Surviving Amelia

by Rand, Naomi;

  “Coffee,” Lucy said. “Iced.”

  “Spot me?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll have one, too,” Sam said.

  “Si, senorita.” He floated an insincere smile.

  Sam squirmed. She didn’t want to be perceived as what she so evidently was, the rich tourist gringa.

  “I can’t believe how warm it is here,” Lucy said. “As soon as you get off the plane it smells like summer.”

  True. Heat, water, and tropical foliage combined, exuding the same pungent odor Sam inhaled when she lay down on the grass on a hot July day on the great lawn in front of her grandmother’s house in Maine. Right now, though, she was inhaling coconut oil. The woman to their right slathered it on, even though her skin was already an otherworldly bronze.

  “Where’s Dusty?” Sam asked.

  “Taking a shower. He’ll be down.”

  The iced coffee arrived with a side pitcher of milk and packets of sugar.

  “Gracias,” Sam said.

  “Gracias,” Lucy repeated.

  The waiter gave Lucy a lecherous wink. “Da nada, senorita,” he said.

  Lucy rolled her eyes at his back. Overhead a bi-plane pulled an advertisement for Ron Rico Rum.

  “Dusty wants to go to this place where there’s surfing,” Lucy said.

  “What will you and I do?”

  “I thought we could all go.”

  “You couldn’t pay me enough to get on a surf board. I’m a land based mammal.”

  “You can lie on the beach there,” Lucy said. “Dusty goes to Rincon every time he comes down here.”

  “I think I’ll stay put.”

  “It’s supposed to be really beautiful. Plus, you’ll get your own cabin. Please come, Sam.”

  Sam nodded, giving in.

  An hour later, Dusty was expertly strapping two surfboards atop his parent’s Jeep. Only then did Sam realize Lucy intended to surf. She’d be left alone on the beach as well as in her cabin. A nap was definitely in the cards. She could recuperate from her bad night’s sleep, and maybe even think. Or better yet, not think.

  “I didn’t know you surfed,” Sam said to Dusty.

  “I’m a man of mystery,” he told her.

  “And the raddest dude ever?”

  Dusty gave her a sisterly punch on the upper arm. “Do I detect a note of sarcasm, Sam I am?”

  “You just might.”

  Sam lay down in the back of the Jeep but her stomach couldn’t tolerate that position for long. When she sat up, her hair blew wildly. They sped past stands selling Bebidas and Carnitas. Dusty veered around slow moving trucks with panache. Salsa boomed out of the radio, and Lucy kissed Dusty on the cheek. Sam tipped sideways, leaning against the hard metal shell of the car, then shut her eyes. She dozed, only coming fully awake when they made a sudden hard left and bounced down a narrow road.

  The landscape had changed. Scrubby bushes clung to rocky cliffs. They passed a faded sign for a roadside restaurant, then the restaurant itself shut tight, then a gas station littered with broken-down vehicles, then a row of houses painted in turquoise, pink, and lemon yellow. Chickens, goats, and dogs wandered along the side of the road. A truck rushed past, heading in the opposite direction, with only inches to spare. Suddenly they were braking to a stop. It seemed as if they’d come to the edge of the world. In front of them was the vast ocean. Ripples of white surf shredded across a deep blue sea. Dusty pulled over onto a narrow siding, and they stepped out to admire the view. Pelicans dive bombed while gulls wheeled, shrieking. Out past the breakwater a line of surfers waited for the perfect wave. Their reed-thin voices carried on the wind.

  “You’re still going out with me, right?” Dusty asked Lucy.

  “Just try and stop me.” Lucy stood closest to the edge, her blond hair blown back, her profile magnificent. She looked just like a ship’s figurehead, cutting first through the wind and the wake.

  THE HOTEL, A series of huts dubbed La Villa Hermosa, was shabby. The shacks were in no way hermosa. Cut from roughly hewn wood and unpainted, they fronted a rocky beach. Dusty went into the oficina to register.

  Sam’s cabin was number nine. It was basically a shack with a single bed, a rickety side table and a non-working floor lamp. Home sweet home. She changed into her bathing suit and emerged to find the jeep gone. Lucy sat on the sand, smoking.

