Must Love Otters (24 page)

When I wake, I’m assailed by the aroma of simmering garlic and meat and … is that basil? Dad’s making his famous spaghetti sauce.

My stomach growls an applause.

I try to sit forward, but ohhhh my God. Every. Thing. Hurts. Gonna need another one of those Delightfully Luscious Orange Unicorn Pills of Tantalizing Deliverance from Pain.

Dad’s talking to someone. “Oh, that’s excellent news. Sure, sure. And they’ve got drains in place? … What’s the prognosis? … Yeah, for sure. Good thing he’s not playing second line anymore, right? [Laughter.] … You bet, I’ll tell her. Give Mr. Fielding our best …”

Mr. Fielding?

Ryan!

“You are absolutely welcome. My Hollie is a great girl … yes, so brave … We’d love to come up to the resort … [More chuckling] Yes, this time without the cougars, thanks … Thanks again, Mrs. Fielding. You take care now.”

“Dad!”

He comes into the living room, the phone no longer at his ear.

“Who was that?”

“Betty Fielding. Seems your hockey friend is going to be okay.”

“Did she say anything else?”

“Just some medical stuff that will gross you out—he has an infection in the bone of his upper arm, but—”

“Dad, did she … did she say anything about me? Does Ryan … does he want to talk to me?”

Realization dawns in my father’s eyes. Ryan isn’t just some guy at the resort who I saved on a nature hike. Following this recognition, though, my father’s face falls.

For me. He feels bad for me.

“No, honey, that was all. She just wanted to check on you, see what the doctor said, see how you were holding up.”

“Oh … okay.”

“How’re you feeling?”

“Like I got in a fight with a cougar.”

“You hungry?”

“Starved.”

He plates up food and brings me a TV tray. He was clearly busy while I slept. Sitting next to the TV is a DVD player and a stack of movies.

“I thought you could use some quiet time,” he says, handing me the boxes. I slurp the spaghetti sauce off the noodles, the rich tomato sauce steeped in flavor. Party in my mouth.

The movies … chick flicks. Stuff Keith hated so I’d take myself to the theatre to see. Alone. At least I didn’t have to share my popcorn or Red Vines as I watched ninety minutes of romance, love lost and found, happy endings unfold on the big screen.

But my fork freezes midlift. The third movie in the stack—it’s a documentary. About otters. And then another one. I look up at Dad.

“I went to the gift shop over at OMSI. They had all sorts of videos about your otters. The gal sent me to the University of Portland bookstore, and they had even more.” In total, Dad’s brought nine nature videos, not all of them about otters. I pick up the one with two breaching orcas on the front and chuckle.

“This,” I wag in front of him, “remind me to tell you about the orcas.”

“Do I want to hear this story?” He smiles and sets a glass of chocolate milk on my tray, festooned with whipped cream and sprinkles. My dad rocks.

“Oh, you so do.”

We eat, and then he helps me into the bathroom so he can wash my hair. I tell him all about my spontaneous swimming date with three of the largest members of the dolphin family, how I was so dumb out in a rowboat, oarless and alone in a cocktail dress, mad because some stupid guy stood me up. My dad has to sit back on bent legs to control his laughter as I tell him about falling into the water with the giant seafaring, predatory mammals, how they didn’t eat me, but then of course, the sky erupted with thunder and lightning and more rain than I’ve ever seen.

On the story goes, every wild, hilarious detail that didn’t seem very hilarious at the time but in hindsight …

“I don’t believe it. You? My Hollie swimming with orcas? My afraid-of-her-own-shadow Hollie?”

“I’m not afraid of my own shadow,” I say, pulling my soaked, soapy head away from the tub.

“You’ve been afraid of your own shadow since you were four and first noticed you had one.”

The water and soap oozes down the side of my head, down my neck, soaking my T-shirt and the stained bathmat under me. Suds seep into my ears and amplify the sound of my voice. “Why do you say that?”

“Because it’s true. You do everything everyone tells you to do because you’re afraid that if you say no, they won’t like you. You deal with Mrs. Hubert’s bullying because you’re too chicken to tell that old hag to get stuffed. And what about Keith? You haven’t been happy with him from the second he moved those ratty little mutts into your apartment, and yet, two years—was it two years?—gone.”

“I don’t want to have this conversation with you,” I say, shoving my head back under the tap.

