are trashed. I peel them off, along with my socks, and roll up my hosed trousers. It will be good to get replacements tomorrow at the hotel. Dahlia already made the call.

  The sand makes each step a chore. I’d teleport to the blanket Dahlia has set up but there are a few dozen people around. It’s not that many people by usual beach standards but still. Adelaide’s instinct was actually right on this beach. It’s quiet compared to the ones in Malibu, which are always swarming with shabby chic tossers. Still, I notice Dahlia thought to wear her oversized hat and glasses. This is a woman who can rarely go to a random village in China and not be recognized. She’s more iconic than the President of the United States or Shakespeare. There’s no one more famous than Dahlia and yet she’s paying a price for this fame.

  “You losers forgot the sunscreen,” I say when I reach them.

  “That’s the extra bottle,” Dahlia says. “I already have Addy and Lucien covered,” she adds, throwing a hand out to the pair who are dancing in front of the tide like they are tempting it. Adelaide has Lucien cradled and keeps running to the ocean’s edge and then away from the approaching tide. She’s calling out, “Don’t get us. Don’t kiss our feet.” The child is giggling, his green eyes wide.

  “But since you’re here, come sit and enjoy the view with me,” Dahlia says, patting the blanket next to her.

  I regard her for a few seconds. There are so many things I want to say to the woman before me. The first few reflexive statements aren’t nice: I wish I never met you. You are my greatest weakness. I’d do anything to forget you. And then the next messages are new to me but solely meant for Dahlia: You are all of me. You’re my strength. Don’t leave me, my love.

  I take the place behind her before settling down on the soft earth. I stretch my legs out on either side of her and then thread my arms around her, pulling her to me. A thousand words spin through my head but all I say is, “I fucking hate sand.”

  “I know,” she says, patting my arm. “It’s going to be everywhere now. In every one of your nooks and crannies.”

  “I fear you’re right,” I say, my breath whisking through her hair.

  “See, Ren, you always dream travel but rarely experience a place in physical form. Doesn’t it feel nice to have the sun on your skin and the wind running over your face?”

  “It’s less than tolerable,” I say, my chin tucked to the side and my being pulling the woman in front of me as close as science allows.

  And then as they are prone to do, Adelaide and her monster interrupt by plopping down beside us. Lucien grabs a clump of sand at the edge of the blanket and thrusts it in our direction. Dahlia and I both look away to shield ourselves from the assault. Children are so uncivilized.

  “I’m hungry,” Adelaide says. “But only just a bit.”

  “Well, you’re in luck,” Dahlia says, pushing me off her as she reaches for her bag. She withdraws the covered pie and utensils. “How perfect will it be to eat this and watch the sunset? It’s almost as if Leen knew,” she says, starting to uncover the still warm pie. The smell of apple and cinnamon swirls through the salty air.

  “Un-fucking-canny,” I say, thinking of the gypsy woman and her prophecy.

  Dahlia hands a piece to me but I decline since I’m not interested in poison dressed in pie.

  She shrugs and hands it off to Adelaide, who grabs it and takes a giant forkful and shovels it into her mouth. “This is perfect,” my daughter says, her voice blissful for the first time in…well, forever. Adelaide takes another bite, an intoxicated smile on her face as she stares out at the golden sunset and glistening water.

  And the look on Dahlia’s face is similar except her joy is from watching Adelaide and Lucien’s experience. Then she shoves a forkful of pie into her mouth and sighs inwardly.

  And then a screeching motor interrupts my observation. I wheel around to find a gaggle of four-wheelers speeding in our direction, the riders howling with joy. The wheels of their vehicles are no doubt destroying the ecosystem of the beach. “Hur-fucking-ray. People…” I say, realizing that once again, fuckers passing as Homo sapiens are ruining my life and the earth.

  Chapter Seven

  Sand will now live permanently in my rattlesnake loafers. Worse is the horrid bits are stuck between my junk and just about everywhere else. My forest green tie hangs loosely around my neck. It’s not a way I’ve ever worn it but I’m currently in a rare state after a day of sweating, annoying farmers, and a bunch of bloody goats who in five minutes destroyed thousands of dollars’ worth of clothes. Fuck vacations.

