by Sarah Noffke
“You can put him down anywhere,” Leen says to Adelaide, indicating Lucien. “It’s safe in here. I have to childproof thanks to all my little kiddos out there,” she says, pointing to the front door where goats are waiting to chop at my crotch.
“That’s all right,” Adelaide says. “I think he’s hungry.”
“Then you’ve come to the right place,” Leen says.
And then another man swoops in holding a plate in either hand. This one is built too but he’s got black-framed glasses and a white T-shirt and is trying at the James Dean look. “Your food is ready, sir,” he says, putting a plate down at the empty seat in front of me, serving me first. I take the seat but only stare at the food. Then I look up at Leen, who is smiling broadly at the man now serving Dahlia.
“And he is?” I say, pointing at the guy.
“That’s Aaron. He’s smart as they come and irreplaceable,” Leen says.
“Your boyfriend?” I say, overly curious about this woman.
She winks at Aaron when he lays a plate in front of Adelaide and then herself. “Nope,” she says with a mischievous glint in her voice.
I then look down at the plate. On the blue Wedgewood are three crepes, made to perfection, filled with bacon and greens, hugged in a hollandaise sauce and flecked with country potatoes. Dahlia is elbow deep in it by the time I look up, sauce running down her chin. I’ve never seen the woman eat like this. Well, I’ve hardly seen her eat at all, as she’s supposed to maintain a certain figure for the stage. And she’s even abandoned her glasses and hat, but by the look on Leen’s face she doesn’t recognize Dahlia or doesn’t care. She appears completely impassive about the popstar eating at her table like she’s a pig at a food trough.
“This. Is. The. Best. Thing. Ever,” she says between bites.
“Slow down and don’t get fat,” I say to her.
“If this is heaven, then I’ll die now and pack on the pounds,” Adelaide says. She is about as gung-ho on the food as Dahlia and the little monster is making quick work of a potato he’s fisting.
This place is too nice. This lady is too nice. Something is nefarious. People don’t just take others in. Not without a reason.
“Go on, now, enjoy,” Leen says to me.
“I’m Jewish,” I say in response.
“Oh, so you don’t eat bacon,” she says, scooping a bite on her fork. “And that’s odd. I didn’t take you as the Jewish type.”
“And I didn’t take you as the axe-murdering type, but that’s the feeling I’m starting to get,” I say.
“Don’t mind him. He’s always like that. Angry without reason,” Dahlia says.
“I have reasons,” I fire back at her.
“I’m sure you do. I’m sure you do,” Leen sings and there’s a knowing look in her dark brown eyes. A wisdom I’ve rarely encountered, like she’s seen things most haven’t, been granted special access to a private library.
“Franklin, the biscuits, please,” Leen yells to a doorway where warm and inviting smells and sounds emit.
A third man appears carrying a basket, its contents covered by a cream-colored napkin, but steam wafting from its edges. Franklin appears to be wearing tights and is shirtless.
Dahlia, like a hungry jackal, yanks a steaming hot biscuit from the basket, not even offering one to the baby beside her. Such a disgraceful heathen. I apparently can’t take her anywhere anymore.
“Oh gods, this is good,” she says through a bite as she spreads some purplish jam on the other half. “Everything is so good here and fresh.”
“I know,” Adelaide says, almost as undignified as Dahlia, crumbs dripping down her chin. “I can’t believe you made all this food. It’s delicious.”
Leen chuckles. “Oh, heavens. It wasn’t me. My boys make all the food.”
I eye the woman, who looks to be in her early thirties. “These boys look a bit old to be your sons.”
“So observant. No, it’s more of a term of endearment,” she says with a wink. “Aren’t you hungry?” she says, eyeing my untouched plate.
“I am, but I despise poisoned food,” I say.
The woman’s expression grows a bit curious. “Ren, you can rest assured that my food contains the best ingredients and zero poison. I pride myself on taking care of people. Call me a humanitarian and my goal is to nourish through food.”
I narrow my eyes at the goat farmer. “How do you know my name?”
