“He’s going to kill himself. Jason’s got to do something.”
“Jason?” Maris looks around him.
Jason stands in the sand and motions to Matt to help before turning back to Kyle.
“He knows,” Maris says. “If Kyle turns, he’ll fall. Just how drunk is he?”
“Man, he’s wasted.”
Kyle takes a step, his arms wavering, his focus on the long board ahead of him. Jason moves silently onto the boardwalk, and then hesitates. He presses the heel of his palm to his forehead as though he can’t see clearly. Matt watches him bend at the waist, hands on his knees, like he’s struggling to breathe. “Something’s wrong,” he tells Maris. “Jason’s not right.”
They both watch Jason now. He lifts his head, still bent at the waist, and eyes Kyle. “Is he drunk?” Maris asks.
“No. And I don’t like what I’m seeing.” He starts to walk but Maris pulls his arm.
“Wait. Look.” She points to the shadows in the boat basin. “A swan!”
Matt looks toward the west end of the marina, beyond Kyle’s viewpoint. A lone white swan moves through the creek into the darkened harbor. It moves slowly, its unseen webbed feet paddling beneath the black water. “Don’t they sleep at night?” he asks Maris. The large bird heads for the center of the marina.
“If Kyle loses his focus, he’ll go down,” Maris insists quietly.
“Shit. Come on, Barlow,” Matt says under his breath. He knows Jason. They’ve been friends all their lives. No way is Jason drunk, so something else is happening with him, except Matt doesn’t know what. All he knows is that this long, hot night has finally done its trick. It’s pushed each one of them to their limit. Jason, unexpectedly, reaches his first.
The waves breaking on the beach, splashing over and over, wash over Kyle’s thoughts of Lauren, of a steady job, of meeting the bills, of his old pickup and his kids. He can’t make his life work, no matter how hard he tries. The waves keep rolling along the beach. Salt water, the waves, the rhythm, are so comforting.
His left foot shimmies on the wet board and he lurches to the right to keep his balance. When he looks up, he sees Matt at the far end of the boardwalk and suspects Jason’s presence behind him now. “I know you’re there, Barlow. Leave me the fuck alone,” he says without turning. His voice is thick and he blinks back tears. Those sweet waves, he hears them breaking on the beach, they keep washing over his troubles. Tears blur the board in front of him. It’s weird because this doesn’t feel like the scaffolding he climbs at the ships. This board feels cold and slippery under his bare feet. Where are his boots? He doesn’t remember taking them off and thinks he should try to sit, but loses his balance again. His outstretched arms dip to the right. Finally he manages to lower himself to his knees, both hands holding the board in front of him. But somehow this feels worse. If he moves at all, he might not be able to stop himself from falling in the wrong direction. His legs feel too big crouched beneath him. He drops his head and listens to the waves still breaking on the beach. They never stop.
Jason moves closer when a rush of lightheadedness passes over him. He strains to hear; there is that sound again. Something more than just the bike’s engine idling. It leaves him cold. Perspiration soaks through his shirt.
Now he sees it coming out of nowhere again. He straightens and runs his hands through his hair. Out of nowhere. Wreaking havoc in its path. His chest hurts as he wrenches the Harley Davidson with all he has, twisting his whole body to escape the impact barreling down on them. He bends at the waist again, hands on his knees, sucking in air.
He shakes his head and looks up from the swan to Kyle.
Not Neil.
Kyle.
The big white bird gracefully paddles directly into Kyle’s line of vision and Kyle falters. He is too big to stay crouched on top of an eight-inch-wide plank. Suddenly he freezes and Jason knows he’s caught a glimpse of white movement. Kyle turns toward the wayward bird and his arms swing frantically as he loses his balance.
One last second. The second Jason needed seven years ago finally arrives. With it comes the screaming engine, filling his head so that he covers his ears to block it out. Every muscle knots again in resistance to the collision about to happen.
Kyle’s feet slip out from beneath him.
“Jesus, go!” Matt yells as he bolts down the beach to Kyle.
