by kc dyer
For the first time, my mom’s smile falters. “Always the work. What is it with men and their work?”
“Everybody has to work, Mom. I mean, isn’t Harold still a mailman?”
The smile returns to her eyes and she gives a throaty chuckle. “Yeah, but unlike your father, he leaves his work at the office. And anyway, the sex with him is so much better.”
I suddenly remember why I don’t like talking to my mother about relationships.
Her relationships, anyway.
“Darling, can you tilt that light away a little? You’re shining it right into my eyes,” she complains.
“Sorry,” I say automatically and point my phone at a spot on the sand about halfway between us.
“Thank you, darling. And in any case, don’t forget what I told you,” she says.
The screen on my phone winks out in my hand.
“Mom?” I look from the phone back up to where she’s sitting, but the rock is empty.
Snatching my headlamp up from the ground, I jam it back onto my head. The light bounces off the wet rock inside the cave, and as I look down, a swirl of water washes over my feet.
I shake my phone to get the screen to light up, but it no longer has a screen. Instead, it’s a small stone tablet, just like the ancient Greeks used to write on.
Just like the one my dad is looking for.
That does it. Clutching the no-longer-a-phone, I hurry toward the rocky opening that my dad vanished through, calling his name into the darkness. Around me, the walls sparkle and wobble like an unstable galaxy.
Rushing blindly forward, I hit the stalecti—stalegmi—the stupid pointy rock hanging from the ceiling. It’s just a glancing blow, but enough to knock me to my knees; the sound of my cry still strangely muted.
Luckily, the water isn’t deep, but it’s definitely covering the floor. The place I’ve landed is sandy, not rocky, so my knees are fine. I’ve only grazed my skull, but it was enough to knock my headlamp out. After feeling my forehead and determining the damage is minimal, I manage to get the light back on. The rocky ceiling appears to have broken at least one of the tiny halogen bulbs, because the light is much dimmer when I finally get it working again. I try flipping my phone light on, but it’s still a stone tablet.
“There’s no service in here,” says a voice, and I look up to see Devi leaning against the cave wall. She’s wearing her scrubs, which I think are green, though it’s hard to tell in the dark, and her stethoscope is looped around her neck. “And that phone of yours is looking pretty odd at the moment, to tell you the truth.”
“For crying out loud, Devi—not you too!” I peer at her in the reflected light from my headlamp. “I was just talking to my mom.”
“I love your mom,” says Devi warmly. “Everything important I needed to know in life, I learned from your mom when I was a teenager.”
I sigh, remembering this all too well. Case in point: her very Hindu mom side-eyeing mine at school pickup after Devi came home full of a joyful description of gay marriage.
“Trust me, she’s just the same. Oversharing about her sex life. Ugh.”
Devi stuffs her stethoscope into a pocket. “You’re too sensitive. She’s just got a happy life. You should celebrate that.”
“Look, I’m too busy trying to keep track of my dad, okay? He’s somewhere in here, but as usual, I’ve lost him.”
“He’s fine,” she says reassuringly. “Small doses of psilocybin have been shown to really assist people, particularly seniors. Opens their minds.”
“What do you mean, psilocybin? Is that in his blood thinners?”
“Ha! No fear. Why don’t you ask Ryan?”
And there, just around the corner of a particularly shiny rock, I spot Ryan, smoke curling up from behind his back.
Ryan Taylor. Ex-boyfriend, part-time comic book store clerk, and closet smoker. I am now officially surprised by nothing.
“I can see you,” I say drily. “You might as well come out.”
He doesn’t really, just sidles a little closer to the now fairly dim circle of light generated by my headlamp. He’s wearing the exact clothes he was wearing when I last saw him. Jeans, plaid shirt rolled to the elbows, displaying a full right sleeve of tattoos—every image referencing a separate Bukowski poem—and Blundstones. It will shock no one to note that his hair is shaved to a perfect number two on the sides, his man bun is neatly knotted on top, and his beard smells of cedar and sage.
He blows a puff of chocolate-scented smoke out of the corner of his mouth. “Dev,” he says, not even speaking to me. “You know I haven’t done shrooms since second year. Edibles only these days.”
“You’re still smoking.” I cough a little. I really have no interest in talking to Ryan ever again, either in actual human form or as some kind of apparition, but I can’t help feeling hurt that the conversation between these two beings manifested by my own brain doesn’t include me.
“I never smoked in your room, Gia,” he says, meeting my eyes at last. “I feel like that was more than generous. All your harping was the second strike toward our breakup, you know. And anyway, I’m not smoking anymore. Vaping isn’t the same.”
There is a lot I want to say on this subject, but I’m distracted.
“The second strike? What was the first?”
His gaze shifts away from me in the darkness, and he fidgets with his e-cigarette.
“Ryan. You told me you broke up with me the first time because I didn’t like slam poetry. You never even mentioned the smoking. Or—like—my aversion to the smoking.”
“Yeah, well, your lack of any literary interest at all was also a problem, right? But really, it was the third strike. We would never have worked, Gia.”
I do not disagree with this final statement.
But.