  “Are you having a good time?” Dahlia asks when we load back into the SUV.

  “Oh, it’s been quite lovely,” I say in a syrupy sweet voice.
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  She regards me with an amused expression. “Lying only further reserves your place in hell.”

  I look around the car, confused. “Wait. This isn’t hell? I could have sworn I died pushing this monstrosity, and this vacation was my own personal hell.”

  “Well, I’m sorry to inform you that this isn’t hell, only the primer,” she says.

  I toss my chin to the ceiling. “You are a cruel and unjust God,” I say.

  Dahlia nearly hits three pedestrians on her way out of the parking lot.

  “Why didn’t you tell me that guy was walking around the front of the car?” she says. Dahlia had been looking the opposite direction for oncoming traffic and a dumb bloke went to cross the road.

  “He looked like a bloody git. I figured I was doing some dissatisfied wife a service,” I say, watching the guy scowl at us as he veers around the vehicle. “Imagine how disappointed she’ll be when that wanker returns home yet again unscathed by a fucked up world that won’t take him out.”

  “You really are such a romantic,” Adelaide chirps from the back. “Do you think that most married people want their other half dead?”

  “Probably,” I say, not really thinking about the question. “Who knows how daft people who get married think. I fail to understand the logic of contractually binding yourself to a person for eternity.”

  “Well, what does that say about you and Dahlia?” Adelaide says. “You two are practically married. Do you wish her dead?”

  I whip around so fast that I catch my seat belt in my face. “Dahlia and I aren’t married.”

  “But you two live together,” Adelaide says.

  “There’s a difference in living with someone and marrying them. And we aren’t married because we care way too much about each other to enter into an agreement where we would force the other person to stay. If she wants out then she can leave. Vice versa. And every single day that I wake up I choose to be with her. I’m not obligated and hiding behind the excuse that I agreed to be loyal or committed or not give up. I’m a fucking human who makes mistakes and changes my mind. And I don’t have to dupe her with false promises. I care about her way too much to make her be with me. To force her year after year. And therefore I would never wish to marry her or wish her dead.”

  Adelaide shrinks back. “O-kay,” she says slowly. “I was just joking really.”

  Adelaide didn’t deserve my wrath but her off-the-cuff question triggered something in me. Something I’m trying to suppress. An old demon. An ancient worry.

  “Ren just has strong opinions on the institution of marriage,” Dahlia says, patting me on the leg, giving me a sideways look that communicates her concern for my reaction. “And I happen to agree that it’s an archaic practice. Yes, some people say it’s about committing and never giving up. But how do we know we are truly with the right person if we don’t give them a choice? People want certainty in this life, but what they miss is the chance to allow each other to grow, to change, to evolve. And if that happens and I’m not on the same page as Ren, then he has my permission to move on.”

  “But more than anything,” I say, cutting Dahlia off, sensing the fragility in her voice, “I get the pride of knowing that she’s with me because she wants to be. It’s not a matter of convenience or customs. When we aren’t obligated to each other then we are more valuable. The couple who celebrates a marriage anniversary are only saying they have chosen appearances over choices. It’s about like celebrating your mortgage every year. Hur-fucking-ray, you’ve fulfilled your contract again. How bloody romantic.”

  “Well, I think we’ve covered that topic,” Dahlia says. “Who is hungry for dinner?”

  I turn and regard her like she’s suddenly speaking French. “You just ate an apple pie, woman.”

  “I shared it with those two,” she says, her mouth gaping open.

  “Barely,” I say but then nod, realizing I’m starving. “Yeah, I could go for some real food.”

  ***

  We don’t end up in the bistro that had the ambience that Dahlia was after. That was fine by me because the waitress probably would be sporting tribal tattoos that she got when she was drunk and has no idea what they represent. And this waitress would undoubtedly serve us chips fried in oil they change out every day. The menu would have no real hearty options, just leeks sautéed in truffle oil and cheese that smells like feet and is drizzled in a reduction of bullshit. Foodies should all be dropped off in Ethiopia where their pretentious drivel will have them being roasted over a pit by the locals in no time.

