Such Happiness as This

by Laina Villeneuve

  “What club?” Kristine asked, leaning forward.

  “The one over in Eureka, Club Triangle?”

  Kristine doubled over laughing.

  “What?” Grace demanded.

  “There’s your problem. That’s the feeding ground for all the baby dykes.”

  “I only had one drink. A drink. That’s it. Then I left. I couldn’t even hear myself think.”

  “Well someone recognized you, and now they’re probably all crushing on you,” Kristine said, still laughing.

  “The way everyone was glued to each other, I’m surprised anyone noticed.”

  “Think about how many of them probably don’t know a lesbian of your stature. Successful. Professional. They admire you.”

  “Please don’t call me a professional lesbian.”

  Kristine cocked an eyebrow in question.

  “It’s not like one can make a successful living from it.” Grace reflected on Kristine’s words, remembering the older established women she herself had crushed on when she was young. “If it were just admiration, I’d be okay, but they’re not in here asking me to be a mentor. They’re asking me out to events.”

  Kristine flipped through the fliers. “These are actually way more your speed compared to the club. Check out the poetry one. I’ve been really impressed with the events The Jambalaya hosts. And it’s going to be a different crowd. They won’t be sizing you up.”

  “Sounds like you have experience.”

  “Arcata and Eureka are bigger than Quincy, where I grew up, but the lesbian community here feels just like it, everyone up in someone else’s business. It took me a long time to get used to when I first moved here. I went from a town where no one wanted to acknowledge I was gay to having this gaggle of lesbians in my face about what my intentions were with their Gloria, sizing me up, seeing if I was good enough for her.”

  “Guess you passed the test,” Grace said.

  Kristine shrugged. “We’re pretty much off the radar now that we have the kids. It feels like we have more in common with new parents. Single lesbians aren’t interested in potty training or sleep deprivation.”

  “I like hearing about how Eliza’s sleeping.”

  “That’s because you’re wacked.”

  “Has she figured out night and day yet?”

  “Getting there. We should hit a good rhythm this next month.”

  “Seems like you’ve made the transition back to work okay. Now that you’re back, will you scare off all those lovely young women who are after me?”

  “Aaron says it’s entertaining.”

  “At least someone is enjoying the attention,” Grace groused loudly enough for Aaron to hear. He would turn the day’s entertainment into an elaborate story. This she knew from the dramatic story he told of plucking Kristine out of the High Sierras to cover the classes of an associate professor whose illness forced her to retire. Tired of dwelling on her personal life, she switched gears. “I’m sure you didn’t come in here to observe the flirtations.”

  “No. Actually, I came in to talk about the Nature Photography class. I want to get them shooting something other than forest and beach. What do you think of me taking them to Joshua Tree or the Grand Canyon, somewhere we can play with light? Just a weekend trip.”

  “Not any weekend soon. You can’t leave your wife alone with two kids,” Grace said, her voice stern.

  “No. Not until next year for sure. But isn’t it better to investigate funds now?”

  Grace acquiesced. “Yes, it is. I like the idea, even if it’s a thinly-veiled opportunity for you to get your own shots.”

  “Just as instruction.” Kristine feigned affront.

  “Mmm-hmmm.” Grace woke up her computer, happy to have actual work to occupy her time.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Strength

  “Your mom’s not having an easy time of it,” Robyn said to Bean as she eased into his stall to slip on his halter. Since Kristine wouldn’t be able to make it to the barn, she’d turn him out while she mucked his stall. She took her time, sobered by the devastation she’d heard in Kristine’s voice when she told her that her mother-in-law had been hospitalized after consulting her doctor about a cough she couldn’t shake that developed into pneumonia. It didn’t feel right for the new mothers to be at the hospital, and remembering that Kristine had said that her mother-in-law had relapsed, she understood the graveness of the situation and told Kristine not to worry about Bean at all.