  “He went to get an extra wet suit from his surfing buddies,” Lucy said.

  “Do you even know how to surf?” Sam asked.

  “I learned when my dad was posted in Hawaii. I can teach you.”

  “No way. Not ever.”

  “You’d like it.”

  “No, I’d never like it,” Sam said. “Believe you me. Danger in the water is not my business.”

  Lucy laughed as the jeep roared up, spitting gravel. Dusty emerged, a wet suit in one hand, their lunch in the other.

  THE SURFING BEACH was minutes away. The only sign it existed was a motley array of old, rusted American cars parked at odd angles on the nonexistent shoulder. Dusty unloaded the boards. He hoisted the first. Lucy grabbed the second. Sam retrieved her book and towel. They walked onto a slim quarter moon of sand that fronted the pounding surf. Near the breakwater, a line of surfers bobbed and weaved.

  Lucy and Dusty pulled on their wet suits and grabbed their boards.

  “Sure you don’t want to come with us?” Dusty asked Sam.

  She shook her head. “You know me better than that.”

  “You’re so funny, Sam I am. You don’t know what you’re missing.”

  “Sage advice from my future legal counsel.”

  Off the two of them went, boards under their arms. Sam watched them drop down and paddle, making for the horizon. She cracked open the novel she’d brought along. But it was far too pleasant to read. She shut her eyes and gratefully sank into a stupor.

  She was roused by a masculine voice. “Hey, you.”

  She opened her eyes and saw its owner standing above her toting a deep purple surfboard with a yellow lightning strike Z slashed across it. He was tall and blond; his chiseled features matched his wide-shouldered physique.

  “What’s up?” he asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Really? What have you got there?”

  “A book.”

  “What are you doing with it?” he inquired.

  “Reading.”

  “Cool. How did you get here?”

  “I drove,” Sam said.

  “Really?”

  “Dusty drove me,” she amended. Was this guy for real? Was anyone this dense? Or were the questions he posed a put on?

  “You’re with Dusty?” He swiveled to face the water. “That’s Dusty out there? Shit. Aren’t you going out?”

  “No.”

  He gave her a searching look. “Why not? Who’s out there with him?”

  “Lucy.”

  “Lucy.” Mr. Surf and Sun pondered the name for what seemed like forever. He finally said, “And you’re?”

  “Sam.”

  “I’m Luke.”

  “Hi, Luke.” Sam nodded a greeting. She’d assumed the stereotypes of surfers in movies were false but he was on his way to proving the opposite.

  “You’re not into surfing?” he asked.

  “Nope.”

  “You should be. I mean, look at those bitchin’ waves.”

  “Bitchin’ all right.” She assumed that meant obscenely huge and absolutely terrifying.

  “I was out all morning. Just ran an errand. Now I’m back.”

  “I see.” Another pregnant pause. Sam was getting a crick in her neck from looking up at him.

  “I guess I’d better get out then,” Luke allowed.

  “I guess so,” she agreed.

  “See you later.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “It’s Luke,” he said again.

  “I know.”

  He beamed a toothy smile and hoisted his board over his head, effortlessly. Luke wore no wet suit.
Sam thought it entirely possible that the surf had beaten whatever sense he was born with out of him.

  She leaned back and lifted the novel above her eyes to shield them from the sun. The Transit of Venus was Professor Swift’s suggestion. On the cover, bearded gods hoisted a globe of the world. Inside, the characters twisted and turned away from each other with maddening efficiency. The book was a study in delayed gratification. Would the lovers ever live happily ever after? Professor Swift claimed the author was a genius. When Sam turned to the photograph at the back, she did a double take. Shirley Hazzard looked so much like Professor Swift she could have been her twin sister.

  Sam rolled onto her stomach and concentrated. The writing was dense and lyrical. Sam was pretty sure that things would end badly. How could it go well for star-crossed lovers like the scientist Ted Tice and the love of his life, Caro? Still, Sam wanted them to get lucky, to be the exception, to enjoy a fairy tale ending.

