The Furthest City Light

by Jeanne Winer

  “Vickie, wait! No matter what you’ve been thinking, we’re not irrevocably fucked. We can pull this out. The most important thing is that we love each other.” Before she could disagree, I told her I was heading to Zihuatanejo. “I’ll try to find that little place we rented, the one with the pink balcony overlooking the bay. Come and stay with me. I just want to talk, that’s all.”

  I could almost hear her shaking her head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you’re a lawyer and lawyers are trained to influence people. I need to think about this on my own. I’m sorry, Rachel, but it’s late and I have to go.”

  “Okay, I’ll call you from Mexico.”

  Vickie sighed. “Do me a favor and wait a month. I need more time to think.”

  My heart was aching, but I kept it light. “I thought that was my line.”

  “Things change.”

  I was beyond exhausted. My brain was shutting down. With my last couple of IQ points, I said, “I’ll wait if you promise not to break up with me in your head before we speak.”

  “Rachel, I have to go.” She hesitated. “All right, it’s a deal. Take care of yourself.” And then she hung up.

  I replaced the receiver and then sank to a sitting position with my back against the wall. I had a month to heal and figure out how to make things right with Vickie. At the same time, I’d have to accept the possibility that despite how hard I tried, I might not be successful. A tall order, but I wasn’t exactly a novice. I would practice what I’d learned in Nicaragua, the art of hopeful resignation. For the past two months, I’d been training with the pros.

  PART III:

  LEARNING TO KAYAK

  Chapter Seventeen

  Six weeks ago, when I arrived here in Zihuatanejo, my goals were very modest: Sleep as much as possible, eat well, and try not to panic. My spirits were good, but in my life so far, there had never been a time when all three of what I’d always considered to be the essential ingredients for happiness—good health, a loving relationship and a satisfying career—seemed to be in such short supply. If I could, I would replenish them all and if I couldn’t, then at least one or two of them. In the plus column, I’d landed in a safe comfortable place (the same studio apartment overlooking the water that Vickie and I had rented three years earlier), I had resources, and I had time. Time. A precious commodity now that I’d slowed down and had nothing to do, and almost irrelevant when I was a public defender juggling more than a hundred felony cases.

  Each morning for the first two weeks, I woke up as late as possible, strolled to the nearest market, about a quarter of a mile away, bought the healthiest food I could find, strolled back, rested, and then made a hearty breakfast. After that, I napped a few hours, ate a light lunch, and then went out on my balcony to gaze at the junction of water and sky, contemplating how it was that I’d ended up here. I had no epiphanies, no world-shattering insights, but I didn’t really expect any. Like a sensible girl on a blind date, I was satisfied just to be having a pleasant time getting to know someone I might actually want to see again.

  During the late afternoons and evenings, I read the five novels I’d bought in the Dallas airport and started writing letters. The first was to Allen, then to Liz, then Sonia, Maggie, a few other friends in Boulder, Donald and Ray at the public defender’s office, and finally when I was ready, to Emily.

  Emily, I wrote, I’ll tell you all about my experiences in Nicaragua when I see you. Right now, though, I’m living in a small apartment in Zihuatanejo, a fishing town on the west coast of Mexico about one hundred and fifty miles north of Acapulco. My apartment has a bright pink balcony that overlooks the ocean. You would love it, except sometimes, depending on the weather, the sound of the waves crashing against the rocks is so loud it’s impossible to sleep. Those are the nights I end up on my balcony marveling at all that roiling wildness and feeling small and vulnerable, an experience I used to find disquieting when I was still planning to save the world, one defendant at a time. Back then, I know you loved and admired me (as I did you), but I think you’d like me better now. As for you, I can’t imagine all the changes you’ve been forced to make, but I suspect you’ve made them gracefully, the way you always have. Which makes me wonder, between us, who was the dreamer and who was the realist? Actually, I no longer care. As you said, we both did the best we could.

