by Robin Reul
Natasha perceived vulnerability as a form of weakness—a nasty side effect of her parents’ ugly divorce. I suppose I knew from the get-go I would never get what I needed from her, but that didn’t stop me from bashing my head against the wall trying and then beating myself up for getting exactly what I expected. I realize that’s not what a relationship should be like. I never had a healthy one to compare it to. Not that this is a relationship, this mash-up of sorts with Hallie. It’s just pure, honest connection. No pretenses. It’s nothing I’ve ever experienced, and I like it. It makes me feel hopeful, though I’m not sure about what specifically.
A breeze kicks up. She takes my hand and puts my palm gently against the center of her chest and closes her eyes. She’s not angling for me to feel her up; she wants me to feel her heart beating. It pulses rhythmically under the weight of my fingertips. This is the most personal, totally nonsexual moment I have ever shared with anyone.
The spell is broken as a breeze kicks up, pushing water into the pipes. There’s a variegated baritone grumble as it regurgitates back into the bay. It doesn’t last but a second or two, and the best way I can describe the sound is someone emptying a can of chicken soup while playing a didgeridoo. It’s that unique. We listen for it to repeat, but it doesn’t, which makes it all the more magical, like the universe made it happen just for us. We’re two people in the wrong place at the right time.
I notice a man and a woman around my parents’ age walking down the stairs, and the moment morphs into a shared space. Hallie is still holding my hand to her chest. I smile awkwardly and retract it. She smooths out the front of her shirt. The couple winds their way toward us, all friendly smiles.
“Good morning!” the couple says as they descend upon us. “You guys hear anything?”
Before I can answer, Hallie shakes her head and reaches for my hand, leading us out of the enclave. “No, it’s low tide.”
Perhaps she’s hoping it will discourage them and they’ll leave, or maybe she wants to keep what we heard our secret. We check out a few more tubes and then, with one more look at the view, we start to walk back up the jetty toward the city.
“I want to come back again one day at high tide,” she tells me.
“How about high tide one year from right now?”
She laughs. “How would we know when high tide is a year from now? Unless you actually do, which wouldn’t at all surprise me.”
“Amazingly, I don’t. I’d have to actually google and find an almanac. I’m serious, though—how cool would that be?”
“Very.” She smiles thoughtfully and then adds, “But a year is a long time. A lot can happen.”
“True.” I wonder if she means actual events taking place or if she’s worried she won’t be here a year from now.
“How about six months then? That would be December fifth.”
“I’ll have to check my calendar, but I might be able to squeeze it in.”
“Excellent.” I pull out my phone and google high tide on December fifth this year in San Francisco. “Are you a late-night person or an afternoon person?”
“I’m a whenever person. Why?”
“You have a choice. High tide occurs at twelve fifty-six a.m. and again at eleven thirty a.m.”
She puts a finger to her chin thoughtfully. “I say twelve fifty-six. Potentially fewer people. And then we can walk around the city and get a late-night bite somewhere.”
“Sounds perfect.” I enter it into my phone calendar so that she can see. “That’s a date.”
Well, at least we have a plan to see each other now. That’s something.
I pluck one of the yellow flowers lining the path and sniff it. The smell reminds me of biscotti.
“That’s anise,” she says. “The flower you’re holding. The stems and leaves smell like licorice. It’s an herb.” She rubs one of the leaves between her fingers and then holds it to her nose.
“See? Now look who’s Human Google.”
“Finally brought down by botany. I knew you were too good to be true.”
“You got me.” I give the flower another sniff and then toss it into the water. A group of pelicans fly by and make a synchronistic nosedive straight down, scooping up breakfast in their orange bills.
“What time is it?” she asks.
I check my phone. “Nine fifty-six. Not a lot of time.”
She wiggles her eyebrows. “Enough to get a small tattoo.”
Chapter 16
Hallie
Saturday, June 5, 9:56 a.m.
A Google search yields that the only tattoo parlor for miles that opens before noon is only a few streets from here, so we take it as a sign, confirmation that this is an excellent idea. I love the idea of putting stories that I choose on my skin, rather than the ones the scars leave behind. The fact that Jack is totally down to get inked too only makes it more meaningful.
“I always wanted to get a tattoo, but my parents told me I had to wait until I was eighteen,” I tell him. “Specifically, I’ve always wanted a dragonfly tattoo—dragonflies are symbolic of change and transformation. They are born in water, and as they mature, they change colors and can fly in the air. They make a complete metamorphosis, ever-adapting to their changing environment and transcending their former selves, just like the soul. Something about them has always resonated with me and given me hope.”
“It’s weird; ever since my dad died, I see dragonflies all the time. It almost feels like your getting that particular image is like some sign he’s actually here and that he knows what I’m doing and he’s okay with it. Does that sound strange?”
“Not to me,” I assure him. “In some Indigenous traditions, they are thought to be a link between here and the spirit world, so people often report seeing them or butterflies a lot after a loved one has passed on.”
His expression brightens. “Maybe that’s what I’ll get too. For my dad.”
