San Andreas Island

by Angela Costello

  “I’m up for trying out the hula hoops if you guys are,” Melissa offers.

  To everyone’s surprise, Eddie pulls the hula hoop over his head along with the rest of us. We’re all in this thing together.

  “Really?” I joke with him.

  “Why the hell not, huh?” He takes off his sunglasses and adjusts the hula hoop sitting around his waist. I love this guy.

  There’s a rhythm to these mornings and we find ourselves flowing with its cadence.

  “I’m tired!” Melissa jumps right in. “I’m in a sexless marriage, I’ve lost all attraction to him, and I hate to say it but I both love and despise being a mom. I don’t even know who I am anymore. If it wasn’t for my kid, I’d kill myself.” She looks at me, “Don’t worry, I’m not gonna do it.”

  I nod, acknowledging that I heard her.

  “Why not just leave if you’re so unhappy?” Charlie snaps at her. The mood’s shifted in the room. Both he and Eddie are looking annoyed. I imagine they’re thinking about their own imaginary marriages.

  “This is a good chance to practice those Protection and Containment Boundaries,” I say, motioning to the hula hoop. “Remember to be curious about what Melissa is saying, and that everyone has a right to their own thoughts, even if you don’t agree."

  “It’s not that simple,” Melissa blurts out. “And I don’t even want to,” she says.

  I draw her back towards herself, “Melissa, you said that if it weren’t for your child, you’d kill yourself?”

  “I wouldn’t really. It’s just a thought that crosses my mind sometimes,” she says.

  “Let’s slow this down and explore it from a different angle. Now really think about this. What parts of the struggle do you wish you could kill off?” I ask her.

  “I don’t know,” she pauses for a moment. “Like all the pressure I guess, having to do everything for everyone and have nothing left for myself,” she says.

  “That’s a good start. Let’s free yourself from those parts,” I say.

  I lean forward, letting my hula hoop drop to the ground. “We’re going to try an inner child exercise.”

  The group members put their hula hoops off to the side and scoot their chairs in for a tighter circle.

  “Take a breath, Melissa. How old are you feeling right now?” I ask.

  “What do you mean? I’m 29.” She gives me the “no shit” look.

  “I want you to take your attention from here,” I point to my head, “to here.” I point to my heart. “Notice the feelings you’re having, and float back to the first time you remember feeling this way.”

  Melissa closes her eyes and takes a deep inhale. After some time she says, “14.”

  “14, ok. Can you tell me about ‘fourteen-year-old Melissa’?”

  “She’s staying up late for hours and hours doing AP Calculus homework.”

  “What’s she like? Can you see the expression on her face?” I ask.

  My office is silent, and it feels like we’re all traveling back in time with her.

  “Tired, always tired. And angry. I remember mom telling me to smile more. I hated that.”

  “Yeah, that would make me angry, too,” I say. “Let’s get underneath that wall of anger. What age comes to mind when you picture yourself as a very little girl?”

  “Hmm.. about seven,” she says. “I’m in my room, but putting on this sparkly pink dress. I was definitely more carefree back then, and silly.”

  “Where did that spark go?” I ask.

  “I’m not sure. I know I was a daddy’s girl,” she says softly. “At least I wanted to be.”

  “Can you tell us what you mean?” I ask, as I look at the group to see how Charlie and Eddie are doing.

  “I tried so hard, I was a good kid. But his love had to be earned,” she wipes a tear from her cheek. “I will never leave my little girl the way he left me.”

  “What did that little seven-year-old girl need?” I guide her.

  Eddie hands her the tissue box, and Melissa blows her nose. “She needed to be told she was good enough, that she didn’t have to earn his love.” Tears are pouring down her face and her expression looks so young, as if she’s that seven-year-old little girl sitting right before our very eyes.

  I look over at Charlie. “Can you sit over on that side?” I motion to the chair near Melissa.

  He gets up and changes seats.

  “Charlie, can you say these words: Melissa, you are such a good daughter. You needed me to be there for you.”

