means I should get dressed. I’ve
been sitting here in my jammies.
I slip into the purple bikini I
haven’t even looked at since
Hawaii. It reminds me of Cole,
chiding me for dressing too
provocatively. Wonder what he’d
think about my going surfing
with Jonah. Scratch that.
I don’t wonder at all. I know
exactly what he’d think.
AND YET
I’m going. I leave my ring stashed
beneath my underwear. Probably
the first place a burglar would look,
but still. I don’t want to wear it
riding big water. If it came off,
I’d lose it forever. I hide the bikini
beneath jeans and a sweatshirt,
French braid my hair. Grab my
board, hoping it’s long enough.
I’ve never attempted swells
much bigger than six feet.
These could easily be twice that.
Excitement and fear collide
in a heady torrent of blood
through my veins. For about
a half second, I consider
a Xanax. Toss the notion
aside. This particular variety
of anxiousness is righteous.
I want to stay sharp, not feel
all blurred around the edges.
I walk by my laptop, where
a beaming bride poses midst
a vineyard. Hit Hibernate.
THE WOODIE IS TOTALLY COOL
Cooler than the BMW. It’s cherry
red, with big polished wood panels
in back. Super clean. Super Jonah.
“I didn’t know cars like this really
existed. It’s so . . . Beach Boys.”
Jonah slides my board up on
the roof rack, secures it carefully.
You know the Beach Boys?
“Well, sure. Doesn’t everyone?
They’re quintessential California.”
Yeah, like forty years ago.
Don’t tell me you’ve heard
of Jan and Dean, too.
I wink at him. “She’s the little
old lady from Pasadena.” It’s a fair
imitation of the original.
You are just full of surprises.
He gives me a lightning-quick sideways
hug, then opens the car door for me.
I can still feel the grip of his hand
on my shoulder as I squish into
the cushy leather seat. “They built ’em
for comfort back then, didn’t they?”
That, they did. Make yourself
at home. He looks just like I pictured
him as he motors us to Encinitas,
except it’s too cool to put down
the windows so his hair can blow
back. Still, he’s so Jan and Dean.
I glance over the seat, where two
neoprene suits, one Jonah-size, one
smaller, look a lot like beheaded seals.
“So, do you keep an extra wetsuit
around, just in case some girl
wants to go winter riding with you?”
It’s a flip throwaway question, so
I don’t expect the serious answer.
You’re the first girl I’ve gone
surfing with since my wife left.
It was hers. Hope you don’t mind.
“Uh, no. Not at all.” I forgot he had
a wife once. He mentioned her
wanderlust in passing that time.
“How long were you married?”
Five years. Well, officially five.
Velia split after three and a half.
Met a guy she liked better. An Aussie.
Last I heard, they’d moved Down Under.
When I tell him I’m sorry, he shrugs.
Don’t be. She and I were worse
than oil and water. We were more
like kerosene and flame. Volatile.
Definitely not meant to be together.
RELATIONSHIPS
Are just weird. You think
you belong together. Find
out you don’t. Some people
stay. Smart people go. Except
sometimes you can’t. You have
kids together or your bank
account is empty or there are
special circumstances like your
husband being a burn victim.
Or, like my parents, you’re just
too damn stubborn to admit you
made a major mistake. How many
people meet, hook up, commit,
and find themselves glad they did
after a decade or two together?
I muse out loud, “Do you think
it’s possible for two people to
stay in love forever? Or at least
to stay content together forever?”
Yes. No hesitation at all. I do.
Too many people get together
for the wrong reasons—sexual
attraction. Or escape. If they can’t
find common interests, build
a friendship, those relationships
are probably doomed. He turns
onto a long boulevard. Too bad
it doesn’t work the other way
more often. When love evolves
from friendship, it must be stronger.
SWAMI’S
Is an elongated stretch of beautiful
beach. I can see why it’s so popular.
Especially today, with big, rolling breaks.
Probably ten- or eleven-foot swells.
As Jonah gathers the gear, I watch
a couple of rides. Again, that blend
of fear and anticipation quickens
my heartbeat. The slight trepidation
I feel must be obvious somehow
because Jonah asks, Nervous?
“A little,” I admit. “They’re a bit bigger
than what I’m used to. Any tips?”
First of all, a bit of fear is good.
It keeps you thinking. Be patient.
Don’t take the first wave in the set.
If you’re not sure, watch me or one
of the others to know when to go.
