She saw herself reflected in the mirrors behind the counter—her hair and face and arms covered with paint, so that she seemed just another wild image, a part of the incredible wall behind her, like one of those 3-D hologram pictures you could stare at and then, whoa, a girl appeared.
“Very nice, Marquez,” she said aloud to her reflection. She was exhausted and angry with herself, as she usually was after working on the wall. “Just be sure when you go to Harvard you get a room with wallpaper.”
3
You Meet the Most Interesting People When You Should Be Sleeping.
Lying back asleep, his chest and legs bare, his blond hair fanned out, his eyes closed but fluttering behind his eyelids, he swirled down and down, falling in a way that had once scared him but now seemed familiar. He was falling down that same whirlpool, landing in that same dusty corridor, sticky with cobwebs, dimly lit. He followed it, the way he always did, back through time, back and back, brushing the cobwebs aside.
He emerged in the grassy field again, smaller, as he always was in the dream. A tiny little boy, struck by how close the grass seemed, how near he was to the ground.
And there it was. The red ball.
And there she was. The sun. The bright ball of light that had begun to appear in his dream.
As he bent to pick up the ball, he noticed for the first time that he was wearing shorts. White shorts. And a white shirt.
Summer lay on her side, a sheet pulled up to her neck, one foot sticking out, her blond hair fanned across the pillow. Her breathing grew thready and uncertain, as it did when she dreamed.
For a while she was on the plane, listening yet again to the woman tell her tale of the tarot cards.
“But look,” Summer said to the woman, “I didn’t meet three guys. It was four.”
“No, no, no,” the woman said, shaking her head. “Just three. The other one isn’t yours. Pay attention.”
And then Summer was no longer on the airplane. She was no longer anyplace she knew. She was standing in a field, beside a swing set, only not standing. She was floating.
And there before her was the little boy in white. He was just picking up a red ball.
“I know you,” she said to the little boy.
It was then that for the first time in his dreams, the sun spoke to him. “I know you,” the sun said.
He held the ball in his hand. “I don’t know you,” he said. “I can’t. You aren’t here yet.”
“Oh,” the sun said. “I don’t like that ball.”
He nodded. “I know. It’s not the ball’s fault, though.”
“I guess not,” the sun said. “But…don’t throw it.”
He knew the sun was right. He knew what followed from throwing the ball. “I’ve tried not to,” he said. “But what was has to be.”
Summer wanted to reach out and stop him somehow, but she seemed not to have a body. She was just a warm circle of light.
The little boy threw the ball. It flew through the air and landed. It rolled and came to a stop by a fence.
“Don’t chase it,” she pleaded. She didn’t know why, but she felt dread filling her up, dimming the golden light she cast, chilling the warmth.
“I have to. I always have to,” the little boy said. “It’s the way it happened….”
“…I have to chase it. Maybe then I can find the truth,” he said. He smiled at the sun. The sun was worried, but she couldn’t help. She wasn’t really there. That much he knew. That she wasn’t real…not yet.
“Who are you?” the sun asked.
“I don’t know,” he said. “That’s why I have to chase the ball.”
Summer watched, helpless, as he chased the ball to the fence. Beyond the low fence, on the other side, was a car. The car door was open, and sitting there, sad beyond endurance, was a woman. A man stood by the fence.
The little boy in white stopped at the fence. He picked up the ball.
“No,” Summer whispered.
The man reached over the fence and lifted the boy up high over the fence.
In her mind, she heard the boy cry out in fear. And all the light was gone. She was no longer the sun, though she was still warm, a glowing circle of warmth, safe and secure. But she heard that echoing cry deep in her heart even as she emerged from darkness into a harsh light and heard for the first time her own shrill, tiny, newborn voice repeating her brother’s wail.
Summer cried out.
Her cry woke her. Her pillow was soaked with tears.
“Oh, jeez,” she moaned. “Stop eating before you go to bed, Summer.”