  Charlie repeats the words, “Melissa, you’re such a good daughter. I should’ve been there for you.” I can see his eyes are glossy.

  “You deserved that. You deserved more than I gave you. You are lovable exactly as you are,” I look at Melissa as I continue to guide Charlie in this exercise.

  As Charlie repeats the words, tears are rolling down both his cheeks and Melissa’s. In this process, he and Eddie are also working through their own abandonment issues. I feel a stinging sensation in my chest I’m tearing up a bit, too.

  “What are you needing in this very moment?” I ask.

  “That feels really good to hear. I need time to take this in. Can we stop for now?” Melissa asks.

  “Yes we can. Let’s take a breath and check in everyone,” I say.

  “Inhaling relaxation,” we pause together, “and exhaling tension.” We exhale in unison.

  “Thank you everyone for having the courage to be vulnerable and do this healing work today. Each and every one of you now have the job of giving yourself that nurturance and unconditional love you’ve needed since you were those little kids. You’re now in charge of parenting that inner child. And Melissa, remember when you’re trying to be so perfect as a wife and a mom. The reality is, being imperfect is perfect.”

  We close the group with self-care intentions and feedback.

  ****

  I see a notification pop up on my phone.

  Natalia: Sunkissed at noon?

  How does she know my schedule by now? She just pays attention; she cares.

  Me: Yes, please :)

  There’s that familiar rush. A warm sensation runs through my veins, and I can feel the blood pumping through my heart. I can’t tell if it starts when I see her name on the screen, or when I imagine her touch, or think of her lips, or if it’s the thrill of not knowing what this lunch will be like. Every single moment with her is its own unique adventure. I hold my face as I smile to myself, and tuck my hair behind my ear. I glance at the clock above the couch, and it reads 11:51 a.m. I don’t have a noon or one p.m. patient today. Perfect; we have two hours. She’s probably already gotten us a table and ordered our drinks. I throw my keys into my wristlet purse, grab my phone and flip the Jelina King - In Session sign over to Jelina King - Out of Office. I whip around and bump into Mike, who was exiting his office with the standard expression on his face that all of us therapists have when we’re trying to maximize the ten minutes between patients and use the restroom, refill our tea, write our patient notes, and hesitate to sacrifice one of those precious minutes for a chat with another human being.

  “Woah, buddy!” he says. “So, ya actually leave that cave and eat lunch nowadays?”

  He thinks he’s so funny. Normally, I’d roll my eyes. I even found myself wincing after about the 27th time he called me Buddy. But not today. Today, I feel a giggle escape me and I think it’s sweet that he even notices my self-care.

  “I’m going to Sunkissed on Ocean,” I reply, somewhat proud that I do things these days like go to Sunkissed on Ocean.

  Mike’s refilling his tea mug with hot water, and I swear he’s squinting at me. Really. Across his forehead, and his crinkled eyebrows, I can read the words, Who are you?

  “Ha! Alrighty, let me know how that goes, will ya?” and he’s already bouncing back to his office.

  I maneuver around him and am almost out the door when I look down at my heels. No way.
“Flip-flops,” I say aloud. I turn around and re-enter my office. In the bottom drawer are my California version of what I imagine New Yorkers have for lunchtime walks. I remember putting these flip-flops in here when I first moved into the office, and thought it was a brilliant idea. I also knew deep down that if I was really honest with myself, they would be used a total of zero times, because that would mean getting my body outside of this office to walk down the street to the beach. But instead of that, I opted to stay inside from the time my first patient walked in, eating my pre-packed salad with a plastic fork, and staying straight through until the last patient walked out, only to go straight home.

  I slip off my heels, and check the time again: 11:53 a.m. I see the hot pink Havaiana lettering on the blue sandal straps staring at me from my drawer. My favorite part about these is the blue and white vintage palm tree beach print background on them, with the words Sun Sea Salt Surf stamped on them in pink. They’re thrilled when I pull them out, letting my heels take their place. Just putting these flip-flops on makes me feel like I’m on vacation. I’m officially not in work mode, and there’s a blend of calm and anticipation that washes over me. Much better.

