Beach Glass Read online

  “Excellent.” Carson turns to me and holds out his hand. “Ready, Kate?”

  The gesture and the question take me right back to the night of my birthday, when Daniel held me so sweetly and asked me if I was ready. In the space of a few hours, everything I wanted to say yes to was gone.

  The good of this week falls away like the lie that it is. I’ve been pretending to be this bold, carefree person who came to Costa Rica to learn how to surf, just another adventure in her full, fun-filled life. Now I’m just me again. Me, who my father left. Me, who Daniel walked away from. Me, alone. I watch the waves forming. They’re all muscle, wide expanses of undulating liquid force, each one with the power of a big event in my life. And I never surfed those very well.

  Instead of taking Carson’s hand, my own hand stays limply at my side. “Maybe I’m not ready after all,” I murmur at the sand.

  “Kate.”

  In just one word, I hear so much assurance in Carson’s voice that I have to look up at him. He puts a hand on my shoulder and faces me. “Only you know if you’re ready or not. But you’ve been doing great. And I’ll be there with you, right by your side. It’s absolutely okay to change your mind if you don’t want to do this. But if you’re asking me if you can do this, the answer is yes.”

  “You really think so?”

  He nods. “Want to give this a shot?”

  “Yes.” I like the steady sound of my voice. I think back to that idea I had at the volcano park, about having to be fearless to get what I wanted. “Yes, I want to.”

  The smile eases all the way to Carson’s sparkling eyes. “Then the only question left is, what are we waiting for?”

  Another echo of my birthday night, but now my pleading has been removed from it, replaced by a rhetorical question that suggests living life well, and fully. My smile feels huge and as dazzling as Carson’s as I say, “Let’s do it.”

  THE OCEAN, WHICH was so full of strong waves surging toward the beach before we paddled out, has now suddenly gone flat. “Sorry about this, Kate,” Carson says as we sit idly on our boards, waiting for waves. “It happens sometimes.”

  I consider kidding him, saying Don’t feel bad, it happens to everybody now and then. I’m not bold enough to make sex jokes with Carson, but while we’re out here on our boards, our legs dangling in the water, there’s nothing wrong with making conversation. “So,” I start, “got any brothers or sisters?”

  He laughs in agreement that this is as good a time as any for chitchat. “A sister,” he says. “Chandler.”

  “That’s a great name. So elegant.”

  “It’s our paternal grandmother’s maiden name,” he explains. “Carson is our mother’s maiden name. Using maiden names as kids’ first names is a tradition in my family.” I try to hide a smile. If Carson and I ever had a child, we’d have to break that tradition, or our poor little Murvis wouldn’t make it out of the playground alive. “How about you?” Carson asks. “Any brothers or sisters?”

  “Bethany, my little sister,” I say affectionately, “by three years.”

  Carson waves a hand. “That’s nothing. Chan’s fourteen years younger than me.” He smiles at a memory. “I was so jealous when she was born and took all my mother’s attention. Then she did the big brother idolatry trick and won me over.”

  “How old is she now?” I ask, more interested in figuring out Carson’s age than his sister’s.

  “Sixteen,” he says. “Jeez, that means I’ll be thirty-one soon. Gettin’ old,” he jokes, shaking his head. “Are you and your sister close?”

  “Bethy’s my best friend, always has been. We never had that sibling rivalry, even though our mother was never very, well, mommy-like. I think we compensated for that by creating this intense bond. Bethy lives in California now with her husband and my niece. It’s really hard being so far away from her.”

  He nods. “It’s hard being far away from Chandler, too.”

  “You don’t get home much?” He shakes his head. “But your sister must have come to visit,” I say cheerfully, imagining Carson teaching her how to surf. But he only says “Not yet” as he looks away, back toward the horizon.

  We sit quietly for a few minutes, our boards being gently rocked by the current. I look into the blue-grey water, which is clear for quite a few feet below, and a thought suddenly comes to me. “There aren’t any sharks out here, are there?”

  “Oh, sure,” Carson says, so off-handedly that I think and pray I didn’t hear him right. But he doesn’t look like he’s kidding. “There are?” I jerk my feet out of the water and onto the board, almost capsizing as I look around nervously.