  She was so immersed in the novel that when she looked up, she was surprised to find herself back on the beach. Far out, six surfers waited for the perfect ride. It looked like such a pedestrian activity. But then a huge wave bore down on them, and all six crouched to catch it. One surfer fell, then the next, until only two were left. Sam was certain they were Luke and Lucy. She yelled out, “Go, Luce.” Luke bobbled, then slipped from his board. Lucy rode the rest of the way in, alone.

  Sam’s heart swelled. She waved to Lucy, and Lucy waved back.

  Sam picked up the book again. Poor Ted Tice was lost in the wilderness, but he never gave up searching for love. It was elusive, but maybe in the end true love would triumph and they would be together, always. Sam wished it were the case. One could hope, anyhow. Then she heard screams and looked up.

  “Where is he?”

  “He was right over there!”

  “Where?”

  “There, right there!”

  Sam stood, straining to see. Two rider-less surfboards bobbed in the wake. The other surfers were converging on a spot close to treacherous looking rocks.

  “Did you see where he went?”

  “Come on, man, find him!”

  Sam ran into the water. The undertow was powerful, knocking her over. She got to her feet and dug her toes in. She knew better than to try and swim out. She could do a decent breaststroke, but her skills eroded after that.

  “Have you got him?”

  “I can’t see a fucking thing.”

  “What the fuck? What’s going on?”

  “Mother-fucking riptide!”

  One huge wave, then another, crashed against the shoreline. One surfer, then the next, dove down and reemerged.

  “Over here!”

  It was Lucy, emerging with her arms round someone, shoving him onto a surfboard. Others helped her push the board in. Sam waded toward them as far as she dared and saw who it was. Dusty. Unconscious. With a bloody gash in his forehead. She rushed forward, grabbed hold, and tugged him to shore.

  “Take him off, put him down here!” Sam bent over Dusty and swept his mouth for debris, then swept the airway. She tilted his head back and pinched his nose. She breathed into his mouth once, then again, counting down.

  She pumped on his chest.

  Don’t leave.

  Don’t go.

  Fuck you.

  I won’t let you go.

  Not now.

  Not here.

  Not on my watch.

  Sam forced her breath into Dusty’s lungs, compressed his chest, and waited for the response. Waited for him to hear her and come back. Something moved. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted a sleek white bird skimming across the surface of the water. Sam told herself it wasn’t a sign. It meant nothing. It wasn’t his soul taking leave.

  Come back.

  Please come back!

  Don’t leave me. Please. Not you!

  She tried again. Pounded on him again.

  And Dusty choked. Then coughed. His eyelids fluttered.

  “Turn him on his side,” Sam ordered.

  Luke did, and Dusty heaved up half the ocean.

  The surfers were all talking at once, their voices tinny, exposing the strain.

  “That’s the way, man.”

  “Back from the dead.”

  “Fuck.”

  “Didn’t want to lose another one after Roger.”

  Dusty wheezed. His nose was running. His skin had taken on a greenish pallor. Luke helped him to his feet and wrapped his head with a towel to staunch the blood.

  “You girls follow us,” Luke said.

  The keys were in the ignition. Lucy drove, the last car of a small parade.

  “You were amazing,” Lucy said. “How did you know what to do?”

  “I have no idea. I mean, I guess it was because I took a class.” Sam couldn’t stop shaking.

  “God, that was incredible,” Lucy said. “Are you okay? Of course you’re not.” She put her hand on Sam’s and held onto it tight.

  “You found him. I saw you,” Sam said.

  “You saved his life.”

  Sam shook her head, not because she wanted to argue over credit, but because she wanted to shove all of it away. She wanted to go back. To go back to their dorm room, say on the afternoon of December eleventh and then go downtown to the Dakota, gothic home to the stars, and point out a nervous man standing by the entrance. She’d tell the police officer, “He’s got a gun. He’s crazy. He wants to kill John Lennon.” She wanted to watch him being taken away, she wanted him to be locked up forever, and then she wanted to go back even further to a cold spring morning in Appleton, Wisconsin. She wanted to knock on the door of a house and say to Alma, “You don’t know me, but trust me. Don’t let your son go to that party tonight. Lock him in his room. Make him stay there. Talk to him. Tell him about your own mistakes and how it gets better. Explain that if he waits long enough, it will change. Then one day, he’ll have his own kid to tell the same story to.”