  She looked across the barn to Taj’s stall. The mare stood with her head hung out of the window, her lower lip hanging loose as she dozed. Robyn hadn’t seen Eleanor at the barn again since the day she’d seen Kristine comforting her. Aside from the checks Robyn sent each month, they’d had no contact.

  Even before Kristine’s call, Robyn had been thinking about Penelope again, wondering if there was any change. She’d thought about asking Kristine if she ever went, but that had been before Eliza arrived. Now Kristine had her mother-in-law to worry about—she didn’t need to field Robyn’s questions about Penelope.

  Both stalls clean, she threw her saddle on Taj and led her to the arena, grateful she was the only one using the space. They circled the arena at a walk, Taj’s muscles warming and lengthening with the workout. But Robyn wasn’t concentrating on Taj.

  Her mind was at Mad River Hospital. So often thoughts of the tragedy accompanied Robyn to the barn, and she contemplated the possibility of visiting Penelope. Would she be allowed in the room? How would she even explain her relationship to the girl? If family was there, would they think that it was inappropriate for her to visit?

  She pushed Taj into a trot, counting on the activity to distract her. Instead every hoofbeat pounded a reminder of where she was and why and how unfair it was that she sat in the saddle instead of Penelope. When she’d first started riding again, the familiar rhythm had filled her with memories of her carefree childhood when the biggest concern was whether Karen, one of the other barn-rats, liked her.

  Now she couldn’t escape her present, no matter how many times she circled the arena. The setting sun cut through the space and dust motes danced in the rays, reminding her of the way light slanted through the redwood canopy. She stopped at the gate and released the latch, heading toward the forest. Taj easily picked up the trail Kristine had showed her, but she avoided the clear-cut, trying to immerse herself in the life of the trees, listening for birds. But she still wasn’t successful in keeping her brain from falling into suicidal thoughts. She had spent too long letting her mind seek out “accidents.” What was the probability of being thrown and fatally injured? If she headed down the trail at a full gallop and didn’t duck, would that low branch break her neck?

  Depression triggered these possibilities of escaping the pain. She hung her head. Feeling guilty for being where Penelope should be plunged her right back into her self-destructive thoughts. She had to talk to Penelope. She had to apologize. She had to find a way to allow herself to embrace the joy that riding brought her and shed her guilt.

  * * *

  Robyn was no stranger to the sterile environment of the hospital. During her time in the coast guard, she’d watched the ceiling tiles whiz by on her way to the emergency room to be treated for such frequent and serious injuries that her colleagues teased her about having a death wish, which in retrospect, she realized was true.

  At the time she’d argued that it wasn’t a death wish, just an unwavering prioritization of the lives of the people, civilian and military, who counted on her. If she committed to something, she gave herself completely, holding back nothing. That mentality had spurred enough fights with Barb for Robyn to take the earliest retirement, thinking that their relationship would improve when she was home more. Now that it was over, she considered that they had only lasted as long as they did because of the demands her job offered and the truth that she’d used her “professional duty” as a coping mechanism.

  The wing for extended care lacked the urgency of the ER or
even standard recovery. She walked more slowly and quietly, fighting the urge to turn around and leave before she reached the room the volunteers at the front desk had directed her to. Her heart rate quickened, and she questioned her purpose and motive. She shoved her hands into her pockets and stopped two doors down from Penelope’s, unable to move.

  A voice startled her. “Robyn?”

  She spun and found Eleanor approaching her with a look of concern and inquiry. “Is everything all right?”

  She hadn’t considered that her being at the hospital might be interpreted as something amiss with the horse. “Oh, Taj is fine. I’m sorry.”

  Eleanor looked relieved but made no move to continue to her daughter’s room.

  Robyn’s shallow breathing started to make her feel light-headed. She backed up to the wall to steady herself. “I wondered if you would mind if I saw Penelope,” she blurted out. She wished she had brought something, so her hands would have at least been occupied. Instead, she stood there feeling exposed. She watched as Eleanor’s gaze shifted from her to the room down the hall and back to her.

