Rogue Wave

by Isabel Jolie

  Thoughts of Luna surrounded me as I packed up my papers. Her giggles, her coconut sunscreen and her strawberry shampoo, her optimism. Her hair flitting behind her as she sped along. I closed my eyes and focused on my mental image of her flying down Wynd Road, surfboard strapped to the top of the cart, and memorized it.

  I left the business center uncertain, with a half-baked plan, clueless. I left the island with a book from the adoption agency on what to expect, and an itinerary to become a father.

  Chapter 23

  Luna

  * * *

  A few of the researchers staying over for the week excavated the last remaining turtle nest on the island. We didn’t find any remnant eggs, but we joked around and got to know each other. The research team comprised senior members of a volunteer conservation group. Most were professors at various universities around the country. I’d stumbled into a potential career-making networking event, just by doing my job.

  The scientists invited me to join them during some of their work sessions. Exhilaration carried me through the afternoon like a full, smooth tidal swell.

  I texted Tate. They offered for him to join us. Networking opportunities in our field had to be seized. Even if he had no interest, they’d love to hear his stories. But I didn’t expect a return text. Phones and Tate mixed like oil and water. I rushed around the center, sweeping sand into a pile, eager to close up the center for the night and find Tate.

  “Hello, child.” Alice’s kind voice preceded her into the large room filled with aquariums.

  “Hi. What are you doing here? It’s after ten.” I set the broom and dustpan against the wall and scanned the room for any remaining things to do before turning off the light.

  “I’ve been looking for you.”

  “Oh, is everything okay?” I gave her my full attention. Her braids fell around her shoulders, and she wore a multi-colored dress that flowed with the current of the air. Well-worn brown suede Birkenstocks adorned her feet, and her collection of toe rings glinted in the light.

  “I have something for you.” She held out a milky white envelope. “The tide ebbs and flows. The sun sets, but it also rises.”

  I played her odd riddle over in my head.

  “Tate asked me to give that to you.” She spoke so softly I stepped closer, unsure I heard her correctly. “He had to leave.”

  “Is he in danger? Did that man come back?” She’d told me to put out that bucket of water. And I did. I’d hidden it beneath his kitchen sink. I hid it so Tate wouldn’t laugh at me, but I did as she said.

  “He’s finding his way. He’ll be back.” She took my hand. “You focus on you. All will come to be.”

  She turned and disappeared down the hall, her long dress flowing in her wake. What the fuck?

  I ripped the letter open.

  * * *

  Luna,

  * * *

  I suck at goodbyes.

  Please know that I’ve loved getting to know you. You’ve reminded me of what I used to be.

  I’ll always think of you with your golden hair flowing behind you, zooming along the island paths. I’ll remember you on your board, catching a wave with grace.

  * * *

  I don’t know if I’m returning. Do not wait for me. Live your life. Change the world for better.

  * * *

  One day when my feet are on the ground and I’ve figured out a plan, I’ll reach out. Connect. Maybe I’ll become a texter. When I do, I want to hear all about what you’ve done and what you’ve accomplished.

  * * *

  Maybe we can compare notes.

  * * *

  Love,

  Adrian Tate

  P.S. If I were twenty-two, I’d never let you go.

  * * *

  Eraser dust covered the postscript notation, but the indention in the thick stationery paper left the words clear on the page.

  I sat down on the floor in the conference center room and held the letter in my hands. Confusion swarmed. He just left?

  Numb, I drove over to his cottage. No lights were on, and the door was locked. I followed the moonlight down the narrow path along the side of the house to the back porch and found the screen door locked. I pressed my face against the window. Fog formed on the glass pane as I strained to see inside.

  I drove to the ferry terminal. No one waited for the next ferry.

  I curled up in bed, holding the letter. It felt surreal. I just couldn’t believe he would leave and not say goodbye. It didn’t make sense. We were happy. Concern for his safety surged. The only logical explanation I could come up with was that he was in danger and left.

  Over the next several days, I sent several short texts.

  Are you okay? Are you in danger?

  Tate, what the hell? You don’t just leave with a letter.

  I know you don’t like to text, but this is ridiculous. Where are you?

  I’m not going to hunt you down. I promise. I just want to know. Are you safe?

  Every day, I drove by his cottage. I don’t know why. But I thought some part of me needed to see he was gone. Because I just couldn’t believe it. My emotions crashed around each other. Concern crashed over anger, then annoyance rose and crashed over sadness. It all leveled out into unexpected grief. I hurt, a deep pain like none than I had ever felt before. This was what it felt like to have someone break up with you. This was what I’d done to Brandon. Maybe this was karma.

  I spent my nights on the beach, tears streaming down my face, when no one could see. I spent my days working alongside the scientists, keeping my head up and focusing on my tomorrow. Poppy drank wine with me on a few evenings while we watched mindless television, and she pushed ice cream on me. Alice checked on me daily, bringing me dried herbs to hang in my home and for tea. Every time she left, she told me to have faith.

  After a week of silence, I sent Tate one last text.