  “Well, yeah. We’re kind of in their living room, you know? Don’t worry,” he soothes. “They won’t bother you. Besides, it’s exciting to see them.”

  “Exciting? Don’t you mean scary?”

  Carson shrugs. “Scary can be exciting. Like skydiving. Have you ever tried that?”

  “Uh, no.”

  “You have to! It’s the best,” he says, breaking into an enthusiastic grin. “It’s like flying.”

  My face grimaces involuntarily. “It’s actually falling. Literally. Fast. Toward the ground. Like, splat.”

  He laughs at me. “Okay, but it feels like you’re flying. And it’s so beautiful, and in the back of your mind, there’s this tiny little thought.” He pauses, and I’m rapt until he says, “I hope the parachute opens.” He laughs, a deep, rich chuckle. Despite a line of thinking I just can’t get with, the sound of his laughter makes me smile as I shake my head. “I love that rush,” Carson says. “It’s better than anything.”

  I can’t help but raise an eyebrow. “Is this where I’m supposed to coquettishly ask, ‘Better than anything?’” That’s my idea of daring behavior, saying something I’d usually think of in hindsight.

  Carson grins at me, blushing slightly at the way he unintentionally set up my zinger. “No, I didn’t mean for that to be your cue. And no, it’s not better than anything. It just beats a day in the office, that’s all.”

  “Skydiving, sharks,” I say, teasing him a little more. “You have funny ideas about how to spend your spare time. I don’t know if I should hang out with you. You lured me out here to surf, and now I’m sitting on what looks like a big serving tray in the sharks’ living room. You know what that makes me?” I ask. “A snack in a bikini.” I love being able to make him laugh as hard as he is now.

  “I guess I should be worried,” he says when he stops laughing. “You do look delicious.” He smiles innocently, though now there’s no mistaking the innuendo in his words. Just then, the wind starts kicking up, and Carson looks at the horizon. “Get ready, Kate,” he says. “Your wave is coming.”

  I look behind me and see a wave approaching. It’s not too fast, not too big, and not so small that it’ll peter out before I get a chance to jump up. If there was ever going to be a perfect wave for me, this is it. I don’t want to blow it. And not just because Carson’s here. I want to do this for myself.

  “I’m right behind you, Kate,” Carson calls out, paddling not far away. “Don’t think too much. You know what to do!”

  Do I? I’ll just have to trust him on this, because it’s too late to back out now.

  I see the white water at the top of my wave, aim for it, and turn, easing into position on my belly as the wave rolls forward. I feel balanced enough to get to my hands and knees. Behind me, I hear Carson call out, “You’re doing great!” Okay, now the tricky part, standing. But the way to get there is exactly like one of the yoga poses I do every morning. I swing my right foot in front of my hands. Letting my body take over, I rise to my feet. And then, suddenly, I’m up. I’m up!

  My arms are outstretched, my feet are exactly where they should be, and the board and I are in perfect symmetry as we navigate the fast-moving water. My body moves in time with the wave, like we’re dancing. The wave leads, I follow. Move this way, a little that way, hips shift, arms balance. It all feels so natural. I hear Carson
shouting, “That’s it, Kate! Whooo!”

  This is so great! I got past my fear, and I’m being rewarded with that feeling of freedom and lightness. Everything is perfect as I glide along on the wave. Knowing that Carson is nearby just makes this better.

  On the shore, I see everyone jumping up and down, waving at me. I can’t hear them because the ocean seems to be getting louder. It almost, but not quite, drowns out the sound of Carson shouting my name. “Kate! Kate!”

  His voice sounds frantic. I look behind me and see nothing—not sky, not sun, not clouds—but water. Not a wave, but a wall of water. Coming at me, curling over me.

  Engulfing me completely.

  13.

  I’VE NEVER BEEN in a car accident, never felt my body thrown by impact before. The sheer force and velocity of the wave hitting me, hurling me through the water, nearly knocks out my breath, which is more a lucky gasp of fear than preparation for going under.