That was how it had happened, Summer realized. Sixteen years ago. Jonathan had been in the playground at the day care center, playing with his favorite chewed-up red ball. Then he had simply disappeared. Witnesses said they might have noticed a car parked by the fence. There might have been a man standing there. But no one could be sure.
Jonathan. J.T.? Had she really met him in her dream? Had any of it been real?
What kind of reality could you expect in a dream?
The night before, she’d been in the cave, with Seth sleeping beside her. She’d slept with her head resting on his chest, listening to the sound of his breathing. Now she felt so alone.
She hugged her pillow close. It just wasn’t the same. She felt abandoned, which she knew was dumb. She hated feeling abandoned. Hated it.
“I wish you were here, Seth,” she whispered.
Diana had often had difficulty sleeping, especially during the past year—the year that had come to be defined by the incident with Ross. She’d often lain awake, thinking of death. It had become a ritual—recalling the attempted rape; recalling in excruciating detail the moment when she’d realized that Adam was betraying her to protect his brother; remembering the feelings of self-loathing that had eaten at her, driving her again and again into the deep hole she thought would one day become her final experience of life.
But on this night she was not lying awake for those reasons. Not that depression was so far away—she could still feel its evil, seductive contours close by, calling softly to her. Depression had lured her often, even before the incident with Ross. That had merely lowered her defenses, made her vulnerable. And even now Diana was not on the verge of becoming a giddy optimist. She was not, she thought wryly, about to be reborn as Summer. But she had flushed the carefully hoarded pills down the toilet, flushed away her safety net of suicide.
She was restless. At first she’d fallen asleep easily, but she’d awakened an hour later, alert. Since then she’d lain there, tossing the covers on or off, fluffing pillows, trying every sleeping position—her back, her side, her other side, facedown. None with any success.
She replayed the events of the day till they became as familiar as old Simpsons reruns. The trip to the police. Showing the video. The statement she’d dictated and signed. The realization that her actions had sent a weird thrill through everyone in the FDLE office, part awe, part anticipation. They’d asked her to speak to no one, to let them decide when to take action. But she had come away certain that they would take action. By the time she’d left, the number of FDLE personnel had tripled—men staring at her, not in the usual way at all, but as if she were some rare, dangerous animal.
It was interesting, being dangerous. It made her smile in the darkness. But at the same time she felt uneasy. Not afraid so much as vaguely nauseated.
“I’m not going to get any sleep, am I?” she muttered.
She answered her own question by climbing out of bed. She retrieved the gauzy white robe she’d left on her chair, slipped it on, and went to the sliding glass door that opened onto her private balcony.
The night air was warmer than the air-conditioning by at least ten degrees. It had to be close to eighty, with humidity so thick it sparkled in the air like steam.
She went to the railing and rested both her hands on the wood. The moon peeked around a drifting cumulus. Most of the sky was clear, starlight twinkling through the damp air.
The water of the bay was calm, as it almost always was, just tiny ripples to reflect the moonlight. Across the bay was the other side of Crab Claw Key—a few porch lights shining here and there; someone who insisted on shining spotlights on a tall palm; and down near the point, the green light that marked the end of the Merricks’ dock.
Suddenly Diana felt uncomfortable. She felt as if…as if she were being watched. She glanced toward the Merrick estate. Surely there was no way they could see her from that distance—
She heard a slight rustling in the bushes below. Diana peered through the gloom. “Hey, who’s there?”
No answer for a moment. Then a less surreptitious movement, someone stepping back from the bushes, stepping into the moonlight on the lawn.
“Don’t be scared, it’s just me.”
It took Diana a moment to place the voice. She’d only heard it once before. One meeting, every single detail of which had stayed fresh in her mind. “Diver?”
“Yeah. Sorry. I wasn’t sneaking around or anything.”
