Butterfly Tattoo (26 page)

And then one simply disappeared.

Of course we focused our joy on Andrea, but sometimes I do think about her—

I say
her
because I’ve always felt the other baby was a girl, just like her sister. Maybe one day, when Andie’s old enough, I’ll tell her about her vanished twin.

It seems to me that life is an accumulation of losses. All these lives brush past our own, impacting us, changing us. Sometimes their mark is as fleeting as a tiny thumbprint. As insubstantial. Like a tiny, ghostly ship down in the murky depths that vanishes before we even see it again.

I would have liked to call that child Ruth. After my mother.

Laurel and Andrea step apart, Andie backing closer to me. I slip my hands on her shoulders. Laurel stands there, suitcase clutched in her hand, smiling at me—and I realize she’s waiting. Waiting for me to hug her, too. So I lean close, bending to give her a quick peck on the cheek. But she takes hold of me now, and doesn’t let go. Against my face, I feel her warm, familiar breath as she kisses me. “I love you, Michael,” she whispers softly, touching my jaw with her fingertips. “I love you. And don’t forget that you will
always
be my brother.”

I try to think of something to say, but there’s nothing. I have no words at all. So I just wave as she steps backwards from me, tears shining in her eyes despite her beautiful smile. Then in one graceful move she disappears through the opening glass doors to the airport into the throngs of people. With that one pirouette she’s gone from our lives again.

When Andie tugs on my hand, I realize I’ve been standing, staring after her aunt. Staring at nothing for a while.

“It will be okay,” my brave daughter says, smiling up at me. God, she’s so much stronger than I’ve ever managed to be. I miss Laurel. I miss her a hell of a lot, something I never could figure out how to explain over the past four days; how so much anger and resentment can cohabitate easily with love.

I nod and squeeze Andrea’s small hand in mine. “It will be okay,” I agree.

It will be okay, because it has to be. With everyone I’ve lost, all the lives that have brushed against mine then faded away, I can’t afford to lose anyone else.

Chapter Twenty-One: Rebecca

Andrea and I stand in Mona’s driveway, watching Michael recheck the surfboards on his truck rack before we leave my place for Malibu. He adjusts the straps, giving them quick tugs; Andrea balances on the low brick wall beside Mona’s flower garden, hopping along as she walks. She’s definitely excited about this three-day trip, even though she’s quiet. And I notice the way she steals furtive glances at the shopping bag in my hand, one that’s filled with little girl beachy things I couldn’t resist buying. I figure I’ll keep the contents a surprise unless she asks.

Michael gives the surfboards a final, reassuring pat. Like he’s getting their agreement to cooperate in our travel plans. “Everything okay up there?” I call out with a smile.

“Want to be sure they’re really down tight,” Michael explains, vaulting over the side of the truck bed. It’s one of those fluid, all-guy maneuvers—truck to driveway in a single motion. That same masculine gracefulness must be breathtaking on a surfboard.

Brushing off his hands, he says, “Last thing we need is a board flying off and hitting somebody.”

“That happened to Daddy once,” Andrea explains, climbing down off the garden wall. “When he was in high school. Somebody’s board broke his windshield. That’s what he said.”

Michael takes the tote bag from my hand, giving me a gallant, flirty smile. Out here in the late morning sunshine, the gold flecks in his eyes almost assume a hazel hue.

Andrea turns to me. “Hey, Rebecca? Are you really going to surf?”

“I think so. Maybe.” I fight a sudden attack of nervousness at the thought. “What about you?’

Her expression grows thoughtful as she stares up at her much smaller surfboard perched atop the other two. “Michael brought my board,” she says, chewing on her lip, “but… I don’t know.”

“Why not?” I think of how she’s talked about surfing, of how much I can tell she loves it. But she doesn’t answer, only shrugs and walks toward the truck, shoulders slumped forward.

It’s hard to get a fix on her this morning—one minute she seems aflutter with excitement and now she’s suddenly subdued. I follow after her. “Andrea, did you know we’re sharing a room?” She climbs up inside the cab of her father’s truck. “Marti and Dave’s kids are sleeping on the pullout sofa and you’re with me.”

Her face brightens. “No, Michael hadn’t told me that.”

“We can make it like a slumber party,” I say.

“Cool.” She bobs her head enthusiastically. “And tell stories each night!”

“That sounds like fun,” I agree.

“Rebecca?” Her expression grows serious again. “I’m not sure I want to go surfing.”

“That’s okay, sweetheart.” I brush an errant lock of auburn hair out of her eyes. “You don’t have to perform for anybody.”

“No?” She searches my face.

“This trip is going to be fun. But you don’t have to work at that. Okay?” She nods, chewing on her lip as I slide in beside her. “We girls will stick together,” I promise.

Michael slips behind the wheel, grinning like a kid. “Everybody ready?”

In his eyes, I see expectation. That over the course of the next three days our relationship will deepen; that his daughter will heal; that we’ll all make new memories together. That some of our innocence might be restored.

