Here Today, Gone to Maui

by Carol Snow

  “I’m on the beach in Hawaii,” I said.

  “Isn’t that a Ziggy Marley song?”

  “It’s raining,” I said.

  “You’re looking for pity?”

  “And the hotel lost our reservation, so we’re in a crappy condo.” I heard the sound of running water, dishes clinking. “Did I interrupt your dinner? What time is it there?”

  “It’s almost dinnertime, but no one’s eating. Sierra and Sindy have the stomach flu. Eleven times they’ve thrown up today. Samantha was home all week with a sinus infection, and now she’s locked herself in her room so she doesn’t start puking. Savannah says she feels nauseous, but I think it’s just because she wants attention.”

  “Okay, you win,” I said. “Your day sucks more than mine. Where’s Stacey?”

  “Slumber party.”

  “Sal?”

  “Nauseous. But I think that’s just his personality. And, oh—Mom was supposed to come to dinner tonight, and when I called to cancel, she said she could tell all along that I didn’t really want her to come, so I’m probably glad to have an excuse.”

  My phone beeped. “Oh, crap—battery’s low. Anyway. Just wanted to say hi. Jimmy’s diving, and I’m stuck on the beach waiting.”

  “My heart bleeds for you,” Beth said, sounding a touch more chipper than she had at the beginning of the conversation.

  I threw the phone back in my tote and stared out at the water. The sun peeked through in patches, the rays reaching through the raindrops like a child’s drawing. When I thought I saw Jimmy’s head pop out of the water, I hurried to the water’s edge and peered out, but it was just a whitecap.

  The rain slowed to a mist. It was 11:09. Figuring that Jimmy went under at around ten-thirty, and his air would last around forty-five minutes, I decided he would resurface no later than eleven-fifteen.

  The rain stopped. At eleven-fifteen, I reconsidered the shallowness of the dive plus Jimmy’s diving expertise. He could probably stay under for an hour, which meant he’d be up by eleven-thirty. I wouldn’t tell him I’d been worried. I wouldn’t even let him know I’d been cold.

  At eleven-thirty I decided that Jimmy had begun his dive later than I’d assumed. He’d had to swim pretty far out. And maybe I wasn’t in the water for as long as I’d thought. I’d been nervous, after all, and time slows down when you’re afraid. Surely Jimmy would return to the surface no later than 11:40. I’d act a little annoyed, but not enough to ruin the rest of the afternoon.

  On the way back to the condo, I’d ask him to stop off at Safeway. I’d buy fish.

  I wouldn’t tell him I’d been worried. Because it was just so crazy to think that something bad might have happened.

  At eleven forty-five, there was still no sign of Jimmy.

  That’s when I knew: he was gone.

  Chapter 8

  I shouldn’t have called my sister. Without those minutes, there would have been enough charge left in my battery to call 911. If Jimmy was trapped underwater, every second counted.

  I should have checked the time when he went in.

  I should have left my cell phone charged.

  I should have gone for help sooner.

  It didn’t even occur to me to blame Jimmy for breaking a basic safety rule by diving alone. I didn’t want to be angry at him.

  I ran up the concrete steps, tiny red ants swarming at my feet. Even without any sun, the air in the car was humid. I ran my hand under the seat and yanked open the glove compartment. Surely Jimmy had brought his phone along. But then I remembered him tossing it on the table at the condo: he didn’t want it to get stolen.

  Adrenaline made my body shake and my heart race. My breathing came in strangled gasps. I stepped into the road and looked both ways, but Jimmy had chosen a deserted stretch, and there was no traffic. Driving away was out of the question: I couldn’t leave Jimmy.

  I ran back down the stairs, just far enough so I could see Jimmy if he had reappeared. In my mind I pictured him staggering breathless onto the beach and falling into my arms. I’d hold him tight, not caring that he soaked my already-damp terry cover-up.

  Already, though, I knew that wouldn’t happen. He had been down too long. Everyone needs to come up for air.

  I was about to get back in the car when a tan sedan appeared around the bend. I dashed into the street and held my arms up. The car jerked to a halt.

