by Rosa Sophia
“I said,” Wes continues, “we don’t have to climb if you don’t want to. We can just take the informational tour, and then sit under the ficus tree by the lighthouse. I’ve done that before too.”
“What, so I can be the only person who didn’t climb?” I mumble dejectedly.
“It’s okay. There’s always one or two people who don’t go up.” Wes frowns. “Shit, I should’ve asked you first if you wanted to go. I didn’t realize you were afraid of heights.”
“I guess there’s still a lot we don’t know about each other, Wes.” For the briefest of seconds, our eyes meet, and the truth within his gaze is startling. I remind myself of Jenny’s advice. Sometimes people enter our lives to teach us something. Just because he’s in my life doesn’t mean we have to get closer. There is no destination, no ultimate goal. Just two people exploring possibilities. I want to explore. I want to attempt to overcome my fear of heights, and this is a good place to start.
I pull open the door, and a blast of air conditioning meets me. “Let’s climb the damn lighthouse.” I try to forget how many steps there are, and when the cashier hands us each a colorful sticker to wear, I press mine against my chest. It displays a tiny picture of a lighthouse, and the words, ‘I climbed Jupiter Lighthouse!’
I step outside to lean against the railing, watching the boats head into the inlet. The sun shimmers off the surface of the water, the leaves of the trees rustle gently, and all the brilliant colors complement each other to create an idyllic scene that could’ve been a painting in a book. Children play in the sand. A young woman holds a toddler’s hand as the child stands tremulously and watches the water with a sense of fear and wonderment on his face. I quaver, tightening my grip on the railing, thinking about those one hundred and five treacherous steps.
Chapter 10
We walk slowly with a group of strangers, until we reach the gate. An older, distinguished looking man stands at the front, clad in jeans and khaki colored button-up shirt. He introduces himself as Richard while he unlocks the gate.
“Now, I do have to remind everyone the lighthouse is on a U.S. Coast Guard base. People do live here, so no wandering from the group. Follow me.” The leader raises a hand and we walk inside. A traditional Seminole chickee, built using palmetto thatching and bald cypress, stands off to the left. Nearby is an old house constructed in the familiar Florida cracker style.
As Richard describes the early pioneers, and tells us about the first lighthouse keeper, I think about how nice the ground feels under my feet. I glance up at the lighthouse and grimace, wondering why I didn’t suggest we go for a walk along the water instead. The building is imposing, intimidating me with its very presence, and I cannot help but shudder where I stand. Despite my anxiety, there are no clouds in the pristine sky, and a gentle breeze tousles my hair. Our tour guide points out the glossy green leaves of a coffee plant before leading us along the walkway toward the lighthouse.
“We’re supposed to have a beautiful sunset this evening,” he tells us. “It looks like a nice, clear evening so far.”
A murmur of appreciation passes through the small crowd as we stop below the expansive limbs of the enormous ficus tree, which I seem to recall was brought here from India many years ago. Richard tells us that if the tree weren’t regularly trimmed, it could spread for miles like a weed. It has huge branches that appear to reach down and become roots. It looks as though multiple trees stand before the lighthouse, but it is only one—all connected and covered with healthy foliage.
Wes brushes against me. I notice he hasn’t made any kind of a move on me since we reconnected about a week ago, and I’m starting to wonder why. He seems different, subdued from the grief, so perhaps that’s the reason. His mother’s tragic death is taking a toll on him, but ever since he told me about it, he hasn’t mentioned it once.
Now the crowd is moving toward the lighthouse and Richard is saying, “You don’t have to climb if you don’t want to. There are benches, and you’re more than welcome to sit and enjoy the views.” Taking his cue, a heavyset woman with long brown hair toddles away from the group and lowers herself onto a bench. She is joined by two other women, and the three chat cordially amongst themselves.
Wes glances at me, his expression blank. Every now and then he smiles, but I can’t tell if it’s genuine. “Want to go up, or stay here?” he asks.
