Portion of the Sea (40 page)

It was true. I had been like jolly old Saint Nicholas, handing over my vacation days one by one, and now I felt regret for having put intensity and showmanship into where I was now. “I do have a couple of days left. I could take a long weekend. That should be enough.”

“Where will you go?” she asked.

“Florida.”

“Sun and beach?”

“Yeah,” I lied. In truth, I had to release my heart at last from Josh’s ludicrous
grip. It wasn’t fair. It was weird and eerie and psycho and basically abnormal and not at all grounded in reality that some guy from long ago still had a hold on it today, and worse, he probably didn’t even know or want to be holding onto it. I was an intelligent woman and aware of all of these things, which is why I cringed at the thought of my pathetic heart, with its valves and muscles stubbornly holding onto Josh for dear life, refusing in an annoying way to let go of him.

I stooped over and picked the seashell up off the floor and tossed it back onto my cluttered desk, fully aware that I was as obsessed over Josh as I once had been over finding a Junonia shell. It was time to surrender. I shuffled into my boss’s office and told him my plans and that if I didn’t do this now, I’d soon be taking all sorts of sick days, mental ones. He gave me a solid nod, and I was free to go.

XXXV

SANIBEL ISLAND

A FEW DAYS LATER

Lydia

Whoever claims there are no seasons in Florida is inaccurate. There are, but evidence of them is subtle, and it takes a sensitive eye to appreciate them. It was indeed summer when I arrived, the season when the mangrove cuckoos nest and sing to defend their territory. The beaches might not be chock full of shells this time of year, but there were horse conchs and mammoth whelks waiting by the bay side. It was a good time to visit Sanibel. And loving historical and newsworthy moments as I do, it happened to be just a few weeks after the opening of the causeway bridge linking Sanibel to the mainland.

“It’s just a causeway,” I told myself as I drove past Punta Rasa, where in the past I had stood waiting for the ferry. “And a beautiful three-mile drive.”

As I paid my toll, I thought about Marlena and all the letters she had written me while the bridge was under construction. She was grief-stricken and dreading the completion of it, saying that it was going to be the
end of an era for Sanibel as we knew it. She was dramatic, and I tried calming her, reassuring her in my letters that causeways are good. They make getting to where we’re going simpler and quicker.

I glanced at my face in the rearview mirror and noticed dark circles under my eyes. Getting to where I was at the paper had been an arduously long journey, one gone alone, without help from anyone. And it had been hard counting my pennies, eating all my dinners at happy hours in the city, living in a dangerous part of town, not dressing anything like Ava, the fashion queen. But now, as I paid my toll and drove onto the causeway bridge, I no longer wanted isolation or independence, and I decided I would loosen up a bit when I returned to Chicago and let people know how I struggled and if I ever needed help. And maybe I’d give Ethan a call. It had been awhile.

I drove slowly, not minding the line of cars behind me, and I unrolled my window to consume the balmy, intoxicating air. The bridge represented the end of an era for Sanibel just as this trip for me would mean the end of the piracy era in which Josh captivated my heart. When it came to matters of love, I didn’t want to be like Ava and commit any crime of the heart. And if I didn’t set mine free once and for all, I would go on hurting myself, and one day, someone else.

The door of Bougainvillea was open a crack, so I walked in. “Hello, anyone home?” I called out, standing in the entry. “Marlena, it’s me.”

She had just returned to Sanibel a couple of months ago after finishing work on her fourth independent film in London. Two of those films never made it to box offices in America, but two did, and I had gone to see them at the little theatre not far from where I lived. They were artistic and in-depth, and I liked them both.

“Marlena?” I called again and then peeked around the room. There were no diamond chandeliers or upgraded curtains, and everything looked as it had the last time I was there. But then I spotted Marlena lying on the couch under a blanket pulled up to her chin.

“You’re sick,” I stated, not knowing whether to kiss her on the cheek or take hold of her hand instead.

“I guess,” she said.

“What do you mean, you guess? Either you’re sick or you’re not.”

“I’m glad you’re here. Sit down.”

I set my two simple bags down and pulled the large armchair closer to her and then sat down. “It’s good to see you,” I said.

“Be my journalist,” she said. “Report to me what it’s like out there on the island now that the bridge is opened. I’m imagining pollution and exhaust fumes and noisy engines damaging the delicate ecosystem out there. Am I right?”

“No, not at all. Haven’t you been out to see for yourself since the bridge opened?”

“Nope.”

“It opened weeks ago. You’ve been inside that long?”

“I’m scared to go out there. Shouldn’t I be?” she asked. “What if I get run over by developers?”

I laughed. “Marlena,” I said. “Let me assure you that Sanibel is as charming as ever, and people and ordinances will protect it.”

“You sound like one of them.”

“One of who?”

“The ones who pushed for the causeway—the people I’ve battled with for years. I’ve had screaming matches with them, and I’ve lost. What’s it like out there? Are there hundreds? Thousands?”

“Of what?”

“People arriving on the island.”

“There was a line of cars, but nothing ridiculous. Has fame got to your head?”

I regretted it the moment I said it; so, I stood up and walked over to her window and opened the shutters to let light in. “I didn’t mean that. I know that would never happen,” I said, looking around the room for clues as to what might be going on. There were dirty coffee mugs on the floor and opened boxes of crackers, with crumbs on the floor. There was a steady stream of ants making their way across the lime green walls toward a cracker, and if we didn’t pick the food up soon every ant on the island would be marching over to Marlena’s house.