Then paddle in hard. Harder than
you might normally. Use the power
of the wave to your advantage.
Once you’ve done one or two, you’ll
be fine. And remember, this is fun.
ALL SQUEEZED
Into Velia’s wetsuit, I follow Jonah
to the water’s edge. Stand for a minute,
watching the surf, and the two dozen
or so guys and exactly three girls
working it already. They’re good,
but I don’t think they’re better than
I am, so when Jonah asks if I’m ready,
I flip my head in answer. The initial
splash into the winter Pacific takes
my breath. But almost immediately,
the neoprene goes to work. I’m warm.
I paddle out after Jonah, admiring
his contours. We push hard over the breaks,
finally reach the semistill water beyond.
Be smart, be safe, and if those two
things fail, I’ve got your back, says
Jonah. We watch a couple of sets.
Finally, I give him a nod meaning
I understand the water’s rhythm.
The perfect wave starts to roll in front
of me. I don’t look right nor left, but
rely on my instinct and paddle hard.
Harder than I’ve ever paddled before.
Instinct yells, “Stand up.” Next thing
I know, I’m on my feet and a powerful
force
is pushing me forward and it curls
behind me in excellent fashion. I don’t
panic or fall. I just ride. And it is the best
thing I’ve ever done. At least, for myself.
Rewind
AS THE TIME APPROACHED
For Cole’s last homecoming, I was equal
parts relieved and worried-as-hell. His
e-mails were coherent. Outlined, maybe.
Plotted to sound as reasonable as I hoped
they would be. Had I only heard from him
via the web, I would probably have felt fine.
But his infrequent calls were vaguely disturbing.
Not so much because of what he said.
Because of how he didn’t say much
of anything. “Are you feeling okay?”
I always asked. “Headaches gone?”
Mostly, he always answered. Except
when they’re not. Sometimes they’re
regular motherfuckers. He was manning
up, I thought. But I wanted the truth,
not that I knew how to pry it from him.
I checked out his Facebook page
more regularly than at any other time
in our relationship. His posts remained
few and spare. From time to time, I saw
replies from his mother. From Spence.
Other grunts he knew, or didn’t. A school
buddy or two. But from Lara, just that
one post for weeks and weeks. And then
came a second. YOUR MOM TOLD ME YOU
WERE INJURED. PROMISE ME YOU’RE OKAY.
Cole’s response was nothing more
than congenial. AH, YOU KNOW MOM.
SHE WORRIES WHEN I GET A BLISTER.
I’M ONE HUNDRED PERCENT EXCEPTIONAL
BUT YOU KNOW THAT ALREADY, RIGHT?
Nothing in the exchange sounded
like anything but a concerned ex-girlfriend,
stress on the “ex,” asking about Cole’s
welfare. His reply was rather ambiguous.
A little flirty but with no overt hints
of romantic entanglement. My jealous
reaction to their ongoing communication
was totally unreasonable. Probably.
And my anger at Rochelle was completely
off the charts. Why were she and Lara
in such obvious touch? Rochelle knew
about me. Had welcomed me into her home,
let me stand next to her son as witness
to her vows with Dale. Did she prefer
Lara? Maybe even want Cole to break
up with me so he could get back with his
ex? I thought about the letter stash, especially
the most recent one, which had to have
been mailed in care of Rochelle, and
suddenly I felt like a fool, caught up in
some soap opera conspiracy. Since
Rochelle and Lara were on speaking
terms, had they spoken about me at all?
IT WAS A WOUND
Left to fester. Truthfully, I might have
said something except just about
the time Cole touched down in Kaneohe
Bay, we got the news about Dale.
Those bouts of indigestion and heartburn?
Well, everybody got those, right? And
what was a little nausea but a bad case
of the flu? Okay, several bad cases.
Bloating. Middle-aged spread, and maybe
he should eat a little more fiber. But then
the blood in his stools became regular.
It was probably just an ulcer. His dad
got ulcers. Cured them with cream.
But even drinking all that cream
didn’t help the burn or keep the weight
from dropping off. Finally, Rochelle insisted
he go see the doctor. And by then it
was much too late. When Cole took
his leave, we went back to Wyoming
together. The cheerful ranch house
was shrouded with sadness. Cancer.
It struck viciously. Without regard
for the life it had already made ragged
once. Rochelle had lost her daughter
to it, and now she would lose her husband.
Oh, they would try radical treatment,
but Dale should have gone in sooner.