  When I look up at the stars at night, I think of you. I love knowing that somewhere, you too are staring up at the same guiding lights. Those suns guided sailors for centuries. Chance crossed our paths. Did I ever tell you I considered three other internships? If I’d taken one of those, we’d have never met. Even if our paths never cross again, a part of you remains within me. We weren’t yet at the stage where we told each other the deep stuff, but you imprinted on me. You altered my chemical make-up in a fundamental way. That means… I’ll never forget you. Wherever you are, may you be safe. And know you are loved.

  The next day, Poppy had me send one more text.

  Don’t take my last text to mean I’m not pissed. I’m mad as hell. Who the hell leaves with a letter? FUCK YOU!

  “There’s my moon pie.” My dad’s deep voice thundered through the one-story ranch I grew up in. In a flash, he surrounded me, picking me up and twirling me around until—“Jimminy.”

  “Dad, are you okay?” He hunched over like an elderly person, his face contorted.

  “It’s just my damn back.”

  “What are you doing picking me up?” I guided him over to a chair and forced him to sit.

  “What good am I if I can’t pick up my little girl?” he moaned.

  “I’m not so little anymore. And you’re still recovering, aren’t you?”

  I stood back, taking him in. Gone were the broad shoulders and wide biceps, replaced by a narrower frame, thinner hair, and much more gray. He gazed down on the floor, his right hand glued to his side.

  “Can I get you something? Advil? A heating pad?”

  “Advil. That should do it. Good thinking.”

  I brought the Advil bottle and a glass of water to the table. He popped the pills, with no water, as if they were candy. I pulled out a chair and sat down at the table.

  “We missed you at Thanksgiving.”

  “I missed you guys, too.”

  “How’d the boil go?” The low country boil fundraiser had kept me busy straight through November. The island always drew a good crowd of homeowners on Thanksgiving weekend, and the Saturda
y event had been a hit.

  “Good. We raised almost fifty thousand dollars.”

  “Nice. I suppose that’s worth missing Thanksgiving.”

  “Dad.” He’d already let me know he wasn’t happy I didn’t come home to eat turkey. I suspected Mom had been relieved she didn’t have to create tofu turkey for me. “Where’s Nova?”

  “She’s at the diner, helping your Mom.”

  “How’re things going there?”

  He let out a pained sigh. “Always seems busy to me. Your mom always worries it’s about to go under. My damn back. If I could get back to work, she wouldn’t need to be so stressed.”

  “Dad, you’ve worked most of my life and she’s been stressed the entire time.” Stressed was Mom’s standard state of being. Growing up, they’d always been a study in contrasts. Mom worried over every little thing, every dollar spent, and Dad didn’t worry about anything at all. If he felt like the fish might bite, he had no qualms about taking off for the day. He never worried about getting fired or paying bills. He never saved to take the trips Mom dreamed of. As a kid, I thought Dad was the most amazing adult on the planet. Now, as a bill paying strapped grad student, I wondered why Mom hadn’t left him yet.

  “One day I’ll win the lottery, and she won’t need to stress.” If he’d saved all that money he’d spent on lottery tickets over the years, by now she probably wouldn’t be stressed. But there was no point in pointing that out. Besides, Dad’s lottery ticket habit replaced his nicotine habit, and I had to believe lottery tickets were cheaper than the cartons of Marlboros he used to buy back when I was little. “So, how many nests did you end up with this year?”

  “One hundred and fourteen.”

  “How many babies you think made it? Not just into the water, but out into the ocean?” Those statistics weren’t so promising. Tiny turtles faced a world of predators. “Probably the same odds as my lottery tickets.” He pounded the table with his fist, and his smile stretched across his face, entertained by his own humor. “But you still keep trying.”

  “Dad. It’s not something to smile about.”

  “I know that, baby cakes. Those turtles are key species…that’s what you call ’em, right?”

  “Keystone species.” If turtles became extinct, it would cause declines in all species whose survival depended on healthy seagrass beds and coral reefs. But I didn’t need to go on about it. My dad played the I’m-not-so-smart card, but he taught me. I owed my love of nature and passion for conservation to him.

  “That’s right. Keystone.” He grinned. “Brandon stopped by. Dropped off some material for a few events going on over the next few weeks. It’s all up there on the counter. There’s a Christmas Eve Manatee Run.”

  “Oh. That’ll be fun. A 5K?”

  “Yeah. Like your Turtle Trot you do over there on your island.”

  “Those events are great fundraisers. Did Brandon get it going here?”

  “I believe he did. He’s working for some group…” He scratched his head.

  “Sanibel Island Conservation.”

  “Yep.” He sighed. “He also mentioned some job opportunity he thought you should apply for. Something in the Virgin Islands. Don’t know what he’s thinking. If he wants to win you back, sending you off to a gig in the tropics doesn’t sound like a good plan. That boy never was right in the head.”

  “Dad, Brandon and I broke up two years ago. I think he’s accepted we’re not getting back together.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure you’re right. He comes by here every week ’cause he likes to see my smiling mug. Has nothing to do with keeping up with you.”

  I glanced around the kitchen, searching for a topic to change the conversation. A calendar hung on the side of the fridge, and I noticed Mom’s handwriting in all caps and multiple exclamation points. Therapy. Do not forget!!!