As we pull down Mona’s driveway, I realize his warm eyes mirror everything I’m feeling inside about the next few days.

***

“Okay, suit up! It’s totally going off out there. Double overhead!” Casey shouts as he slams the door to the beach house behind him. While Marti and I were buying groceries for the next few days, he drove down to the point to scout the current wave conditions.

Malibu is a decent place for a beginner like me to get their toes wet. Although there’s always a crowd, in Michael’s words, “it’s a pretty mellow wave in Malibu.”

“Double overhead,” Michael snorts, winking at me playfully from where he sits at the kitchen bar watching a Dodgers game. “You are so full of it, man.”

Casey ignores him, turning to me. “You still game, Rebecca?” The wind has kicked up since our arrival, and it’s become grayer, overcast. It’s slightly chilly, and I know that even in July, the Pacific won’t be overly warm.

“Sure.” I give a resolute nod, my stomach tightening with nervousness.

Casey seems to read my mood. “We’re not going to start you way out, Rebecca. You’ll be on the small waves. Close up on shore.”

Michael swivels his barstool, glancing out through the living room windows at the wide expanse of ocean. “It’s getting a little choppy out there, Case. Sure it’s okay?”

“She’ll be fine,” he says. “We’ll stick to the shore break and just kind of practice getting the feel of the board.”

Michael laughs. “Yeah, man, I notice you’re a lot nicer about her first time than you were on me.”

“Maybe that’s ’cause
she’s
a lot nicer than you.”

“Sure, Porter, whatever,” Michael chuckles, rising from his seat. “Let me see if Andrea wants to come.” He walks down the hall toward the bedroom his daughter and I will share for the next few days.

Casey turns to me. “Rebecca, there’s nothing to be intimidated about, you know.”

Marti enters the kitchen tailed by her oldest daughter, Olivia. “Sure there is,” she announces with a laugh. “Sharks and locals, in no particular territorial order.”

Olivia makes a face; she’s about Andrea’s age and has a head full of black curls just like her mother. Her damp flip-flops squeak on the tiled floor like squeegees on a windshield.

“Great. Sounds like so much fun.” I twirl my finger in the air for emphasis. “Woo freaking hoo.”

Michael enters the kitchen, his expression troubled. “Andie won’t come,” he announces under his breath—loud enough for the group of us in the kitchen to hear, but not so loud as to be overheard by his daughter. He glances back toward the bedroom. “She’s just watching TV. Says she doesn’t want to surf.”

“What do you think the problem is?” Marti asks.

“She’s never fun anymore,” Olivia whines, but Marti shushes her.

Remembering our conversation in the driveway, I wonder again what Andrea’s hesitation must be. We all huddle close, like an offensive football team around the quarterback.

Michael answers, “I think surfing’s too…familiar.”
Too Alex.
We all know that’s what he meant.

“She needs to start making new memories,” Marti sighs heavily. “Maybe I’ll go talk to her?”

Michael looks to me. I know he thinks I can accomplish this job. “I’ll try,” I volunteer quietly. “But I don’t think we should push her.”

“Thanks, baby,” he says, touching my arm as I step away. I only hope that when it comes to Andrea this time, I won’t let him down.

Flopping onto the queen-sized bed I kick off my sandals and sit Indian-style beside Andrea. Bunkmates for three days—when was it exactly Michael had thought we’d have our intimate rendezvous? Maybe Marti will give us a night on our own at some point, like Michael mentioned. Otherwise, after all the kissing and touching and looking I’ve done these past few weeks I might go crazy having to wait much longer.

Sprawled on her stomach, Andrea plants her chin in her hand, her eyes never leaving the television. “Whatcha watching?” I ask, though I can see it’s some kind of Disney program.

“Don’t know.”

“I was going to head down to the beach for a while,” I say. “I brought a kite. Did you see it? Actually, I brought three and you can pick the one you want. Would you like that?”

She shrugs, but remains silent. I found the kites at a shop in Santa Monica, a place where my dad loves to buy them. I made a point of stopping in there two nights ago, because I wanted us to have something special we could do together, and one thing I definitely remember from my childhood summers in Jacksonville is flying kites with my father. I bought a butterfly, a dragonfly, and a prism; I figure Andie can pick the one she likes best. I also tucked my mother’s red velvet cake recipe into my suitcase, because I want to bake her a luscious red, white and blue cake for Fourth of July.

“Well, okay,” I say, launching purposefully off the bed. “I guess I’m going to try surfing with Casey and your dad, then. I’ll see you later!” This time she does glance my way, and I almost sense that she’s torn. “Unless…you want to come?” I ask, hopeful.

She shakes her head. “See you when you get back.” She fixes her eyes on the television again.

Grabbing my oversized beach bag, the one with my one-piece and my cover up in it, I leave the room, wondering if the best strategy might not be simply to give her some room for a while.

