Lady Sunshine

by Amy Mason Doan

  I laughed, nodded.

  “Wow. Was it...”

  “Yeah. It was. Yeah.”

  “Better than the Marina Club pool?”

  I hadn’t told Colin about my past experiences, how lopsided they were. How they were my lovers, but I wasn’t theirs.

  I’d just bitten his shoulder at the fateful moment.

  “It was as different from the Marina Club pool as it could be.”

  “Good.”

  We got quiet, staring up at the stars, listening to the crickets.

  “What was that song, last night?” Willa said. “‘Fade away...fade away...’”

  “‘Fade Away and Radiate’?”

  “Yeah. I liked that one. What d’you think she means?”

  “It’s about TV.”

  “Oh. I thought maybe she was saying we don’t have to live a noisy life. I kind of liked that.”

  “It can mean that for you. I don’t think Debbie would mind.”

  “Thanks, Debbie...”

  “But I’m sorry you suffered through the show for me,” I said. “All the shoving, the crowds. I should’ve realized how hard it’d be for you. Next time, I’ll just go and tell you about it.”

  “I’d like that... You see all the shows and come home and tell me about them. But it’s all right, I survived.”

  “Because Li was there to be your personal treehouse.”

  She laughed.

  “Hey, Wills? That’s why you started camping on the beach, and going up to the treehouse, isn’t it? To get away from crowds.”

  She nodded. “I used to hate my dad’s shows, back when he had them. They took us away from home. And I never wanted to leave home.”

  “Think you ever will?”

  “Never. I’ll stay ’til I’m an old lady with long white hair, and I have to haul myself up the treehouse with a pulley.” She laughed. “Anyway. The shows...all those bodies packed in, and how...revved-up they made him, then bitter if things didn’t go how he... I just hated the whole scene. I used to think maybe it was only because I was little. But now I’m sure...big crowds just aren’t for me.”

  “But campfire.”

  “That’s different.”

  I thought, Yes. Not a huge crowd of strangers packed close, but a circle of gentle people in the dark, friendly faces lit softly by firelight, and acres of space in every direction for Willa to go, before or after, if she needed to be alone. And a father who understood why she never wanted the spotlight, who kept her safe from his twirling bottle.

  I hadn’t recognized at the time what a compliment it was, that day Willa’d flung the treehouse ladder down—inviting me into her sanctuary.

  “This is enough of a crowd for me,” she said. “This is...”

  We watched the tipped-over bowl of sky, a bird crossing a cloud. She did that sometimes, trailed off, faded away. Let nature make her point.

  But when I was sure she’d fallen back to sleep, she pointed at the sky and said, “This is all I need.”

  It was a beautiful thing to hear, but it pained me. Because what I needed would soon be out of reach—the different kind of life I’d found here, thanks to her.

  Maybe, if I was a different girl, I would have visualized returning to San Francisco a new person. Taking the experience of this summer with me and offering my newfound peace and contentment to everyone I touched. Bringing some of Willa’s softness back with me, an invisible souvenir to share with my father and Patricia.

  All summer they had sent postcards. Patricia’s elegant handwriting detailed lodgings and meals and the dazzling purchases she’d made for me. (I imagined her visiting shops across Europe, asking, “Do you have this in yellow?” in various languages. Amarillo, jaune, whatever it was in Italian.)

  My father wrote the same thing on every card. A small, meaningless observation about whatever city they were visiting, and “Hope you’re well.”

  Juan-les-Pins is stunning. Hope you’re well. Father.

  Milan is elegant. Hope you’re well. Father.

  Madrid is lively. Hope you’re well. Father.

  The thought had started coming in quiet moments like this, as we sped toward the day I’d go back to San Francisco. The thought I kept trying to push away, because I didn’t want to spoil the days we had left. I whispered it—“Wills?”

  “Hmmm?” She held my hand and waited for me to speak, as we listened to the morning birds hopping around their branches.