  Sam said, “My mother keeps trying to kill herself.”

  “What?” Lucy asked.

  “The first time, she slit her wrists.”

  “No!” But Lucy saw immediately that it was true. She reached out and took Sam’s hand.

  “I was twelve that time. Dusty’s dad had gotten the three of us passes for the opening of Jaws. It was an extremely big deal. We saw Roy Scheider, and Robert Shaw, and Richard Dreyfuss. We walked in on the red carpet. We sat in these plush seats like we were important. It wasn’t even a movie for kids my age. After the first scene, I had to hide my eyes. I guess that’s really why I don’t like to go swimming in the ocean. My stomach was in knots, but I was with the two of them, and they were acting like it was nothing, watching people get pulled under and eaten. I wanted to impress them, so I pretended that none of it scared the shit out of me. I think Dusty knew I was bluffing, because he kept telling me it was a mechanical shark. Then it was over and thank god, because all I had to do after that was boast about going to a premiere to my friends. We went back to our apartment. Brooke had said she was going to go out because she’d just broken up with Mr. Paris and she was hot to find a replacement.”

  Lucy gave her hand a hard squeeze. Sam hated the next part. Telling it meant seeing it. Seeing it meant feeling it. “We all thought we were home alone. Win and Dusty lit up a joint. They started calling people to see who might come by. I went to the bathroom, and it was locked. There was a puddle of water coming from under the door. I told myself it was a leak, but that didn’t explain why the door was locked. Then I knew. I knew because Brooke had this record album from this play she loved, Marat/Sade. On the cover there’s a reproduction of a painting of Marat in his bathtub, and his wrists are slashed. I knew that was what she’d done, and I didn’t want to be the one to find her. For a second, I thought I’d hide in my room and let them find her.”

  “But you didn’t,” Lucy said. “You’re too brave for that.”

  “Brave? Is that what it is?”

  “Yes,” Lucy said firm
ly. “Brave and noble and true.”

  “Sure, I’m one of the three musketeers. That’s me, all right.”

  But Lucy was right. Sam had run back to get Win and Dusty, and they’d broken down the door. Brooke was lying in the tub. It didn’t look anything like that drawing on the cast album. The tub wasn’t pretty. Blood was everywhere; the water was pink with it. The police came and took her mother away. She was hospitalized, and Win refused to go to their grandmother’s house, Sam did too, staying at home with her brother. Waiting for Brooke to come back to them. When she did, they made her a pancake breakfast and after that they treated her as if she were going to break.

  “Her shrink said it was a cry for help,” Sam said. “Win, Dusty, and I promised we would never tell. It was what she wanted. She begged us to keep it a secret. That time, then the next, then the time after that. I don’t know. It’s awkward to talk about it. Win and I, we promised each other that we would keep her safe. But sometimes you don’t know how to keep that kind of promise, do you? I mean, sometimes it’s not only up to you, right?”

  Lucy nodded sagely. She knew. She knew exactly what Sam meant. Sam thought of what Alma had said, what Alma blamed herself for not being able to do and how she would likely blame herself for that for the rest of her life, how unfair it all was but how natural it was too. And then Sam thought that the people who had assigned Lucy to her room were actually geniuses, because she and Lucy seemed as if they had nothing in common, when they had this, this trumped everything else.

  They had pulled into the lot at La Clinica. Lucy shut off the car engine.

  “I used to imagine the worst,” Sam said. “Just to try and prepare myself. It was kind of a relief. At least it would be over with, you know. Then, I’d hate myself for thinking about it like that.”

  Lucy pressed her forehead against Sam’s for a long, significant second. She pulled away. “I understand. There’s nothing wrong with that. It’s natural. All of it is.”

  There was a sweet, merciful silence. Then Sam took a deep breath and opened her door. As she stepped out, she remembered Win turning off the water and Dusty helping him pull Brooke out of the tub. Her mother’s body had flopped onto the floor. She had tried to cover her with the Indian print bedspread from the couch, because she shouldn’t be naked like that, all the while saying to Brooke that she’d be a good girl, she’d be so good, she’d do anything she wanted if only Brooke would live.