“Hollie, that look in your eye when I mentioned Mr. Fielding—that’s a new look for you. Maybe it was the cougar, maybe it was him, I don’t know, but you’ve shown that when life kicks you in the balls, you know how to kick back.”

“I did what anyone else would’ve done in that situation.”

“That’s a convenient thing to tell yourself. You reacted the way you did because you saw someone you cared about in trouble. Not everyone would’ve done the same thing.”

“Dad, your point?”

“My point is, if you like him, go after him. Don’t wait. The tired cliché about opportunity knocking? She only knocks for so long before her knuckles bloody and she gives up.”

“What if—”

“Nope. No time for what-ifs, Hollie Cat. You faced down your shadow. Time to put her away for good. If this young man means something to you …”

I don’t want to admit that in a very short time, Ryan Fielding has come to mean something to me. I don’t tell my dad how Ryan found me soaked to the bone, risking hypothermia, or how we had two perfect days on that boat. How he cooked me breakfast and took me crabbing and clamming and we hand-fed the otters or how we fed each other crab and drank wine and kissed and laughed … I don’t need to tell my dad how Ryan and I got busy in that amazing shower or how the cougar attack was really my fault, because I saw some photos I didn’t understand and ran into the woods, again acting like an immature fool.

I can’t tell him that. Because if I do, I might start crying, and I may not be able to stop.

The doorbell rings. Dad turns off the water, hands me a towel, and tells me to stay put until he gets back. I’m not an invalid, so once my hair is wrapped up, I hop out into the living room just as he’s bumping the door closed with his butt.

In his arms is a huge bouquet. So big, I’m not even sure where we’re going to put it.

I’m nervous to read the card. He sets down the wide-mouthed vase and plucks the small square from the card fork. “All our thanks and all our love, your family at Revelation Cove,” Dad reads.

“Wow … that’s … wonderful.”

I don’t have time to feel crestfallen about the card’s lack of mention of Ryan—the doorbell rings again.

“Can I help you?”

“Hi, I’m Jake Stephens with
The Oregonian
. Does Hollie Porter live here?”

“Dad, no!”

“Why, yes, she sure does.”

“I was wondering if I could come in and talk to Hollie for a few minutes about what happened up north, with the cougar and the hockey player.”

My dad swings the door wide and invites Jake Stephens in before I can scamper back into the bathroom. “I’m—uh—not really ready for company.”

“Are you Hollie?” the reporter says.

“Yeah …”

“It’s so nice to meet you. You’re a real hometown hero, you know that?”

“I’m not. Anyone would’ve done the same thing.”

“Hol, why don’t you …” Dad points to the towel on my head.

“Right. Hang on a second.” I use the hallway walls for support and amble back into the bathroom to comb out my hair. A little lip gloss. Some powder on my sunburned cheeks. I’m not exactly ready for my close-up in stretched-out yoga pants and Beavers sweatshirt, but it’ll have to do.

“Ahhh, here she is,” Dad says, helping me from the hall over to the couch. “Can’t quite use the crutches yet due to the stitches on her arm. Cougar got her there.”

“Wow, you must’ve been terrified.”

The conversation continues with him asking me questions and me trying to provide simple answers—I don’t want to reveal anything about Ryan or his life, now that I know he’s a business owner and well-loved hockey guy.

“Did you hear what the Winterhawks are doing for you?”

“For me?”

“They called my editor just before I came over—it’s meant to be a surprise, so pretend I didn’t tell you—Ryan Fielding has done quite a lot for the charity they’re affiliated with, so the ’Hawks front office is giving you and your dad box seats for the playoffs.”

“Wow! Really? Hot dog!” My dad gets very excited about tickets to sporting events—especially
free
tickets.

“Like I said, when they call you, act surprised,” Stephens says, winking at me.

Don’t wink at me. Only Ryan’s allowed to do that.

Ahhh, that ache in my chest again.

During the course of our chat, the doorbell rings two more times with more flowers, one from the Vancouver Canucks head office—“Thanks for being a part of our team! We Are All Canucks, even if you’re in Portland! Best wishes”—and another from the folks at dispatch with a far less sentimental “Get well soon.” Wonder how the party-planning committee came up with that all on its own.

The whole news-travels-fast adage is proven yet again when a smaller bouquet arrives from none other than Keith and the Yorkies. He even draws three paw prints, as if the dogs signed the card.

