by Cathy Lamb
“But we can make sure we’re never on a boat together.”
“It will kill you, Marco. I can’t risk it.”
“We can. We will. We will not be on a boat together. Ever.”
“Marco, that’s not the only reason I can’t be with you, even if you want to be with me.”
“I want to be with you.”
“I’m a mess.”
“You aren’t.”
“Yes. But there’s more.”
“What is it?”
“I have to be alone a lot. If I’m not, I feel like my brain is breaking down. I feel like it’s going to explode. You see me when the animals are sick or hurt. I put on who I want to be for you. It’s not like I’m lying to you about who I am, but I’m only allowing you to see part of me, not all of me, certainly not the tearful, deeply scarred person that I am, that I hide from everyone else. I can function at work, then I come home, take care of my animals, talk to my animals as if they’re human, like Sundance.” Sundance heard me say his name and tried to get on my lap again, but I didn’t let him. “I hide in my books for hours so I don’t have premonitions. I have insomnia. Sometimes I fight depression and anxiety. It’s not pretty, it’s not easy.”
“Look, Evie. I was in a war. You want a mess? I’m a mess. I have flashbacks and nightmares from my time in the army. You know this. I have regrets. I hate myself for what I did over there sometimes. Sometimes I believe that everything we did over there in Iraq was wrong. When bodies are strewn all over the ground, dead, the mothers are crying on both sides. Other times I believe we did the right thing. We wanted to get rid of a dangerous man. But the politicians, usually old and white who have often never served, start the wars but don’t fight them. We do. My buddies did. My memories haunt me. I have to willfully pull myself together, pull myself out of Iraq and what I saw, the injuries, the deaths, and blood, and what I did when I was following orders, or giving my men orders. War screws people up.
“I’m screwed up. I have let you see the part of me that I want you to see, too. But I haven’t let you see all of me, not the part of me that is still struggling, years later, with the war. We’re both wrecks who are trying hard to be normal. To feel normal.”
“I can’t do it, Marco.” I felt this well of unbearable sadness. “I’m sorry.”
“Why, though, Evie? Why can’t you try? Do you not like me? Do you not see any possibility of a future? We talk, we laugh, we’re alike in some ways, not in others, which makes it interesting. You’re the smartest woman I know. You’re witty, and you don’t let anyone walk on you, I’ve seen it with the chief. But you’re kind. Everything you do for people on the island, not only bringing them books and helping your mom and aunts make hats for fund-raisers but for saving the people that you do. You love books, you love your animals, you love your family so intensely. You’re so loyal. And yet you’ve got this whole other mysterious part to you, this huge, deep inner life that I find compelling and interesting. I love how you live your life. I love your laugh and your curiosity and your sarcasm. Please try. Try us.”
Why? Why couldn’t I do this? Because I am a flawed, bizarre human being. “I feel scared even thinking about us, Marco. I don’t think I’m meant to be with any man. I don’t even want to leave the island, that’s how isolated I am. I don’t have the confidence to be with you. I don’t have the courage to open myself up like that. And I cannot guarantee that I won’t fail you and get on a boat and you’ll die. I love you. I do. I started falling in love with you that first day I met you in my bookstore. It was instant. It was a miracle. But I also knew we wouldn’t be together.”
He dropped his head in his hands.
Maybe I shouldn’t have told him I loved him. Maybe it hurt him more. It hurt me more to admit it. It certainly was not time to tell him that I had a whole other family. Why add more bizarreness to an already bizarre situation?
I put my hand on his head, then to his shoulders. He didn’t look up when I muffled a cry and walked out my door and off to talk to Shakespeare and Jane Austen about my busted-up heart and my stupid personality, and my lack of bravery.
I saw him leave shortly afterward as I stood in the shadow of the willow tree, Sundance by my side.
I lay on the ground and stared into the tree, utterly miserable.