  Please forgive me for being out of contact. I know you understand, but I’m still sorry for the blackout. You’ll be glad to know that I’ve made real progress toward accepting the verdict in your case. You were right; I suffer less, although I still feel sad. But I can stand it now. So of course I want to hear everything about your life inside “the gray bar motel.” As soon as I return to Colorado, I’ll get down to see you and from then on, you can count on me to visit regularly. In the meantime, write me care of my landlady.

  Your friend,

  Rachel

  After about a week and a half, when I got tired of reading, writing and napping, I began wandering around the neighborhood. In the three years since I’d been there, nothing much had changed. A couple of buildings were under construction to make fancy condos, but most of the houses were still either rentals like mine, small storefront businesses (food markets, tiny tortilla “factories,” one-room restaurants) or plain humble homes where the locals lived. Although there was poverty here, it didn’t seem as desperate as Managua’s. The markets had plenty of food, the currency was stable and the country wasn’t wasting all its resources fighting a civil war.

  Tourism, of course, accounted for much of the local prosperity—take away the threat of being shot or kidnapped and tourists will flock anywhere there’s a nice beach. I imagined that as soon as the United States stopped trying to destroy Nicaragua, as soon as we’d bent it to our will, developers would begin eyeing the possibilities. After you’ve finished bicycling through Vietnam (visiting the famous Vietcong war tunnels), relax at one of our new five-star Hiltons on the beautiful rugged coast of Nicaragua. Or better yet, buy your own little island on Lake Nicaragua, the second largest lake in Latin America!

  By the beginning of the third week, I was longing to join my fellow tourists at the shore—it was all rocks below my apartment—and decided I was well enough for the two-mile trek to the bay. At first, I packed enough provisions for a walkabout in the desert, but before I got out the door, I realized my bag was much too heavy and that I had to jettison nine-tenths of the contents, retaining only the essentials: food, water, towel, pillow and a Windbreaker in case of a typhoon.

  I had to stop and rest a few times before I made it, but when I waded into the warm turquoise water, I felt ecstatic, like a kid from the Midwest who’d only read about the ocean and was now finally able to experience it firsthand. For a while, I simply jumped around like an idiot, whirling in circles, splashing, shouting and laughing. After about ten minutes, I began to swim. When I couldn’t lift my arms for one more stroke, I dog paddled to shore, curled up on my towel and went to sleep.

  Within a couple of days, I could hike to and from the bay without resting until I’d reached my destination. I wasn’t my old Amazon self yet, but I walked with a newfound confidence, no longer scanning ahead for a possible place to stop and wait for the dizziness to pass. Each day, I tried to walk a little faster, never pushing too hard, mindful that in the old days I wouldn’t have even considered this to be exercise. By trial and error, though, I’d learned that the path to health was not the steep inviting trail that always beckoned, but the slow meandering one that didn’t. I may have been a burned-out adrenaline junkie, but I wasn’t suicidal; I could see that getting high and coming down, even one more time, might kill me. Which would have greatly interfered with my current plans to live a long and even life, one that for now seemed a bit murky but would have to include moments of frivolousness along with a sense of purpose.

  Often when I walked, I thought about Sonia and her friends, wondering how they were coping and
what new schemes they were hatching to make a few extra cordobas. And, of course, I hoped that Sonia’s nephew was somehow still alive, that he’d managed to escape from the Contra camp in Honduras where he’d been held captive, or that he’d been wounded and had found refuge in some Good Samaritan’s hut until he was well enough to travel. I thought of a dozen scenarios, none of them likely, but so what? There’s no downside to hope. Bad news hurts just as much whether you wished for a different outcome or not, and if the news is good, well then.

  ***

  One morning when I reached the bay (I always got there early, around seven thirty), I was surprised to see another person sitting at the water’s edge. Until then, I’d always had the place to myself, at least for the first few hours. The American and European tourists generally showed up around ten, lugging one or two kids, a few chairs, large woven mats and brightly colored beach umbrellas. The Mexican tourists, on the other hand, preferred the afternoon, arriving around one thirty or two in parties of ten or more and carrying boom boxes and huge Styrofoam coolers. The townspeople, of course, straggled in at the end of the workday and stayed to watch the sun go down, a spectacular show that often elicited applause.

