“Speaking of Basil, my uncle once had a dog called Basil, he was British you see, and that dog, he was a border collie, they’re very smart you know, he used to pull his own sled up a hill . . .” she goes on. This time, I actually listen to her story.
Mike’s friend begins the boarding process. Newfound feelings of respect for age and experience scratch and claw at my conscience. Like me, Ruby of the Vegan Goat Farts is a compilation of her millions of moments, emotions, experiences, dreams, and adventures. She is a living, breathing, tangible record of her life. The years she wears proudly are promises of the ones I have left to spend. Doesn’t that deserve a little consideration, if not homage? As they finish boarding, Ruby gets up to move to the next gate. “Good luck, dear.” She smiles. I watch her walk away, crop dusting as she goes. I look over at Mike’s friend, who winks at me.
“Passenger Taylor, Marina Taylor,” he announces. I walk up to his counter. I look back at Ruby, who is trying to figure out a vending machine.
“I’ve had a change of heart,” I say.
Passenger Pick-Up, Miami International Airport: Wednesday, 1:07 a.m.
Swimming my way through one of those special Florida monsoons, dragging my bag through pavement puddles turned into lakes, I reach our old, clunky van for the bed and breakfast. I climb inside.
“Hi sweetie! Welcome home.” Rosalie smiles, way too chipper for this time of night.
I lean over and give her a big wet hug, which lasts a little longer than usual. She feels warm and squishy in my arms. She’s surprised but brushes it off.
“Okay, don’t drip on my purse.”
“Are you nuts driving in this weather? I said I’d take the shuttle. It’s the middle of the night.”
“Pshaw! My only daughter isn’t taking the bus at this godforsaken hour, in this godforsaken weather, after such a long trip!”
“Thanks. How long have you been waiting?”
“Not too long. An hour maybe?”
“An hour?”
“Don’t worry, I just drove in circles until I got your text, so we don’t have to pay for parking. It’s so expensive here!” She smiles. Of course she did. I probably would have done the same thing.
“Want me to drive? Aren’t you tired?”
“No! I brought two thermoses of coffee and had a long nap this afternoon! I’m just fine,” she chirps. “You relax, honey. But don’t put your feet up there,” she says. I smile, take my feet off the dash, lean my chair back, and look over at my mother, a reflection of bright raindrops on her soft, round, wonderful face. It’s really good to see her.
“Thank you.”
“Of course, honey,” she smiles. “I brought you a pillow if you want to take a nap. I’m sure you’re exhausted.”
“No way. I want to tell you all about my trip. I’ve got tons of photos and videos to show you later.”
“Wonderful! It will almost be like I was there with you!” This surprises me. I didn’t think Rosalie cared about traveling. I’d always thought she was content, or maybe even too afraid to venture out.
“One of these days I’ll take you there, Mom. You’ll love it.” Rosalie’s face betrays an earnest moment of shock and sentiment, but she quickly recovers, focusing on the road.
“I’d like that, Marina.”
“The whole country is beautiful, but there’s one place you’d especially love, in Naples. It’s called Christmas Alley. The entire street is just Christmas shops year round.” My mother’s jaw drops and she gasps with sheer delight.
“Pure heaven! Did they have wire stars, you know, like I taught you to make when you were little?” she asks. I remember the multitude of Christmas ornaments I made as a kid. The aluminum stars were the predecessors to the tiny gold one I now wear around my neck. As Rosalie peppers me with excited questions, I realize my mother is and always will be the first woman of influence in my life.
WOMAN OF INFLUENCE: Rosalie Taylor
1. Practical southern girl, middle child of a Protestant, conservative family.
2. Lived in St. Augustine until her mother inherited money, bought a B&B, and moved the whole family to Key West. She was six.
3. After the move, her father died of a brain aneurysm, and her brother was diagnosed with schizophrenia. She’s never been good with change.
4. Like her mother, she says what she thinks, and does what she says.
5. A pack rat, craft-o-holic, and prize-winning quilt-maker.
6. Takes the same “vacation” road trip every year with friends from church, driving through small Florida towns, antiquing their brains out.
7. Like me: doesn’t mind cheap wine, can’t carry a tune, doesn’t follow recipes, is klutzy as hell, loves Bob Dylan, and grew up with a strong mother and absent father.
