by Jake Parent
“I promise I’m not a bad guy,” he said. “I just saw your girl playing under here by herself and wanted to make sure she was OK. I run a surf shop just across the way, so I kind of think of this beach as like my second home. I try to look out for the people who use it. Sorry if I scared you, but I was just showing . . . Anise was it? . . . I was just showing Anise how to hunt for sand crabs. The key is to let the water wash up, and then you have to dig where you see bubbles when it retreats.”
“Bubbles!” Anise shouted to herself as she continued her excavation.
Still skeptical, Cristina took in the scene.
Him. The board. Him. Anise. Him.
Suddenly, it all made sense. She felt kind of horrible. With an effort, she loosened her scowl, replacing it with a sincerely apologetic smile and an extended hand.
“I’m sorry, Casey. I’m Cristina. I didn’t mean to get so pissed. It’s just, well, I hope you can understand how scary it is to doze off on the beach and wake up to have your only little girl in the whole wide world gone. It kind of scared the crap out of me.”
“I can imagine. I mean, I don’t have any kids, but I have a lot of young people I teach, and they’re kind of like my kids. Anyway, like I said, sorry I scared you. I guess I’ll catch you later.”
As he turned, Cristina took a step toward him.
“Wait . . .” she started, but was unsure what should come next.
He planted his feet in the sand but didn’t turn.
“Yah?” he asked over his shoulder.
“Well, I’m new in town and I noticed your tatt.”
“Which one?”
“The triangle. You’re sober.”
He spun on his heels like a person well at home in the shifting sand. The move struck Cristina as graceful for someone with a frame towering a couple of inches above six feet.
She casually checked out his body again, moving her eyes over the ridges of his stomach, his carved chest, his broad shoulders, his statuesque arms. The tattoos were intense. Besides the triangle symbol, most of the art covering his body was dark: skulls, a grim reaper, spider webs, a couple of sultry-looking women. He also had two interlocking roses at the top of his throat. Their stems wrapped around his neck in a way that made it look like he was being strangled by the sharp, bloodied thorns. The sight made Cristina instinctively touch her own rose-covered arm.
“Uh, yah,” he said. “I’ve always felt weird calling it ‘sober’ though. Makes me feel like I’m some cancer patient in remission. But, yah, I’ve got a few years clean. I still go to meetings sometimes, too. It saved my life. But these days I get my biggest fix of spirituality helping young men get on the straight path. And, of course, out there.”
He pointed toward the ocean.
Cristina’s gaze followed the hard profile of his arm, out to the tips of his fingers, toward the breaking surf. She felt an unexpected surge of excitement in her chest.
“Wow, surfing is really that intense, huh?”
“You can’t even imagine until you do it. It’s the best feeling in the entire world.”
“Really? Because I’ve had some pretty amazing feelings.”
She didn’t mean for it to sound quite so dirty. Well, maybe a little. Either way, she kind of enjoyed making a big, tough surfer-dude blush, if only for a moment.
“Is that right?” he asked, recovering his coolness.
She responded, “I’ve been around the block a few times. I’ve got a year clean myself.”
“I wouldn’t have guessed it. You look so, um, healthy.”
Cristina tried hard not to look down at herself, but she couldn’t help adjusting her bikini top to make sure her chest was at maximum fullness.
When she looked up again, she could see Casey was definitely checking her out.
“Well,” he said, looking away and then back at her. “You want to hang out sometime?”
Instinctively, she looked at Anise.
He quickly added, “Oh, I mean, if you’ve got time, and are, uh, available. Oh man, that sounds bad. All I meant was, I know it’s probably pretty crazy with the little one. And I’m not sure if you’re looking or what. OK, I’m just going to shut up before I say something stupid.”
“You mean something else?”
He laughed. “Yah, exactly.”
She let him squirm for a minute more.
“Well?” he asked finally.
“Well what?”
“Well, do you want to go out sometime?”
“Yah, I guess we can make that happen. Anise is staying at my grandmother’s during the week until school’s out. So maybe sometime then. If that’s cool with you.”
“Sure, yah. I’m teaching ocean swimming to some junior lifeguards on Thursday nights before summer starts. That usually ends around six. You want to meet me down here around six-thirty?”
“Under the pier?” she asked, looking around sarcastically.
Sometimes she couldn’t help herself.
“Nah, how about at my shop? It’s called Bula’s.”
“What the hell is a bula?”
“It’s a Fijian word. It means, well, it means a lot of things, but it mostly means like ‘have a good day,’ or ‘positive vibrations.’ That kind of thing. People there say it all the time.”
“Nice. Well then, Mr. Casey. Until Thursday, bula bula I guess.”
He laughed.
“Sweet. I’ll be seeing you then, Ms. Cristina.”
11
That evening, back at her new home, Cristina felt elated.
She put Anise to bed and went out front to smoke her first cigarette of the day. The rush of nicotine lifted her head higher into the clouds than it already was. Everything, the house, the starry sky, the moonlit courtyard, the ocean below, it all felt magical. The crickets chirped louder. The crisp, briny air felt even more refreshing and full of life.