Even if I never see him again, I kind of like knowing we’ll both be out there in the world somewhere walking around with matching dragonfly tattoos. On the way Jack tells me, “I once heard this horrible story about this guy who went with his girlfriend and they were each going to get their names tattooed on each other’s chests. The tattoo artist tried to talk them out of it, but they insisted, so the guy goes first, and the tattoo artist puts the girlfriend’s name in huge letters across his chest. When he finishes and it’s her turn, she turns to the guy and says, ‘This’ll teach you to sleep with my best friend. I want to make sure you’ll never forget me for the rest of your life,’ and walks out.”
“Oh my god!” I crack up. As we get to the shop, I ask him, “So are we really doing this?”
He nods and smiles. “I think we are.”
Inside, we are informed that there is an eighty-five dollar minimum. It’s like the air has been sucked out of a balloon. I didn’t expect it to be free, but I had no idea that tattoos cost that much. Jack immediately says that it’s no problem and hands the shop owner a credit card for both.
“No way. Coffee and a burrito are one thing, but this is too much.”
“Breakfast burritos and coffee are on you in December, how’s that? Seriously, I want to. I like how every time we’ll look at them, we’ll think about this day. Proof this wasn’t all just a dream. We were here.”
He’s so sincere that I can’t argue. “Deal.”
Jack grins as he settles into the chair. Annika—my tattoo artist—has bright-red hair, and every visible square inch of her except her face is covered in tattoos. I take this as assurance somehow that she knows her craft. I barely flinch as she skillfully inks my wrist. I look over at Jack, who is clenching his teeth as the needle repeatedly pricks his skin. Later, he holds up his right thumb, showing me the small, dime-sized dragonfly right below the knuckle.
“So that just happened. My therapist, Carole, would totally approve, whic
h is good, because my mother won’t. She’ll hate it. Honestly, in a way that makes it all the more appealing.”
We get a quick rundown of how to care for our new tattoos, and then we’re back on the street hailing a cab back to the bus station.
“I love it,” I tell him and flip over my wrist, looking at mine through the protective plastic wrap. It feels like I got stung by five wasps, and the skin is puffy and red in a halo around the design. “I’m so glad we did it—together, I mean. I might not have had the guts to do that on my own, and I’ve always wanted to.”
“Well, anyway, I can honestly say I would definitely not have done that without you. Getting a tattoo was not part of the plan.”
“You mean your plan that is not having a plan?”
“Exactly. The very best kind.”
We exchange smiles, but his eyes look sad, and once again I feel the weight of my imminent departure. I have to keep reminding myself that this friendship we’ve developed over the last twelve hours—it’s temporary. Whatever this is, we’re not going to get to keep it.
Once again, we’re back at the bus terminal. When he walks me inside so I can grab my bag and say goodbye, we discover that my bus is now delayed another hour until 2:00 p.m.
“This is a joke, right?” I ask, feeling déjà vu as I sit down with a thud on the nearest bench. At this point I’ll be getting to Medford after midnight, which will be problematic.
I haven’t checked my phone since the time I tried but had no reception. I suppose unconsciously I didn’t want anything to stand in my way once I’d made the decision to go. As I power it on, my screen is immediately littered with text notifications.
I scan them rapid-fire. They are all responses to a group text from one of my friends on the board chat, the first of which was sent about three hours ago. My stomach starts swimming as I read them.
“As someone once told me, just send them a thumbs-up—positive acknowledgement that lets someone know you’re alive, and that’s all you really owe anyone at this point,” Jack suggests playfully.
Time stops.
I press my fingers to my lips, and a tear silently rolls down my cheek. No, no, no, no. The immediate shock quickly gives way to a deep sadness that courses through my body.
“Are you okay?” Jack asks as I shake my head. He sits down beside me on the bench, placing one hand gently on my shoulder and angling himself toward me. “Hallie, what’s wrong?”
Another tear breaks free. My voice catches in my throat. “Owen’s gone.”
The tears start rolling one after the other, leaving burning trails down my cheeks. I knew this was going to happen, but now that it actually has, I’m gutted. My mind races to process that he no longer exists on the planet. I’ve never known anyone that’s died before, and losing Owen suddenly makes the reality of my situation ten times more real. That could just as easily have been me. Cancer doesn’t give a crap whether you’re eight or eighteen or eighty. I suddenly feel alone, far from home, and unsure of what to do next. A sob escapes, and Jack puts his arms around me, drawing me to his chest. He whispers, “I’m sorry.”
I cry into his T-shirt. He says it again.
My chin quivers. When I pull back, he has tears in his eyes. I know he understands the emptiness I’m experiencing.
“How did you find out?” he asks.
“I got a group text from someone else on the boards. Apparently, it happened late last night. He took a turn for the worse and had his whole family around him, and then he took the meds, and he went to sleep. It was very peaceful.”
I dab at the corners of my eyes with the cuff of his sweatshirt. It smells like lavender laundry detergent.
“So, what are you going to do?” he asks. “Are you still going to Medford?”
“What would be the point? It’s too late.” I shake my head and look around the bus terminal. “It’s not fair.”