Seriously.

When Jake Stephens has gotten everything and then some for his story (my dad talked his ear off and even offered to show him wallet-sized photos of me in grade school), he leaves his card behind and asks when would be a good time for their staff photographer to pop by in the next day or two. I let my dad deal with this stuff and hop down the hall to my bedroom, away from the flowers and the phone calls and the newspapers and TV reports that talk about how I’m a hero.

I’m not heroic.

I’m just a girl who’s fallen in love with a boy six hours and a whole world away.

The house phone is ringing. I dive at it, hoping it will be the number I most want to see in the world. It’s not.

Six days later, my fifteen minutes of fame are over, and I’m back to a quiet apartment with wilting flowers and no news on how Ryan is doing other than the occasional online report from the Canucks and Revelation Cove websites that say “he is recovering well in hospital and thanks all the fans and resort guests, past, present, and future, for their outpouring of love and support.”

I’ve Googled
Ryan Fielding
and learned more about him than maybe he wanted me to know—about his tumultuous hockey career, his very public broken engagement, the two arrests he’s got under his belt for beating the living hell out of a couple guys at different bars when he was young and pumped full of testosterone, how he turned things around when he and two other retired NHL players, along with brother Tanner Fielding, opened the resort.

These revelations don’t change the way I feel when I think about him—this is from a life before now, a Ryan I wouldn’t have had access to.

I’ve pulled up the phone number Miss Betty called from at least a hundred times.

I just can’t bring myself to hit the
call
button. Maybe my shadow hasn’t retreated after all.

When I finally do answer the ringing phone, it’s not a voice I’m excited to hear again.

“Hollie? It’s Patty.” Polyester Patty. “I know you’ve been recovering from your ordeal and we wanted to give you time to heal, but there are some issues left unresolved with your little … disappearing act.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“I think we’ll need to schedule a sit-down to discuss how you were basically a no-show for work. I know this isn’t fun to talk about these things, especially right now given everything you’ve just been through, but we’re a team, and we have to work together to build a community that we can all rely on, like a big family …”

She drones on about how I called in sick under false pretenses and then left the country, how they had to scramble to cover my shifts and how Keith came in and talked to her about how “worried” he was about me, that I might be having a nervous breakdown because I broke up with him and that I wasn’t really sick but rather skipped town and didn’t tell anyone where I was going.

So, basically, a perfect summary of all the stupid shit I did last week before I landed at Revelation Cove.

Before my life changed in immeasurable, unbelievable ways.

I’m no longer the Hollie Polyester Patty is talking about. I left her in those woods, left her behind when I was tying up shredded flesh and dragging a failing body out of the trees, away from a mortal threat that could’ve ended us, if she wanted to.

“And then there’s the issue of the outstanding review memo …”

An unfamiliar something or other burns in my chest, accelerates my heart. “No.”

“Pardon me?”

“No.”

Patty is silent for a moment. I sit straighter on the couch. “I’m not coming in. Not for a disciplinary hearing, not for a sit-down, not for a review memo meeting, not for the party-planning committee. Just … no.”

“So, are you saying—”

“I quit. You can mail my last check.”

“Hollie, you’ve sustained a pretty big trauma, and we have counselors who would be happy to help you through whatever you’re dealing with. We can get you back into the training modules until you feel solid enough to rejoin the floor team.”

“No.”

“I don’t think you mean that. Tell you what, come in tomorrow, let’s just have a casual chat. You and me. No one else. No pressure, no other managers, no memos.”

“Patty, you can clean up my console and my dad will come get my stuff. I need my otter figurine back—everything else, you can keep.”

“Hollie—”

“It’s time for my next pain pill. Take care of yourself,” I say, hanging up.

My dad’s pissed. I call and ask him if he’ll stop by dispatch after his shift so he can pick up my stuff.

“It’s a good job, Hollie! You can’t just throw it away.”

“Dad, remember all your talk about opportunity and her bloody knuckles and my shadow?”

“Hollie, don’t twist my words. Be reasonable, kiddo. In a few weeks, you’ll regret this. You’ll wish you hadn’t walked away.”

“Dad, if I don’t do this, in a few weeks I guarantee I will regret
not
walking away.”

He sighs into the phone. “I’ll stop by dispatch and then get you some dinner. Any requests?”