She shrugs. “I’m not sure. Maybe I heard your girlfriend or daughter say it.”
“How do you know she’s my daughter or gluttonous over there is my girlfriend?” I say.
She taps her finger to her head. “It’s called instinct and the very best employ it often as it’s the most strategic way to live.”
I stand at once, my chest beating. Something about this place and this woman has my adrenaline pumping. The old bag at the convenience store couldn’t be correct about me actually meeting three wise women. There aren’t that many worldwide.
“We are leaving,” I say, chin tucked and my eyes seeking to sear the calm woman in front of me.
Dahlia looks up, heartbroken. Adelaide too. Lucien beats his tiny palm on the table; a smile is his response to my exclamation. He gets it.
Leen simply nods, seeming to understand. “Travelers must travel,” she says, snapping her fingers in the air.
A moment later Franklin returns carrying the pie, which is now covered with foil. He also has a bag dangling from his other hand. “Take this for the road ahead,” Leen says, handing the pie to Dahlia. “There’s a bag of utensils, napkins, and plates. And be careful not to get sand in the pie. It always makes it gritty.”
“What?” I say, baffled that the pie was already prepared to go, like the woman knew. But that’s impossible. I shake my head.
“Now you better be on your way. Sunset approaches in just under two hours. A perfect amount of time to make it to your next destination,” Leen says.
“What do you mean? The alpaca farm?” I say.
“Sure,” the woman says. “Now I’ve had one of the boys jot down directions to Samantha’s alpaca farm if that’s where you choose to go, and also the main highway.”
“When did you give that order?” I say, strangely curious like I’m in a funhouse and staring at a strange mirror of myself.
She only smiles and leads us to the door. I’m the last to leave and when I trudge through the yard a twig and leaf from the apple tree overhead falls on my shoulder. Maybe because I’m unnerved by this experience or because I fucking hate trees, I jump and let out a growl of protest. Adelaide and Dahlia, who are drunk on food, don’t notice, but Leen turns around and stares at me, allowing the other women to pass. Then Leen looks at the tree and back to me.
“May I offer you a piece of wisdom?” she says.
“No,” I say through a snarl.
“Well, I can’t allow you to pass without offering you something,” she says, angling to the gate which is just beside her and closed. “You ate nothing and seemed not to have had fun at my farm and I like everyone to go away with something.”
I could just teleport to the car but I don’t. Maybe I’m curious what this bloody hippie considers advice. “Go on then,” I say.
Leen kneels down and picks up a small stick, a leaf attached to it. Maybe it’s the same one that assaulted me. “The past can’t be undone. Nor can it be redone differently. It’s set for your own freedom,” Leen says and then tosses the small branch over her shoulder. “Now I dare say you should be on your way,” she says, stepping to the side.
I don’t grant her a response. Honestly, I don’t have anything to say to a dumb goat farmer.
When I arrive at the SUV Adelaide has her mouth covered, her eyes wide. Lucien is thankfully strapped down in his seat. But Dahlia is white with shock, and is standing at the rear of the vehicle, the doors open wide.
“What is it?” I say.
“It appears in my haste,
I forgot to close my door,” Adelaide says beside me. “And so the goats might have gotten into the car.”
“What?” I growl. “Did the little fuckers shit all over the place? Because I refuse to smell goat crap for the rest of this trip.”
“No,” Dahlia answers, her face still covered in disbelief. “They just tore up some stuff.”
“Oh, I bet the little shits ate the upholstery,” I say, stomping over to Dahlia, who is gaping at the back of the SUV.
“No, just one suitcase actually,” she says.
I turn and look. Two suitcases sit untouched. The third can’t really be classified as luggage anymore and its contents are absolutely ruined. How the fuck did I not guess that the evil creatures destroyed my things. All of my things.
Chapter Six
“Well, it appears this vacation is over,” I say, slamming the passenger side door.
“No,” Dahlia says with a desperate plea in her voice. “It’s only stuff. I’ll have my personal shopper replace everything and send it to our hotel in San Luis Obispo. It will probably be there first thing tomorrow morning.”