  “Kristine told me about the accident.” Looking at the broken woman in front of her, she wished that she’d been on duty that day, that she could have done something for Penelope. But she also understood that it wouldn’t have altered the outcome. If they had been riding together, her training might have prevented this coma, but she’d never know. She could not manipulate time to revise the past and knew there was nothing she could do to ease the future for the grieving woman.

  Eleanor wore a heavy knit sweater despite the warmth of the hospital, and Robyn wondered if she had felt cold since the moment she’d answered the phone and her life had changed irrevocably.

  Eleanor nodded. “I’ll introduce you.” She motioned Robyn to follow her to the room.

  Robyn didn’t question the formal introduction to a comatose patient. She hated hearing the apology to Penelope in the explanation of how Robyn had come to know the family, aware again of her gain through their loss.

  Robyn’s heart broke seeing the bedridden seventeen-year-old. Her long dark hair was neatly braided, someone in her family reclaiming a task that had marked her march toward independence at some point.

  The pale face in extended sleep reminded Robyn of a fairy tale princess, which heightened Robyn’s feeling of helplessness. The walls were plastered with pictures of Penelope’s friends and Taj, filling the room with images of the life where she smiled and joked and pushed boundaries.

  It was easier to keep her focus on the pictures than turn to the girl in the room, especially since her mother had settled into what had to be a familiar position in the chair at her daughter’s shoulder.

  Robyn’s mouth went dry. She couldn’t talk to Penelope with her mother sitting there, and she could feel the awkwardness intensifying the longer she stood there silently. Finally, she remembered Eleanor’s reaction at seeing her and realized she could talk about Taj, as if she’d come to contribute to the reminders of the life that still waited on hold for Penelope. She told her that she’d been out on the trail with Kristine and shared with her the little things that interested or spooked the horse. She added how the horse always had her head out of the stall, watching down the aisle as if she expected Penelope at any moment.

  After a few minutes, Eleanor waved her phone in Robyn’s direction and ducked out of the door. Robyn sighed with relief and sat in the vacated seat. She scrubbed her face with her hands. She didn’t know how to express what she had really come to say. She guessed it didn’t matter, so she started with the thought she couldn’t escape at the barn.

  “I used to wish I was dead. Not so much when I was working. Doing rescues for the coast guard, your main purpose is to stay alive. I would have hated for any of my teammates to feel responsible for my death. But after I retired and figured out that it wasn’t the job that made my relationship hell, it’s all I could think about.

  “You know that intersection in Northtown that leads right to the footbridge for HSU? I don’t know if you’ve ever crossed there, but half the drivers have their minds on the freeway already and don’t even see the pedestrians. It used to be I’d pause to make sure drivers were stopping, but then I got to thinking how much easier everything would be if one of those drivers just plowed right over me.

  “I was tired all the time, and it seemed so nice to think about stopping. I got to thinking that would be so much easier than thinking about how my relationship was over. Admitting that made me feel like my whole life was over. Being dead, I wouldn’t have to face anyone or feel like a failure. I wouldn’t have to explain to anyone what went wrong.”

  Robyn rubbed her palms together slowly, feeling the friction create warmth and the catch of the calluses at the base of each finger. The sound soothed her.

  “I comb the beaches all the time, and I would stare at the ocean thinking about its pull. I guess you know something about that. And I guess that’s why I’m here. I wish there was some way I could give you my life. There’s nothing right about my being out on the trail and you being in here. Obviously, you have more living to do, right? Look at you, holding on when I would have surrendered myself to the current and the darkness.”

  She looked again at the pictures around the room, at Penelope’s radiant smile revealing the spirit within. “Look at this life of yours. It makes me feel ashamed to have been so cavalier about my own.”