I fall asleep on the couch. Watching a nature documentary, this one ironically about cougars. The one who attacked us was probably sick or starving. Apparently it’s not at all unusual for cougars to swim amongst the islands up there. YouTube has a handful of videos of Canadian cougars swimming alongside fishing boats, unsuspecting anglers going about their business when they come upon a giant, dog-paddling feline. Hilarious, if not otherwise terrifying.

My pain has diminished considerably throughout—Percocet, the wonder of modern medicine! I’ve checked and rechecked for new text messages, hoping against hope to find one from Revelation Cove. Dad lovingly replaced my fried cell phone and they were able to bring it back to life long enough to transfer all my numbers, but the only thing that is waiting for me is a voice mail from Moonstar about “you are so brave fighting off that big kitty and I’m sending over cupcakes and I will pop by as soon as I get back into town but Mr. Amazing Perfect Husband and I are jetting off to Some Third World Country to save rainforests with plumes of frosting and unbleached organic flour because starving people who don’t have access to clean drinking water love cupcakes!”

When the cupcakes arrived, I gave them to the dumpster. Okay, yes, fine, I ate two. Maybe three. Please don’t tell Moonstar how good they are. I will never hear the end of it.

But it’s Ryan who consumes my thoughts, like I’m some weird teenager with an unstable crush on the lead singer of a boy band. He’s the first thing I think of when I wake and the last thought that crosses my mind before drifting off. I have replayed our first night on the boat, our second night, the shower at the cabin … and the attack.

It’s on a loop, a delicious, breathtaking, heart-pounding loop, the memories laden with both pleasure and pain, though, lucky for me, no matter how many stitches or broken bones, I will always remember those three days as my Best Ever.

The doorbell rings. My heart spazzes like it does every single time, that tiny voice in my head whispering
it might be him it might be him
. Only it never is.

And it isn’t this time, either.

“Hi,” FedEx guy checks the envelope, “this is for Hollie Porter.”

“I’m Hollie Porter.” I sign his little digital scanner thingie. “Any idea what this is?”

“Nope. It’s from California overnight. That’s all I know.”

California?

I click the door closed quietly, afraid if Mrs. Hubert hears my voice, she’ll start hollering up the stairs about groceries or the weather or why she hasn’t seen Keith’s truck around lately.

I hop back to the couch and read the shipping label on the cardboard envelope. It’s from the Monterey Bay Aquarium, Monterey, California.

I don’t remember sending away for anything. And I don’t think such an important-looking envelope is in thanks for my annual fifty-dollar donation. They’d be bankrupt FedEx’ing thanks to donors.

Inside is an itinerary—dates for next month for otter watch at a variety of tracking stations in the Monterey area run by the Friends of the Sea Otter—as well as a bumper sticker, T-shirt, and a glossy brochure from the Monterey Bay Aquarium’s Sea Otter Research and Conservation Program. A separate page on Aquarium letterhead details my scheduled two-week unpaid internship to get hands-on experience “with local flora and fauna, both within the otter conservancy community and within the greater Aquarium environment.”

What the hell …?

This has to be my dad’s doing. Where did he—
how
did he …? Does not compute.

A letter is enclosed with my name handwritten on its envelope. The letter inside thanks me for the “significant donation” to their program that will enable the organization to further their conservation and otter counting efforts for the coming year.

There has to be a mistake. While I would love to give all my money away to my favorite charity, there’s the need for me to pay rent and eat solid food. Since when did fifty bucks qualify as significant?

I read and reread the letter again. It goes on to explain how donor monies are used to count and track sea otter populations, to aid in recovery and rehabilitation during marine crises such as oil spills, and to support protective legislation concerning not only California’s Southern sea otter population of 3,000 animals but the 65,000 to 78,000 members of the Northern sea otter community found in Washington, Canada, and Alaska.

Otters in Canada. Like the ones Ryan showed me. The ones we fed.

My dad didn’t arrange this.

My eyes sting. I try calling him but it goes to voice mail. He must be driving.

I need some air. I gotta look at something beyond these four walls. Ryan can arrange for me to go to California to watch otters but he can’t call me? Did he even do this? Is Miss Betty somehow behind this?

Oh my God, is Ryan dead? Is this her way of telling me?

No. If he were dead, it would’ve been all over the news.

Right?