Besides her ex, she couldn’t remember ever meeting anyone who excited her so much. But even Anthony – who in the beginning had seemed like everything Cristina ever wanted – hadn’t left her feeling quite this giddy.
Long gone were any thoughts of the ghost town and its dead-eyed inhabitants. So too was the rage from being harassed at the carousel. And from the previous day’s run-in with Mr. Psycho.
It had turned out to be one of the best 24 hours she’d had in a long time.
Maybe ever.
Meeting Casey was great, and she looked forward to Thursday so much she wished she could snap her fingers and speed up time, but the best part of the day by far had been watching Anise’s smile as she went around the carousel. Seeing that happy, carefree love for life on her daughter’s face was exactly the reason Cristina had decided to pack up and move to Pleasure Point in the first place.
Standing there alone in the dark made her want to share the happiness with someone else. She pulled out her phone and started to call Michelle. It would be great to hear her friend’s voice.
Before she could send the call, Cristina heard the sound of a car coming up the driveway. It was Jack. She paused for a moment, looking down at the phone.
I really should call her. It’s been a few days. I bet she’s worried.
Instead, she returned the phone to her pocket and stood where Jack could see her as he drove by. She waved into his headlights until they flashed. He left the car idling as he pulled beside her and rolled down the passenger window.
“Hey there!” he said. “You look like you’re enjoying this gorgeous evening.”
“I am. What a great day.”
He looked at her with interested curiosity.
“You met someone!” he said. “I can tell. Let me go park the car. I want to hear all about it.”
The two met in the middle of the courtyard.
“So,” he said immediately. “Who’s the lucky guy?”
“Is it that obvious?”
She’d spent so much energy over the years trying to hide her emotions. Even now, it made her feel a bit vulnerable that someone
could read her so easily.
“You’re glowing is all,” Jack said with his sharp grin. “What’s his name?”
“Casey. He’s a surfer.”
Jack raised a bushy eyebrow.
“Not Casey Peters, is it?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t tell me his last name. Tall guy. Shaved head. Lots of tattoos. Pretty dreamy.”
“That’s him,” Jack said, sounding genuinely amazed. “Sweetheart, he’s not just a surfer, he was once the top pro in the whole world. Until, from what I understand, he got more interested in doing drugs. That was a few years ago now, of course. I’ve heard he’s been doing much better lately. Has a little surf shop near the pier. And he’s even successfully avoided getting pushed out by the developers, who’d probably rather see that prime piece of real estate turned into a Target or an Applebee’s, or some other such monstrosity. Wow, that’s really who you met, huh?”
“Yah, sounds like it. He seems really cool.” She thought about the words coming out of her mouth and couldn’t help but laugh. “God, I sound like a teenager.”
“You practically are one, so I wouldn’t worry all that much.”
“True. Sometimes I feel like I’ve lived enough life to be an old lady, though. I mean, until earlier today, I wasn’t even sure I wanted to try dating. To be honest, I still don’t know.”
“Well, as they say, age is but a number,” Jack said. “Trust me, though. You get old quick. Don’t be in such a hurry that you let your life go by without taking some time to enjoy it a bit. I say go for it. What’s the worst that could happen?”
That was the question Cristina had been trying to avoid.
12
It was a bittersweet moment when Cristina’s grandmother and uncle picked up Anise on Sunday afternoon.
As independent as she was trying to be, Cristina had to admit that she was more than a bit happy to see them. The presence of what was her closest family reminded her that, although things felt a bit isolated in her new home, she at least still had two people who were out there thinking of her.
Despite the fact her grandmother was undergoing chemotherapy for breast cancer, she still somehow found the energy to cook a big batch of tamales. And after carrying them into the kitchen herself, she proceeded to stand in front of the refrigerator giving a slow, thorough explanation on how to properly freeze them.
(As if Cristina hadn’t helped her do it a hundred times before.)
Her uncle hauled in a couple bags of groceries, filled with some essential Mexican staples he must have feared she wouldn’t buy on her own. Rice. Beans. Corn tortillas. Tapatío. And, of course, her all-time favorite: a bag of pinwheel duros from the ice cream man. When she was a little girl, every time a paletero pushed a cart through the neighborhood, ringing his high-pitched bell, Cristina would pester her uncle to buy her some of the fried snack.
Tío Alberto had also bought her a candle of the Virgen de Guadalupe, along with instructions to light it every evening when Cristina said her prayers.
She hadn’t prayed since her First Communion. Even in her recovery work with Michelle, she’d always thought the idea of talking to God was kind of silly. But she would never tell her uncle that. He was about as religious as one could get without being an actual priest. So she solemnly promised to do as he said, and then hugged him as hard as she could.
All the family love made it difficult to watch her grandmother’s Ford Taurus disappear down the driveway. Her eyes started to burn. But before any tears could come, she lit a cigarette and put on her tough face.
Anise will only be gone for a week, she told herself. School will be out in a month, and then she’ll be here full-time.
Of course, in the moment, a month seemed like a year. And the perfect house ten minutes from the beach again felt like it was about a million miles from anything that mattered.
Suddenly not wanting to be there, Cristina decided to hop in the car and go for a drive.