  The water has me unlike anything I could have imagined. This brutal force is everywhere, not something with hands or arms but with a grip just as strong. My body is being dragged fast, but in what direction . . . I can’t tell. My eyes squeeze shut. I try to keep my arms near my head to keep from getting hit by my surfboard, but the surging water wants to pull my limbs off my body.

  My right leg is yanked hard. The wave has my board, and as it rolls it pulls part of me one way and the other half in another direction. I try to grab the board tether when a current wrenches my arm upward. I’m caught in an undertow, being carried away from shore.

  My lungs ache for air. Then they start to scream. I have no idea where air is, where up is. I have to start swimming, but which way? I’m being rolled around in a giant washing machine, where up becomes down in a frantic heartbeat. I open my eyes to try to see light and lose my contact lenses. Everything is a blue blur.

  I feel my ears pop. The pressure is intense, the noise unreal. On land, sounds come from specific sources. Underwater, it seems like I can hear the entire ocean at once. The effect is even more disorienting and terrifying.

  Just then, in my head, I hear Carson’s smooth voice, his instruction from our first lesson. Don’t panic. My thoughts become clear. They’re less about what I should do than how I feel. I have no control. Oh my God. I could drown if I don’t do something. But I have no control. Have I ever? Could I have done anything about losing my job, losing Daniel, losing my father? Somewhere, when I became afraid of loss, I lost myself. As I realize I might die, I see how little I’ve been living.

  The water churns me around like I’m a rag doll, pushing and pulling me like it’s proving my point. I have no control. But I do have a choice. Now the voice I hear is my own. What are you waiting for?

  I remember Carson saying that the surfboard will float and show the way to the surface. I reach for my ankle and try to grab the leash, but another roll in the wave rips the cord from my hands. My lungs can’t hold on anymore. My breath explodes from my body—a curse and a blessing, because the air bubbles rise up, toward the way I need to go. I follow them, stroking with everything I have.

  But I’m not getting far enough fast enough. I can see light, but I’m running out of strength. My brain begs my lungs not to breathe, but, panicking, they force a gulp. Stinging salt liquid invades my throat. No! Oh, God, I promise not to waste my life waiting to live!

  Another force grabs me. But this time it’s definitely a hand, a strong hand gripping my arm, fingers digging into my flesh and pulling me up, up to the surface.

  “I’ve got you,” I hear Carson say as I gasp for air. “It’s okay, Kate, I’ve got you.”

  MY LIMBS FLOAT limply in the water as Carson tows me to shore, swimming hard. I can’t keep my eyes open, and I’m barely able to breathe. Then I’m being lifted, strong arms holding me tightly before laying me on warm sand. “Oh my God,” I hear someone say, before another voice orders, “Step back, give them room.”

  The world shrinks as my consciousness fades. It feels like falling asleep, but I don’t want to. I wish I could breathe. I wish I’d done more. I wish I hadn’t said what I did to my dad before he died. I feel someone close, pushing my head back. A mouth covering mine. Now I must be asleep, dreaming again that Carson is kissing me.

  But I feel him breathe into my mouth, quickly, over and over, and I hear someone counting with urgency, and feel pressure on the center of my chest. My body jerks back to life, coughing and sputtering. Suddenly, everything is very bright.

  “Come on, Kate,” Carson urges, gasping. He turns me on my side as I struggle for breath, and he puts his face close to mine. “Kate, listen to me. Don’t fight the coughing. It means your lungs are working. Just take small breaths when you can. You’re okay,” he says. “Thank God, you’re okay.”

  The coughs give way to deeper breaths. I feel Carson’s smooth, warm hand gently pushing my hair out of my eyes, and I see his intense concern.

  “Are you all right?” he asks.

  Still coughing, I give him the thumbs-up.

  He puts a strong arm around my shoulders and pulls me upright. “Can you talk? Say your name.”

  “The Little Mermaid,” I answer. My voice is raspy from salt water, but it’s my voice, and it sounds great to me. Carson smiles and gives a huge sigh of relief, and everyone around us applauds and laughs.

  After a few minutes of letting me get used to breathing again, and with great care, Carson helps me to a standing position. I seem to be fine, but he won’t take his arm from around me. “You guys,” he says to the group, “when you go out, remember what Kate did today. When she got in trouble, she did exactly what she was supposed to do, and she didn’t panic.”

