Page 14 of The California Dreamers

13

Four pups

2002

The island

Day 2, early morning

I peered down through the white rope diamond to where Mama sat in the glow of the solar lantern. She wore a green sleeveless dress and had a brown sack slung across her chest diagonally, like a contest winner, Ms. Nature.

She looked like she belonged here. She smiled up at me and mouthed, My girl.

I climbed down and fell into her arms. Oranges and cloves, ocean. “I knew you’d come,” she whispered. She cupped my face, stroked my hair. Not asking why I dyed it, why it stopped at my collarbone instead of my tailbone.

Mag and Griff and Dyl slept on above, high in the air, like fairies from one of Dyl’s old stories.

For a long time, we didn’t say anything. She squeezed my hand, and it all came back to me, how when Mama squeezes your hand, the memory of it has weight and edges, like it’s something you can carry.

“Cap,” I whispered at last. “I’m so sorry.”

Her voice was surprisingly steady. “He was ready. He didn’t want to fade out in some dreary bed, stuck to machines.”

Of the reporter we’d stashed in the other work shed, she seemed as accepting and untroubled as Charlie’d said she was when she first told her the news: “Cap must have had his reasons for inviting her.”

About the Gull’s thousand dollars in repairs, which I offered to help pay: “We’ll scrape it together like always, maybe the Gull deserves a little rest, don’t you think?”

And on this setting for the paddle-out: “Don’t you know why it had to be here?”

How could I know? I hadn’t even known that Cap was sick, or that the six of us would soon be on a museum wall in LA.

“I thought it was maybe so we could hide from reporters, because of that museum exhibit. But if Cap invited one, then that doesn’t make sense.”

“Oh, is that what you and your brothers think?” She gave me a look. Not as in you’re right , but as in you could not be more wrong . “I’m glad you’re getting along, you four.”

“It’s a little strange, because of that reporter—”

“And you have a family in Oregon?” She was radiant with expectation for more details. She looked at me as if I was still a teen, that windblown girl in the picture, and her eyes showed none of the accusation or disappointment I’d feared for fifteen years.

“I have two sons, Mama. Jack and Bear. Fraternal twins.”

“Well. It runs in the family.” She ran her index finger down the part in my hair. A glimmer of blond would be visible now, between the brown. I hadn’t colored it in two weeks.

“And you’re raising them alone?” she asked.

I shook my head. “Their father, Lou. He’s wonderful.”

She tilted her chin a degree at my answer. Mama always knew when there was truth between words, in the interstices. It was the way she communicated herself. But she didn’t ask about my long-dead marriage.

I had so many questions for her, though. I needed to know what happened after I left, after I mailed my postcard of the lavender farm in full bloom, why I never got even an acknowledgment they’d received it. “I’ve missed you so much, Mama,” I said, my voice breaking. “I have so much I want to talk about with you.”

“I missed you too, Little Seal. But we have time.” She beamed again.

But we didn’t. Couldn’t she understand that? It was impenetrable, her beaming, the light she gave off. It was blinding. Maybe I did want her to accuse me, to bring up my leaving. It would show that my absence had mattered, at least. It would allow me to respond— But you didn’t come for me.

Why didn’t you come for me?

Instead she blithely ignored that I’d fled. I had never, in a decade and a half of daydreamed conversations with her, imagined that.

“Mama. When I left, I mailed a postcard and—”

“Look at those bites!”

“They’re fine. Mama—”

“You need more salve.” In the dim predawn light, she examined the pink welts on my ankle with a frown that turned to a wide smile as she gazed up: “Boys! Isn’t this nice? All of us, together?”

Because Griff was climbing down, Dyl had sat up, and Mag was stretching.

***

Griff was in take-charge mode again, ensuring Mama that “our” plan was to confine the reporter to the other side of the island while we decided about the interview. “She’ll be far away from the paddle-out,” he said, joining us.

Mama was unconcerned. “I thought we’d have our little ceremony tomorrow. It’s so beautiful here. There’s no rush, is there?” she asked, with that dazzling smile.

The boys looked at me, waiting for me to jump in and say, Yeah, there kind of is . I couldn’t get the words out.

“Mother,” Mag said. “Ronan goes back today.”

“You do?” She turned to me, startled.

“I… That was the plan.”

“Your sons are waiting for you on the farm, I suppose?”

