Page 21 of The Spirit of Love
“I fucked up the toast,” he says. “But I was thinking…”
He trails off. What was he thinking? Should I stick around long enough to find out? No, I should go. Icouldstay. Ishouldgo. I would stay, if only—
“Oh,” he says, quieter now. And I know he’s found my note.
Which makes it official. And so, finally, I run.
Down the steps and down the path lined by tall grass and wildflowers. Through the woods, which bear no sign of last night’s storm. My eyes sting with regret as I take the fork in the path that leads down to the beach. When I reach the ravine where Sam’s Jeep slipped off the road, I stop and stare.
The mudslide we waded through last night got worse, because half of his car is buried in it. Totaled. For a moment, I see him inside the Jeep, tumbling down. I wince and rub my eyes, shaking away the vision.
He’s healthy and hale, safe in his perfect cabin.
I sigh and stagger downhill to the beach. The water is calm, gently lapping at the shore. It’s like the ocean’s pretending nothing happened here last night.
Walking toward my campsite, I see that the serpent head rock—which I am fairly certain I watched crumble to the sand last night—is…there. Just as it had been when I first arrived.
“Whatisthis?” I demand of Catalina Island. “Are you fucking with me?” I kick the base of the serpent rock.
I don’t know why I’m angry, or who I’m angry with. I sit on the beach and cradle my head in my hands. I inhale, feeling a word forming in my mouth. A word I’m scared to say.
“Sam.” Hearing his name gives me goosebumps. “He was…” I pause to find the words. “Like a dream…except…I held his hand.” I look at my palm, remembering how his fit in mine, remembering the warmth.
A long, lazy wave splashes my feet. In place of present serenity, I see last night’s water, rampaging over black and broken stones. Then I blink and all that’s gone, just calm sea and the sun beating down on my shoulders remaining.
Ever since I readAlice’s Adventures in Wonderlandin eighth grade and then watched the PBS version eight hundred times, I’ve hated the trope of “It was all just a dream.” My English teacher tried to defend it—“No dream is everjusta dream,” he said—but I don’t buy that. We don’t turn to fantasy to be reminded that it’s fantasy. We turn to fantasy because wewantit to be true.
Okay, then. This is my reality. It’s not the vacation I wanted, but you never get the vacation you plan. You get the vacation you get.
I find my Sicilian hammock, matted in sand and popped bullwhip kelp. My tent is on its side, the zipper shredded. I’ll have to buy Edie a replacement. I peer inside and find mybackpack and my books, my phone—either waterlogged or dead—and my sleeping bag. That means my camcorder must be here, too.
I crawl into the tent and search on my hands and knees. When I don’t spot it, I empty the contents of my backpack onto my sleeping bag. Pens from past vacations pour out, but my camcorder doesn’t.
I roll up my sleeping bag and push it outside the tent. The one thing that matters to me is nowhere to be seen. My hands sweep the tent floor. I feel nothing but pebbles, sand, and despair.
I crawl outside and walk in circles around the rocks and prickly pear cacti. I walk up the steep path and turn around to get a better view of my campsite. I look through my viewfinder and beg it to help me.
No camcorder, anywhere.
Let it go, I try to tell myself, but I can’t. Edie brought that camcorder to the hospital the night of my near-death experience. It was the first thing I touched when I came back. I never should have brought it here. I never should have been so careless, never should have let it out of my sight. Now I’ve lost it forever.
I look at my sodden possessions. Even if I manage to hike to town and book a room, I’m not going to ground myself in work tonight. It’s a lie that work is why I fled Sam’s cabin. I fled because I wanted to staytoomuch. But what am I so afraid of, really? Not Sam rejecting me; I’m old enough to handle that. Then what? That I don’t know his mother’s name or what he’s allergic to? That his cabin and his lifestyle and his body and his kindness late last night felttooappealing?
I recall the adage “If it seems too good to be true, it probablyis.” I disagree. That at any moment, life might become too good to be true is what gets me out of bed in the morning.
So then…what’s my problem? What am I waiting for?
The decision makes itself. I grab what I can of my things, stuff my tent inside the beach’s trash can, and then, for the second time this morning, I take off running.
I run up the rocky path, past the place where the taxi dropped me off, past the fork in the road, past the trees and clumps of cacti I’m starting to memorize.
I slow to a walk when I near the cabin. I need to catch my breath, still my heart, and gather myself as much as I can.
I hear a male voice up ahead. I can’t make out the words, but then—
“Ragweed, Sarah…yes.”
When he rounds a corner in the path, Sam breaks off talking and we both jump at the sight of each other.