“Let’s go up.”
“You sure?”
“How am I ever going to get over my fear of heights if I don’t face it?” I step carefully toward the red-bricked structure that reaches toward the sky. “I’ve been pretty good about facing my other fears. Time to face this one.”
As if he realizes I need the support, Wes grabs my hand and we head for the top.
***
By the time I reach the fifth step, I’m already trembling. There are people ahead of me, but only Wes is behind me. I wrap both hands around the railing and glance back at him.
“If I fall, will you catch me?” I ask, shocked at the frightened whimper that escapes my lips.
“Of course I’ll catch you.” His deep, dark eyes focus on me, and more than anything I believe him. No matter what he is to me, or what I am to him, I know I can trust him. But it doesn’t make this climb any easier.
I take a deep breath and face forward. Come on. You can do this, Nina. Knowing how prone I am to panic attacks, I focus on my breathing, and before I realize it, we have reached the first landing. A couple in front of us continues to move up, having admired the view. I don’t care about the view. All I want is the solid feeling of the stone beneath my feet as I step up to the window. There is something about it that feels more reliable than the iron steps, which I can see through thanks to the small holes in each one.
When we reach a landing and window that overlooks the Jupiter Inlet, I release a heavy, ragged breath and lean against the ledge. Wes places his hand on the small of my back to steady me. “Isn’t the view breathtaking?” he says.
I gasp. “Sure. Except my breath has already been taken by the climb, and we’re not even at the top yet.”
“I’m sorry. Are you okay?”
“I will be okay. This is just new for me.” I take another deep breath and let it out slowly as I tremble. The sun is beginning to set. I watch a sailboat pass by, heading toward the ocean.
We continue to climb. I try not to look down. Wes stays close by, reassuring me that I will not fall. The steps are solid. I should trust those steps. But I keep thinking they’ll collapse beneath me, and I’ll tumble down until I snap my neck on the concrete. The fear is irrational, but no matter what I try, I cannot convince myself that I’m safe.
When we reach the top, I steady myself yet again, amazed that I managed to climb all the way up.
“Good job, Nina,” Wes says, squeezing my hand.
“Thanks…Oh, shit,” I stammer. We’ve stepped out into the open air, and I can see for miles. The view is beautiful but terrifying, because all I can think about is falling.
“Relax. It’s okay.” He urges me out, but I stay against the wall. I can’t even consider going up to the railing. I listen absentmindedly as Richard tells us more about local history, the inlet, and the wealthy homes on Jupiter Island that dot the view before us. We inch around the lighthouse until we’re facing the nearest bridge and the inlet.
The sunset is incredible, as promised, lit with bright pinks, oranges, and slight amber hues. When we climb down, I’m even more frightened, but Wes holds my hand and stays close. By the time we’re on the ground again, my legs are wobbling, but I’ve never been more relieved to be standing on a sidewalk.
All in all, not too bad of an evening.
Chapter 11
At a nearby restaurant, we sit down at a table and order dinner. While we wait for our food, Wes is quiet for a long time until he finally asks, “What was your dad like?”
Flooded with memories of running beside him, I offer a half smirk. “He was awesome.” I tug the paper off my straw,
then take a long drink of my water. “But he wouldn’t have climbed a lighthouse, that’s for sure.”
“Why?”
“Dad was afraid of heights too. I guess I got it from him. Sometimes he was even weird about going up into tall buildings.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. We went on a family vacation once. I was so little, I barely remember it. But Dad insisted on getting rooms on the bottom floor. I almost think it was more like an escape thing. I mean, if something happened…we could get out easier.”
“That’s interesting,” Wes mutters.
“Dad was brave as hell about a lot of things, but the man couldn’t handle anything higher than five feet,” I add, giggling.
Wes grins. “Sounds like an interesting guy.”
“He got me into running. He was a marathoner.”