I couldn’t lie to her. Her eyes were still so trusting. And though I’d told myself this would be the briefest of visits, now the idea of an extra day with my family was tempting. “Well. Actually, they’re away at camp.”

Mama said tenderly, “Did Ronan tell you about Jack and Bear?” She seemed to relish using these names, and I stored this away as a little gem, two gems—how I’d only mentioned them once and she’d locked them into her memory so quickly.

“She did, Mother,” Mag said. “So have you finished your secret project for the paddle-out?”

“Nearly,” Mama said. “Ronan. Could Lou spare you from the farm one more night, do you think?”

Uncanny, her sorcery. It was stronger than ever; she seemed to sense that Lou could perfectly well spare me.

Lou and the boys could not only spare me, they didn’t even know I was here. It was one thing to tell myself on the farm that this would be a two-day trip. Like saying “Just one quick wave, and then I’ll get out of the water.”

But I was immersed in my family, enchanted by them again. The way they’d adapted to the island without harming it, their ease here, beyond civilization. And the pull of Mama’s sweet, expectant face was irresistible, no matter my frustration with her. “Well,” I admitted. “He’s not on the farm, either. He’s staying near the boys for the week. Seaside.”

“Mother, Ronan planned on only two days here…” Mag leaped in.

Griff and Dyl hadn’t spoken in a while, but they watched me closely, waiting for my answer. It was no longer dark, and the faint dawn light felt like a sign.

“It’s okay,” I said. “Mama’s right. The sun’s almost up so we should wait ’til tomorrow. I’d hate everyone to rush through the ceremony on my account, it’s too important. I can stay one more day.”

“Perfect,” Mama said. “Thank you, Ronan.”

“We should talk about the reporter, though,” Griff said tentatively, looking over his shoulder for a moment, as if he could see the west side of the island and the shed where we’d installed Pauline Cowley. He turned back, looking at each of us significantly, ending with Mama. “We need to decide what to do.”

Mama didn’t answer, and her expression didn’t change. She merely took one last sip of her tea and set the tin mug down on the ground.

“We asked Charlie to get her list of questions, to stall her,” I added, hoping for something, anything solid from Mama. The tiniest acknowledgment that Cap inviting a reporter had jolted her, too. That stalling the interview was wise or foolish.

A hint, a flicker of distress at the existence of that list, which Pauline was creating as we spoke. Of a citizen-stranger who couldn’t possibly understand the choices Cap and Mama had made, poring over them. Judging them.

“Well, you four talk it over when you see the list,” Mama said. “You decide what to say to her, that’s fine with me. In the meantime, does anyone feel like a hike?” She clapped her hands together with excitement.

***

“Mama?” I tried again, panting, when we were nearly at the summit.

“I want to show you something. There. Do you see it?” she whispered, pointing at a dull arc of twigs far above. A seagull nest. She smiled distantly. “Now, gulls never let their young leave until they’re completely ready to fend for themselves.”

I nodded. I didn’t know if I wanted this to be a coded message for me or not. I only wanted her to stop moving, to look me in the eyes, to let me speak above a whisper. And to acknowledge that, even if she didn’t have answers, she shared some of my questions.

“… And I saw an eagle’s nest the other day on the west side of the island. I’ll show you tomorrow or the next day…”

I told her I couldn’t stay long after the paddle-out, but she didn’t react. My departure plans had begun to seem arbitrary—my sons wouldn’t be home for a week—even foolish, when there were such wonders as eagles still to see.

So I gave in to her nature tour. Let her describe the moss and lichen that bald eagles used to line their nests, how they were protected here.

She’d made it clear. She didn’t want to talk about the past.

When we rejoined the others she asked, “Now, does anyone feel like a swim?”

I tensed, gazing down at the whitecaps. Paddling out for Cap’s short memorial on a board before sunrise, then hopping on the boat to leave, was one thing. But swimming in the ocean, in daylight, just for kicks? I didn’t relish the prospect of fighting that surf, or pretending I wasn’t scared. And what if we attracted attention, and someone radioed in that a pack of people were treating Manzanita Island as their personal resort? It seemed absurdly risky.

Dyl spoke then, directly to me. “It won’t be the ocean. I found a warm swimming hole—the rocks hide it from boats.” His reassuring tone was exactly the one I’d used on him when he was a little boy and he was nervous.