8. Unlike me: she consistently and graciously puts others before herself.
Regina’s words about her own mother fade back into my mind as I think about Rosalie. I grew up always wanting to swim away so I didn’t get caught in the net of normalcy. The same net that Rosalie did. I wanted to choose my own path. Despite this, I realize how much I am like her. I pride myself on being open to new people. She opens her home to new people every day. I tell stories on paper. She tells them through the quilts she makes. I will always be like her, no matter how far I wander. And maybe, this is okay.
Harbor House Bed and Breakfast, Key West, Florida: Wednesday, 5:03 p.m.
Fish scales flip into the air and stick to my sweaty cheek as the blade of my dull knife stutters down the slippery side of a snapper like a beginning skier on a bumpy slope. Despite the fact that my mother is thrilled to have me home, I am, within twenty-four hours of my return, once again cleaning the fish the guests caught. Right back where I started.
My phone buzzes and I eagerly put down my knife, wipe fish guts off my hands, and dig it out. It’s a message but not from Will. I’m relieved. I haven’t told him I’m back yet. Not sure why. Maybe I’m still trying to sort out our interaction while I was gone and what it meant. This message is yet another message from Leo, my odd Kiwi Maori friend from the fundraiser. He keeps inviting me to visit New Zealand when he returns in a month, and sending me photos of strangers’ dogs in weird costumes. I’m not sure how this is supposed to convince me. This photo is a poodle dyed and shaved to look like Elmo, leaning up against Big Bird, also a dog. I am not kidding. Apparently people really do this to their pets.
I stuff the phone back into my pocket and pick up my knife. I’ve got two more fish to clean. My feet are back on Florida sand, but my mind is not fully here. It drifts back to Capri as I scrape off scales and cut off tails. Just as I’m remembering my fruitless struggle to “save” the octopus in the crab trap during my bold skinny-dip, the knife slips and I slice into my finger. Shit. As the blood oozes out, instinctually I put my finger into my mouth and instantly regret it. Spitting blood and fish slime onto the ground, I rinse my hands off. But I’m still bleeding. Squeezing my finger, I head back toward the inn for some first aid bandages.
Halfway up the little hill from the beach, I notice movement in the marina. It’s Will, moving around on his sailboat. What’s that doing here? He sailed it up to Miami months ago. As if he can sense my gaze he turns around and looks up at me. I instantly feel guilty for not telling him I was back. I wasn’t sure what to say. What I would do when I saw him. I didn’t trust myself. And now, staring at him in the truthful glare of the Florida sun, I know I was right not to trust myself. He tips his hat and my throat tightens. I smile. He waves. I break our gaze, looking down at my flip-flopped feet, covered in fish guts. Don’t go down there, I command them sternly. They start walking anyway. There is really no part of me that’s obedient.
Marina, Key West, Florida: Wednesday, 5:16 p.m.
Will drops a line, half-cleated, onto the dock, and looks at me with sunburnt cheeks and that adorable smile with his one slightly crooked tooth.
“Hi there, Cowboy. Inbound or outbound?” I ask.
“I was goin
g to ask you the same.” He smiles. Music drifts out from the cabin. The song is familiar but I cannot place it.
“I thought you moved your boat up to Miami?” I ask, trying not to notice the fact that he’s obviously been working out the last few weeks and looks fantastic.
“Changed my mind,” he says. “Thought I’d bring her back down. In case I needed her here.”
“For?” I ask, remembering the countless nights we spent on that boat, tangled up in his small bunk together.
“Sailing,” he says.
“Right. Of course.”
“My mom still likes to go out when I can pry her off of eBay and Amazon.”
“Addicts! Mine’s up there right now at her sewing machine.” I gesture toward the inn with the knife I’m still holding for some reason.
“Marina, what the hell happened to your hand?” he says with alarm. I realize my bloody hand looks like it wants to be in a Tarantino film. In two bounds he’s up on the dock, examining my wound. “You’ve always been shit at cleaning fish. Come into the cabin.” Inside, the music is louder. Now I recognize the Leonard Cohen song that made me cry on the ferry to Sicily. “A Thousand Kisses Deep.” He reaches over and quickly skips the song. I’m grateful. Another song starts to play. I don’t know this one.
“Sorry.” He looks embarrassed and pulls out rubbing alcohol. “This is going to hurt.”
“Try not to enjoy it too much,” I say playfully. His eyes are covered by his hat brim, but I see his lips smile. My hand burns. He mops it off.