  “I wish I could stay here forever.”

  August

  26

  Zig and Zag

  1979

  Colin was gone, leaving me wistful but not wounded. We were going to write. He came to the city sometimes.

  The city. I knew, objectively, that it was one of the most beautiful in the world. But it loomed large and ugly and lonely to me now. I had a little more than three weeks left—though I tried to resist tallying my remaining days here, I couldn’t help it.

  I longed for the nine wasted days from the beginning of my stay, before my cousin and I spoke. How I wished I could reclaim them. Fill them with her, with our rituals and confidences. I’d never had a friend like Willa.

  “You’ll visit me all the time,” I told her.

  “Of course I will.”

  But even if my father and Patricia allowed this, I knew it wouldn’t be the same.

  We sat around the fire circle, waiting for Graham and his bottle. Willa passed the joint that was making the rounds; I’d only recently broken the habit of keeping it low, out of sight, like I’d done at home, in disco alleys and parks.

  I inhaled deep, holding it. I took a second puff before passing it to the woman on my left.

  “Let’s go surfing,” I said to Willa.

  “You mean, tomorrow?”

  “No. Now. It’s the only thing left on my list.” I’d become fixated on finishing. We were going to a disco next week, to check off Willa’s last thing—she insisted, though I’d promised her there was no shame in backing out now that I knew what crowds did to her. Liam was going to stand by, like he had at the concert. Run outside with her if there were too many people.

  But I hated that my last thing was uncertain, that I might leave without standing up on a surfboard. I’d learned how to stay out of the way when we tandem surfed—which meant Willa stood and I clung to the front of the board for dear life. I’d even come close on my own a few times, so close I was sure I had it, but promptly wiped out whenever I took more than five fingers off the board. That didn’t count.

  “Why don’t you work up to night surfing after you master the day surfing?”

  “I think daylight’s holding me back. I have a good feeling about it. Tonight’s the night.”

  “You’re tired. You must’ve run five miles playing with the kids this afternoon. I don’t know...”

  “Please, Wills? I’m running out of time.”

  She nodded. “Okay. But if the break’s not good, we’ll save it ’til tomorrow morning.”

  * * *

  “See?” I said, zipping up my suit. “Nice rolling sets.”

  “Don’t go too far out...or too near the rocks. Just try a baby wave first.”

  We tandem surfed to get things started, and for the first time, I didn’t immediately wipe out after separating my hands from the board. No wonder Willa was addicted to this.

  I stood perfectly still, my posture as straight as if someone was pulling me up by marionette strings from the crown of my head. We only stood for a second or two, but it felt endless.

  “You’re doing it!” she cried behind me.

  Then we were under, the world topsy-turvy.

  “You’re so close,” she said. “We’ll paddle out first thing in the morning, if it’s calm.”

  But I wanted to try it alone, now, while Willa watched from the s
and. This was the night—it had to be.

  “Look how bright it is,” I told her. “If I wipe out, I’ll swim for the stars.”

  “Okay. Baby wave...”

  Her voice, calling encouragement from the shore, sounded so close. I felt safe, paddling out. I felt like I could do anything. For a second, maybe less than a second, I stood.

  And then I tried to duck under a wave with Willa’s beautiful seal-like motion but my timing was off and I got a throatful of salt water.

  I was under, like the thousand other times I’d tried. But unlike those other times, it was dark. And I didn’t bob up right away. Something was missing besides the magic and the sun, something else was wrong... It hit me, and panic quickly followed. We’d forgotten the leash.

  Liam’s suit, overlarge, felt like it would drag me down to the sea floor. The legs had gotten unrolled and I thought—if only I can unzip it. But I couldn’t find the pull.

  The board... I swam for it but it was heading for the rocks.

  I was close enough to shore that I could see someone’s distant fire, hear their radio, but I knew no one could hear me over the waves, and the certainty terrified me.

  I popped up again and again, gulping, but couldn’t spot Willa.

