Epic

by Lark O'Neal

  I think I’ve made a friend. It feels really good.

  * * *

  Blenheim is a small town that looks like something out of the era of musicals that Henry likes, The Music Man and all those, where somebody might break out in song and buy you an ice cream at any second. Like Nelson, there are shops of all kinds lining the streets—a hardware store and a bookstore, a man’s clothing shop with crisp shirts in the window, a bakery, and even a town square, a green park with a rectangular white building at one end. Taking off my helmet, I say to Kaleb, “Nothing looks like this in America anymore. Everybody goes to the malls.”

  “We have malls, too.” He runs his fingers through his hair, making all the curls stand up before he pats them back down again. “Are you being a snooty American?”

  A glitter in his eye tells me he’s teasing, and I laugh. “No. I am not a big fan of malls, trust me.”

  “Don’t all American teenagers hang out in the mall and say, ‘like, totally’?” He waves his long fingers around exaggeratedly.

  I brush a wisp of hair off my face, slant a sideways glance at him. “Like, totally.”

  He grins. “Come on, let’s get a coffee.”

  The cafe isn’t very busy, a couple of moms in one corner, a backpacker with grimy looking dreads and a scraggly beard hunched over a computer, scowling. There’s another terminal beside him, and I’m suddenly so relieved. I can finally tell Tyler what happened, let everybody know what’s going on, why I’m out of touch.

  First we go to the counter to order, and I go with the flat white again and ask how much the Internet is. The burly guy behind the counter says, “Usually it’s five dollars an hour, but it’s not working too good this morning. The earthquake messed something up, I reckon.”

  A plonk of disappointment ripples through my gut. “Can I try?”

  His mouth turns down. “If you like.” He gives me a slip of paper, glances at the clock, writes down the time. The password is on the paper. “Bring that back when you’re done.”

  Kaleb cocks his thumb toward a table by the window. “I’ll be over there.”

  The computer is grimy from long use and I half-wish for hand sanitizer, but it’s easy to use. I type in the password and try to sign on. It blips on for a second, taking me to a search engine, and my spirits lift. Taking a sip of the flat white—strong and hot—I type in the name of my email service. A miniature hourglass spins around, telling me it’s working.

  And working.

  And working.

  Another sip of coffee and I try again. The guy next to me mutters something in what sounds like some northern European language, maybe Swedish or Danish or one of those, and pushes away in disgust. “Good luck,” he says in heavily accented English. “I cannot get it to work.”

  Still, I keep trying. For about fifteen minutes I relentlessly try and try, then try again. Every so often it will take me as far as the opening page of my service, but never any farther than that. I have to sign in over and over again.

  Finally I have to admit it’s not going to work. Carrying the paper back to the guy at the counter, I shrug and shake my head. “Sorry,” he says. “Technology.”

  Kaleb is reading a magazine, nursing a cup of coffee in a big white mug. I have a little left in mine and set it down on the table across from him. “No luck.”

  “Too bad.”

  “It was worth a try. Thanks for helping me out.”

  “No worries.” He closes the magazine. “You want to walk around or something?”

  “Might need food soon.”

  “We can get some take away and go up to the Bay. How’s that?”

  Suddenly I feel guilty for spending so much time with another guy. I don’t want to lead him on, and I don’t want to feel like a cheater, either.

  Except that we agreed that we weren’t going to do that, make vows of faithfulness while I’m ten billion miles away. That would be kind of stupid. And yet I don’t want his feelings to be hurt, or Kaleb’s….

  He’s looking at me steadily, patiently, across the table. “We can go back home if you’d rather. I got no dog in this fight.”

  His easygoing way soothes the tangle of tension in my chest. “I’d rather go to the Bay. I haven’t seen the ocean yet.”

  “Sick.” He stands and puts his sunglasses on. “Let’s go.”

  * * *

  We pick up pies—small savory pies with meat and potatoes—and “crisps” and brown bottles of soda, which Kaleb tucks into a tiny storage area on the scooter. As we are putting on our helmets, a guy in a jean jacket walks by and slows down. “Bro, is that the Belladonna?”

