“The view is worth your trouble.”
“That’s good to know,” I said, lifting what looked like a piece of straw out of his shiny brown hair and handing it to him.
“Thanks,” he said.
That’s it. That was the exchange.
The impact he made on me had nothing to do with words. It was the recognition in his eyes, and I believe he saw the same thing in mine. I’ve experienced such recognition seldom in my life, but each time it has startled me. It happened first with Andrew and then with Tom. The third time it happened Mark and Molly were teenagers. I attended a conference for language arts teachers and experienced this phenomenon with the keynote speaker, an educational consultant and motivational speaker from the Denver area. After all these years, I have not forgotten chatting with a group of friends, getting up from the couch to throw away a cup, and seeing him across the room, engaged in a serious conversation with a woman but looking straight at me. Nor will I forget his obvious interest in and approval of what he saw. That evening he sat with the teachers from my school at dinner, and I hoped no one noticed how lively our discussion was, how easily I made him laugh, how much we enjoyed spending an evening of our lives together. I can’t even remember his name now and I never saw him again, but I have not forgotten the shock of being seen.
That brief moment on top of Santa Cruz Island shocked me in the same way.
But I dismissed it and continued my exploration, trekking from one side of the plateau to the other, looking out at an ocean sparkling in the noon sunshine. I was thankful for the sun, because even with long jeans and a hooded Santa Barbara sweatshirt, it was cool. I looked down at the water far below and saw movement, which turned out to be three whales dipping in and out of the water. I felt like Wordsworth, surprised by joy, as I gasped and turned as if to tell Tom what I had seen. When I looked toward the whales again, I saw only their tails, signaling their return to deep water. Oh well, I thought, Tom would have missed them anyway.
I had an agenda for the top of the mountain. After seeing what I could see, I planned to eat the snacks I’d brought while I read a section of John 13. I found a large, flat rock that overlooked the ocean and sat down to soak up the sun and munch on granola bars, a banana, and an apple. Pulling Tom’s Bible out of my backpack, I read about Jesus kneeling before his disciples to wash their feet. This simple act must have taught them so much about what it meant to be his. The first verse said Jesus wanted to show them “the full extent of his love.” Loving and giving and serving seem to be synonymous. I was so blessed to be married to a man who understood what Jesus was saying in this passage.
I stood up, put my trash in the Ziploc bag I had conveniently crammed into my pocket, stuffed it into my backpack, and chugged a bottle of water. It’s happened, I thought as I looked across miles of sea. Gratitude has surpassed grief.
Coming down the mountain, which was slightly easier than going up the thing, I passed a young couple and a group of college kids, but when I reached the road at the bottom and walked past an old uninhabited farmhouse, I ran into no one until I saw him sitting at a picnic table, a laptop open in front of him.
“You made it down too,” he said.
“I did,” I said, walking toward him, stopping beside the stone table. “And you were right, the view was worth it.”
I will never be able to account for what happened next. I took off my backpack, set it on the table, and sat down. “I saw three whales.”
He smiled at me over his laptop.
As quickly as I had sat down, I stood up again.
“Will you watch my backpack for a minute?” I asked, walking in the direction of two nearby sheds.
“Where are you going?”
“To the facilities,” I said, pointing at the glorified outhouses. “You don’t want to do that,” he said.
“I know it.”
When I returned, gagging, he had put away his computer and was sitting on the table, looking across the island at a hill I didn’t climb.
“What’d I tell you?” he said when I sat on the other end of the table, using the stone seat as a footstool.
“That was a very bad experience. But at least no one had thrown up in there, as far as I could tell.”
“Do you always look on the bright side?”
“Actually, it’s a disgusting story you don’t want to hear, I assure you.”
“Well, forget any repulsive latrine encounters and think about your whales instead. I was up there two hours, and I didn’t see anything but miles of sky and an unruffled ocean.” He held out his hand, “I’m Zack, by the way. Zack Landers.”
“I’m Audrey,” I said, shaking his extended hand. “Audrey Eaton.” I slipped my hand out of his and nodded at his laptop case. “Is this your office?”
“It is, in a way. My job right now is to finish a book, and I can do that here, there, or just about anywhere.”
“How nice.”
His answer produced more questions, but I was distracted by noise on the beach and turned to see the source of it. “Oh look,” I said, pointing toward the water. “Those people are kayaking. See? Over there. That looks like so much fun to me.”
“You want to kayak?”
He stood up, picked up his things and my backpack and put them in a large water-resistant duffel bag, and started walking toward the beach, where a man was dragging a kayak to shore, pulling it up beside two others.
“I rented a kayak,” he explained as we walked, “but all they had left was a two-person one, which is bound to work better with two people in it, don’t you think?”
I think I laughed.
He left the duffel bag with the guide, who had just rowed to shore, ready to relax, and handed me a life jacket out of the kayak sitting on the rocks beside us. This was my first experience at the sport, though I’d canoed with Tom a few times when we were first married. Mainly I had sat in the back sunning while Tom paddled. When I tried to help, I tended to head us toward one bank of the river or the other, and Tom would holler over his shoulder, “Don’t row!”