Diana considered this. If he wasn’t sneaking around, what exactly was he doing? Her heart was pounding. Her throat was tight. If she didn’t know better, if Diana had not known herself to be cool and removed and not even slightly interested in a flake like Diver…well, if she hadn’t known all those things, she’d have thought she was excited to see him.
“Wait there, I’ll come down,” Diana said. “I don’t want Mallory—my mother—to wake up.”
“I could come up there,” Diver said. His voice sounded strange, almost shaky. Probably just the strain of whispering.
“The door’s locked downstairs,” Diana said. “I’d have to come down to let you in, anyway.”
“No problem,” Diver said.
To Diana’s amazement, he planted a foot on the trellis that covered the outside wall of the family room, climbed to the top, levered himself up onto the roof of the family room, and walked across the sloping Spanish tiles to a point just above her balcony.
He stood there above her, wearing, as always, nothing but a pair of trunks. Summer had told her Diver never wore anything more. When his original trunks had been ripped, Diana, Summer, and Marquez had gone shopping to buy him a more complete wardrobe, but by the time they’d returned, he’d bummed an old pair of Seth’s trunks and now seemed to think all his needs were met.
And, in fact, looking at him now, arm and shoulder and chest outlined in moonlight, Diana could see no good reason why he should be wearing anything more than he was.
“Come on down,” Diana said.
He squatted at the edge of the roof and jumped lightly down beside her.
Diana was suddenly very aware of the sheerness of her robe, and the way the humidity had made it cling here and there. She backed away a few feet, making it look like a natural desire to gaze off toward the open water at the bay’s mouth.
Diver seemed content to let the silence stretch. Diana considered going inside, finding some less flagrant thing to wear. But then, Diver always said he wasn’t interested in girls. That’s what Summer reported, anyway. He said that girls would disturb his inner peace, his wa.
It would serve him right if she did disturb his wa. Having him this close by seemed to be disturbing hers.
“Summer’s okay,” Diver said after a while. “I thought I should tell you.”
“What do you mean?”
“They found her.”
“What do you mean? Was she lost?”
“Yes,” he said.
Diana shook her head. Clearly this was supposed to mean something, but she didn’t have the slightest idea what. And she was a little annoyed to be standing there discussing Summer.
“Then I’m glad they found her,” Diana said, making a mental note to ask Summer what had been going on.
Silence fell again. But now Diana realized she’d moved closer to Diver, and the obscure agitation she’d felt lying in bed was worse. She felt irritated. She plucked at the front of her robe to keep it from clinging.
“You know, I think Summer is kind of into Seth,” Diana said. The words were out of her mouth several seconds before she began to think about them. “I mean…” Okay, now what did she mean?
“I like Seth,” Diver said. “He’s the one who gave me these.” He pointed at his trunks.
“So you’re not jealous?” Diana said, digging the hole deeper.
He looked at her blankly. Then a slow, dawning smile.
He was beautiful, Diana realized, feeling inexplicably demoralized by the realization.
“It’s not that way with Summer,” Diver said shyly.
“Yeah, I know,” Diana said dismissively. “Girls disturb your wa.” Beautiful eyes. Beautiful lips. Even his hands…She wouldn’t mind holding his hand. The thought shocked her. Because it wasn’t as if she was thinking with her usual casual detachment that she would like to hold his hand—no, it was as if she was suddenly entirely focused, with absolute intensity, on the single idea of touching him.
“Some more than others,” Diver said.
“What?” Diana managed to ask.
“Some girls disturb me more than others,” he clarified.
Diana struggled for just the right thing to say. Something clever but not too coy. Something normal-sounding, even though she was feeling distinctly abnormal. What she wanted to say was, What girl? Summer? Marquez? Me? Hillary Clinton? Did I mention me? What she did say was, “Uh-huh. Yeah. I guess that would be true. So I guess you’d just want to stay away from that type of girl.”
He nodded solemnly. “Yes.” Then he grinned impishly. “I suppose you think I’m crazy, right?”
