Sanibel Scribbles (12 page)

Later they stopped for a treat at the Bubble Room on Captiva Island, and with every bite of the Red Velvet Cake she ate, Vicki moaned. Each forkful became a moment spent in instant bliss and carried her to some faraway world, a winter wonderland of sorts where no one worried about anything, a place in her dreams where whimsical characters pranced around to Christmas carols while stuffing stockings with toys and candy. She noticed Ben staring at her, so she stopped moaning, but continued eating the cake until the very last red crumb was gone, and then she licked the cream cheese frosting left on her plate. When she finished, she felt full, too full for guilt. Could this be the recipe for instant gratification her grandmother had promised to give her?

They enjoyed a theatrical and musical performance at the local theater, followed by dancing at a local club.

One day, as they walked the beach of Sanibel, they noticed the sand dollars, once buried out in the sand bars, were now arriving in the water near the shore to mate. This quietly reminded Vicki that time was moving on, and she would need to take a job quickly.

The more time she spent with Ben, the less she wanted to leave for the job on Tarpon Key and so she blew it off, not bothering to call the island. She no longer cared if they gave the job to someone else. The busier she kept herself, the less she thought about Rebecca’s death. The more she experienced her shortness of breath and other symptoms, the more doctors she visited. They ruled out hypoglycemia, hyperthyroidism, and suggested she go off caffeine.

Enough time passed for her to wean herself from coffee, develop a withdrawal headache, overcome that headache, switch to herbal tea, realize that her symptoms continued and life wasn’t as good without coffee, and reintroduce that glorious cup of morning coffee and a biscotti to her daily routine.

One night, as she and Ben sat on a blanket, listening to a band of retired jazz players in the same downtown Fort Myers Park where they had
first met, she knew she needed to act soon. Ruth had left a message on her answering machine regarding the island opportunity. There was someone else interested in the job, so she would have to respond immediately if she still wanted it. Vicki never mentioned it to Ben. He knew nothing about her interview on the island.

As she picked a handful of grass, she noticed it was longer than when she sat here at the B. J. Thomas concert. She felt a new urgency to take the offer she had on the island. On the other hand, she noticed herself saying good night to Ben, and then counting down the hours until they met again. How dare Mr. Right sit next to her? She hadn’t planned on him showing up for years yet, after she accomplished all her other goals. Somehow she’d discover a flaw in him, something to remove him immediately from the Mr. Right category.

“Ben, there are things I want to do in my life, lots of things. What if I don’t do them? What if I lose control and never accomplish any of my dreams?” They lay on a blanket on their backs, looking up at the darkening Florida sky.

“You are in control. You make choices every day, right? He asked, massaging her hand.

She nodded.

“We’re all forced to make daily choices, and these choices either bring us a step closer or a step further from our goals.”

“What if I die before getting there?”

“Getting where?”

“Getting to where I want to be in life? Achieving my goals.”

“Vicki, you might kick the bucket before reaching your goals. I might die before reaching mine. We all might. That’s why the journey toward our goals, the daily steps, must mean something more.”

“You’re so philosophical,” she said.

“Do you like philosophy?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll continue. Make the steps toward your goals count and make them fun.”

“How?”

“I’d love for you to meet my mother one of these days. She would tell you to hop, skip, jump, run backward, or walk passionately toward your goals. Those steps should add pleasure to your daily life, and if they don’t, well, maybe you should reevaluate your goals to begin with.”

She liked his answer. She liked him. So much so that he suddenly looked like a roadblock, standing between her and all her dreams. She would disqualify him quickly and toss him into her Sea of Forgetfulness. “Do you foresee traveling in your future?”

“Vicki, I’ve lived all over the country, the world for that matter.”

“But have you seen all you want to see?”

“For now, yes. With my parents working as missionaries, I grew up living all over South America. We spent most of our time in Peru and Brazil. I’ve asked my parents to send my photo albums, so I can show you. You won’t believe the way in which people out there live. They have no idea what a department store is or even a car, yet they’re deeply happy and it’s a different kind of happy. There’s a certain happiness about them that has nothing to do with the walls in which they live or the car they drive. It still blows my mind today, thinking about the people I’ve met. We would share our faith, they’d accept it as though they were grabbing onto a tree branch while standing in sinking sand, then they’d go on to eventually teach us about faith. I guess they grasped it so easily because so much of who they were came from the inside, and that’s where faith is.”

Vicki was in awe. She wanted him to go on and on, telling her stories about these people who lived along the Amazon River, not in homes, but in huts. She begged him to tell her as much as he could remember about growing up as a missionary in South America. The more she heard, the more she wanted to know. She listened until he could no longer think of anything else to say.

“Will you show me your pictures?” asked Vicki. “I want to see these people.”

“Of course. I’ll show them to you this summer. It’s going to be a good summer, spending it with you,” he said. “And fall will be good, too, because of you.”

Why hadn’t she told him about her plans for going to Spain come fall?
Maybe she wouldn’t go without Rebecca. She didn’t know whether she could take off for the international adventure that her now-deceased friend would have died for. Surely she should tell Ben of her friend’s death and her reaction to it, and of her breathing troubles, her panic attacks. No, she couldn’t let Ben think her crazy. Was that why she didn’t tell him? She took pride in always having life under control and, lately, she couldn’t understand how her mind could be crazy enough to cause the shortness of breath episodes. She feared she might be losing touch with her saneness. She didn’t want to disclose everything and scare Ben away. The night sky was clear, and she didn’t feel like introducing any rain just yet.