“That’s funny. You got the running bug from your dad, and I got it from my mom.”
I recall my best friend’s words once again. “Jenny was pointing out the similarities between us recently. I mean, how we both got into running because of our parents. And now…”
“Right.”
We fall into a heavy silence for a few moments. The server brings our appetizers, and the business of the establishment drones on around us. We barely notice. “I’m sorry about your mom, Wes.”
“Please. Don’t feel guilty. I already have enough guilt for several people.”
“What?” I tilt my head, not sure what he means. “Why should you feel guilty?”
“I wasn’t here. I was in Australia, on some beach. If I’d been here—”
“Wes, if you’d been here, she might’ve died anyway.” I feel a jolt of pain in my chest as I hang my head. “I’m sorry. That was harsh.”
“But it’s true.” Wes sounds broken, like someone who’s ready to give up. He sounds like I did, once. “You’re right. I couldn’t have stopped it. She still would’ve gone for a run, and the fucker driving that truck probably still would’ve hit her.”
I reach across the table and take his hand. There’s nothing to say. We wait in silence, our appetizer growing cold. Eventually, we begin eating, less than enthusiastically. The onion rings are clammy. The server brings our dinner. The rest of our evening together is spent mulling over the past and considering everything we’d change if we could—everything we couldn’t change.
When I get home, Roberta and Jenny are watching comedies on television, laughing and chatting as if they’ve known each other their whole lives. I’m glad to see my two closest friends getting along so well.
“Hey, you!” Roberta exclaims. “Where’ve you been?”
“Out with Wes.”
“How was your date, then?” She offers one of her exaggerated winks.
“You shouldn’t wink like that, Roberta,” I warn. “It makes you look like you’re having some kind of a seizure.”
“Sorry. I was never very good at that sort of thing.” She flops back on the couch cushion, clad in her pajamas.
Jenny sits forward, sipping a cup of tea. “Seriously. How was it? Where’d you go?”
“We went to the Jupiter Lighthouse.” I sink into the soft cushions of an armchair. “He took me on the sunset tour. It was nice.”
“Just nice? That sounds romantic,” Roberta says.
“It really wasn’t. I mean…I don’t know. I don’t even know what we are anymore, if we’re friends or something else. I think it has a lot to do with his mom dying. I don’t think he can handle much else right now.”
“Then why the date?”
“I didn’t get the sense he was thinking of it as a date.”
“Really?” Jenny asks. “I wish I could just hang out with a guy instead of going on a date. Dates annoy the crap out of me.”
“Must be why you live with a roommate and a cat,” I tease.
She sticks out her tongue at me, and I drag myself out of the chair to go change. I watch the remainder of a movie with them, then make sure Roberta has everything she needs before I head to bed. She’ll be here for a few more days.
In my bedroom, I find Jenny’s cat—a fat, orange tabby—hogging my pillow. We compromise. He takes half, and I use the other half. I fall asleep and dream of climbing the lighthouse with Wes. In my dream, we stand at the top and stare into each other’s eyes, as if trying to figure out what’s there, if anything. Then it gets dark, so dark I can’t see him anymore, and I drift into a dreamless rest.
Chapter 12
I know I am dreaming as I sit up and see the light dancing from the hallway and into my bedroom. I climb out of bed, feeling sleepy, but knowing I have to find out where that eerie light is coming from. The air is chilled and all my senses are on high alert. In the hall, the light brightens. Shivering, I follow it until I reach the living room and dining area. At the table, my father sits, looking exactly as he did before he died. His hazel eyes sparkle before the flickering candlelight on the table.
“Dad. What are you doing here?” I ask. I sit down across from him.
“Little girl, I came to tell you something.” His smile is warm, and he’s wearing one of his race t-shirts. I wonder if he was pushing the stroller, with me in it, during that race. I wonder if I was there.
“What is it, Dad?” The room feels colder. My chest tightens. Overwhelming sorrow flows through me.