I returned to where she was lying on the couch and kneeled down on
the hardwood floor beside her. “I’m concerned for you. What’s going on? You’ve got to tell me,” I said.

“Don’t ask me how I’m feeling unless you want to know.”

“I want to know.”

“Can you get me a glass of water?” she asked.

“Of course.”

When I returned with her water she was sitting up on the couch. “Lydia,” she said. “I’ve known you for years. I’m just going to say it, dear.”

“Please do.”

“I can’t sleep. I can’t focus. I try making decisions, small ones, like do I want to wear my Capri pants or my walking pants, but I can’t decide. I’ve been lying around in this playsuit and skirt for days, but I’ve done no playing, and the polka dots are starting to make me dizzy. Yet, I don’t feel like getting up to change. It’s effort.”

“Everything will be all right,” I said.

“But it’s not. Look at me! And I could hardly finish that last film. You saw it, right?”

“Yes. You were great.”

“Good thing I played a saddened, desolate woman because I don’t think I could have played a happy role. There was talk of me winning an award for that part, you know.”

“It’s wonderful.”

“But I wasn’t acting. I was being myself. I could hardly get out of bed and to the set in time. I get like this from time to time.”

“What do you think it is?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’m here for you. I’m here to help. What can I do?”

“I don’t know. Anything to cheer me up, but I don’t know what. Nothing works. Flowers, maybe. I know I’m reaching, but are there any flowers out there?”

I don’t know whether she meant to do it or not, but her asking for flowers reminded me strangely of Abigail’s craving for flowers a long time ago, and suddenly it double-clicked that Marlena was indeed suffering from the same thing Abigail, her grandmother, had experienced in her lifetime.
Maybe she wasn’t seeing the connection. But I was.

“Yes. There are flowers out there,” I said as I folded my legs Indian-style on the floor. “Sanibel is infested with flowers, and now the flowers from Fort Myers have a way of getting here. They’re creeping across that bridge, curious to mingle for the first time with the Sanibel flowers, for they’ve heard all about the island for centuries but could never reach it, until now, thanks to that causeway bridge.”

I hadn’t read Louisa May Alcott in years and my made-up story was nothing like Ava reading
Flower Fables
to her mama, but Marlena’s lips were forming a smirk, so I continued my fabricated flower tale.

“As I drove my car onto the island, I overheard out my window a Fort Myers flower telling a Sanibel flower, ‘Please don’t be threatened by our arrival. We’re coming to share in the beauty with you.’ Then the Sanibel flower said, ‘Welcome to the island. We’re protective of our beauty. Will you respect it?’ and the newcomer answered, ‘We’re coming to savor not devour. There’s a difference.’

“‘Good,’ declared the native flower. ‘Your arrival is welcomed.’

“‘Can we at least thank you by depositing our seeds as we leave?’

“‘Oh no,’ said the native flower. ‘Show your appreciation by leaving the island untouched and exactly as you found it, please.’”

I didn’t know where to take the story from there, and I feared my poor fiction imagination might turn it into a horrid news story since I’ve been trained to find the bad angles in everything, so I ended it there, and Marlena gave me a forced one-syllable laugh.

“Thank you for your story. I’ll give you an ‘A’ for effort,” she said. “But do me a favor. Don’t ever switch to being a fiction writer. Stay a journalist.” We both laughed, but then her face turned solemn again. “I’m sorry to be like this during your visit.”

“Don’t apologize for how you’re feeling,” I said. “You weren’t put on this earth to entertain me, although you’ve done a pretty good job with the last two films of yours. But the camera isn’t on you right now, Marlena; so, I’m going to ask you. Have you gone to a doctor about any of this?”

“No. Should I?”

“I think so. You know your family history.”

“Yeah, more than most people do. I’m not so keen on going to any doctor when my body doesn’t hurt. I just feel so lethargic.”

“Maybe you need to find the right type of doctor, one who deals with your specific set of symptoms. Let me think about it,” I said, not wanting to blurt out that I thought she should see a psychiatrist or psychologist, but that was what I would suggest later in the day, maybe. “We’re going to figure it all out and get you help.”

I spent the rest of the afternoon freshening Bougainvillea. I pulled boards off the windows, opened curtains, washed the dishes, put in loads of wash, swept the sandy hardwood floors, and emptied all the garbage cans, including the ones out back that raccoons had discovered. I returned with a handful of flowers I had picked and placed them in a vase that I set on the end table next to the couch.

I filled the bath with warm water and added a few drops of lavender, and then I saw to it that she got in safely. Then I went into the kitchen and rummaged through her cabinets in search of something I might make us to eat. And when I found nothing, I knocked on the bathroom door and asked if she minded that I run to the store for groceries.

“Thank you, Lydia,” she said. “How can I truly thank you?”

“Just take care of yourself,” I said. “I’ll be back soon.”

I headed out the door looking a sweaty mess from cleaning, convincing myself I wouldn’t bump into Josh, not in this quick mini-trip to the store, but then again, I told myself it would be just my luck to bump into him now, after years of not seeing one another.

“A woman is more than outer appearance,” I told myself. “She’s a heart, soul, and mind as well.” Then, a second later, I said, “Bull.” Her outer appearance reflects the inner elements; so, I turned around and ran back up the steps into the, house and quickly changed into my three-piece combed-cotton seersucker suit with pearl buttons.