Apparently I had been healed of faulty oar handling; in fact, I seemed to be a natural at kayaking, which occurred to me even before Zack said it. I know people who kayak at home. No oceans there, but lakes and rivers abound. I’m adding this to my new interest list.
We barely made it back in time to catch the last boat of the day. Zack said it wouldn’t have been a disaster if we had missed it.
twenty-three
September 22
I saw him at the top of Santa Cruz Island. He looked wonderful. The gray that had sprinkled his sandy hair had disappeared, as had the lines around his eyes, which were more green than brown today. As I think about it, he looked exactly like he did the first time I saw him, standing outside my classroom so long ago, only he had on jeans and my favorite cocoa-colored sweater.
“Hey,” I said, “what are you doing up here?”
He just smiled, a response that satisfied me completely. I assumed the role of tour guide and took him all over the plateau.
“Wait until you see this,” I said, grasping his hand and leading him to the area where I had seen the whales. When we got close, I held my breath, hoping the three whales would make an appearance for him. I could not believe what we saw when we looked over the edge to the water far below: hundreds of whales—some barely visible, blowing water high into the air; some gliding through the water; some flying in arcs above the water like Shamu; and some diving, their tail fins waving at us. The ocean was full of them.
“Well,” I said, “what do you think?”
“I think it’s amazing.”
He let go of my hand and moved closer to the edge, so close my fingertips tingled with fear.
“Tom, get back here.”
“There are a bunch of little guys playing really close to shore. Come look.”
“No, Tom, you’re going to fall. I mean it, get away from there.”
He looked back at me patiently and sweetly
. “Don’t be afraid, Audrey. I’m fine.”
The phone awakened me. It must have rung three or four times before I became oriented enough to pick up and mumble a hello.
“I’m hoping I can change your mind,” he said.
“Who is this?”
“Your kayaking partner.”
“Oh.”
He didn’t say anything then. Really, what do you say to such a response?
“I’m sorry,” I said, gathering my wits. “I was asleep. I guess all that exercise yesterday did me in.” I yawned and stretched. “I’m almost awake now.”
“I enjoyed yesterday. And I wanted to catch you before you left your room to see if I could talk you into a field trip today. I’ll come by and get you if you’re up for it.”
“The zoo?” I asked, my voice tinged with something between hesitancy and dread.
“I told you. It’s not just a zoo. It’s a garden overlooking the sea. I think you’ll like it. Honest.”
“I won’t be ready before one.”
“That’s fine. I’ll get some work done and meet you in your lobby at one, then.”
Oh my goodness, I thought as I threw back the covers to begin my day, are you really going to do this?
At least I have all morning to dawdle. I need it; yesterday was exhausting. But it was exhilarating too. I loved everything about that island.
I took a break to shower and order something to eat. I still had an hour before I would meet Zack in the lobby. I hadn’t expected to have company again so soon. But Zackary Landers was nice, and he was interesting. On the boat ride back to Santa Barbara yesterday he told me that three years ago he had retired as the CEO of a company based in St. Louis in order to teach in the economics and business schools at the University of Missouri at Columbia, and that he was on sabbatical this semester to finish a textbook on business ethics.
I really couldn’t believe I had met someone on the top of Santa Cruz Island who lived only three or four hours from me. I told him I lived in Springfield and had retired from teaching high school English three years ago.
“That’s interesting, don’t you think?” he said. “You stopped teaching three years ago, and I started.”
“My husband and I both retired to travel and spend time with the grandkids.”
“But he died, I’m assuming.”
“Yes.”
“Your wedding ring is beautiful, and it’s on your right hand.”
“I moved it there, quite reluctantly, a month ago. Doing so was one of the miseries of going on without him. Tom died nearly a year and a half ago.”
“You can see where your ring used to be,” he said, touching my finger. “It sounds like you quit teaching because of your husband. I started teaching because of my wife.”
The boat had reached the dock then, and people around us were gathering their things. He handed me my backpack, put his duffel bag on his shoulder, and we exited the boat with the crowd, saying nothing until we had walked to the parking lot and he had opened my car door for me.
“If it’s okay, I’ll call you,” he said.
“You’re not wearing a wedding ring,” I said. “I’m assuming that means you’re no longer married. If that’s the case, you can call me.” I told him where I was staying. “Room 508,” I said. “I think you have a story to finish.”
September 23
I’m leaving for Monterey this afternoon. Zack made me a reservation at an inn he thinks I will love. When he got the sabbatical to write his textbook, he decided to do it on the West Coast, where he could enjoy the scenery and spend a few weeks and several weekends with his son, Jason, who lives somewhere between Monterey and San Francisco, close enough to commute to San Francisco. Zack made plans to spend this weekend with his son, daughter-in-law, and twin seven-year-old grandsons and probably left before I got up this morning.
“So,” I said yesterday, when he told me about the boys, “what are their names?”
“Kit and Carson,” he said.
Names to rival Cotton and Wheat Fields, it seemed to me. The choice of names was absurd enough to elicit a raised eyebrow from me, my version of a mouth falling open.
“Really?” I asked.