Kyle falls in the wrong direction, toward the concrete, his arms flailing, and Jason lurches forward, barely catching his arm. Feeling the impact, feeling his brother slam into him. He turns and wrenches Kyle toward him for all he is worth, never letting go.
The strength with which he wrenches Kyle drives Jason backward until he trips off the edge of the boardwalk, falling hard. Kyle, still in his grip, hits the wooden planks of the boardwalk first, then falls off to the sand. On his back, he hits the ground hard, too. Matt thinks the wind is knocked out of him until he sees Kyle sit right up and look over to Jason.
“You stupid bastard,” Jason says in a low voice. His chest heaves; tears wet his face. “What the hell is wrong with you?” He stands himself up, shifting his stance on the beach, reaching down to where his prosthetic leg attaches to his knee, while the others watch. His shirt is drenched. He shakes. Perspiration runs down his temples while he struggles to brush the sand off his leg again.
The beach is quiet except for the waves breaking. Maris steps off the boardwalk to help Kyle to his feet. She reaches for his hand, dropping Madison’s leash to do so. The dog sits on the edge of the boardwalk, watching Jason.
“Don’t you ever, ever,” Jason shoves Kyle in the chest, “pull a fucking stunt like that again.” His eyes are wild and when Kyle steps back, Jason moves right with him, staying within inches of his face.
Maris backs way off and Matt moves in closer. “Do you understand me?” Jason yells, shoving Kyle again. Seven years of rage surface and Matt sees it. He knows they all do.
“Do you?” Jason asks, moving closer, his voice ragged. “You want suicide? Next time leave me out of it.” He pushes his hands hard against Kyle’s shoulders.
Matt has seen it all in his work. Rage does funny things. It can go off at any time, at anyone. He comes around behind them and hooks his arms through Jason’s, pulling him off Kyle.
“Come on, guy,” he says, knowing what this is all about. “Let it go.”
Jason shakes him off hard. Eyeing Kyle one more time, he wipes his face with the heel of his hand before turning and walking toward the water.
Maris hurries past Kyle to catch up to Jason.
“Leave him alone,” Matt says to Maris, blocking her from getting by. “He’s got his own demons to deal with.”
She turns, ready to argue, but Matt cuts her off. “Trust me, Maris. Let him be.”
But no one is quick enough to stop Madison. She quietly jumps off the boardwalk and runs down the beach.
“Madison!” Maris calls out. The dog runs faster, shadowing Jason, the leash dragging behind her.
Maris and Matt walk with Kyle back to the Gallaghers’ house. Eva makes a plate of club sandwiches to go with a strong pot of coffee. No one wants to relive the incident at the moment, particularly Kyle. Maris knows it scared the daylights out of him. Or Jason did. Kyle’s face is white; he doesn’t talk.
“Matt will fill you in later,” Maris tells Eva in the kitchen. “When Kyle sleeps it off, if that’s possible. I don’t know how he’ll be able to sleep at all tonight.”
“It was that bad?” Eva asks.
Maris nods. She pours an extra cup of black coffee.
“Where’s Jason?” Eva asks.
“He disappeared down the beach. If you think Kyle had it rough, you should’ve seen him.”
“Jason? He looked fine earlier.”
“Well this was awful. He really had a breakdown. I’m going to see if I can find him.”
It is after midnight and the timers have turned off the lighting. Maris can make them out on the dark boardwalk, though, Jason an
d Madison. The dog’s tail thumps the sandy boards as she nears.
“Hey,” Maris says softly. She stands beside Jason, unsure if he wants anyone with him right now.
“Maris,” he says. “I think this is yours.” He hands her the leather leash.
She takes it and sits beside him in the quiet night, setting the coffee mug between them on the seat. He must have splashed salt water on his face, his head. His hair is dripping wet and slicked back. Shadows and whiskers cover his face. Even the darkness can’t hide that he looks a wreck. Maris can smell the salt, the perspiration, the night, on him. She leans over the coffee and gives him a quick hug. “Here, I brought you something hot to drink.”