“I know.” Grief is grief, and we understand each other’s language. “For what it’s worth, I honestly believe you can still tell him everything you wanted to say and he’ll hear you. I get lots of signs from my dad that he’s still around. Like those dragonflies. Or sometimes I’ll find pennies right after I’m thinking about him. It’s happened too many times for me to think it’s purely a coincidence. I think they want us to know they’re alright. And I believe they are. It’s the ones left behind that have a hard time with it. Relationships in life don’t really end, even if you never see the person again. Every person we’ve connected with lives on inside of us somewhere.”
“I believe you,” I say and sniffle. “Owen was one of the most positive people I’ve ever known. No matter how sick he got, he had the best attitude. We were going through this together. He was who I talked to about stuff. But him dying—it’s surreal. Scary, you know?”
He lifts my hand and places it in one of his, then covers it with his other hand. I wipe away my tears with my free hand and look at him. He’s so genuine and sweet. It’s exactly why I don’t want to exchange numbers with him. I don’t want to have to experience the pain of discovering he’s anything less than perfect. I’d rather leave what this is or isn’t to fate. It gives me something to hold on to.
Jack looks at me and asks quietly, “You wouldn’t ever consider doing what Owen did, would you? Assisted suicide?” Before I can answer, he adds, “Sorry, you don’t have to answer that if you don’t want to. It’s none of my business.”
I sniffle. “No, it’s okay. If I knew there was nothing more that could be done and I was in pain all the time? Maybe. I don’t know—it seems selfish to put everyone through so much additional stress and prolong the situation when you know how the story’s going to end. I’m grateful to have the option should I ever want it, anyway.” I look around the terminal and sigh deeply. “I guess the universe is telling me it’s time to go home.”
“Right.”
I don’t move. My feet feel anchored to the floor. “The idea of being alone right now and sitting with my thoughts for hours after this devastating news is overwhelming.”
“So, hang out and come with me to look for Alex.”
Our eyes meet. “Really?”
“Yeah. I mean—if you want.”
I would never have asked, but honestly, I’m so grateful for the offer. Being with Jack makes me feel safe right now. “I don’t want to be in the way. I can take off when you find him. I could keep you company until then though, and then I’ll get a ride back here.”
“That’d be great.”
I change my ticket to the 8:00 p.m. bus to Los Angeles while he pulls up a map on his phone to his brother’s last known address.
Chapter 17
Jack
Saturday, June 5, 10:58 a.m.
My brother lives near Chinatown, sort of up a straight line and over a few blocks from here. It’s about a nineteen-minute walk and close to the same by car with current traffic, so we opt to hoof it.
Hallie leaves her bag at the terminal again, but I bring my backpack with me because I have no idea what’s about to unfold and where it might lead me.
We head down Folsom to Fremont, turn left on Battery and right on Bush until we reach Grant Street and the famous green-tiled Dragon Gate arch that leads to Chinatown, guarded on either side by giant stone lions. With every step, my nerves ramp up.
As we walk, I try to imagine for a minute that Hallie and I are here just being tourists too. Two friends exploring the city, shopping and eating and talking and laughing like life is completely normal.
It’s amazing how different the neighborhood becomes as soon as we pass under the archway. The buildings are all three to four stories high with shops on the ground floor and apartments above. They are painted different colors, and many are run down. All the signs are written in Chinese and English. Red lanterns dangle overhead, strung from rooftop to rooftop. Souvenir shops overflow with Buddhas,
trinkets, and I Heart San Francisco merch.
The air smells like incense and something else—garlic and ginger maybe?—from the gazillion Chinese restaurants competing up and down every neighboring street. Interspersed between the numerous fresh fish and produce markets are bakeries, tea shops, and foot massage parlors. It’s as if we are on a bustling street in Hong Kong, not miles from redwoods and the Golden Gate Bridge. The building numbers start to climb as we head north in search of Alex’s last known address.
“You okay?” Hallie asks.
“Yeah, why?”
“You have this look on your face…”
“I’m fine. Just a little nervous.” I’m reassuring myself as much as I’m telling her. “How are you doing? About Owen?”
“I’m okay. Thanks for checking.”
“Of course.” I look at the number on the nearest building. We’re getting super close. Just a little farther down. “Thanks for coming with me. It means a lot.”
“Anytime.” She smiles and gives my hand a light squeeze. Unfortunately, it’s the hand with the tattoo, so it’s less comforting than it might have been otherwise, but the gesture grounds me.
And then we find it. It’s an unassuming, faded-green three-story apartment building that has seen better days, above a psychic reader storefront. It is flanked on either side by Top Ming’s Beauty Salon on the right and Hop Sing Trading Company to the left. I scan the names at the buzzers, but everything is written in Chinese, because of course it is.
“How do I know which one is his? If it even is his?” I ask. I highly consider pressing them all. That seems to work in movies; someone is bound to be trusting enough to let me in.
I ask three different people passing by if they can translate the buzzers for me, and not one of them speaks English. Finally, a woman passes by who understands my request and rambles off a bunch of Chinese names, none of which sound like Freeman.