  We end up in the only place where Dahlia could manage to park the beast. It isn’t even a restaurant. I stand staring at the food truck where a surfer is lurking out the window waiting to take our order.

  “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I say to Dahlia, who is scanning the three options on the menu like choosing what to eat is a real conundrum.

  “Oh, Ren, where’s your sense of adventure?” she says.

  “This is a bloody food truck,” I say. “This guy can’t even afford a secure location. And you’re going to eat seafood that he makes in a kitchen that probably doubles as his bedroom.”

  The guy who isn’t smart enough to realize I’ve insulted him smiles widely. “I sleep in the front, dude,” the dumb surfer who has obviously drunk too much salt water says.

  “Thanks for proving my point, dude,” I say.

  “I’ll have the fish tacos,” Dahlia says to the guy, and then turns around, offering us a chance to put in our order.

  “I’ll take an order of no-fucking-way with a side of you-have-to-be-out-of-your-bloody mind-Dahlia,” I say.

  The guy scratches his sun-bleached hair with a pencil. “We don’t serve any of that,” he says as his honest to god reaction.

  “Oh, shucks,” I say and turn to Adelaide.

  “I’ll take an order of chips and a couple of waters,” she says.

  “Don’t have any chips either,” he says.

  “Fries,” I cut in. “She wants fries.”

  The guy smiles broadly, his crossed eyes beaming. “Right, you two are from that place where they call fries chips and cookies biscuits. Where is that again, Canada?”

  “Yes, you’re quite the cultural expert,” I say, not even in the mood to insult this git.

  “Well, thanks, bro,” he says and then ducks back to the restroom slash grill to make Dahlia’s tacos.

  ***

  “Well, I love any opportunity I get to dine al fresco,” Dahlia says, sliding into the picnic table parked next to the greasy food truck.

  “Oh yes, you get to pair the smell of the traffic on the street with your mystery fish tacos,” I say.

  “Oh, Ren, you know I love your cynical side. It always makes me smile,” the woman I love says, not at all deterred by my quips. Her new sunny disposition needs to go and soon. I’ll wear it out of her.

  Because the lame surfer would have to put on pants to serve the food he just whistles through the window when the poison is ready. Dahlia brings it back to the table, her hat blowing in the wind, threatening to fly away. Then the mobs on the street will recognize her and tear her limb from limb, out of love, of course.

  She wastes no time inhaling the first of three tacos, all the time trying to convince me they actually don’t taste horrid. “Just try a bite,” Dahlia says.

  “Not on Adelaide’s life,” I say.

  “Hey, why do you have to bring me into this?” Adelaide says, handing a chip to the little monster. Lucien thoughtfully studies the thing and because he and I are the only ones with brains at the table he chucks it to the ground.

  “Good boy,” I say but my words are immediately drowned out by a loud siren. It’s not like an ambulance or fire truck. It’s lower pitched and so loud it covers all other noises. It’s like a tornado warning but on the west coast that’s not possible. My first thought is of a tsunami. Adelaide and I could possibly get away in time, but Dahlia and Lucien would be stuck. Suddenly I’m assaulted by the s
trangest sensation. It feels like my insides are tacked to the outside of my body. I, for the first time ever, feel vulnerable.

  I immediately look to the ocean on the other side of the street. People, locals mostly, are bustling along not at all concerned. I turn back to the truck where the surfer is outside wiping down the counter where people order. And as I suspected he’s not wearing pants but rather a towel wrapped around his waist like he just got out of the ocean.

  “Hey,” I yell loud enough to be barely heard over the siren which is still going off.

  He turns and trots over. A dumb smile on his tanned face.

  “What is that?” I yell, pointing in the air.

  “Oh, that’s the emergency alert test siren,” he says. “The nuclear plant nearby runs the drills every month so we’re prepared in case of a meltdown. It will go off for three minutes and then again in a bit,” he says like that’s the coolest thing ever and not morbid at all.

  “Right,” I say and turn back to Dahlia and Adelaide, who has Lucien’s ears covered from the racket. “You wanted ambience and now you get to eat your food apocalypse style.”

  Chapter Eight

  “What the fuck is this?” I say, holding a tiny shirt in the air. The package from Dahlia’s personal shopper arrived at the hotel this morning.