  The person was alone and sitting cross-legged on the sand. I watched him for about five minutes, waiting for him to move, to turn slightly and acknowledge me. I stood and waited, but he remained motionless. Curious, I walked a little closer and could see that his eyes were closed and that his hands were resting on his thighs. He was a few years older than me, had obviously once been handsome, but was now a little too soft and pudgy. His clothes were classic—faded tie-dyed T-shirt and khaki pants cut off just below the knees. Although he had long blond hair that he wore in a neat ponytail, something about his bearing suggested he was more than just an old hippie living in a bus nearby. As I edged even closer, I noticed that his face was badly sunburned, especially the top of his forehead where his hairline had receded.

  Despite his rigid posture, he looked extremely comfortable as if he could sit like that forever and without any outward sign die in the same position. Nothing seemed to affect him, neither the sun on his sunburn, the wind ruffling his hair, nor the waves crashing irregularly a few feet away. He seemed immoveable, like a rock. I stood on the sand and watched, feeling more than merely curious. I was intrigued. No, I was envious. Whatever he was doing, I wanted it.

  Finally, about ten minutes later, he turned his head and nodded. “I thought someone was there.”

  I took a step backward. “I’m sorry if I disturbed you.”

  He laughed as if I’d uttered an absurdity. “Not at all. You were very quiet, very respectful. I just felt your energy, that’s all. It was nice.” He had a lovely speaking voice and I wondered if he was an actor or some kind of professional speaker. I might have guessed a lawyer, but not with that hair.

  I walked over to where he was sitting and we introduced ourselves. His name was Daniel Morrison and he’d arrived a few days ago from California where he taught physics at Stanford.

  “I get to look like this,” he said, smiling, “because I have tenure.”

  I told him I’d been living here for a couple of weeks, and before that, I’d spent some time in Nicaragua.

  He made a sympathetic sound. “That must have been heavy.”

  “It was,” I said.

  “Do you meditate?”

  I shook my head. “No, but I’d like to. Is it difficult?”

  He looked me up and down, assessing me in some way. “What do you do for a living?”

  “I used to be a criminal defense attorney.”

  “Ah.” He nodded and then patted the sand beside him, motioning me to sit down. “Now then,” he said, clearly in lecture mode, “there are many different meditation techniques, but the one I most often practice is a very simple one. And for people like us with great big unruly minds, the simpler the better. Eh?” He waited until I nodded, and then continued. “So, with this practice, you close your eyes and count your breaths. When you get to ten, just start over again.” He smiled and shrugged.

  “That’s it?” I asked.

  “Pretty much. When you become lost in thought, which will happen over and over again, simply note that you’ve been thinking and then go back to counting.” He paused. “Would you like to try it?”

  “Sure, how about thirty minutes?”

  He hesitated. “Well, it’s not quite as easy as it sounds. Let’s start conservatively with ten minutes.”

  “Okay,” I said, and copied the position of his body—legs crossed, back straight, hands on thighs. Piece of cake, I thought.

  “I’ll tell you when the time is up,” he murmured.

  After a while, I figured he’d changed his mind and decided to go for the full thirty minutes. Later, when my legs were numb and my back was beginning to ache, I figured he was testing me, waiting for me to cry uncle. No way, I thought, and resolved to keep going until I fell over. Eventually, I wondered if he’d fallen asleep and took a quick peek at him. But no, he was still meditating, still oozing that peace and serenity I coveted. I went back to counting my breaths. One, two, three, fourteen… Finally, he tapped my arm.

  “Time’s up,” he said.

  “Whew! How long did we sit?”

  He looked down at his watch. “Twelve and a half minutes.”

  “Jesus H. Christ,” I said, and we both laughed.

  He stood up. “See you tomorrow?” he asked, reaching out a hand to help me to my feet. There was nothing flirtatious in the gesture; he was looking for a friend, not a lover.