  Kaleb smiles proudly. “It is, bro.”

  The guy leans in closer, walks in a circle around it. “Been eyeing it myself. Good ride?”

  “We rode up from near Seddon. Not fast, but fast enough.”

  “You were comfortable?” he asks me.

  “Yeah. It’s great.”

  “What, are you American?”

  The true answer is complicated, of course, but what he’s asking is where is that accent from? I’ve asked the question a million times myself, so it’s funny to be on the receiving end. “Yes. Just got here from Colorado.”

  “I’ve always wanted to go to Las Vegas. You ever been there?”

  “No, sorry. I hear it’s pretty great, though.”

  “Yeah.” He inclines his head, his coarse features softening. “I’d love to go.”

  Kaleb climbs on the scooter. “Have a good one, bro.”

  I climb on behind and wave as we pull out. Las Vegas. It makes me smile to think of someone wanting to go there, like it’s Paris or something.

  The ride isn’t long, but this time we’re driving through neighborhoods of houses and some industrial stuff. It isn’t long before I can see the ocean in the distance, and my heart lifts, like it’s going to fly right out of my chest and dive into the waves.

  The emotion builds and builds and builds as we make our way down to the beach, riding by square little houses with barbecues in the front yards and twisty trees that must offer some protection from winds.

  I know this. The sense of it is very strong. The smell. The way the air feels. Everything.

  I know this!

  By the time we get to the actual beach and I get off the bike, I’m so emotional that I’m practically sobbing. The taste of salt, the smell of the sea, the way this wind feels in my hair. The sound of the water swishing over the beach, the soft crash of the waves…

  There are tears running down my face now, emotions I can’t even name overflowing, pouring out of me. It’s embarrassing, but I’m not even really coherent enough to say anything to Kaleb. I just pull off my helmet and hand it to him, and head for the edge of the water. I want to dive into it, to drink it, to never, ever leave it again for the rest of my life. Ever. Tears gush out of me in this huge, stupid, embarrassing rush, but I can’t stop the waves of emotion. They aren’t connected to any particular memory, just this giant sense of happiness, of sunlight.

  Love.

  Why did my mother take me away from here?

  After a while, I don’t know how long—five minutes? ten?—I’m calm enough that I can wipe my face and go back to join Kaleb, who’s sitting on the sand, looking out at the water. He silently hands me a soda, and I’m grateful that I don’t have to explain anything. I sink down beside him and absently raise the soda to my lips. It sizzles into my mouth, dancing with spice and sharpness over my tongue. “Wow. What is this?”

  “Ginger beer.” That glitter shows in his eyes again. “Not something you have in America?”

  “Not that I know of.” I take another delicate sip. “We have ginger ale, but this is a lot more gingery.” Another sip, a little bigger. “I like it. Different.”

  “My favorite.” He reaches into the bag and hands me a pie and a bag of chips.

  “Thanks.” Neither of us starts to eat just yet, though. We sit side by side on the beach and look at the water. The silence isn’t
awkward, but easy, and I let myself take in the view. The land curves around, with high bluffs covered with trees at either end. The water in between is turquoise blue in some places, dark green in others, and along the beach the waves have made petal patterns for as far as I can see.

  Kaleb pops open his chips—crisps—and takes one out. “Captain Cook landed here.”

  I look at him. “I kinda know who that is, but not really. An explorer?”

  “Yeah. The world didn’t know we were here until he arrived. Wasn’t the best thing in the world for the Maori.”

  A lock of hair blows into my mouth and I pull it away. “Explorers were bad news for the natives everywhere, right? Africans were dragged off to be slaves, Native Americans were herded onto reservations if they didn’t die of smallpox or starvation because the newcomers killed all the buffalo.” I start to unwrap my sandwich. “What happened to the Maori?”

  “Pretty much the same things. Diseases, slavery, war.”

  I nod. What is there to say to that, really?