  “Help.” Pitifully weak, swallowed up by a wave. Water down my throat.

  For just a second, I imagined letting go. Patricia and my father sobbing. Would they sob?

  But Willa. She’d never forgive herself if I drowned. I couldn’t leave her onshore, blaming herself forever.

  Swim parallel to the beach if there’s a riptide or you’re in trouble, she’d told me. Even if it feels wrong. Zig and zag, nice and easy, until you get closer.

  Zig and zag, like the foot-tickling game I’d seen the other day in the field. Six people tickling each other’s feet while lying down in a chain, their bodies forming a jagged up-and-down line, trying not to laugh...

  I zigged and zagged. Made my way closer. And just before my arms gave out, my toes touched bottom and I crawled onshore.

  “Jackie! Jackie!” Willa, coming closer with each lapping wave. So that’s why I hadn’t seen her as I’d desperately scanned the beach; she’d been in the ocean with me, trying to help.

  She stood above me, holding something white-and-red, long as an Amazon’s spear. Then reality pierced the fog of Angela’s pot. It was Willa’s board. Her cherished board, split on the rocks.

  “Oh shit.” I reached up, too limp to stand. “I’ll buy you a new one, Wills.”

  “I don’t care about that, silly... I was trying to get you to grab it but you wouldn’t look back. Promise you’re okay?” She gave up on tugging me closer in, to dry sand, and lay next to me in the foam, holding my hand.

  “Perfect. Just worn out. The edge. My own edge, except water instead of sky.”

  “What? You’re not making any sense...”

  It had made perfect sense in my head—Graham had his waterfall ridge. I’d skirted danger tonight.

  “It’s my fault,” Willa said. “You’re high as a kite.”

  “Heavy as an anchor. Wet as a herring. But I did it!”

  “You did.” She fumbled in her hair and handed me something sopping. “Here’s your Super Special Bravery Award. Sorry it’s not a cape.”

  I held it up, squeezed the water from it, laughed. It was one of the lace scraps she always used to tie her hair back.

  We lay on the wet sand, limp with relief and gratitude, staring up at the stars and listening to the distant growl of Wolfman Jack signing off on someone’s radio down the beach.

  “His signal’s so strong. I read his radio tower’s all the way down in Rosarito, Mexico,” I said. “Or maybe he’s back now, I forget. But they keep trying to shut him up and they never will.”

  “Ow-ow-owwwwwh,” Willa howled, imitating him.

  “Owowhowhhhhhh!”

  27

  Sticky

  1999

  Nearly every morning for the past week Shane and I have gone to the beach. We swim, and after, we wrap ourselves in towels and huddle close if it’s overcast, lie on each other’s stomachs to soak in the sun if it’s clear.

  We’ve agreed to hide it. Us. Shane doesn’t care either way, but I don’t want anyone to know yet. It’s hard, though. We try not to look at each other too much, not to touch. We walk to the beach separately, meet in an unoccupied cabin, sometimes twice a day, timing our exits, like thieves. Sweaty, successful thieves.

  Today it’s sunny, and he’s got his head on my lap. I play with his wet hair, twirling sections around my fingers.

  “Jackie.”

  “Hmmm?”

  “You know how I lied. About growing up here.”

  “Yes.”

  “We haven’t talked about it much since.”

  “Did you want to?”

  “I just... You know why I did it, right? That I’d never lie to hurt someone?”

  “I know that. I’ve forgiven you.” I lean down and kiss him. I can’t fault him for honoring Angela’s dying wishes. In a way, it’s a relief—knowing his bond is with Angela, not Graham. That this project is for her. I like that Angela is in charge of the studio at last.

  Wishing we had more time, we head back.

  We have a routine down: we take the beach trail together, but walk quickly and don’t hold hands. Then I slip up the left side of the field. He’ll dawdle, then slip up the right side, and we’ll enter the house at different times. He thinks such games are foolish, that we should tell everyone, but he indulges me.