  I grab my notebook and stick a pen inside the spiral bound spine, along with my keys and purse. I head out of the office, down the Spanish tile steps and onto the sidewalk outside of my building. The soft slap of my flip-flops relaxes me as I anticipate seeing Natalia again. I feel butterflies for some reason thinking about how this time I’ll be visiting her own restaurant with her. The salt air smell of the ocean invites me outside, and seagulls caw overhead as I pass the old man with his guitar. He’s strumming a Jack Johnson song today. As usual, I wave, but he doesn’t look up. You just gotta love this guy. Sometimes I can even hear him during sessions from my office upstairs when I leave the balcony window open. He’s my soundtrack to these days.

  From the street, I can see a wide view of the ocean. There are tiny sailboats far in the distance near the horizon, and about a dozen surfers are on the water. Most of them are straddling their boards as they sit and wait for a good wave. A few are paddling out fast, and I catch one popping up onto her board and riding a decent-sized swell. Kombis, Bugs and Mini Coopers are parked on the side of the road. My favorite is the convertible Mini with a two-toned teal-and-white paint job.

  I wonder if these surfers are out here every day while I’m inside making notes and eating lunch at my desk. I imagine they work for one of the tech companies on Olympic Drive. They have their morning nonfat lattes, start every office meeting with a five-minute meditation, have optional yoga and Tai Chi classes at their disposal, then do their coding and social media development for a few hours, grab a kale wrap from the organic café, and land on the water to take a midday break and hit the surf. Because, why not? And I don’t mind.

  I stop when I see the familiar green bench. I take a seat and open up my notebook to a blank page, putting pen to paper for the first time in a long while.

  June 20, 2023

  Growing up, I can still remember sitting on this very bench even as a little girl when Mom would bring us out here for a beach day.

  My eyes lift away from my page and catch my own personal movie happening in front of me. I return to my notebook.

  The view today happens to be partially blocked by what look like movie set trailers and lighting props. I think that’s Kelly Slater is wrapping up a surf session. He must be in his early fifties by now, and I’m sure he’s still a rock star on the waves. But right now, he’s in front of several cameras and a large crowd of onlookers, watching from behind a taped off area. From here, he looks hotter than in photos I’ve seen on the covers of surfing magazines at the market. Two photographers are running ahead of him, and a drone is hovering overhead catching a wider angle. He’s carrying his surfboard in one hand, and a gallon of water in the other. His wetsuit is hanging halfway off of his body at the waist, like a banana peel that’s pulled back, showing off his dark bronze skin to all of us passersby on Ocean Avenue. His muscles are glistening from the sun hitting him at the perfect angle, highlighting his shoulders and triceps as he walks along the sand towards the parking lot, where a shiny black E Class Mercedes waits for him. The obvious guess would be that this shoot is for Mercedes, but for all I know, it could be for Chase Bank. When he gets to his sleek ride, the photographers anticipate his moves and prepare to capture the good shots. He lifts the bottle of water over his head, and slowly pours it onto his chestnut hair, drenching his body.

  “Wow,” I exhale.

  “Enjoying the view?” Natalia whispers in my ear, as she slowly wraps her arms around my shoulders and chest from behind.

  I jump, clocking her on the chin with my fist and dangerous pen. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry! Hi, yes, um,” I say, blushing and with a small laugh in my breath. “I thought we were meeting at Sunkissed.”

  “We will,” she says, standing up and rubbing her chin with so much exaggeration, it takes every ounce of willpower for me to not just kiss her right here. “But it’ll be even better if we walked there together,” she says.

  I close up my notebook and put my pen in its place, away from doing any more harm. She takes my hand, and I stand up and melt. I feel ten pounds lighter, and I swear on everything that a breeze of glitter is tickling my entire body—the touch of her fingertips somehow surges all the way to my ears and across my heart, and I can still feel her breath on the back of my neck. Can she tell my body’s responding to her right now? Every time we’re around each other, it feels like we drift to another time, another dimension. Everything around us is more colorful and sparkling, music is playing around us, life just feels lighter. And I like the feel of her hands against mine, they’re soft and smooth. She’s just so easy to be around.