  “No going back in time, I guess,” he says, holding a large thin chip in his long fingers. The back of his hand rests on his denim-covered knee, the chip aloft, making him look like a statue of a young Buddha or something.

  It’s hard to get worked up over anything with the air smelling of sea and something I don’t know the name of, maybe the trees behind us. Light dances on the tops of the waves, and birds wheel above us. Clouds are puffing along the tops of the bluffs to our left. My body feels completely still. “Thanks for bringing me here. I didn’t know there was a big hole in my heart that was missing the ocean.”

  He looks at me, his amber colored eyes catching the light. “Do you remember it now?”

  I shake my head and look back at the water. “Not in, like, pictures or anything, not actual memories. But something.” I cover the center of my chest with my palm. “It just feels right to be sitting here.”

  “People do better by the sea.” He gestures to the square houses we passed. “Everyone tries to get a batch by the sea here, come on holiday to the sea.”

  “Batch?” I echo.

  “A holiday house.”

  “In Colorado, it’s the mountains. A cabin in the mountains is the ultimate.”

  “For skiing?”

  I shrug. “Some people ski and snowboard, but lots of people just fish or hike or have some little place outside the city so they can go away and be in the quiet.” I think with a pang of the cabin on the lake where Tyler took me. “From the city I live in to the high mountains is only a couple of hours, sometimes even less, so you can go pretty easily.”

  “Does your family have a place up there?”

  I snort. “No. My stepdad is on disability and I waited tables. Not exactly the circles we moved in

  “It wasn’t so easy for you.”

  “Not that hard.” I shrug. “Did your family have a bach?”

  He makes the same snorting noise I did and then adds a half grin. “Like you, that’s not really who we were. My dad was a mechanic, my mom stayed home with us and kept herself beautiful.”

  My pie is thick with gravy and shredded meat, and I make a sound of approval. “Mmm.” Covering my lips, I ask, “Is she beautiful?”

  His lips tighten as he looks over the water. “Yeah. Darcy looks just like her, except Mom’s more fair, lighter hair, light eyes.”

  “I can picture it.”

  A sigh escapes him. “If I have girls, I don’t want them to be beautiful. It causes too much trouble.”

  “Trouble for who?”

  “For them. Doesn’t give them enough of a chance to grow into other things.”

  I break off a corner of golden brown crust and can’t help wondering if he thinks I’m in the beautiful category. If so, does he think less of me for it? “Not necessarily. You can be good-looking and smart.”

  “Good-looking, yes,” he agrees. “Not beautiful.”

  “What about guys?”

  “Guys have the same problem. Too good-looking, you never develop any other qualities.”

  “You’re very good-looking.”

  He slides a smile my direction, the scarred eyebrow rising in approval. “Ta, but not the kind that makes people go mad, yeah?”

  I incline my head, studying his face with its strong tiger cheekbones and powerful chin. His nose is blunt, his mouth almost too sensual, the eyes making me think of anime. One long black curl blows over his forehead, covers the eyebrow with its scar. “I don’t know,” I say slowly. “It would depend on the girl, I think.”

  For one single second, his eyes fall to my mouth then rise back to my gaze, and a ripple of awareness settles high in my throat.

  “It’s something else with guys, maybe,” he says. “Charisma or something.”

  “Hmm.” I shift, shaking off the awareness. “I had a boyfriend like that. It was like that was all he was—that gorgeous face. He was in a band, but he wasn’t very good. They kept him because he was so nice to look at.”

  “Exactly.” He folds the bag from his chips, measures me. “You got around it because it sounds like you’ve had a pretty hard road.”

  I twist my mouth, raise my brows. “So I’m okay even though I’m fabulously beautiful?”

  His grin is swift and wide, tilting his eyes even more. “Did I say fabulously beautiful?”

  I toss a chip at him. “I’m very smart, I’ll have you know.”

  “I noticed already.”

  I’m appeased.

  “Finish your pie,” he says, “and let’s get a walk in before we go back. Maybe we’ll find some sea glass or some good shells.”

  There’s almost no one on the beach. A man and a dog amble toward us, and a mom and her two kids are digging in the sand, but literally nobody else. “Is it busy here in the summer?”