Comforted slightly, I said, “That sounds wonderful, Dyl.”

***

I stared out at where Dyl had led us. “It’s… How is this…?”

“Right?” Mag laughed.

“Our first backyard pool,” I said, in awe. “Amazing what sixty or seventy million years of volcanic activity can create.” The fact, straight from the vanilla library’s fat Geology of the Pacific reference book, came automatically.

The others stared at me, pleased by my pleasure, surprised by my sharp memory.

We stood on a rocky ledge curled around a deep, oval-shaped cove. Across the water, on the ocean side, the wall of rocks wasn’t as high, but it provided enough vertical cover to hide anyone swimming inside the nature-dug pool.

“Dyl found it the third day,” Mama said.

“It’s warm enough for no wet suits this time of year, but don’t expect backyard warm,” Mag said. “There’s a little churn from the tides, but enough of the water stays in here all the time that it warms up.”

“Do we jump, or sort of scooch in?” I looked dubiously at the rough sides of our “backyard pool.” Five feet of scooching would mean a lot of scrapes. Climbing out would be worse.

“Neither,” Griff said.

Mama nudged her youngest. “Dyl, why don’t you tell her?”

Instead of explaining, he darted back into the trees. He returned with a snare he’d fashioned, made out of a loop of braided reeds lashed to a stick, and, demonstrating slowly for my benefit, used it to catch the end of a manzanita branch and pull it down.

He rappelled down the side of the rocky ledge in front of us a few feet, then let go and plunged gracefully into the water. Instead of snapping back up, his grabbing device now dangled within easy reach.

“See, he weighted the handle with stones, so it makes climbing out a snap, too,” Mag explained.

A snap, huh? I swallowed. They were all watching me—I was next. Shaky, trying to hide my nerves, I unbuckled my sandals and unzipped my shirt until I was only in my shorts and sports bra.

It seemed to hit the others that in their excitement they’d forgotten I was no longer an ocean child. Mag shot me a worried, apologetic look, and Griff opened his mouth as if about to speak, maybe recalling my nerves when we’d disembarked from the Kai .

But I had to be a good sport. My little brother was floating on his back, waiting for me.

It wasn’t pretty. Dyl had been so quick, so agile, some rare, island-bred hybrid of chimp and porpoise. I was nothing but quaking, landlocked farm mom as I took the makeshift safety bar and worked my way down the rough edge of the “pool.” But I made it. And when I dropped in, the water felt like chilled silk.

I back floated toward the center, where Dyl was. With a little whoop, Mag splashed in, and then Griff made his more dignified entry. Then Mama joined us, and for a long time, there was no need to do anything but float. I started with a dog paddle. Then a sidestroke. Then it came back, my old, rolling crawl. How I’d missed this.

I paddled to Mama and said breathlessly, “I’m glad I came.”

“I’m glad you’re glad.”

“It’s just like that time we snuck into the San Andrea cove, remember? Cap was working and we were boiling in that heat wave. And Dyl was so young. He brought a cup of water back for the Gull, to trickle on her hood.”

“He should do it with this water. Anoint the Gull.”

“Bring a container back to the RV graveyard, you mean?”

“The Gull’s here.” Mama looked dreamy.

“You mean…in spirit, like Cap?”

“No, truly here.” She laughed and swam off.

Always unpredictable, always floaty, had Mama lost her grip on reality? Floated off to sea?

I signaled to Mag and he surged over in two strokes. “Mama didn’t— This sounds nuts. You didn’t hire a ferry or barge to bring the Gull here to the island, did you?”

“What are you talking about?” he asked.

“Mama said the Gull’s here.”

“Oh, you know how she is. Always talking in riddles.” Mag dipped a finger into the water from above and swirled it as if to demonstrate the conundrum that was our mother.

At least Dyl seemed less anxious today. He’d swum the other way, to the far rocks. Nimbly, he scrambled up and sat on the thick ledge there, peering through a craggy, window-like oval onto what I’d assumed was open ocean.

He looked over his shoulder at me, beckoned happily once, and turned again.

Shivering, I swam to him. He offered me a hand up—such a grown-up hand, with such strength behind it.

I was still processing it, this man’s strength in my tiny little brother—would it ever be anything but shocking?—when I saw what he wanted to show me.