“Thanks.” He takes the coffee. “I planned to drop the dog off at your place. But I never made it that far.”
“That’s okay.” They sit at the very spot where Jason had saved Kyle’s life. He sips the coffee while Maris talks. “I wanted to go after you,” she tells him. “But Matt stopped me. He said to leave you alone.” Jason doesn’t look at her. “Are you okay?”
He reaches into his shirt pocket and pulls out a nearly empty pack of cigarettes, taps one out, lights it and takes a deep drag. His other hand presses against his injured leg, as though it aches deep inside.
“Jason.” Her hand takes his, the one pressing his leg. She holds it, easy, warming it. “I have to know that you’re okay.”
He looks at her beside him. “I’ll be all right.”
Maris finds it hard to believe, because he looks like every single ounce of his body, every muscle, every bone, is spent. It looks like he’d gotten sick on the beach afterward. Not from drinking, but from the night.
“Do you need anything?” she asks. She can’t remember ever being so worried about someone.
“No.”
“Can I help somehow?”
“No thanks, Maris.” He sits up straighter, taking a long breath. “Really. I’m fine.”
“Well.” A moment passes. “I’ll just sit with you here, then.” She reaches over and pulls the cigarette from his fingers, taking a drag herself like they did when they were teenagers short on smokes, then returns it. His hand trembles as he takes it back.
“What a night,” he says.
“No kidding. How about that swan?”
“Jesus.” He glances behind them at the boat marina. “Out of nowhere.”
Chapter Nine
Jason places a sheet of tracing paper over the sketch on the drawing board. Two new clients need preliminary designs soon. Eight by ten photographs depicting the cottages in their current form are tacked in front of the table. It would be easy to scan them into his computer and engage his software to rework the designs, but instead he uses a roll of tracing paper to overlay sketch, adding detail and bringing the cottages further back in time with each new layer of paper. Neil had accumulated scrapbooks of old cottage photographs, and one lays open beside his drawing board as Jason replicates the white-painted columns supporting a porch overhang.
Time passes quickly when he works like this. He’d stayed up long into the night, cleaning and drying sand and salt water from every component and crevice of his limb. And still, he’d been up with the sun. Now, after three hours, he sets down his pencil and walks to the window, letting himself feel what sketching and planning have supplanted since early dawn. It will take more than ten miles of distance in an air conditioned condominium to rid the salt air from his lungs, to blind the panic from his eyes, to erase the regret he feels that Maris saw him out of control.
It’s bad enough so that an hour later, he walks along the flagstone path to the front porch of her cottage. Geraniums stand like bright red flags in clay pots alongside the flagstone. White and purple petunias cascade from window boxes. When he stands outside her front porch, the scent of brewing coffee floats through the screen door. Noises come to him as he stops there: dishes clattering in the kitchen, water flowing from the tap, a pan placed on a stove burner. On the porch, a novel waits open on a white wicker table. A copious spray of cattails reaches from a tall ceramic vase in the corner and hurricane lanterns and starfish lean on a high shelf. Paradise is open to interpretation. A life like this, as close as the other side of a screen door, is as far removed from him as a ship on the horizon. The chink of silverware being pulled from a drawer and Maris’ voice talking to her dog has him move closer. He reaches for the lighthouse knocker and gives three good raps.
Madison rushes to the porch, a growl rising from her throat until she sees him there. “Jason?” Maris asks, following behind the dog. When she unlatches the screen door, Madison noses herself outside and presses her muzzle into his hand while her tail never stops wagging.
“Hey there, girl,” he says, scratching her neck. When he looks up, Maris stands holding the door, barefoot, wearing denim cutoffs and a white tank top. A gold star pendant hangs around her neck and her hair is clipped in a low ponytail. “Maris,” he says. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
“No, not at all.”
“I know it’s early, but I wondered if we could talk.”
“Sure. Have you had breakfast?”