“What do you mean the third strike? What was the first strike? And why are you using a baseball analogy when you abhor organized sporting events?”
I hear him mumble something under his breath.
“What? What did you say?”
“I said—I knew you were faking it.”
“I wasn’t . . .” I begin, but don’t quite find a way to finish the sentence.
“You were,” comes Devi’s voice out of the darkness.
I whip my headlamp around but can’t see her anywhere. She must have slipped through the opening to the next cave.
“Well, not all the time,” I admit.
“Honesty,” says Ryan virtuously, “is important in a relationship. And what about Anthony?”
“What about Anthony?” I’m feeling fully exasperated now. “We’re not talking about Anthony here.”
Ryan exhales a mouthful of chocolate vapor. “You need to be more honest with yourself,” he says. “If you ever get out of here. Which, you know, you might not.”
For the first time in this conversation with the ghost of boyfriends past, I feel a chill. “Can you help me?” I whisper.
He shrugs and gives me his most charming smile. “Not really. Besides, you’re not the one who needs help at the moment.”
And he literally vanishes in a puff of chocolate-scented smoke.
Vapor. Whatever.
After Ryan leaves, the walls lose most of their sparkle. Or maybe the one remaining functional bulb in my headlamp is slowly beginning to fade. A metaphor for my situation?
I call out for help—from my dad, from Devi and my mom, even from Ryan—so long and so loud that my voice begins to hurt.
I don’t mind admitting that I quite nearly lose it here. Abandoned—and not for the first time—by my father, lost in some cavern near the shore of the Mediterranean Sea, which at the moment is lapping gently around my ankles, and plainly no longer in my right mind. Anyone would cry.
I’m not sure how long I wander after that, one hand out in front of my fa
ce to ward off further stalactite encounters, and the other tracing my route by following the damp, rocky wall of the cave.
A long time.
As the sparkling walls dull, the water rises, and soon I am trudging, zombielike, through knee-deep water. I step through the entrance to yet another cavern, when, from above me, a spray of water douses me in the face. It’s a freezing splash, and like any cold shower, it brings me a moment of clarity.
I am in real trouble here.
And right then, with a tiny, audible click, my headlamp dies for good.
chapter twenty
POSSIBLY STILL FRIDAY
Sardi’s Manhattan
Gia Kostas, special correspondent to NOSH, in an ancient Minoan labyrinth, Crete
The treasured memory of a past experience can often be inspiration in itself. And who can forget the first sips of a drink served by a master . . .
Okay, I just have to pause here to say that it’s taken me a while, but I think I’ve finally figured it out. And in retrospect, I can say with some certainty that as much as I want to blame my dad for all of this, it was likely an honest mistake.
An honest mistake that finds me sitting here in this sweet, indigo hour after the sun has vanished but the stars have not yet emerged. Sitting here on the sand holding the hand of an old man who has his eyes closed and is singing quietly to himself in Greek. Perhaps he is singing about the stars? After our last conversation, I am unwilling to ask.
We are both leaning back on a still-warm log, waiting for Taki to arrive. My earlier plan to return to the guesthouse and be working by three has long vanished by the wayside. Instead, we are here on the sand waiting for Taki to collect us at seven and take us for dinner. An early dinner and then an early night.
It will not be an early night.
Because what is seven, even? What is dinner? What is—that is—who is Taki?
These words, you may guess, are from our last conversation. The conversation with my dad, one Dr. Aristotle Evangelos Alexandros Kostas, seventy-two-year-old stoner extraordinaire.
You know, I think there’s gotta be more stars in the sky over the Mediterranean than over New York. Even accounting for light pollution, I’ve seen more stars in my short stay in this country than I have in a lifetime in my own city. But right now, thinking of what we’ve just been through and staring up into the endless, limitless depths of the Milky Way, I am sure of only one thing.
There are no stars in hell.
* * *
—
Well now. Where was I? Ah, yes—lost in a labyrinth, deep under the earth, never to be seen again. That’s where. So, yeah, no flames, maybe, but still hell.
* * *
—
I have no idea how much time has passed when I finally, finally have a bit of luck. My phone not functional, my headlamp totally dead, my voice no longer able to yell, I stumble through yet another gap in this stony, endless hellscape. But something has changed. This time, I feel a definite gust of air—cool air—in my face. Enough to blow my hair back.
“Pops!” My voice hisses into the darkness.
No answer.
“Pops?”
And then—because it’s really, really dark—“Papa?”
The air swirls around my face again, and I hear a faint dripping noise; distant, like a neighbor’s leaky tap, followed by what can only be described as a tiny giggle.
And then—maybe fifteen feet away—the screen of an iPhone lights up, and I can see his glasses reflecting the glare. He’s perched on a rocky outcropping on the far side of this cavern.
I’m beside him in a second, which turns out to be lucky, as his phone turns itself off almost immediately.
Stupid low-power mode.
“Pops, it’s me. I’m right here.”
“Oh!” His voice comes through the velvet darkness. “My beautiful Gianna! I am so proud of you, my girl.” Somehow he finds my hand and squeezes it gently.
“Okay, Pops, that’s really nice, but—listen, I’m trying to tell you something important. We have to get out of here—I think I need to see a doctor.”