* * *
I woke up the next morning feeling as if my life had shifted and fallen over a cliff. There were no more pretenses between Marco and me.
It would be my move to make. He would not do so again. He would respect my decision. He was all man, a true gentleman. He would give me space.
I missed him already as if I’d lost a leg and an arm.
I didn’t want any of my animals to get sick.
But I wondered if I could get one of the goats to pretend to be sick so I could see him again.
Or maybe Sundance. I could give Sundance some of my underwear again and we could go and see Marco . . . I glanced down at Sundance. He stuck his head up, then cocked it to the left as in, “What are you thinking?”
I petted his head. “If you feel even the slightest bit sick, let me know, okay?”
He wobbled his head.
* * *
“I’m going to write to her,” I told Jules when she came up to visit again from Seattle to prepare the final details for her wedding. “She’s my biological mother. I want to talk to her. I want to talk to my dad. And my sister and aunt.”
Jules nodded and swung an arm around me as we sat on the bench in the gazebo, the sun setting, deer in the field. “I think you should.”
“I’m not talking about it with Mom and the aunts.”
“Yep. Let that one be.”
I felt hot tears flood my eyes because of my continual sanity problems. “I think I need some pie when we go back.”
“Let me slice it,” Jules said. “It’s the apple pie, right? Let’s eat popcorn, too, extra butter.”
“Might as well have ice cream with it, too.”
“Mix the flavors.”
“It’s healthy,” I sniffed. My mind was swirling. I had a new mother, father, aunt, and sister. Marco was gone. My mother had lied, and so had my aunts and father. I needed healthy food to cope. “Popcorn is made out of corn, which is a vegetable. Apple pie has apples in it. Ice cream is in the milk group.” My voice pitched up with emotions. “Might as well watch a romance movie while we eat.”
“Agreed. Stop crying, you’re going to make me cry, Evie.”
“I love you, Jules.”
She sniffed.
“Don’t cry, Jules.”
“I can’t help it. There has been a lot of stuff going on here! A lotta stuff!” Her mouth trembled.
“I know, I know!”
“And I’m getting married to Mack!”
We both burst into tears, hugging each other close.
“Mack is so patient and understanding. He knew I needed another woo-woo last night and I didn’t even need to ask for it!”
She snuffled.
I laughed through my tears.
“Why are you laughing, Evie?”
She was genuinely perplexed. “Because sometimes people laugh and cry at the same time and that’s what I want to do.”
“Okay!” She laughed. “I’ll do it, too!”
* * *
What do you say to a woman who gave birth to you?
A woman who clearly wanted you in her life, who fought to have you in her life, in court.
I had no children. I had planned on never giving birth to kids because I didn’t know if this premonition problem was hereditary. Now I knew. It solidified things for me even more. I would not wish this premonition monster on anyone. However, it was not beyond my imagination to understand how traumatizing it would be to lose a child and how hopeful she and Johnny would be, waiting for my reply.
I took a deep breath the next morning. Okay. I was ready.
* * *
Dear Betsy,
Thank you for your letter. There is so much to
say, I don’t know what to say.
I would like to meet you, Johnny, Kayla, and Tilly.
When is convenient for you?
Sincerely,
Evie
“You haven’t read a book in five years?” I stared aghast at the woman in front of me. She was in her early thirties.
“I have six kids. I’ve been knocked up for years.” She pushed brown curls off her face. Her hair was long and messy. “My husband has the kids back at our campsite. I’m supposed to be shopping for groceries. One is two years old and has such volcanic temper tantrums he passes out. Neat trick. Two of them are twins. They’re four. They’re awful. It’s like watching a crime family develop as they deliberately plug the toilets.
“One is six, and she insists on dressing like a frog and hops around every day. She won’t answer unless I call her Froggy Frieda. The eight-year-old is mouthy. She’s going to be a wild-ass teenager and give me white hair. The ten-year-old wanders off like he’s some freakin’ explorer and I have to find him. He brings a magnifying glass and a toy bow and arrow with him. Who does he think he is, a hunting scientist? My husband keeps wanting to have sex with me. I don’t want to have any more sex. Look what happens when we do. Now do you see why I haven’t read?”