Diana started to mouth the properly polite response, but then she laughed. “Diver, I can’t call anyone crazy. When it comes to crazy, I don’t think you’re even in my league.”
He said nothing, just waited.
“You know what I used to do? Every night?” Diana asked. “Right inside there, in my bed?”
“No.”
“I used to lie there and think about killing myself,” she said. “So how’s that for crazy?” She began tapping her fingers on the wooden railing. “I had these pills. I used to enjoy counting them, you know? As long as I had them, I felt safe, like in a way I could deal with everything because in the end—well, in the end, there was always the end.”
She waited for him to say something. And when he remained silent, she sighed. Brilliant, Diana. Wonderful. By all means, spill your guts to this near stranger. Right now he’s wondering how he got himself into this. Right now he’s hoping you don’t have a weapon.
“Maybe you’d better take off,” Diana said bitterly. Why had she done this? Why had she dragged her problems out for display?
“I don’t think that would be an end,” Diver said, surprising her.
“What?”
“I think that killing yourself isn’t a real end to whatever pain you have. I think…I guess I think you can’t look at life as having a neat beginning and middle and end, like a book. If you felt bad and killed yourself, those bad feelings would just go on to someone else—your mother, your friends. That’s not right. You have to take the bad things that happen to you and…I don’t know, change them. Turn them into something else.”
“How about turning them into revenge?” Diana asked. “That’s my present plan. Do to them what they did to you.”
Diver shrugged. “I don’t know about that. I guess I never got that chance.”
Diana looked at him closely. He was telling her something important about himself. She started to ask him, but stopped herself. “You know, if you ever wanted to tell anyone…talk to anyone…I mean, like I said, I’m not someone who can ever call anyone else crazy.”
Diver nodded.
“I wouldn’t disturb your wa or anything,” Diana said, trying to lighten the mood.
Diver bit his lip and looked away. “Yes, you would.” He faced her, solemn, even sad. He raised his hand and, with only the lightest touch, stroked her cheek.
“The other day, when I saw you…Afterward I went to Marquez’s house with her,” he said. “I thought maybe she would make me forget. She kissed me. But I didn’t forget. I was waiting for you tonight. Down in the bushes. Hoping you’d come out on the balcony. I was wishing you could just know that I was there. That I was calling you.”
Diana took his hand and held it pressed against her cheek. “I couldn’t sleep. I guess I heard you.” She closed her eyes and savored the touch of his hand.
“I have to go,” Diver said.
“Yes. Me too. Thanks for coming by.”
Diana let him leave, though breaking the contact caused an almost physical sensation of pain and loss. He’d revealed all he could for one night, Diana knew. And so had she.
4
Unknowns, Uncertains, and Unstables
“Hi, Mom, it’s me, Summer. Look, I have something very serious to tell you. Maybe you should sit down. This is going to be the biggest thing I have ever told you.”
Summer wiped the steam off the bathroom mirror and looked at her reflection. Her reflection made a dissatisfied face at her and slowly shook her head.
“If I tell Mom she should sit down, she’ll think I got pregnant or something,” she told her reflection. “She’ll reach through the phone and strangle me.”
Summer flipped on the blow-dryer, used it to evaporate the rest of the steam, and then started on her hair.
“Mom! Hey, guess what! You are never going to believe this. Jonathan isn’t dead or anything. He may be right here. He’s a cook.”
She rolled her eyes. “He’s a cook? Any other irrelevant information you’d like to include?”
She hung the dryer on the hook and went into the main room. Her gaze fell on the framed picture of her parents that she kept on her nightstand. She sat on the edge of her unmade bed and held the picture in her hands. “Mom, I have to tell you something, and it’s kind of major, so I’m just going to say it—Jonathan is alive, and I think I’ve found him.” She sighed. “At least, maybe I have. So maybe you should be happy. Maybe you should get all excited and call Daddy and tell him that sixteen years of being sad are over. Maybe.”
Beach Blondes: June Dreams / July's Promise / August Magic Page 33