  The man who got out was silver-haired, older but not old. I think his wife had silver hair, too, but I can’t be sure. So many details escape me. All I could think about was Jimmy. All I could see was Jimmy in the ocean, kicking away from me.

  The older couple stood there quietly, their rental car’s engine humming, as I dialed 911 on their cell phone. “My boyfriend is gone!” I sobbed, tears appearing as if from nowhere.

  When the operator asked where I was, my mind went blindingly white. I couldn’t remember the name of the beach. “Do you know where we are?” I pleaded with the silver-haired couple. The husband took the phone and gave directions to Slaughterhouse Beach. His wife offered to stay there to flag down the police so I could go back to the water. Just in case.

  Stupidly, I still felt hopeful as I ran back down the path. Jimmy could be there. It wasn’t impossible.

  He wasn’t there, of course. And he wasn’t there fifteen minutes later when the rescue workers arrived: police, fire, coast guard, lifeguards. All those people could have made me feel optimistic. Instead, the swarms made me realize just how bad things were. I felt numb and cold—so cold.

  The beach was no longer deserted. Divers barreled out beyond the waves, dragging a flag-marked float along to mark their descent. If only Jimmy had brought a float. If only he had picked up the air tank himself, he would have thought of it.

  “Did your friend have any health issues?” a firefighter asked me. “Any problems with his heart?”

  “Nothing,” I said. “No problems at all.” Why were there firefighters here? Where was the fire?

  The buzz of Jet Skis filled the air. They’d launched from Flemings Beach, just down the coast. (Lifeguard? Coast guard? I couldn’t keep them straight.)

  I kept my eyes on the water, but it was so hectic out there, Jimmy could swim to shore and I wouldn’t even notice.

  And then: hope. The currents were strong today, a lifeguard said. He was a young guy, on the short side, with a wide, smooth chest, dark hair, and kind eyes. It’s easy to get lost underwater, he told me. My friend could have popped up down the shore. He could be a mile away, sitting on the beach and trying to figure out how to explain this without sounding stupid.

  I took this as good news. Great news. I began to laugh with hysterical relief. “You think he’s okay?”

  “We’re checking the beaches along the coast,” he said. “See if he’s turned up.”

  He hadn’t turned up.

  But he could be floating around somewhere, another lifeguard told me later, when I had retreated to my spot under the low-hanging trees. Someone had brought me a blanket, but nothing could warm me.

  “So you think you’ll find him?” I pleaded.

  The lifeguard paused a long time before replying, very carefully, “Yes, I think we’ll find him.” He didn’t say any more. He didn’t have to.

  Someone offered to get me a sandwich, but I wasn’t hungry. I wasn’t thirsty, either, but a paramedic—a woman, I think—made me drink a can of overly sweetened pink lemonade.

  “Is there anyone we should call?” a policewoman asked me. I shook my head. I had no one local, of course, and calling my friends or family from home made it too official. As long as no one knew that Jimmy was missing, he still might come back.

  “Do you want a ride somewhere?” the policewoman asked me.

  I shook my head: I wasn’t leaving. As long as Jimmy was in the water, as long as there were rescue crews about, I would sit under my tree.

  I sat there. And I sat there. My bladder began to hurt from the lemonade, but I ignored it.

  The
sun, which had finally come out, slipped below the horizon: a beautiful Hawaiian sunset made especially magnificent by the elaborate clouds. Rescue workers on Jet Skis buzzed over pink-tinted water and disappeared around the corner. Divers emerged from the depths and pulled off their masks. A crazy yellow bird danced in the branches above me.

  “It’s getting dark,” a firefighter told me. “There’s nothing more we can do tonight.”

  Chapter 9

  On Sunday, I awoke just before daylight and had an instant of peace. Jimmy’s slipped out for another one of his meetings, I thought. Maybe he’ll bring me breakfast—the scones are getting stale.

  And then, cruelly, the memories washed over me like an icy wave. Had they found him? Please, please let him be alive, a voice inside my head begged. He could have washed up somewhere in the night, unconscious, injured, but still alive. I pictured him lying on the beach, moaning, whispering my name.

  Blood rushing in my ears, I reached for the phone, the number for the Maui Police Department filed in my memory, perhaps forever. The woman at the switchboard put me through to a detective.