He already looked wraithlike—ghostly
white and skeleton thin. I barely recognized
him. And I didn’t know what to say.
WHAT DO YOU SAY
To a man you’ve met only once—
one you like, but don’t really know—
when it’s obvious his time is short?
What do you say to his wife, your
boyfriend’s mother, who might be
subtly interfering with the relationship
you’re trying to build, when worrying
about that seems trite and petty, in
the shadow of her tomorrow? What
do you say to your boyfriend, who
is struggling to shore up his mother,
when it’s clear she’s crumbling, but
determined not to show it because
that would mean she’s acquiesced
to the will of fate—not God’s will, no,
because the God of love could not
be so capricious or cruel? There was
nothing to say. So I kept mostly quiet
for the best part of three days. I held
Cole when it seemed he wanted me
to. Gave him space when he required
that instead. It was boring, and the silence,
oppressing. Maybe that’s why when
things finally blew, they blew wide.
THE ROTTING LESION
Turned gangrenous with a chiming
of the telephone. Rochelle and Dale
had gone to church. Cole was outside,
tossing hay to the livestock, when the call
came. It wasn’t my phone. Not sure why
I answered it. Maybe I was starving for
two sentences of conversation, but I did
pick up, and a woman on the other end
inquired, Is Rochelle there? When I told
her no, she said, Will you please tell her
that Lara called? It’s not important. Just
wanted to ask how Dale is doing. She must
have thought about who had answered.
Uh . . . may I ask who this is? A big part
of me wanted to tell her to mind her own
damn business, but then I realized it was
a golden moment. “This is Ashley. Cole’s
girlfriend.” I waited for that to sink in,
wondering if she’d be gracious or bitchy.
Neither, actually. Oh. Well, is Cole there?
It was a non-reaction, and I couldn’t
gauge its meaning, but the wound
threatened to bleed. I started
to say no, but just then I heard
the front door close as Cole returned
from the barn. “Just a minute. Cole!”
I called, and when he came looking,
I mouthed, “Lara,” and handed him the phone.
His face flushed, and as he talked
into the mouthpiece, closing the distance
between Lara and him with words,
his eyes closed and his hand lifted against
his temple, as if his head had begun
to throb. He told her about Dale’s condition,
and said his mom wasn’t taking it well.
Please do, he said at one point. I know
she’d like that. As Lara talked into his
ear, I felt like gum stuck on his shoe.
Finally, he finished the conversation
with a not unexpected, You, too. Which,
no, didn’t have to mean, “I love you,
too.” But that’s sure what it seemed
like to me. By the time he hung up,
my own head was pounding blood.
THE PRESSURE
Inside me was intense, and even though
I knew it was the wrong time, wrong
place, I opened the release valve wide.
“How would you feel if I kept an old
boyfriend holding on? How can you tell me
you love me, then keep in touch with her?
Up until this minute, she still didn’t know
about me, did she? What the fuck, Cole?
How can you do this to me? How can . . . ?”
Stop it! His hands cinched my shoulders.
Squeezed. I’m sick of you bitching
about Lara. Goddamn it, just shut the fuck
up about her, hear? I don’t keep in touch . . .
“Liar!” I shouted. “You do. I’ve seen
her posts on your Facebook page.
What do you think I am, stupid?”
He squeezed even harder, started
to shake me. My head snapped back
and forth. Don’t you ever call me a liar.
Fury shaded his golden eyes red.
“Cole, stop. You’re hurting me.”
Tears spilled down my face. “Please.”
Some piece of Cole snapped back
into the proper place. He let go.
Oh, Jesus, Ash, I’m so sorry. I . . .
He stepped back and I did, too.
The space between us was a billion
times wider than those inches.
I STUMBLED TO COLE’S ROOM
On legs as unsteady as a newborn
foal’s. I thought they might buckle,
so I sat in the rocking chair by
the window, staring at the Wyoming
terrain. Sparse. Ice choked. Alien.
That place didn’t belong to me, nor
I to it. It could have easily been
another planet. As the froth of fear
and anger inside began to dissipate,
for some reason I thought about Cole,
forced into alien environments,
and charged with taming them, all
the while knowing that, despite
every effort, they would likely return
to wilderness once left to go fallow.
His call to duty was greater than mine
could ever be. I understood that
before, trusted his motives implicitly.
How could I let this phantom girl—
a whisper of his past—quake my faith?
THEN HE CAME TO ME