I calmed down. Whew. She had an excuse for not reading. This was not the usual circumstance of choosing not to read because you have nothing in the way of a curious brain.
“Okay. You have a decent excuse, so I won’t be mad at you. What do you want to read?”
“I want to read a book where there’s a woman doing something exciting with her life. No kids, for God’s sakes. No husband. That would ruin the whole book for me. I do not want to read about what I’m already living. My husband has gas right now. We’re in a tent. Do you know what it’s like to sleep with a gassy husband and six kids in a tent? I’m miserable. I hate being in a sleeping bag. It makes me feel sweaty and trapped. We’re here for seven days because my husband wanted the kids to experience the outdoors. I’m experiencing hell. How would you like to change a kid’s diaper in a tent in the middle of the night with a flashlight in your mouth? It’s a mess. It’s unsanitary. It’s disgusting.
“I want to read about a woman who’s traveling and working a cool job and has lovers. A lot of lovers. She has to have high heels and she can take men down and out when they irritate her. I’m feeling vengeful. I want a kick-ass woman. For God’s sakes, no camping or any outdoorsy crap. Do you have a book like that?”
“I do.” I led her over to the series I knew she would love. “Here. Sit down and give me your phone.”
She handed me her phone. I leaned against my yellow rose wallpaper and called her husband and introduced myself. “Hey, so everything is fine, but your wife is having car trouble. . . . I don’t know, a clanking sound . . . and I’m taking her to the auto shop here on the island that I go to. It’s going to be about a four-hour wait because Sherman has three cars ahead of hers. Yeah. Sorry about that. Oh, no, no! No! You don’t need to get a taxi to come get her. Not at all. She’s talking to the mechanic and asked me to call you.”
Her mouth hung open.
“I bought you four hours of time, girlfriend. Get reading, and I’ll bring you some chai tea latte and a slice of toffee crunch cake with chocolate icing.”
She was so grateful she teared up, the poor thing.
* * *
I checked that night for a letter from Betsy.
She had written right back, minutes after I’d written to her.
Dear Evie,
I write this with tears. I am so grateful to you for writing to me, as is Johnny. He, too, is in tears. How about if we come to you? We can come at any time. We can come tomorrow, but perhaps that’s too soon? If you are free this weekend, we would be happy to see you.
Love, your mother, Betsy, and your father, Johnny.
Dear Betsy and Johnny,
Yes, I am free. I live on San Orcanita Island off the coast of Washington. Thank you for coming. I don’t leave the island often. It is beautiful here, you will love it.
Evie
In three minutes I received a message back . . .
Dear Evie,
Thank you so much for letting us come to see you. We will arrive this weekend, on Friday. Please let us know if we can take you out to dinner. Please bring anyone you would like to bring.
Love,
Your mother, Betsy, and father, Johnny
That night I rode Shakespeare on a trail around the island to think.
I was going to meet Betsy, Johnny, Tilly, and Kayla.
It was hard to fathom.
Impossible.
Yet . . . exciting. She had premonitions. I had premonitions.
I was not alone with this strange affliction.
Would the hole in my soul heal? Had I always known that I was not with my biological mother? Had I subconsciously always felt that loss?
I pulled on Shakespeare’s reins and we watched the sunset, lavender and burgundy, gold and yellow, orange and white.
Sunsets, especially on the island, always give me hope.
* * *
A family walked into Books, Cake, and Tea.
The woman had brown curls. She had a beaming smile. She was pretty. Her husband was tall and slender, somewhat gangly, glasses. He looked like a stereotypical image of an engineer: super smart. She was pushing a stroller with a baby in it and holding the hand of a girl who looked about two. Her husband was holding a boy who looked to be four and holding the hand of another boy who was clearly a twin. There was a girl about six, too, with brown curls.