  Search crews had resumed their search this morning, but they’d found no traces of Jimmy, Detective McGuinn said gently. But in the next several days I could probably expect some things to—(he paused to find the least hurtful phrase)—appear.

  “Appear?” I croaked (I hadn’t even had my coffee yet).

  “Wash up.”

  I didn’t say anything in response. My voice had stopped working.

  “You might want to make some calls,” he said. “We can do it for you if that would make things easier. Family members, close friends . . . we should give them a heads-up before this hits the wires.”

  “Can’t we wait before we make some kind of announcement?” I pleaded. “I’d hate to upset people if it’s for nothing. Maybe he’s lying on a beach, unconscious. Or he could have amnesia. I mean, it happens, right? And not just in movies?”

  The detective paused, trying to find the right words. “We’ve already alerted the press. Last night. It’s best in these kinds of situations—so people keep their eyes open. Miss Shea, you’ve got to understand . . . I know this is hard to accept, but the chances of Mr. James turning up alive—they’re not good.”

  “But not impossible.”

  “Miss Shea.” The detective’s voice hinted at exhaustion. “Had you noticed any . . . changes in Mr. James recently?”

  “What kind of changes?” I asked, confused.

  “Had he seemed troubled at all? Depressed? Was he dealing with any personal problems or financial difficulties?”

  Jimmy had been acting strangely in the last few weeks: distant, preoccupied. I’d feared he was pulling away from me, but maybe there was something else going on. And then there was that incident with the credit card . . .

  “Jimmy owns his own business,” I said. “Finances had been tight lately, but I think that goes with the territory.” I didn’t tell him how preoccupied Jimmy had been. He didn’t need to know.

  Suddenly I realized what he meant. My hands began to shake. “You don’t think that Jimmy killed himself?”

  “We don’t know what to think. But we can’t rule out the possibility. For an experienced diver to go off alone in such rough conditions—it doesn’t quite make sense. Especially since he didn’t even take a marker out with him. Also, Slaughterhouse Bay isn’t a great dive spot. It’s right next to Honolua Bay, true, but he’d have to swim against the current to get there. Why not just go in at Honolua instead?”

  “It was because of me,” I said, eager to talk him—and myself—out of the suicide scenario. “He knew I wanted a nice beach to sit on. And as for the float—I picked up the air tank for him, and I didn’t think to get him one.” But, a little voice nagged, he never told you to.

  “It was probably just an accident,” the detective said gently. “I’ll call you if we hear anything.”

  How could Jimmy be gone when his duffel bag was sitting in the middle of the room, just where he’d left it? When his toothbrush was still in the bathroom? After I got off the phone, I started to go through the bag, to look for an address book with his family’s phone numbers, but as soon as I pulled something out—the pale blue polo shirt he’d worn on the plane—I smelled him, and the sadness hit me so hard that I couldn’t do any more.

  A few minutes before eight o’clock, Mary, in her oversize muumuu, knocked softly at the door, the local newspaper in her hands. On the front page was a photo of Slaughterhouse Beach. The headline: MAN DISAPPEARS WHILE DIVING OFF WEST MAUI COAST.

  I grabbed the door frame to steady myself. Somehow, the newspaper report made it all real.

  “Oh no, it is your man,” Mary said. “I recognized the name from when he checked in. But I’m thinking, Michael James is a common name. Maybe it’s a different one.”

  “It’s him,” I said. “It happened yesterday. He went under and just—never came back.” My voice cracked.

  Without a thought, Mary took me in her arms. I wheezed in despair but felt too numb to cry.

  “Can I do anything for you?” she asked. “Anything at all?”

  I started to say no but then remembered the duffel bag. “I’m supposed to get phone numbers,” I said. “For the police. I never even met Jimmy’s parents. They live in Arizona. He’s said in the spring—maybe in the spring we’d go visit.”

  “Does he have a computer?” she asked. “Cell phone?”

  “He didn’t bring a computer. His cell-phone battery is dead, but maybe he has an address book or papers or, I don’t know—something in his bag. It’s just—earlier I tried to look . . .” My voice trailed off.