In the car on the way over to the point, I begin to have second thoughts about this surfing plan. Staring out the open window, the wind tangling my hair, I wonder what on earth I’m doing. Trying to hold my own in a Man’s World, is that it?

Then we round a bend in the road, and I catch a glimpse of a few rogue surfers, splashes of color against profound depths of sea, and I’m reminded of the mystery, that transcendental
thing
that always seems to surround the sport like a holy penumbra. For years I watched the surfers down at my parents’ beach condo in Jacksonville; I watched and wondered, but I never tried it. That’s the problem with nearly dying—it brings into relief all those things you’ve never attempted, but always meant to do.

Casey’s radio plays an old Elvis Costello tune, one I haven’t heard in forever, and Michael starts to hum familiarly.

“The point’s packed,” Casey observes, slowing as we pass some parked cars on the shoulder. “Skeeter and Dobro are here, and that’s a sure sign that all the kooks are out.”

I’m sitting in the backseat, right behind Michael; I notice how the dark hair along his neck is trimmed close, how it spikes a little, and my fingertips burn with the urge to touch the prickling hairs. To lean forward in the seat and kiss him right there, on the nape of his neck.

But my appreciative reverie is broken when he launches into a crash course on surfing safety. “Just remember,” he cautions, “if you get caught under a wave, don’t fight it.” Slinging his arm over the back of the seat, he turns to me with a serious expression. “’Cause if you do, you’re spending energy. And that can cost you your life.”

My eyes train on a tiny fleck of a scar right at his hairline—how could I not have noticed it before? A silver crescent of a moon, as if someone took their fingernail and drew the line. “Gotta save all the energy you’ve got, Becca. Okay?” His eyebrows draw together like he’s wondering if I’m listening—or maybe just what I’m thinking.

“Oh, sure,” I reassure him, but my chest tightens reflexively. “No problem.”

“Just curl up into a ball, like this,” he continues, demonstrating a kind of ducking maneuver, protecting his face behind his hands.
“You can be under those waves as long as a minute so you want to conserve.” A whole freaking minute without air?
Asthma, anyone?

Casey edges the Explorer over onto the shoulder of the road, where several other sand-encrusted vehicles line the pavement, most of them plastered with salty stickers for companies like Sex Wax, Roxy, Counter Culture. The list goes on. Of course, how counter culture can something really be, if it has to advertise the fact that it is?

Casey picks up the education course. “Just remember, those board fins are sharp, man.” He thrusts the vehicle into park, turning to face me. “Whatever you do, don’t let one catch you in the face or the arm. They’ll cut you right open. Buddy of mine went down to Baja last month and had to get a bunch of stitches in his leg.”

Just what I need: more bleeding, more surgery, more scars. “Maybe this isn’t for me,” I say, running my fingertips along my face. Feeling the bands of scar tissue. Why did I think this was a good idea again? Something to do with Keanu Reeves? Wait, or was it Alex Richardson?

Michael’s golden brown eyes narrow in concern, as he dangles his hand over the seatback, reaching for my own. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”

“I know,” I agree, feeling like this is my Big Chance to fit into a testosterone-driven club that was formed several decades ago. Like this is a rite of passage and I have to nail it perfectly or I’ll never live up to Alex’s memory. “But I really want to try,” I say, thinking of those surfers in Jacksonville. “I’ve always wanted to.”

“She’ll be fine,” Casey insists. And he’s the one who grew up surfing, after all, so he should know. This causes the rush of blood in my ears to quiet a bit. “I mean, hell, you aren’t even gonna get up on that board today,” he continues. “You may never get up.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I laugh, drawing my hair up into a haphazard ponytail.

“Nothing to do with confidence.” Casey opens his door. “Just the facts of the sport, Rebecca.”

I swallow hard, nodding, but for some unexpected reason it’s not even the surfing I’m afraid of. It’s the thought of stripping out of my long-sleeved Polo shirt, of Michael seeing the scars on my chest for the very first time. That’s much scarier than the thought of dancing with the sharks on a thin slice of board.

Michael drops his surfboard onto the sand, staring out into the waves like a mystic. “Lot of chop,” he observes stoically. “Rough for a first-timer.”

“Maybe I should just watch,” I volunteer, dropping my own board beside me. It was an ungainly and awkward journey down to the beach with the thing—I can’t even imagine trying to balance on it.

Casey snorts, shaking his head. “You can’t tell a newbie all that shit about not panicking,” he scolds Michael. “All it does is make them panic. You can’t do that—they just gotta get out there and go for it.”

“It’s fine,” I say, studying the slab of fiberglass that’s supposed to somehow support my hundred and nine pounds across roiling fists of sea. “I’ll be fine.”
Or, alternatively, I’ll be dead.
In that case, maybe Alex can teach me how to surf.

“It’s not a big deal.” Michael clasps my shoulders within his reassuring hands. “You can stay here.”

“That’s a great idea!” I bounce onto the balls of my feet, feeling relief wash over me. “I’ll sit here on the beach and watch you guys. Maybe tomorrow the waves will be calmer.”