“First place, ahead of everyone. The red ribbon. My girl.”
I take a deep breath and give up feeling around for the phone. Instead, I squeeze his hand back, hard.
“Pops, listen to me. That red ribbon came from a spelling bee which took place at least fifteen years ago. I need you to focus. We have a problem here—this is serious.”
“Of course, my darling. My ears are open to you. My soul is open to you.”
The total weirdness of this shuts me up, and I take an inadvertent step back and drop his hand for a moment. This turns out to be a mistake. I hear the giggle again and then a rustle, and he’s gone.
“Pops!” I’m yelling now and stumble a little. “This is so not funny.”
For the first time, I realize I can see the shape of the rock walls around me. Two or three more tentative steps and the smooth, damp surface of a huge boulder is under my fingers. I sidle around it to find I’m at the mouth of the cave. Lurching out of the entrance, I literally fall over my father, who is sitting just outside on the sand.
I am, at the same time, both completely freaked out by this whole experience and entirely grateful to be breathing the fresh sea air. The spot where my dad is sitting looks nothing like the location where we entered the caves what seems like an eternity ago. Here, instead of sea-polished stone, there is sand; mostly white but flecked with red and tan and black sparkles.
Across the water, the sun has dropped below the horizon, so the beach isn’t blazing with color but rather glowing in a rich, golden light. Which means I have been trapped in that underground hell for the entire day. The blue of the sea is now a plummy, wine red, and as I sink down beside my father, it is lapping at his legs, rising a little higher as each new breaker swooshes in.
Kneeling beside him in the water, I can see that behind his little, round John Lennon sunglasses, his eyes are open. He smiles gently.
I clutch his arm. “Pops, do you feel sick? Are you—are you seeing things?”
His smile broadens, but I have to admit there’s not really a person I recognize behind those eyes.
“I am filled with love,” he intones, almost like a chant. “I am love made manifest. I so love you, my sweet Penny—my lucky Penny. There’s never been anyone but you.”
I take a deep breath of the warm, salty air and try again. I can’t remember him ever referring to me as his lucky penny before, but nothing is really making sense at the moment.
I take his face in my hands and force him to look at me. “Pops, it’s me—Gia. Are you good to stand up?”
The lids of his eyes close behind his glasses again, and I can feel panic returning to my gut. Eyes tightly closed, he says, “I am so good. I am love. I am the universe.”
Okay then.
“Papa,” I say again. “I—I think I’ve been drugged. I’m—ah—I’ve been seeing some really weird stuff that I’m almost positive isn’t actually there.”
The next wave slaps me firmly in the chest, and I’m now wet to the shoulders. As it has before on this endlessly long day, the cool water brings clarity. But this time?
It also brings understanding.
My dad is not hearing what I’m spelling out. And there is no universe in which Ari Kostas would not be entirely horrified to hear his daughter has ingested an illegal substance. Which leaves open only two possibilities.
One: That Ari Kostas has well and truly lost his mind. Or two . . .
Another wave splashes up, soaking us both. I have questions that need answers, but first? I have to get us out of the sea.
Grabbing my father under one arm, I struggle a minute to ensure my own feet are solidly underneath me before I stand up. Below the waves, the sand shifts under the soles of my shoes. The water, which i
s starting to chill in the cooling air, tugs gently at the hem of my sundress.
Or two: We both ingested said substance together.
“For crying out loud, Pops.” I haul on his arm, trying to pull him to his feet. “Where did you get those mushrooms?”
He blinks at me owlishly but actually puts some effort into standing. By the time we’re both vertical, the water is swirling above our knees. The tide is rising very fast.
“Mushrooms?” he repeats. “You mean—from breakfast?”
I stagger forward, one arm around his waist. The angle of the sand beneath the water is steeper than I expect, so we actually have to lift our feet quite high to make forward progress toward the beach. It takes my dad a few tries to get the hang of this. We’re finally making headway when he catches his foot and drops to one knee.
“Yes. From breakfast.” I’m puffing with exertion but manage to haul him back up. The water is only ankle-deep here, and my raw panic is receding. Into its place steps something else. Something like fury.
“The mushrooms in the omelet, Pops. Did Taki bring them home with the rest of the groceries?”
“I’m really quite wet,” my dad says, looking down at his legs as we stagger up onto dry land for the first time. “Goodness. I should have worn my swim trunks instead of these trousers.”
I give his arm a little, exasperated shake. “Never mind your trousers. Did Taki give you those mushrooms, Pops?”
For the first time, his eyes clear a little, and he chuckles. “No, I bought them myself. From a girl—a sweet little thing wearing a tie-dye shirt like I haven’t seen since I was a boy. Pink and purple and indigo blue.”
Okay. My fury at Taki eases a little. By this time, I’ve hauled my dad up the beach past the tide line, which is marked with a thick layer of dry, black kelp. We shuffle onto a section of almost pure white sand, still warm from the sun. The beaches here don’t seem to have as many stray logs strewn about as the Jersey Shore has at home, but I spot one at last and half push, half guide my dad toward it.