Down below, the rocks descended sharply to a narrow strip of beach. And there was another family there. Elephant seal sows and their new young. The long, portly animals were silvery gray as they sunned themselves, conversing in clicks and foghorn-deep calls.

“Four pups,” Dyl said.

Overcome by the sight, how sweetly Dyl it was to share this coincidence with me, I tried to keep my voice steady, but it came out ragged. “Like us. The Merrick kids.”

Dyl smiled at me under half-closed lids, then descended gracefully back to the water and duck-dived expertly, showing me his right instep. That was my answer—his eighteenth-birthday tattoo.

From my perch a few feet above on the rocky ledge, I laughed with joy. Dyl surfaced and water streamed down his eyes, his smile. He had Mama’s serene smile. I’d missed it so much I had to jump into the water with him again.

Water was always the cure. We float, we glide, we need no one else…

We splashed and floated like the old days, our worries forgotten on dry land.

Then, everything changed.

Dyl spotted her first, over my shoulder, and it was like watching an animal, one second lost in pure pleasure, sense a predator, and remember that earth holds danger, too. His smile faded.

I paddled around. On the rocks, gazing down at us, Charlie stood with an envelope in her hand: our interview questions.

***

We slowly climbed out of the water, dripping and shivering, and surrounded her, all of us staring at the thick white envelope. I’d expected a page; this was a novella.

Dyl’s voice came out thin, young sounding. “What does she want to ask us?”

Charlie said, “I didn’t read them. It’s…family business. But she was up all night writing by lamplight. Scribbling and scratching things out. Crumpling up paper. There’s a whole recycling bag full.” Clearly, Charlie hadn’t slept, either; she was red-eyed and looked exhausted. Now she was circled by drenched, anxious Merricks; we hadn’t even let her sit and rest after yet another cross-island hike.

I wondered if she was weary of being our liaison to the outside world, just like when we were teens. But she was gentle and respectful as she offered the envelope of Pauline’s questions to Mama.

Who wouldn’t take it. “Oh, I don’t know anything about magazines. You four decide what to say to her.”

“If we say anything,” Mag said. “We really need to figure that out, Mother.”

Charlie turned to Mama. “Oh, she really hopes you might come visit her soon, Ella. And she mentioned some kind of small honorarium for the interview. She hasn’t told me how much, but—”

“Isn’t that sweet? First Dyl and I have something to show everyone. Dyl, let me check that it’s all ready, and then you follow in a little bit, all right?” A smile, a gentle squeeze of her wet hair, and Mama was downhill, out of sight. Happy to pretend Pauline Cowley and her questions didn’t exist.

“What’s an honorarium?” Mag asked.

I explained reluctantly; Pauline dangling this surprise carrot, when the Gull sat in the graveyard needing a new engine, might make it harder to say no. “Money.” I sighed.

“Did Cap know about that part?” Griff asked.

“I don’t know,” Charlie said. “She wouldn’t say.”

“There must be a lot of questions in there, for her to pay us for the answers,” Mag said.

“Well, let’s see what they are.” Since no one else seemed to want it, I took the fat envelope from Charlie, unsealed it, and pulled out what Pauline had sent us. She’d wrapped her questions in a sheaf of blank paper, I saw to my relief, and her note for us was only on a single four-by-six card. Maybe the interview wouldn’t be so grueling after all.

I read, flipped the card over.

And laughed.

“What?” everyone asked.

I held up what Pauline had written.

Griff narrowed his eyes, reading. “She’s unhinged. Or she thinks she’s Sartre.”

Dyl tilted his head, looking thoughtful. Analyzing Pauline Cowley as one of his creatures. He respected unpredictable animals.

“ One question?” Mag said. “She was up all night to write one question?”

Pauline had written only four words: “Is this the truth?”

“Is what the truth?” Mag laughed. “Life? The island? Well, now I’m curious about all the questions that went in the recycling bin. Hey, it’s good—it means we can tell her anything.” My heart sank; Mag seemed to have warmed to the interview because of the money. And Griff seemed to be a yes out of loyalty to Cap. “She’s just some rich eccentric. We can control the interview and send her on her way.”

But Pauline Cowley wasn’t unhinged, or pretentious. That was the most unnerving part. It was a perfect, brilliant question. The only question.

“She means is this the truth.” I turned the message around so they could see what Pauline had used as paper: a four-by-six color glossy of Dreamers .