It was the six-year-old girl who caught and held my eyes the most. She had blue eyes like cornflowers. A big smile. A dimple in her left cheek. She was skinny . . .
I looked up again at the mother, who was coming toward me, smiling, laughing, her arms out.
“Evie!” she called out. “My favorite member of the Island Girls Gang.”
I put a hand on the counter near the register. It couldn’t be. It was.
“Emily?” I squeaked out.
“Yep! Here to play Warrior Women with you again!”
She hugged me tight and we laughed. She kissed my cheek. “I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you, too. So much.” I was so glad to see her, but then my guilt hit, my utter anguish about what I’d not done for her. How could she hug me? How could she be glad to see me? How come she didn’t hate me? Why would she even come in the bookstore to see me?
“This is my family,” she said to me, then turned toward them, “And this is Evie, my best friend.”
* * *
Emily’s husband, Eric, took the kids back to their cabin on the lake while Emily and I had coffee and red velvet cake with cream cheese icing out on the deck. They had bought a pile of books. They let the kids pick three each, and I gave each of them one as a gift.
“So you’re here on vacation?” I asked. The gulls called out in the distance, two sailboats meandered by, and a couple had a picnic on a rowboat.
“Yes. But”—she grinned at me—“I think we’re going to move here.”
“You are?” I was cheered by that but dismayed, selfishly. How could I live with the guilt of what I’d done to her if I saw her all the time?
“Don’t you want me to move here?”
She’d seen it. That flash on my face. “Yes, of course I do. Where do you live now?”
“We’re in Silicon Valley. Smart One”—that’s what she called her husband—“developed a few apps and now we’re looking to get out of the traffic and noise and crowds, and Smart One needs a break. He’ll invent another app or two, but he says he wants to do it without being bumper-to-bumper. So we’re at the cabin and looking for homes.”
“I can’t believe it. Oh, my gosh. I would love to have you back here.”
We chatted a bit longer, then Emily said, “I know I told you that when I was a teenager I got into drugs. And alcohol.”
“You told me some, not m
uch. You asked if I did drugs, told me you did.”
“I did. I was aching for my mom. I think all my grief, and that trauma of losing her, of Gavin killing her . . . it came out in my teens. I was so lonely. My grandma . . .” She paused. “She was kind and loving to me. She put me in an expensive rehab three times. She understood, though. She understood why I did drugs. She was hurting, too. She’d lost her daughter. My mother was her only child, and I was her only grandchild. Anyhow, she became sick, terminally sick, and I finally got my head together. I went to outpatient rehab meetings and I took care of her. I took her to all her appointments, her treatments, her surgeries, but there wasn’t any hope, right from the start. She was eighty-six. She died when I was twenty-one. I lived in her house and I was so lost, so alone.”
“I’m so sorry, Emily.”
“I planned her memorial service and funeral. Four hundred people showed up. She’d been a teacher at the high school for thirty-five years. She taught English, and she lived in the same house that whole time. Her students would pop by and see her. She was well liked in our neighborhood. She volunteered at the library and the homeless shelter. After the funeral, after everyone came to our house to talk about her, I drove back to the cemetery and stood over her grave. There were so many flowers everywhere. She was buried right next to my mom.
“I stood there, right in front of both of them, and I told them that I would never touch drugs or alcohol again. Even though I was grieving for my grandma, which had triggered grief for my mom, I didn’t. I haven’t. My grandma left her house to me and her money. She had a lot, actually, because my granddad had worked for forty years for the railroad. I went to rehab, and this time I committed to it and dealt with losing my mom. I got my GED, then I went to college and became a teacher, and I met Eric at the beach one day in California, where I’d moved to get away from all my memories, and that was it. Eric is the kindest, most generous person I’ve ever met. His background is messy, too, but we decided we would give our kids a safe and happy life.”