I want to close my eyes and dream travel away, abandoning this farce of a vacation. However, when I look at Dahlia, that soft vulnerable expression on her face, my resolve crumbles. She needs this vacation. She needs me beside her. And I want every second with her. Lord knows if I make myself think on it, she’s my second chance to handle this right. To be with someone when they need me. To not abandon them because of what might happen in the future. And then Leen’s words about the past not being undone filter back through my head. And that’s for your freedom, she said. Is Leen right? Is not being able to change the past supposed to free us to the present? To the future? Is it supposed to release us from regret? I know there are many parts of my past I’d do anything to change. Eloise’s death for starters. She was Trey Underwood’s wife and her murder during childbirth was totally my fault. And Jimmy’s death, which was absolutely preventable. And then my mum. I shake off the grief starting to build up in my chest like a bolt of electricity.
“Fine. I’ll stay,” I say, quirking up the corner of one side of my mouth, faking a half smile.
“Thank you,” she says. “Now Adelaide, will you read me the directions to the highways. I’m too stuffed to stop off at the alpaca farm.”
“Wait. What? After all this bullshit and goat shit?” I say.
Dahlia simply nods. “I’m ready to get back on the road. I’m glad Leen gave us both direction options. That’s a smart woman,” she says.
“Yeah, a regular Einstein,” I say, sliding down in my seat, repulsed by the last hour and also starving.
***
Inside my head there’s more power than that inside of NASA. I can do and have anything I want and yet I find myself being pulled on this vacation like a fucking mule. That’s what happens inside of committed relationships and I’m fairly uncertain how I feel about it. Something feels inherently wrong with that sort of obligation, and yet here I am.
“Oh my gosh!” Adelaide squeals, probably waking Lucien up. The little monster went straight back to sleep as soon as the SUV started on the road, over an hour ago. “There’s the ocean!” she says, as the PCH twists, giving us a new glimpse of the Pacific Ocean. We hadn’t seen the blue tucked around the mountain sides in quite a while.
“You see the ocean every day from our house,” I say. And it’s true. The endless horizon can be seen from half the rooms in our not at all quaint home sitting high up on the Santa Monica Mountains.
“I guess I missed it. Or maybe it looks different.” Then I notice Adelaide tilt her head to the side as she sizes up the landscape outside her window. “It definitely looks different here. More peaceful somehow. The colors brighter. Where are we?”
Dahlia skips her eyes to the GPS. “Pismo,” she says.
The sun is a half inch off the horizon. And it’s doing that glistening thing on top of the water. It’s like a fucking show dog looking for attention.
“Can we stop? Pretty please,” Adelaide asks, her voice excited. What was in that food?
“What?” I say, perturbed on a whole new level. My clothes are gross and I’m longing for a shower and a clean bed. “No, we can’t stop,” I say but dumb Dahlia is already exiting.
“Of course, dear. What would an adventure be without a sense of spontaneity?” Dahlia says.
“Why are we stopping?” I say.
“Because I want to put my toes in the water,” Adelaide says.
“The ocean is always right outside our door every-fucking-day,” I say.
“Yeah, but Malibu is full of jerks. They like to stare to see if I have the latest XYZ and I always want to make them drown themselves,” she says.
“Thanks for refraining. That would be a bloody mess to cover up all those drownings,” I say, throwing my head to the rest behind me.
“This beach looks quaint and exactly like the kind I want for Lucien to see,” she says and then goes to rustling the finally peaceful toddler with tickling fingers.
I want to continue my protest but seeing her smile and imagining the child’s sleepy face she’s torturing by waking pauses me. Adelaide and Lucien have come a long way and I know it hasn’t been an easy journey for either of them. My daughter unsurprisingly isn’t a natural mother like some. She has to work to be nurturing. I see it constantly in her. Adelaide has to continually figure out how to be kind when she’s never experienced that kind of unconditional love. And Lucien, from my observation, isn’t the cuddling type. Not with most anyway. He’s more like me and would rather be left alone. But still he’s found ways to bond with the mum who won’t give up on him. In many ways Adelaide and Lucien remind me of my mum and me. An unlikely pair. And yet perfectly matched.