“I’m good. How about a walk instead?”
She hesitates. “I just poured my coffee.” She holds the screen door open and he steps onto her porch with Madison close at his feet. “Come on in the kitchen,” she says as she walks through the cottage.
He follows Maris through the living room, looking for any familiarity in the décor. A sofa is slipcovered in navy and white stripes; fashion sketches cover an old cherry drop-leaf coffee table; a white painted cabinet sits at the stair balustrade and large square paned windows line the staircase wall.
“This is a great place you’re renting,” he says as he walks into the kitchen.
“I love it here.” She motions for him to take a seat at the breakfast island. Bunches of dried herbs hang from exposed ceiling beams. Soft strains from the local jazz station rise from a countertop stereo. “I’ve got crumb cake,” she says over her shoulder.
“No thanks. Just coffee.”
“Are you feeling better today?”
“Yeah, I’m okay.” He takes in the details of the kitchen. It all fits perfectly with the sounds he listened to outside its door. Vases of sea glass and heather, white shuttered windows, a lazy ceiling fan. “My brother and I had signed on to do the renovations here.”
“You’re kidding,” Maris says, turning to him with the coffee pot in one hand, a mug with a seashell design in the other.
He notices the architectural details in the kitchen windows and exposed beams. “But we got in the accident before I even drew up the plans.”
She fills the mug and sets it in front of him.
“Naturally they used someone else,” he says. “I haven’t been in here since.”
Maris sits across from him and sips her coffee.
“He’s kind of why I’m here now, Maris. Neil is. And last night and everything that happened on the boardwalk. It was crazy, and I want to talk to you about it.”
“You don’t have to explain.”
“No, I do.” Madison settles on the tile floor beside him and he takes a long swallow of coffee, thinking how to begin. “It’s been good seeing everyone this summer.”
Maris reaches over the breakfast bar and clasps his hand. “It has, and we’re all friends. We understand, Jason.”
He pulls his hand back and stands, ready to thank her for that, for letting him off the hook so easily. He can quickly finish his coffee and be on his way. But when he sees the coffee pot and the dishes in the sink and her digital sketch tablet with a recent design on the screen, when he looks back at her and sees the way she watches him, he pulls out his stool and sits again. “Friends, Maris, also explain.”
She slides her coffee cup to the side. “Why don’t we take that walk outside then? I’ve been cooped up in here all morning.”
“They call it hysterical amnesia,” Jason explains at the water’s edge. July’s su
n bleaches the sand before them. “My doctor says it happens following a traumatic incident.”
“You don’t remember it happening then?”
“No, I actually do remember most of it. This type of amnesia blocks only parts of the trauma.” He stops and picks up a stone on the beach. “It’s a psychological defense, suppressing the emotion from, well, from a day like that.”
“And last night something came back?”
Jason throws the stone out into the water. “It did.”
“You mean you remembered something for the first time after all these years?”
He nods and begins walking again. “The scope of the amnesia depends on a lot of things. How severe the trauma was, how physically close I came to it, how psychologically close, post-trauma care.”
“I’d guess you rated pretty high in all those.”
“You’d be right. Most of that day is clear to me, but lately I’ve been remembering some of the missing pieces.”
Maris puts her hand on his arm. She thinks of his frenzy right after stopping Kyle the night before. Visions of the collision had flashed in his mind. He was back in the accident that killed his brother. “The emotions flash back too, don’t they?”
“That’s what you saw last night. It can get pretty intense.”
They reach the rocky ledge at the end of the beach and Jason bends to pick up a conch shell, its inside whorls of pink.
“I wish there was some way I could have helped,” Maris says.
“You did. It helped just to have you there.” He puts the seashell in her hand. “You kept me from completely losing it with Kyle.”
Maris looks up at him. Hidden somewhere behind that pain, can she still find some of the beach friend she once knew, and danced with, and said goodbye to on a deck twelve years ago? His whole life can’t stem from only one day now.
Blue Jeans and Coffee Beans Page 8