“Are you sure you’re done traveling, seeing the world?” Her Mr. Right would surely want to travel.

“Done. Here to stay. I need to belong somewhere, to establish friends that live in stationary homes, not huts that float down the Amazon. It’s tough saying good-bye every time you really start caring for someone.”

She liked him. She liked his answer, only she had things she wanted to see in the world, many things. All at once, she knew she had to say good-bye.

Dear Grandma
,

It might not be the right decision, but I’ve made it. I’m leaving for an island in the morning. And that’s all I’m going to say about that. The realization that I’m not going to live on this earth forever, that my life here is not permanent, shocked me. I’ve never thought about death before. I never gave it any status in my future list of things to do. Now, I watch Bugs Bunny falling off a cliff, and I have a panic attack
.

Just one more thing, Grandma. I never wrote about the day Rebecca cried in front of the mirror for an hour because she cut her own hair uneven and, inch by inch, she tried to fix it, only to be left with more hair on the floor than on her head. I stepped in with tissues, a fresh can of hair spray, and a curling iron, but the damage was done. She was upset
because she had a date. Rebecca never could see the beauty in her naturally thick hair, whether long or short. She could see the beauty in everything else, including months of Michigan’s dark, gloomy skies and dirty snow, but she could never see the beauty in herself. That’s all
.

P.S. I don’t feel sorry for you at all, Grandma. You are with God. I guess I feel sorry for myself, and how badly I wish you were here with me instead
.

CHAPTER SEVEN

AS SHE STOOD UNDER
the bamboo hut, waiting for the boat to arrive, she felt like jumping up and down over her decision to take the job on the island. She wanted to shout with excitement at leaving behind her insomnia and all that came with it.

The silence now reminded her of her past weeks spent with Ben. She should have told him about her decision to take a job and to live on a remote island. She had planned on telling him in person, but then he flew to a last-minute business meeting with investors in Miami. She would ask around on the island for a laptop so she could send him an email. No, she would tell him in person on one of her days off.

Taking the dock master’s hand and stepping onto the boat at Island Marina felt like déjà vu, but this time she had a couple of suitcases with her.

As they pulled away from the dock, Vicki stared until she could no longer see the bamboo hut. She felt a panic attack coming on and didn’t know what to blame – the speed of the boat, the wind hitting her face, or the what-if scenario playing itself out in her mind. Breathing deeply, she could taste the salty air on her tongue. What if the boat tipped over? What if it ran into another boat? What if it sank for no reason at all?

None of that happened. Instead, the boat pulled up to the remote island of Tarpon Key, where a man standing under a crooked, petite key lime tree walked up to the dock to greet them.

“Hello there, and welcome to Tarpon Key. My name is Denver. I’ll get your stuff and take ya on a tour that leads to the staff house.”

Without allowing Vicki to lift a finger, the skinny man wearing a tight, black Bad Company T-shirt loaded her suitcases from the boat onto a golf cart. He wore his hair pulled back into a long, frizzy black ponytail with split ends sticking out everywhere.

“Is this here all the stuff you got?” he asked. “You gotta see what all these waitresses bring out here with them. You got nothing compared to them.”

Exactly
, she thought. She’d planned to pack lightly for her first days on the island. That way she could easily grab onto the helicopter rescue ropes in the middle of the night if needed.

“The tour starts right here at the boathouse,” he said, helping her into the cart, which was parked behind the red brick building. “This is where everyone arrives. Yep, this is where everyone’s journey begins.”

A grandmother sat in a white wooden rocking chair on the shady side of the boathouse, humming to a crying baby, his nose running and his fist in his mouth.

“Just as you arrived here, you’ll also leave here, rocking on arrival and rocking on departure,” he said as the golf cart took off at full speed past the boathouse, then the restaurant, then down a winding sandy pathway through the subtropical jungle. They slowed down as they once again drew near to the water and approached a cozy-looking lean-to stocked with roasting sticks and giant-sized striped sitting cushions.

“We’ve reached no-no point,” he said as he slowed the cart near a pile of logs next to the lean-to.

“Did you say no-no point?” She asked. Perhaps her decision to come out here was all part of some boisterous joke.

“Yep, a major destination. It’s time to learn what you can and cannot do. Do
not
build a fire here in the summer. If you
do
build a fire, do
not
dump the empty marshmallow bags on the ground. I repeat, do
not
build a fire here in the summer. If you do, do
not
consume alcoholic beverages while building a fire here in the summer. If you do drink while building a fire here in the summer, do not drink to get drunk. If you do get drunk
while building a summertime fire, do not burn the island down. If it looks like ya might burn the island down, you’re just a few feet from the water, so grab some buckets from under the lean-to and run like hotcakes to the water.”

“You just totally confused …”

“What? Ya don’t know what hotcakes are?”

“Of course I do, but why …”

“Watch it. No talking back, ya hear?” said the scrawny man, on a power trip with his golf cart and his warnings.

The cart picked up speed again, leaving sight of the water and heading toward the center of the island, passing a shaded picnic table where a woman dipped into a picnic basket for a bottle of wine. The man beside her was kissing her neck.

“Love is in the air,” sang Denver, stopping right in front of the couple. “As you spend time here, just be sure you’re with the right person. It’s better to picnic alone than to picnic with the wrong person, if ya know what I mean.”