  “You want me to see if I can find anything?” she asked.

  I nodded.

  Mary knelt down on the brown carpet, next to the duffel bag. Just a few days ago, I’d been stationed at the baggage carousel, waiting for this bag to appear, convinced that losing our luggage was the worst thing that could happen.

  Perched on the edge of a chair, I watched Mary go through Jimmy’s things. It seemed wrong somehow, as though Jimmy were going to come back and complain about the invasion of privacy.

  On the floor, Mary neatly stacked Jimmy’s possessions: a baseball cap, a pair of sunglasses, some tired-looking sneakers. Swim trunks, T-shirts, shorts, a belt. A cell-phone charger for the car. A box of condoms. (I was so numb that I didn’t even feel embarrassed.) And then . . .

  “What’s this?” It was tiny. Square. She handed it to me.

  I stared at the black velvet box in the palm of my hand. Surely it was just a pair of cuff links or a tie clip. Had I ever even seen Jimmy wear a tie?

  But, no. It was a ring, an emerald-cut diamond flanked by sapphires, set in platinum. Jimmy had taken me to Hawaii to propose. The man I thought would never commit wanted to marry me. He didn’t just love things about me—he loved me. And now he was gone.

  Now I knew why Jimmy’s card had been turned down at the restaurant. He hadn’t exceeded his limit on new office chairs. He had exceeded it on my engagement ring.

  My tears broke loose, sliding down my cheeks like a hot waterfall.

  “Are you going to put it on?” Mary asked.

  “I don’t think I should,” I whispered. “He never actually proposed.”

  “He’d want you to wear it,” she said.

  It was a little tight, but I managed to shove it on my left ring finger. It made me feel better, somehow, connected to Jimmy for one last time. Plus, there was relief: if Jimmy had been prepared to embark on a new life with me, there was no way he would have killed himself.

  Mary let me use the computer at the registration desk to look up Jimmy’s office number. Scott and Ana would need to be told. Maybe Ana would have contact numbers for Jimmy’s parents. I would never again be jealous of Ana, I thought, fingering my ring.

  Ana answered on the fourth ring: “Hey, this is Ana—hold a sec.” And then she cut me off. Next time she picked up after only three rings, havi
ng shortened her spiel to a simple, “Hold on.” This time she put me on hold.

  “Are you okay?” Mary whispered. I nodded, clutching my cell phone. Today’s hold music was rap. I was treated to two “mother-fuckers,” a “bitch,” and several “hos” before Ana picked up.

  “Hey, this is Ana—what’s up?” she said.

  “I—this is Jane,” I croaked.

  “Sorry—what? I think we have a bad connection.”

  “This is, this is—” I paused to collect myself.

  She hung up. I burst into tears.

  “You want me to do it?” Mary asked. All I could do was nod. “Speakerphone?” she asked. I nodded again.

  Ana picked up without putting Mary on hold: “ ’Sup?”

  “Aloha?” Mary said.

  “Yeah, this is Ana. Whassup?”

  “Aloha,” Mary said. “I am calling about Mr. Michael James.”

  “Not here,” Ana said. “He’s in Maui this week.”

  “Yes, I know,” Mary said. “I’m in Maui, too.”

  “Oh, you want his cell? Or the number where he’s staying?”

  She meant the Hyatt. Would things have been different without the reservation mix-up? We could have spent yesterday on the beach or around the pool. Jimmy could have walked down to the Sheraton and gone diving at Black Rock.

  “That won’t be necessary,” Mary said. “You see, the reason I’m calling is—I’m calling for Miss Jane Shea.”

  “Who?”

  “Mr. James’s fiancée.”

  “He has a fiancée?” Her voice sounded hollow over the speakerphone.

  “It wasn’t official yet,” Mary conceded. “Miss Ana, the reason I’m calling is to give you some very sad news. Mr. Michael James went scuba diving yesterday morning, and he never came back.”

  There was a pause. “He never came back to his room?”

  “No,” Mary said. “He never came back to the beach. He went under and . . . now he’s gone.”

  “But who was he with?” Ana demanded.

  “He was with Miss Shea. But she stayed near the beach, snorkeling.”