  Unexpected tears ran down her face, and she quickly swiped them away. She wanted to tell her that she’d keep Taj in good shape for her and even found herself thinking about how horses are great for muscle rehabilitation. It was that easy to feel hope in the girl’s room even when her medical training told her there was so very little.

  Robyn stood and nodded. While she still felt the weight and responsibility that came with living, she felt buoyed by the reminder of what a precious gift life is.

  Chapter Fifteen

  By the time Grace paid her cover charge and made her way into The Jambalaya, the place was almost pitch black and packed, the brightest lights focused on the small stage at the back of the long, narrow space.

  She’d planned it that way, so she’d be able to slip up to the bar without being seen by any of the young college lesbians who had given her the heads-up on the poetry reading. The emcee looked like most of the young people on the town plaza, with dreads and a floppy reggae-style hat, tie-dyed T-shirt covered by a flannel plaid shirt and baggy cords held up by a belt that he’d probably woven from hemp himself. From the bar, she couldn’t see his feet, but she was sure he sported Birkenstocks with wool socks.

  Her friends back in Houston teased her about people like this. When she’d told them about her job offer from Humboldt State, they’d immediately Googled the town, finding news about the city council proposing to ban drumming from the plaza. Looking at the pictures of panhandlers, they’d asked if it was a required dress code, and put dibs on the designer labels that filled her closet.

  Despite the town’s casual leaning and the constant rain, Grace still felt most like herself in her form-fitting dresses and tailored straight-lined suits. In Houston, her friends counted on her to dazzle them with her wardrobe. One had teasingly posited that Grace never bought anything unless it had metallic thread, rhinestones or faux fur. She remembered how much they loved her calf-length zebra print coat. She wondered what the crowd here would think if she’d worn that instead of the less conspicuous black skirt suit that she hoped would let her move in and out of the bar unnoticed.

  The emcee stepped aside for the first poet just as the bartender delivered her frou-frou sweet drink. She’d told him to make anything he wanted as long as it included pineapple juice. Her mind was on the drink and scoping out the audience, not on the poetry. The whole drive down to San Francisco and back last weekend, she’d kept returning to Gloria’s suggestion to involve herself in more local activities. So here she was.

  She drank deeply from the cold glass, enjoying the immediate warmt
h that filled her body. She studied the space around her and compared it with the scene she’d left in Houston. There, she’d have shared a glass-topped table with her circle of friends from work instead of leaning an elbow on the bar. She missed the familiarity of the group but not the competitive spark that crackled through every conversation. When she’d taken the job writing grants for a prominent Texas museum, she accepted any invitation extended, always looking to network. Every choice was made with an eye to how it would position her for promotion or bolster her résumé.

  Though they promised they’d always keep in touch and come to see her on the Northcoast, she knew it was just social politeness. They wouldn’t waste their time on someone who had stopped scrambling for the next impressive chance to outdo the others’ successes. She tried to picture them here at The Jambalaya, knowing very well that they would be rolling their eyes at the locals’ poetry and scrunching their noses at the patchouli wafting off the bar’s patrons.

  She had hoped the small-town atmosphere would help her adopt a more laid-back attitude, but the voices of her friends kept inserting their critiques, overpowering the poets. Grace tried to concentrate, but after failing multiple times, she downed the rest of her drink, intending to leave.

  An ancient woman made her way to the stage as Grace stood to go. She eased herself back onto the stool. Her mother had raised her better than to walk out on a crone. Remembering this picked the scab off the hurt of losing her mother long before she’d had a chance to be a crone herself.

  The younger poets had adopted that self-possessed almost rap-like delivery of a poetry slam. This woman voiced her words without such posturing. Grace wished she were closer to the stage, so she could focus on the woman’s lips as she read a poem about drinking her garden in a cup of tea. As she read, the text of her poem on a long scroll of paper crawled through her fingers, pouring over the music stand that served as a podium. Grace could see those weathered fingers working the soil to produce the flowers named in the poem.