I pull on the T-shirt included in the package, knot my hair into a bun, and throw on clean yoga pants. It’s a walk, not a beauty pageant. We’re a few days away from June, and it seems Portland is already wearing her summer dress, the light breeze warm, the scent of fresh-cut grass perfuming the air.

I’ve mastered the crutches, though I haven’t quite figured out how to get Mrs. Hubert to stop stalking me out her kitchen window.

“Hollie, is that you?”

I stop three stairs from the bottom.

“Hollie Porter, I know that’s you. Don’t you try to sneak by here without talking to me.”

Sigh. “Hello, Mrs. Hubert.”

“How are you feeling, dear? Because let me tell you, my arthritis is flaring up terrible and I just can’t get my kids to come by. I need your help. I need you to get me some half-and-half and a fresh bag of frozen peas, and Mr. Boots needs more wet food.” She reaches behind for her wallet and digs out cash. “Here’s ten dollars. That should cover it.” It never covers it. This woman owes many pennies to the Bank of Hollie.

“Mrs. Hubert, I can’t drive yet. I’m not going to the store. I’m just going for a walk. To see the ducks.”

“Well, when you get back then, you can run to the market for me. I’ll wait—”

I hear Ryan’s voice in my head.
You gotta start telling people no, Hollie. It’s okay to do that
.

“I can’t get you your half-and-half or peas or cat food. You’re going to have to get it yourself.”

“But—”

“No, Mrs. Hubert.”

Her hands drop to her sides and she looks away. For a second, I think the quivering lip is going to give way to her crying. And then I will feel like a righteous asshole for telling this housebound old woman with deformed hands and a naked cat that I can’t go to the grocery store for her.

I am a terrible person.

“Well … I was wondering how long it would be before you grew some cojones.”

“Excuse me?”

Her quivering lip thins into what might be her version of a smile. Her eyes sparkle a little, not with tears but with something alive—Mrs. Hubert is being … funny?

“I’ve been bossing you around for as long as you’ve lived in this building, and you’re just now standing up to me? You’re a slow learner, child.”

I’m not sure if I should bitch-slap her or laugh.

“Wow … okay.”

She holds out the ten-dollar bill. “Take this. Go buy yourself a drink. Or some coffee. Or whatever the kids are doing these days.”

“I don’t need your money, Mrs. Hubert.”

She releases the bill and it floats to the ground in front of me. If I don’t put the crutch’s rubber foot on it, it will fly away.

“Buy some duck food, then. The stall is open until five. Don’t feed them any processed bread. It’s bad for ’em.” She closes the screen door and shuffles away. I don’t move until I hear Bob Barker’s voice ring through her tiny 900 sq. ft. box.

Just as I reach the edge of the lot, my dad pulls in. Rolls down his window. “Look at you, up and around. Where you going?”

“Gonna go feed the ducks.”

“I’ve got dinner for you, and your stuff from dispatch.” He holds up my otters. I’m so happy to see them, I snatch them from his hands and kiss them before stuffing them into my pants pocket. Dad snorts at me.

I give him my keys. “A letter arrived for me. Go up and read it.”

He kisses the back of my still-bandaged hand, and I’m off, feeling lighter than I have in a week, even though I’ve just told off the neighbor and Ryan is fading into nothing more than a collection of memories I’ll box up and store in that room in my head that I reserve for my most cherished secrets. If I close my eyes, I can still feel his giant hand resting atop mine, see that smile that could melt glaciers …

The crosswalk chirps at me. The park paths are relatively quiet, rightfully so as it is near dinnertime on a Sunday afternoon. A pink-cheeked toddler runs past me, her yellow sweater buttoned under her chin, the vibrant flowers of her billowy dress bouncing with every wobbly pound her chubby sandaled feet make on the path. “Guck! Guck! Guck!” she yells, trying in vain to chase down a drake and his mate. The baby squeals with glee when the ducks launch themselves across the water and into the air. When she notices me watching her, she points and claps her hands. “Guck!”

The parents scoop her up and head away from the pond, much to her audible dismay. I continue along the path in search of my destination. The green benches near Firwood Lake.

Where Mona and Herb go, every single day.

Or where they went. I don’t know how they are. I wonder if I could get Polyester Patty to check on them for me … Not likely. Not after I told her off. Patty’s like an elephant—she eats her weight every day at lunch, makes huge, stinky shits, and she never forgets. (No offense to elephants.)