  “Do you have physical therapy today?”

  “Oh, shit. Your mom is gonna to be so mad at me.”

  “What time is the appointment?”

  “I don’t know. Doesn’t matter. I’d rather be here with my little one.”

  “Dad, they charge you when you miss.” I huffed out my frustration as I searched for his phone and the calendar app. An alert rang out, which helped me to find his phone under the kitchen towel.

  “Your appointment is in thirty minutes. Come on, let’s go. I’ll drive.”

  Later that evening, Nova returned home. She had flour remnants in her hair and over the front of her jeans, and dark stains dotting her jean skirt, t-shirt, and even the leather straps of her Birks.

  “Does Mom have you working in the kitchen now?”

  She proudly put her arms up in the air and pointed down at herself. “Pastry chef. Right here. Promoted.”

  I laughed. Growing up, we helped at the diner counter, bused tables, and cleaned dishes.

  “Where’s Dad?” she asked, looking around. I had the pamphlets Brandon dropped off spread out on the kitchen table.

  “He went back to rest after his physical therapy.”

  “He made it this time?”

  “Yeah. I think it’s hard on him. You know, painful. I made him ice when we got home. Now I think he’s avoiding me in case I make him do something else he doesn’t want to do.”

  “Sounds about right.” She plopped down at the kitchen table with me and picked up a brochure.

  “How’s Mom?” I asked.

  She dropped the paper and fell back against the chair. “She’s Mom. Powerhouse.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I think she’s close to leaving him.”

  “Really?” We’d thought this so many times in the past. More than I could count.

  “She hardly ever comes home. I mean, I bet, even with you home, she won’t make it home until, like, eleven at night. She’s back up at four a.m., out the door before five.”

  “She can’t maintain those hours.”

  “No, but I think when Dad’s not working, it drives her crazy and she can’t bear to be around him. Either that or their financial situation is precarious, and she picks up extra hours at the diner to supplement Dad’s missing income.”

  “But Dad’s getting workman’s comp, right? He was injured on the job.”

  “If that’s true, then he drives her crazy.”

  “Well, we know that’s true.”

  Our eyes met across the table, and we both half laughed. The state of our parents’ marriage was both funny and not funny at all. We worried but couldn’t do anything about it.

  “Hey, did you ever hear from Tate?”

  “No. Still no response. One letter. I still can’t believe it.” The ache in my chest remained. An odd mix of emotions swirled day to day, ranging from hurt over being discarded so easily, to concern over what could be going on, to guilt for hurting Brandon when I broke up with him, because now I knew the pain of being on the dumped end of a break-up. It sucked.

  “You doing okay?” she asked. I didn’t miss the tilt of her head or the way her eyes squinted, focusing in, analyzing me.

  “I’m fine. Sad, you know?” Sad wasn’t an accurate description. I’d cried buckets. It hurt before when relationships ended, but never like this, this ongoing ache.

  She gave an understanding nod and waited for me to say more.

  “I thought we had something real. And he seemed so different from all the other guys I’ve dated.”

  “You mean Brandon?”

  Brandon was actually a younger version of Tate. Only he wanted to stay right in Florida. He never wanted to leave. And I always struggled to explain it, but I wasn’t attracted to him anymore. We grew apart. He liked different kinds of parties than I did. He found friends I didn’t really like. He liked to drive around in his ridiculously loud car.

  We drifted apart. It happened. You could look at my parents, married for almost twenty-five years, and see it could happen even if you lived in the same house.

  “We were kids, Brandon and I. Tate, he’s so different.” I’d thought we had a mature
relationship, whatever the hell that was supposed to be.

  “You mean because he’s old?”

  “Mid-thirties doesn’t make you old.” I rolled my eyes at her naivety.

  “Eh. I bet his balls sag.”

  “Oh, my god.” I kicked her under the table, and she laughed. “Actually…”

  “They do sag.”

  “Stop it. Even though he’s in his mid-thirties, he’s still figuring things out. Trying to decide what he wants to do with his life. No, what I meant is there’s a depth to Tate. He’s lived enough to know that there are more important things than weekend plans or video game rankings. He’s lived hard. And he’s…I don’t know. None of it matters. He ghosted me.”

  I looked off to the corner of the room as my eyes burned. I refused to cry in front of anyone, especially my little sister.

  “If he doesn’t realize what a catch you are, then he’s not worth it. End of story. Move on. Next.”

  A knocking at our back door interrupted us. The door swung open seconds later.

  “I heard you’re back.” Brandon filled the doorway, and a wide grin spread across Nova’s face.

  “As I was saying.” She raised her eyebrows and rapped the table. “I’m gonna go get a shower.” She waved as she backed out of the kitchen, eyes locked on Brandon. He smiled his warm, familiar smile.

  With a nod, he stepped inside and opened the refrigerator and retrieved a water bottle, then asked, “You want one?”

  People talked about deja vu. That moment felt like that, or more like it had transported me back in time to high school, when Brandon came over every single day. Like maybe graduation lay in our future, not in our past.

  Chapter 24

  Luna

  * * *

  Three months later