“I just wanted to remind you that I’m still your father, and you’re still my daughter.” He narrows his eyes, his smile dissipating for just a moment—long enough to show me he’s serious. “Got it?”
“Yes, Dad.”
“Good. A lot of time has passed, but it doesn’t change a thing.”
The light begins to fade. “Dad, when I remember you, it’s every day. I think of you every day.” Tears pool in my eyes. “I miss you.”
“Whenever you miss me, just look in the mirror.” The corner of his lip quirks upward. “I’m always a part of you.” He appears the same. It’s as if nothing changed. But now the light is fading, and I’m frightened.
“It’s getting dark in here, Dad.” I blink, trying to see, but my vision is failing. “Dad?”
The candle goes out. I feel myself drifting away, but I’m not sure where I am. Then I feel the pillow against my face, and I realize I’m in bed and it’s morning.
“I will remember you, Dad. I will never forget,” I mutter, before forcing myself to wake up, and get ready for the day.
***
In the early afternoon, when I return home from work, I am still thinking about my dream. I can’t get my father out of my mind. He looked the same. My eyes fill with tears as I climb out of my car, and I quickly try to push away the lingering grief. I realize after all this time that I’ve never fully accepted my father’s untimely passing. I don’t want my friends to see me this way, so I force away the tears and take a deep breath. Roberta is heading back to North Carolina today, and I want to be cheerful, happy. I don’t want her to see my pain, even though she’s witnessed it many times before when we used to attend ACA meetings together.
“Hey,” Jenny says. I startle at the sound of her voice. She’s walked out to get the mail. Clutching envelopes under her arm, she ushers me toward the apartment building. “You okay, girl?”
“Yeah, fine.”
“You don’t seem like it.” She glances at the mail, sifting through it. “Nothing for you. Nothing from any publishers.”
“Of course not,” I mumble, annoyed.
“How was work?”
“It was good. The usual.” I pause for a moment before deciding to tell her. “I had a dream about Dad last night.” I explain the dream, finishing as we reach the door to the apartment. “It’s kind of been bugging me all day.”
“That’s interesting,” Jenny says, smiling. “I guess he’s looking out for you.”
“I guess so.” It’s comforting to think Dad is with me, but I can’t figure out why dreams have always been so important for me. I have had so many meaningful dreams throughout my life, all of which mak
e me wonder if dreams are more real than life itself. Where do I draw the line?
As we enter the apartment, I flash back to the dreams that foretold my meeting Wes. He dreamt of me before we met, and I dreamt of him. If I never saw him again, what was the meaning of it? I wonder why people come into our lives and then disappear. What is the purpose? If I dream about someone, shouldn’t it have a deep meaning, leading us on a lifelong journey together?
Jenny waves a hand in front of my face. “Wow. That dream really has you enthralled.”
“Not just that dream,” I mumble as we enter the kitchen, where Roberta is making sandwiches, presumably for her long drive.
“Weird dreams?” Roberta says. “I’ve got tons of those.”
“Dreams confuse me. I dreamt about Dad last night, like he was really there, and of course I dreamt about Wes before I ever met him. I just don’t understand why.”
“Does there have to be a why?” Roberta asks before shoving a piece of cheddar cheese in her mouth.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean,” she says between chewing, “it’s like what we were talking about before. About how we’re supposed to learn from everyone who’s in our lives, presumably, even if they’re only in our lives for a short time. I don’t think there’s any point in dissecting it, Nina. Everyone in our lives has an important influence, even if we don’t recognize it at first.” She shrugs. “Don’t worry about it so much.”
Jenny runs her hand along my arm. “I think our girl here is just lonely, missing her dad, and hoping Wes is more than just a friend.”
“I think you’re right.” I feel a little silly admitting it. “When I have these dreams—especially a dream like the one I had about Wes, where I saw his face before I met him—I just expect them to mean something, you know? If it doesn’t, is the universe just making fun of me or something?”