  “Not sure. We camped a lot, but further south than this.”

  “I’ve never been camping.”

  “What? You live in Colorado!”

  “Right?” I’ve taken off my shoes, even though it’s chilly, and the sand shifts and sighs in all directions against my soles. Walking in it is more tiring than I expect. “I don’t think my mom liked it all that much.”

  “There’re pictures of her in an album downstairs.”

  “My mom?”

  “Your dad has a box full of stuff from before. He was a surfer—pretty good, I think—when he met your mom.”

  “I really want to see all of it.” The piercing question from earlier comes back to me. “I don’t know why she took me away and we never came back. It’s one of the reasons I’m here, to see if I can find out.”

  Kaleb nods.

  “I hope my dad can tell me.”

  “Maybe.” He pauses, facing me. The wind dances in his black curls, tossing them in his face, then flinging them away. He pays no attention to them either way. “It seems like he doesn’t know, either.”

  I scowl.

  He shrugs. “Parents.”

  I let go of an exaggerated sigh. “They could have the courtesy not to leave us all riddled with questions, don’t you think?”

  That broad smile. “I do.”

  We start walking again. Ahead, the sun shines on the wings of birds and catches in the glossy leaves of trees. “Do you have questions you’d ask your dad?” I ask.

  For a long time he’s quiet, so quiet I don’t think he’s going to answer. Then he says, “I’d ask him more about his family, his cousins and stories from his childhood. I’d just want to ask more about him. Like what did he do when he was six. When did he find out about…things?”

  It touches me. I look at his face in profile against the blue horizon, recognizing the echo of grief. “He must have been a pretty good guy.”

  His mouth quirks sideways.

  “I don’t know anything about my mom’s family,” I say. “She came from Montana. That’s all I know. I have no idea if she had siblings or parents, or what made her leave and never go back. Maybe I don’t even want to know.
”

  He raises his eyebrows. “Maybe not.”

  A gust of wind blasts us from behind, sharp and strong. Sand blows in my eyes.

  “Damn,” he says, turning around. “Look at those clouds. We need to get back.”

  The sky to the north is thick and dark, threatening. “Can we make it home before that gets here?”

  “We’re going to try.”

  * * *

  The ride home is about as miserable as the ride there was pleasant. Kaleb has one rain poncho, which he insists I take, and then he stops by a restaurant and asks for a big black trash bag, which he puts over his own body. The air temperature has dropped twenty-five degrees and cuts right through my jeans and sweater even before the rain starts.

  And then the misery really begins. The rain isn’t heavy, but it’s cold, and although my arms and torso are protected, my legs are soaked and freezing in no time. I bury my face in Kaleb’s back and huddle against him for warmth. However bad it is for me, it’s 20,000 times worse for him, taking the brunt of the rain in his face. “Should we stop?” I yell over the sound of the wind and the rain.

  “No place!”

  So I grit my teeth and hope it’s over soon. Our trip through the rain is probably twenty minutes, but it feels like two hours. By the time we get home we’re both shivering and shaking, and I’ve forgotten that there’s still no electricity.

  “Get something warm on,” Kaleb orders. “I’ll build a fire.”

  I am literarily shivering from head to toe, stripping off the soaking wet jeans and socks, and rubbing myself dry with a towel. My sweats are old and ugly, but they’re absolute heaven, along with a pair of thick socks. My sweater is still dry, surprisingly, but my braid is a heavy wet snake. I figure I’ll comb it out by the fire and carry a fresh towel downstairs with me.

  The fire is roaring perfectly, but Kaleb is nowhere in sight. Now that I’m warm on the outside, I can think about making something to warm us up on the inside. Katy showed me how to use the camp stove, and I boil water in the tin pot, then make tea for us both. Was it two sugars? I can’t remember. He can fix it later if it isn’t. The milk is in a big cooler by the counter.

  He’s waiting when I carry the tea into the family room, his hair tousled. His feet are bare, long and brown with graceful arches.