“No, not really. I just wanted to see your reaction,” he said. “One of them is named Carson, but his brother’s name is Cade.”
“Cade and Carson. Cute names.”
“Jason and Carley didn’t move out here from St. Louis until his mom died three years ago. Maggie doted on the boys. They say they still remember her. Pictures of her holding the boys or hugging them cover a substantial part of their bulletin board. I hope they’ll always remember how much she loved them. She worked hard to make that happen. She wrote each of them a little book of stories and poems featuring Cade, Carson, or both of them, and in another section of their books, she wrote her prayers for them. I didn’t get my priorities straight until her illness, or more precisely, until her illness turned out to be terminal. She, on the other hand, always had her priorities straight.”
“So did my husband. Our granddaughters, age six now, remember Tom very well, but I’m not sure about the boys. They were barely three when he died. That is another one of the miseries. I’m thankful, I really am, that the children were grown before Tom died, but I can’t seem to get over wishing he had lived to help me ‘teach their children after them.’ He had so much to give them. I’ve never thought I could possibly be enough. How can we ever make up for what they’ve lost?”
“I’m sorry,” he said. He picked up a napkin and dabbed at a tear that had spilled onto my cheek. “I meant to dazzle you with this view, not bring up something to make you cry.”
We had stopped to relax and drink a Coke on a beautiful knoll overlooking a cactus garden and innumerable palm trees, and through the foliage, a view of the ocean on our left and right. He had been right. The Santa Barbara Zoo is as much garden as zoo.
“The view is dazzling,” I said. “I’m okay. I think this is probably the first time I’ve said those things out loud. I assure you my children won’t listen to talk of my inadequacies. Talking about loss probably made you sad too.”
“We’re a pair, all right,” he said, standing and helping me to my feet. “What animal shall we find to cheer you up?”
“Anything. Except a bear.”
Our dinner conversation did not make us sad. We sat on the patio of one of his favorite restaurants and watched the sun set on the ocean while we waited for our food. For me, ambiance doesn’t get better.
While the remnants of the sun painted banks of clouds a cotton candy pink and gulls darted for scraps, I told him about my journey, including enough details about what necessitated it that he could appreciate my buying Acts of Faith a few days ago. “Mainly what I’ve done, though, is read the cast of characters four times.”
“Keep working at it,” he said. “It’s a good book. Some of those characters will irritate you at times, as characters are prone to do, but the book is interesting and thought provoking.”
“You’ve read it, then?”
“I have,” he said. “I’ve been reading on this break as much as I’ve been writing. I just finished Charles Frazier’s Thirteen Moons.”
“His name sounds familiar.”
“You might have seen Cold Mountain. He wrote that.”
“Yes, I did see it, but I read it first. I love historical fiction. I almost majored in history.”
“Historical fiction and biography are what I turn to most for recreational reading. Thirteen Moons is told from the point of view of a ninety-year-old man looking back on his life. The story features the Cherokee Nation, and since I’m one-sixteenth Cherokee, I enjoyed that aspect of it. You might want to read it, but be warned, it’s another doomed love story.
Needlessly doomed, if you ask me.”
“Then I’ll skip it for now. I’m certainly not up for that. I bawled at the end of Cold Mountain. I put down the book and stumbled into my bathroom, barely able to see, and washed my
face with cold water. I finally ended up lying on the couch with a cool cloth plastered on my swollen eyes. The ending really was too horrible.”
“Good thing Ada had Ruby to keep her company, huh?”
“Well, yes, on the positive side. That had to help. But I hope my little journey ends better than Inman’s. The whole point of making it is to live. Dying, I could have done at home. I was doing a good imitation of it, in fact.”
“Frazier isn’t writing your story. Someone else is. I predict you’ll make it.”
“That’s the first thing you said to me, you know: ‘You made it!’ ”
I finished John 13 this morning. It’ll give me something to ponder on my drive today. Jesus told his disciples he was giving them a new commandment: “As I have loved you, so you must love one another.” Tall order it seems to me, loving as he loved. Yet I find myself giving it a try. And I believe it’s making a difference.
I gave Zack my e-mail address when he asked for it. That was nice of me.
My in-box is seldom empty anymore.
twenty-four
September 24
The inn, my room especially, couldn’t be more pleasant, and I’m sure I never would have thought to choose it; the number of lodgings and restaurants in the Monterey Peninsula seems infinite. I found a small church to attend and spent the rest of the day shopping on Cannery Row and visiting the Monterey Bay Aquarium. I wasn’t prepared for such an enormous facility. I sat mesmerized, gazing at a twenty-eight-foot-high aquarium encasing a kelp forest. Except for the fact that I couldn’t feed peas to colorful little fish, sitting there was about as good as snorkeling. Better, since I didn’t have to do my hair again.
When I got back to the inn, I did my reading. Since my soul isn’t so shriveled anymore, I read quite a bit. Chapter 14 begins with such comforting words. “Do not let your hearts be troubled.” Jesus tells us how that is possible: “Trust God; trust also in me.” Jesus also says here that he is the only way to the Father, which is offensive to those who embrace pluralism or prefer to chart their own course. But I do trust him, and I feel very much that I am following him to the Father.
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