***
Rolling around Pleasure Point in her car, exploring but not paying attention to much of anything in particular, Cristina eventually ended up on a stretch of road about two miles long that slowly meandered its way along the scenic ocean cliffs.
Next to the road was a busy walkway full of joggers, old couples holding hands, and way too many loud-talking women with double-wide strollers and no sense of the fact other people existed in the world.
Apparently, she wasn’t the only one who had the idea of watching the sunset. Just about every parking spot along the road was taken. Eventually she did manage to find one between a yellow Volkswagen Bus and a chromed-out Harley.
While there were benches along the pathway, most people seemed into hanging out on the hoods of their cars, staring out across the ocean.
Cristina did the same, firing up a smoke.
Through the scent of the cigarette, she also smelled something else. Something skunky. Over her shoulder, she saw it was coming from the bus. The couple inside appeared to be about Cristina’s age, maybe a little younger. And when the guy holding the joint saw her looking their way, he gestured for her to join them.
Cristina shook her head with a sternness that made her feel like an old hag. The man didn’t seem to care much. He shrugged and continued to puff away.
She sat on the hood of her car a minute longer, but soon felt awkward and kind of annoyed. Although she wasn’t quite sure at what. She supposed herself, more than anything.
Restless, she scooched off the Civic’s hood and started down the path.
A middle-aged woman with a fanny pack speed-walked by and said, “Some of us are trying to breathe here.”
“Oh, sorry,” Cristina said, stamping out the butt and tossing it in a nearby trashcan.
She flipped the lady off behind her back. Then caught herself and tried to calm down. An effort that wasn’t working well at all. There were so many thoughts racing through her head. Most prominent among them was the fact that she was all by herself in a new place, surrounded by new people, all of whom seemed to be so much different from her. Either they were way too normal, like the ladies with the strollers and Mrs. Speedwalker. Or they were fucking out-there in a way that seemed to Cristina like they were trying to be weird.
Turning the corner, the walkway temporarily departed from its path alongside the road, curving around a small park built where the land jutted out toward the sea. In the middle of the park was an old lighthouse. According to the sign on the door, it had been turned into a museum dedicated to the history of surfing in Pleasure Point. She wanted to go inside but it was closed.
In front of the building was a healthy-sized plot of green grass.
Part of her felt like the universe had read her mind about the strange people she’d been encountering, and now it was messing with her. In a misshaped circle on the grass, a large group of people sat pounding away on various drums and other instruments.
Oh my god, for real? she thought. This can’t be happening.
The whole scene reminded her too much of being on the street, surrounded by dirty homeless people who preached some kind of pseudo-hippy “love-thy-neighbor” crap, but then would steal your wallet and your drugs the first chance they got.
Still, despite Cristina’s best attempts to stay mad at the world, she had to admit, whether it was the drums, the fresh air coming off the ocean, or the increasingly beautiful sunset, there was something about it all that made her feel at peace.
Instead of storming away, she stood at a distance and took everything in.
Upon further inspection, the people in the drum circle weren’t really that weird. There was certainly a fair share of hippy types – white guys with dreadlocks were a huge pet peeve of Cristina’s. And a few folks with that uneasy homeless-person vibe she herself had no-doubt let off once upon a time.
But there were also plenty of regular, working-class people who seemed to be there just to smoke a joint and relax. Guys wearing Ben Davis pants and short-sleeve collared shirts. Women i
n hoodies and jeans.
Cristina half-consciously inched closer.
It wasn’t just drums either. Someone strummed chords on an acoustic guitar. Another bleeped a silver trumpet. One hippy-chick with no shoes was busting out a pretty decent solo on a harmonica. And there was a guy with a Jesus beard blowing through a weird-looking piece of tubing Cristina had never seen before. The sound it made reminded her of the way a lightsabers warbled in the Star Wars movies.
Somehow, Cristina had to admit, it all worked.
Out of nowhere, one of the dreadlocked white dudes handed her a pipe. She almost took it without thinking, drawn in by the scene and her memories of getting high in groups of less-than-fresh-smelling humans. But she caught herself and instead shook her head.
“No thanks,” she told him.
He grinned from ear to ear, squinting his eyes as he threw up a peace sign and walked away.
Then the sunset drew her attention. An orange light blazed across low clouds, making the horizon look like it had burst into flames.
But when the sun finally passed the edge of the world, the color vanished. There was a sudden steep drop in temperature. Cristina shivered as she thought of her sweatshirt, which she’d left on the passenger seat of her car.
She decided to head back, feeling surprisingly better as she walked away from the drum circle, listening to a steady barrage of thumps fade into the evening.
She hadn’t gotten too far when she felt a tap on her shoulder, and thought it might be Dreadlocks again, maybe this time wanting her to meditate with him or something. But when she turned around, it only took her a moment to recognize the person standing before her.
Cristina still couldn’t quite tell if she was looking at a man or a woman. Regardless, the person smirked and slightly bowed, but didn’t offer any words, seeming instead to be waiting for her to speak first.
“The 12-step meeting,” Cristina said. “You were at the 12-step meeting.”
The bow dipped a little further.