  That night, Bree’s husband, James, arrives for his visit, and seeing how they can’t keep their hands off of each other, how they feed each other roasted marshmallows at campfire like honeymooners, makes me smile to myself. Then, furtively, across the circle at Shane. If a smile could swoop someone up, the secret one he sends back over the fire would carry me in to bed.

  “I’m going inside to wash up,” I tell Bree. “I’m all sticky.”

  Before I can put my hands under the kitchen faucet, Shane’s behind me, his chin on top of my head, hands trailing down the backs of my arms. I shiver and turn, splaying my fingers and holding them away from us. “I’d wait if I were you. This marshmallow’s worse than superglue and I wouldn’t want to ruin your heirloom T-shirt.”

  “I’ll risk it.” He takes my fingers in his mouth, scrapes his teeth gently up and down the white ribbon of marshmallow on my thumb.

  “Someone might come.”

  “Exactly.”

  I look out the window at the group, at the bright campfire, but nothing seems important except the warm mouth around the fingers of my right hand, and I lean against the counter so I won’t buckle to the floor.

  Shane concentrates, finishes his task, twining my wet fingers with his. “All clean. So why are we keeping it secret again?”

  “I don’t remember. Because it’s more fun?”

  We slide to the ground. My left hand is still marshmallowy. It’s all a mess, a sticky-sweet mess, but right now I don’t care.

  We average three hours of sleep a night. Shane works feverishly in the studio, coming to me at midnight or one a.m., and the two of us make love and talk all night, catching a few hours of sleep before the gang starts stirring. I’m too excited to sleep. I’m in constant motion, wandering the grounds, biking down to the beach to wander some more. I don’t realize I’m smiling until an older woman strolling on the sand, clutching her young male caregiver’s elbow, beams back and me and says, with great effort, “P-pretty smile.”

  “Thank you.”

  “P-pretty. Day.”

  “Yes, it is. It’s gorgeous.”

  I know that it’s madness, the exact wrong move, to get involved with someone I barely know, here, at this time. For so many reasons, it’s wrong. What kind of person would do this, in such a sacred place? Bu
t happiness lifts me above shame, and the things that have worried me for so long.

  Five days later

  A long morning at the beach. Longer than we intended to spend here—Shane’s late.

  We’re at the fork on the trail, about to go our separate ways. I try to unlace my fingers from his but he squeezes my hand.

  I laugh. “You’re supposed to be in the studio in twenty minutes, remember?”

  “Let’s go for a quick walk,” he says. He looks anxious.

  “Where?”

  “Up to the falls. I thought we could... We’ve never gone up there together.”

  He must’ve realized by now that even the sign marking the falls trail pains me. That I have no interest in going there. I told him how I shut down the real estate agent’s request for a photo of the “picturesque waterfall.”

  And every time we hike up from the beach trail I make a sharp left turn here, not even looking at where the path continues uphill, curving into the shadows.

  “Please?” he says.

  I shake my head. “I’m too tired, but you go. I’m heading back for a shower.”

  “Jackie, wait. That was stupid of me. I shouldn’t’ve—”

  “It’s fine.” I force a smile and turn toward to the house.

  Maybe he’s reminiscing about when he lived near here. He liked the falls when he was younger, and wanted to share the memory with me. He needs to say goodbye to this place, too, and that’s why he suggested it. An impulse.

  Shane would never be deliberately cruel.

  He’s even throwing me a surprise birthday party. I’d kept the date quiet, but Shane snooped at my driver’s license and found out my birthday was coming up. On the day, he serves me breakfast in bed, and for dinner he decorates the picnic table, picks out music, arranges for Martin to make a special punch and cioppino, a huge cauldron of it, filled with Pacific mussels and clams and cod caught that morning, a spicy-garlicky sauce that simmered all afternoon. San Francisco sourdough loaves thrown around the table and torn, family-style. There’s a cake and presents.