  “I’ll look forward to it.”

  Since then, we’ve been meeting every morning at seven thirty. It took me a week to build up to thirty minutes. Lately, we’ve been sitting about an hour. Occasionally, I’ll have a moment, no longer than a couple of seconds, when I feel the kind of peace that I’ve been chasing. Gotcha, I’ll think, and then of course I’ll lose it. The trick, I’m beginning to understand, is not to hold on to anything, even if it’s exactly what I want. Better to just watch it all go by.

  Often, after we’ve finished sitting, Daniel and I will talk about our lives. At first, I told him only general things about Nicaragua, the current situation, the brigade I’d joined, the people I’d met in the barrio. He was a good listener, asking questions only for the purpose of clarifying something he didn’t understand.

  One morning, I ended up telling him about the explosion on the road to Jalapa, what we’d seen, and what we’d done to save the surviving soldiers.

  “It’s the last thing I think about at night before I fall asleep,” I said.

  We sat quietly and watched a squadron of brown pelicans diving for their breakfast, their low hoarse squawks as soothing as a lullaby. It was a beautiful peaceful windless morning. After ten or fifteen minutes, Daniel said, “The last thing I think about at night is the first thing I think about in the morning. Gin.” He paused, waiting for a reaction. When I simply nodded, he made a face and I guessed he was debating whether to tell me more.

  “Hey, you don’t have to tell me anything,” I assured him. “It’s not quid pro quo. But in case you forgot, I was a criminal defense attorney for twelve years. There’s nothing I haven’t heard. Unless you sawed your wife’s head off with a Swiss Army knife in front of the children, I’m unlikely to have a reaction.”

  Daniel started to laugh. “No, nothing out of the ordinary. Just the usual story you might hear a dozen times at a typical Saturday night AA meeting.”

  “Well then,” I said.

  Daniel had been a boy wonder since grade school and had graduated college at nineteen. By the time he was twenty-four, he had his PhD and was teaching physics at the University of California at Davis. By twenty-nine, he had become a full professor at Stanford. A few years later, he published a popular book about spirituality and the new physics and became well known and highly respected as a speaker at both academic as well as New Age conferences. From then on, until he was thirty-six, he wrote a book a
year, each one more successful than the last. On his thirty-third birthday, he married a lovely professor of astronomy, who also taught at Stanford. Neither of them wanted children; they had their careers and each other. It was more than enough.

  “Things couldn’t have been better,” he said. “My life was a dream come true.” He chuckled. “Except I kept waiting for everything to fall apart, for the whole ball of yarn to unravel. It was simply too perfect. Nothing stays the same although I wanted it to. Oh, how I wanted it to. But I knew it wouldn’t, that it was just a matter of time, so I kind of helped it along, gave it a little push, figuring at least I’d have a hand in destroying it. Sounds crazy, doesn’t it?”

  “Not really,” I said.

  He eyed me sideways, not sure whether to believe me. “Anyway,” he continued, “I started drinking, and slowly but surely managed to lose everything I’d been so afraid of losing. My wife was the hardest; she stuck with me until a few years ago. Finally one Sunday afternoon, we went to a faculty party where I got plastered and dove into the host’s swimming pool. Unfortunately, the pool had recently been drained and I ended up in the hospital with two broken arms, a broken ankle and a fractured skull. When I finally returned home, my wife had packed her bags and left. She wrote me a note saying she couldn’t stand it anymore, that she hoped—for my sake—that my next suicide attempt would be a hundred percent successful.”

  “I’m really sorry,” I said.

  “Yeah well. Anyway, to make a long story short, I drank for another couple of years until one day about four months ago, my colleagues burst into my classroom, ordered the students out, and held an intervention on the spot. As a result, I was sent directly to a ninety-day treatment program and placed on an indefinite leave of absence until I’m able to convince the university I can remain sober for the rest of my life, or at least the rest of my teaching life. So, that’s why I’m here meditating. Mind-obedience school in the morning, AA meetings in the afternoon and evening.”