  “Hold on a sec,” I say. We stop for a moment. “Time seems to stand still with us, so if I don’t do this, I can bet anything I’ll be totally late for my next patient,” I say, setting the timer on my phone.

  Natalia smiles. “We’ll make the most of our minutes together.” The look in her eyes makes it a promise.

  We make it to Sunkissed Café, and the vibe’s different than any other time I’ve been here. As we walk up the stone steps, the hostess greets us and smiles brightly at Natalia. The hostess is almost unrecognizable wearing a smile rather than the scowl she dons every other time I’ve been here. The way the staff is treating us, I feel like I’m with a celebrity—or part of her VIP crew at least. The hostess guides us past the tall palm trees lining the walkway, past the millennial on their laptops, and the koi pond where I’ve sat with Sarah and Helen. Piano and guitar music fills the restaurant and carries us through to the back.

  “We’re eating in the kitchen?” I ask Natalia.

  “Perhaps,” she teases.

  The hostess turns around a bit, and looks at us both with darting eyes. She feels our chemistry. It’s undeniable. “This way,” she says. From this angle, I swear I just saw her raise her eyebrows and widen her eyes. Is she jealous?

  We reach a spiral staircase, and the hostess bids us farewell. “Enjoy,” she says. I could hear the eye-roll in her voice. She’s back to her usual self. I’m surprised she was in a pleasant mood. At least she stuck it out for the entire walk.

  “Right this way.” Natalia gestures to the staircase and I follow where her hand is pointing. I love the look in her eyes; she’s looking at me like I’m the only person in the world. She has the ability to make me feel so beautiful and special, the exact opposite of how I’ve felt all my life. I don’t want to disappear, I don’t want to be invisible or silent or cower.

  “I wonder what you’ve got up your sleeve, Missy,” I say to her, grabbing the handrail and she’s following close behind me on this mysterious lunch journey. I’m breathing a bit heavily after the hike up the stairs. “Wow, I need to get in shape!”

  “I like your shape.” Her fingertips graze my hip. She takes my hand as we climb the last few steps to the top. “This i
s my own private getaway. But we do rent it out for special business events and weddings sometimes,” she says.

  After what I think feels like eight flights of stairs, we’re on the roof. “Oh my God! This view is incredible,” I say. “I’ve been here so many times with Sarah and Helen, and we had no idea this café even had a rooftop section.”

  I take in the breathtaking scene. We have a 180-degree view of the ocean. The breeze kisses my face as my eyes land on the wood-framed sofas and oversized chairs, with their plush cream-colored cushions adorned with colorful pillows. Lush plants, tall and short palm trees, and bright flowers are distributed throughout this large area. White cloth umbrellas offer shade in this hidden sanctuary. A fire pit rests in the center. As I take in the view, I see the flames reach for the sky, and there’s a synchronicity between the orange fire, the salty beach air, and the serene ocean.

  I walk over to the waist-high glass wall. I can see Surfer’s Park from here. The moms and dads I typically envy are out there pushing their kids on swings. I see a couple of moms sitting on a bench with toddlers scooping sand in the sandbox, and I can bet anything they’re chatting about which trendy new pre-school they’re interviewing for. Surfers are floating in the water, and one is paddling out to catch a wave. I look further out and try to see my house. It’s not too far from the water, and I should be able to see it from here. My eyes dart back and forth and I’m squinting to try to find it.

  “Hey beautiful, lunch is ready.” Natalia startles me a bit. She’s standing next to me, but she’s somehow managed to get close enough behind me that I feel her lips next to my ear behind me. Her words send a tingle from the tip of my ear across my skin and I can feel goosebumps rise on my arm. Her hand rests on the small of my back. “I asked Tom to time it so that we don’t waste our precious minutes together. I know you have to get back to your patients, and this isn’t our last stop,” she says.