“Sit.” He takes bandages out of the first aid box as I sit on the little table next to him. He stands in front of me, takes my hand, and gently wraps my finger. The song ends and we hear the first few notes of “The Promise.” My heart melts. Will looks instantly uncomfortable. He reaches over to skip it. I stop him.
“I like this one,” I say.
“The Promise,” he says.
“By When in Rome,” I smile.
“A playlist I was working on these past few weeks.”
“So I noticed.”
“Sorry about that.” The brim of his hat again hides his eyes as he fidgets with the already finished bandage on my finger. The song continues. “Don’t be,” I say, trying to sound more casual than I feel.
“I shouldn’t have been texting you, Marina,” Will says with effort. “You need your space to travel and do . . . whatever you need to do. I guess it was just driving me crazy that I was back here thinking about you and you were out there . . . not.” He won’t look up. I take my bandaged finger out of his hands and use it to push the brim of his hat back up. Now his hazel eyes look deeply into mine.
“I was,” I say—or try to say. But my voice sticks in my throat and no sound comes out. He can read my lips and I see a light in his eyes. He gives me a skeptical look and starts to turn away, but I catch his chin gently with my fingers and nod. Suddenly, he is kissing me. Not just with his sunburnt lips but with his whole body, arms wrapped around me, hands behind my neck, in my hair. I kiss him back, leaning into his firm chest, drinking in the smell of his favorite shirt that I’ve missed so much. The notes and words of “The Promise” swim around us like a school of fish. I wasn’t sure which of us had made the other fall. I’d known Will forever, and it was like we’d always felt this way, but were still figuring it out.
Will’s hand finds the bare small of my back, sending a tingle through me, and I kiss him harder, knocking his hat to the floor as I grip his strong shoulders. I hear a soft whimper. Was that me or him? I feel his heart pounding out of his chest. Or is that mine?
I wrap my legs around his waist. He pulls my hips closer to him and lifts me effortlessly, still kissing me. My breath quickens as I wait for him to carry me to the small sleeping berth. But Will comes up for air, resting his forehead against mine, his eyes closed. My heart skips a beat as he carries me instead up the narrow boat steps to the deck and over to the edge of his boat. He buries his face in my hair, and we just hold each other. The song ends. He sets me gently on the dock.
I watch Will pick up the line and untie his boat as he smiles at me, takes a deep breath.
“Outbound.” I answer my own question from earlier.
“Just a short one, maybe some sunset fishing,” he says. I force a smile and reach my foot out, giving the boat a little shove. “Thanks.”
“Catch me a nice one.”
“You don’t eat fish.” Will’s boat drifts farther from the dock. “You just catch them and toss them back, Mermaid.” This stings, but it’s true. I don’t want him to leave.
“Wait, I have your book!”
“You read it?” he asks doubtfully. Damn. Why did he have to ask this?
“Not all of it,” I admit. He knew I hadn’t.
“Keep it,” he says. “For now.” He starts the tiny engine. The boat moves out of the little marina. My finger hurts. Everything hurts. I head back up the hill. The intrepid escapist watches from her mother’s porch as the hopeless romantic sails out of the harbor, still waiting patiently for his happy ending. My phone buzzes. I quickly dig it out hoping it will be Will. But it’s not. It’s another dog photo from Leo. This one looks like Che Guevara, wearing a beret.
AT THIS POINT, IF: your heart aches and your fingers are cramping holding different places in your metaphorical Choose Your Own Adventure book, trying to keep your options open . . .
YOU SHOULD:
1. Finish cleaning the fish.
2. Go inside, look at your unpacked suitcase, your empty wallet, the quilted sea turtle pillow your mother made you while you were gone, and the journal of un-compiled notes for the book you haven’t even started writing.
3. Take the bottle of eight-hundred-euro Brunello you brought home back down to the dock with two glasses and wait for that Key West sunset you swore you’d stop and watch.
DO NOT:
1. Buy a ticket to New Zealand.
Acknowledgments
Thank you the Michaels who always make me laugh and to Nadya, Alexia, Chiara and Philippe for their help with my egregious Italian and French.
Special thanks to the inspirational women in my life: Marie the artist, Sally the sage, Deborah the dancer, Donna the travel queen, Mary the explorer, Alexis the listener, and most of all, Virginia—my mother.
A Not So Lonely Planet Page 26