Dahlia pulls the SUV up to a space in a parking lot. A long stretch of sand dunes separates us from the ocean.
“I’ll wait in the car,” I say as the three filter out of the vehicle.
Dahlia has a giant bag slung over a shoulder when she stops back by her open door. “Ren Lewis, please stop being a dipshit and join us.”
“I’m afraid being that which you’ve labeled me is all I know,” I say.
“Then when I’m dead and gone, as you prophesied all those years ago, a full two to three decades before you, you’ll have one less memory of me,” Dahlia says and she’s trying to be a witch but her true emotions come through. She’s pleading. Clinging a bit to me out of fears. But it’s not something I can tolerate right now. Maybe ever. That’s why I allow her to walk off without me. I watch from the car as Adelaide and the little monster make it all the way to the water’s edge. They’re laughing most of the time. Lucien is cradled against Adelaide’s hip because the newbie still can’t figure out walking.
I look to the center console where I notice the sunscreen is perched like it was placed there and then left as an afterthought. Doesn’t Adelaide realize that she and Lucien are going to melt into a trillion freckles inside a ten-minute period? It doesn’t matter that it’s almost sunset. The bloody sun doesn’t care. If it can give our skin the kiss of death then it will.
“Fuck my life,” I say, grabbing the spray and throwing the door open.
I’m only ten feet through the sand when I realize my loafers are trashed. I peel them off, along with my socks, and roll up my hosed trousers. It will be good to get replacements tomorrow at the hotel. Dahlia already made the call.
The sand makes each step a chore. I’d teleport to the blanket Dahlia has set up but there are a few dozen people around. It’s not that many people by usual beach standards but still. Adelaide’s instinct was actually right on this beach. It’s quiet compared to the ones in Malibu, which are always swarming with shabby chic tossers. Still, I notice Dahlia thought to wear her oversized hat and glasses. This is a woman who can rarely go to a random village in China and not be recognized. She’s more iconic than the President of the United States or Shakespeare. There’
s no one more famous than Dahlia and yet she’s paying a price for this fame.
“You losers forgot the sunscreen,” I say when I reach them.
“That’s the extra bottle,” Dahlia says. “I already have Addy and Lucien covered,” she adds, throwing a hand out to the pair who are dancing in front of the tide like they are tempting it. Adelaide has Lucien cradled and keeps running to the ocean’s edge and then away from the approaching tide. She’s calling out, “Don’t get us. Don’t kiss our feet.” The child is giggling, his green eyes wide.
“But since you’re here, come sit and enjoy the view with me,” Dahlia says, patting the blanket next to her.
I regard her for a few seconds. There are so many things I want to say to the woman before me. The first few reflexive statements aren’t nice: I wish I never met you. You are my greatest weakness. I’d do anything to forget you. And then the next messages are new to me but solely meant for Dahlia: You are all of me. You’re my strength. Don’t leave me, my love.
I take the place behind her before settling down on the soft earth. I stretch my legs out on either side of her and then thread my arms around her, pulling her to me. A thousand words spin through my head but all I say is, “I fucking hate sand.”
“I know,” she says, patting my arm. “It’s going to be everywhere now. In every one of your nooks and crannies.”
“I fear you’re right,” I say, my breath whisking through her hair.
“See, Ren, you always dream travel but rarely experience a place in physical form. Doesn’t it feel nice to have the sun on your skin and the wind running over your face?”
“It’s less than tolerable,” I say, my chin tucked to the side and my being pulling the woman in front of me as close as science allows.
And then as they are prone to do, Adelaide and her monster interrupt by plopping down beside us. Lucien grabs a clump of sand at the edge of the blanket and thrusts it in our direction. Dahlia and I both look away to shield ourselves from the assault. Children are so uncivilized.
“I’m hungry,” Adelaide says. “But only just a bit.”