  I look up at him to see if he’s kidding, which, under the circumstances, would be abnormally cruel. But he isn’t. He looks at me with an expression that I can’t quite read, mostly because he’s smiling so much. And I feel myself start to smile, too.

  I DON’T PROTEST when Carson takes me for the obligatory trip to Emerald Cove’s infirmary. Brigitte and William, both still freaked out, come along as well. The doctor examines me, and, aside from some scrapes inflicted by my surfboard being thrown against me and a few gulps of water down my hatch, she pronounces me well. “You were lucky,” she says.

  “And smart,” Carson adds, with admiration that mystifies me. “She kept her head.”

  They take me back to my tent, and after asking me about four times each if I’m all right and do I want any or all of them to stay for a while, I assure them I’m okay and that I just need to rest. Then I fall across my bed and pass out.

  I know I’m dreaming, but I can almost feel the sand against my knees as I kneel in the shallows, drinking salt water. I know it’s going to make me sick, but I keep drinking it, gulping it down. As I do this, I’m looking at Daniel, who’s sitting on the beach watching me. I stick my head in the water and start breathing the ocean in, drowning, and he watches me, looking panicked but doing nothing.

  When I wake up, my throat hurts, and I’m angry with Daniel all over again, even though it was only a dream. He’d never really sit and watch me drink salt water until I drowned. But, in a way, that is what’s happening. I could have died, and he’s not here with me. And why? Because I wanted to marry him? How could he possibly love me if that’s the reason we’re not together?

  I try to calm my throat and my nerves with small sips of cool water from the glass on my nightstand. It helps a little. The night is quiet, just the sound of wind rustling through the palm trees. The howler monkey families have all gone to their howler monkey homes, snuggled up together, and gone to sleep. I get under the covers and curl up, though it’s not cold.

  If I really believe in fate, I’m wondering what the universe is trying to tell me here. I almost drowned. I could’ve died, and I’m alone now, because . . . why? My mother would say it’s because I took risks by surfing. Bethy and I grew up with Mom going above and beyond the usual “don’t touch the hot stove” routine, warning us not to take unnecessa
ry chances to the point that any chances seemed loaded with dangerous consequences. When I told Mom I was doing this travel story, I left out the part about learning how to surf, knowing she’d freak out because something might happen to me. And it did. I always used to blame her for making me too cautious, but maybe she was right. Maybe I shouldn’t have come here, just stayed in my safe, predictable life. Thank God Carson saved me.

  Wait a minute. I feel myself frowning into the darkness in my tentalow, which Mom would have told me was snake-prone, and which I’ve loved staying in. Carson did pull me up, but I’d been swimming for my life. Right before he grabbed me, I’d been fighting my way up, toward the light. I wasn’t waiting for someone to save me. I fought for myself.

  I haven’t done that very much in my life. I started turning inward when my parents were imploding because I thought if I was a very good kid they’d fight less. I didn’t understand that their problems had nothing to do with me. Or maybe I did, and I was hurt by how little they seemed to be thinking about my sister and me as they broke apart. Like the way Daniel felt completely forgotten by his warring parents.

  But all my goodness was for nothing, and when my father told us in his gentle or evasive way that he had to go away for a while, I remember silently, angrily withdrawing. Bethy clung to Dad in a desperate attempt to get as much of him as she could before he left, but I wouldn’t speak to him or look at him. I left him before he could leave me.

  Dad kept trying to reach me, though. First through love and then by challenging me. During one of our visits, he asked me to pick a college, reveal my passion, and pursue it, to do something, stake my claim in life. He’d left teaching to become a writer, and he’d written a book of poems he hoped to get published. He gave up everything, his shot at tenure, a stable life, and to my mind, his family, to pursue this great love of writing. Having found his passion, he kept pushing me to tell him anything about how I felt, and I finally did. Cruel words, honed sharp by hurt, came out and wounded him. I couldn’t stop them, and I couldn’t take them back, either, because at the time they were true. A few months later, he died. He died thinking I hated him.