Page 27 of The California Dreamers

26

Swell

2002

The island

Day 3, 1:00 a.m.

As Charlie and I lay side by side on our backs in the little shelter, I raised my left hand to hers. Hooked our pinkies.

She twined her fingers in mine, and I turned to face her, breaking our hands apart, stroking her cheek. She leaned into my touch, kissing my wrist, her lips so soft I had to kiss her mouth.

Everything else dropped away but the two of us, fast and desperate and inevitable. It was like the night of the grunion run, when the beach turned silver for a few hours.

***

I woke to the awareness of Charlie asleep next to me, holding me close. It was still dark.

She had wrapped her coat around us, and the rain drumming on the boat had softened, a steady, gentler beat. Don’t stop raining. If it stopped, we’d have to face the day. The interview, and the paddle-out. The clouds would pass over the island, and the light would begin to change with sunrise. Each new color an ending.

I thought she was sleeping until she whispered, “Hey, Ro? You still give me hummingbirds in my stomach.”

I laughed, burrowing my face deeper into her side. “God. What a young thing to say.”

“Don’t be embarrassed. It’s still the finest compliment I’ve ever received. That, and the other thing you said to me. That last night?”

“I remember. I wanted so much for you to say it back.”

“But I only said, ‘You’re lovely.’” She pulled me tighter. “I wanted to say it back. I was afraid you weren’t saying it for the right reasons. You were adrift, then.”

I was here with her, snug in our shelter, my forehead against her warm shoulder. But I was back there, too. Feeling the outside world, unrelenting, vast, and cruel. “Everything had started to fall apart.”

***

When I emerged in the morning, the sun was out, birds chirping and singing in relief after the storm. I was the first up.

I was stiff from sleeping on the ground, my arm achier than before, and it was cold. But the island seemed to demand that I turn in a circle, take in every degree of beauty. Far to my right, the fog over San Nicolas Island, then a long stretch of impossibly blue ocean, and then the wavy column of sand to the east, strewn with palm leaves and other detritus after the storm, but wind-smoothed, glinting. Only when I’d turned fully around did I glance up and see a figure on the rocks high above. So I was not the first to wake; Pauline was perched up there, alone. Staring out to sea, bundled against the cold under Mama’s red sleeping bag.

I started back toward my shelter but she spied me and called, “Good morning! Ronan, up here!”

I couldn’t snub her, not when the interview was today. I climbed up, determined to act friendly, or at least civil.

“Did you sleep well?” she asked.

I flashed back to Charlie’s face close to mine, shivered as I recalled our night. “Surprisingly, yes, and you?”

“Oh, terrific.” Though she looked wretched. Her eyes red, mouth chapped. And her voice was unconvincing. Pauline seemed to work something over in her mind. “Actually, it was a rotten night. I don’t think I slept more than a few minutes, here and there.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault, Ronan.” She held my gaze for a long time.

Too long. I stepped away from her, staring down at the three bright orange ovals under which the others slept.

“Is anyone else awake yet?” I asked.

“No. You’re the only Dreamer not dreaming.”

At her reference to the photo, all my joy from my night with Charlie vanished. I remembered why my first instinct, a moment ago, had been to scurry back under my orange lean-to.

“Our father isn’t dreaming,” I said sharply, on alert again.

“I was speaking figuratively.”

Her tone was questioning—I’d anticipated that. But it was also knowing, and pained. This, I had not expected from her. Everything had a double meaning.

With great effort, I kept my voice neutral. “Explain, if you don’t mind. What were you trying to say?”

“You left the life they chose for you.”

Oh, she was sharp. “My mother told you that? No wonder you—” I stopped myself just in time. No wonder you wanted to be her roommate the night before your interview. So you could do your research.

Pauline sighed sadly. “Ronan. Here, sit. Please?”

At last I complied, and she continued. “Yes. Your mother told me you left the van…the life, at seventeen. I wondered why. You’re speaking to me, not to SWELL magazine right now.”

“Well, if you say so.” My laugh sounded as forced as it was. How swell of you. So then I trust you completely. “Flay me, display me.” A line from a poem Cap liked…by cummings or Pound? Oh, what did it matter. She had succeeded in needling me.

Everything was strategy, and I had to remind myself of that, no matter how unsettling her gaze, how surprising her line of questioning.

“Let’s start again. You left the van at seventeen.”

And now she’d ask the natural follow-up: Why? I braced myself.

But she asked instead, “Did you ever wish someone had made you leave before that?”

I fumbled through my surprise. “Of course not. It was a great life. It was a…a dream life.” Careful, Ronan. I gripped the hem of my shorts and felt, through the fabric, the list of interview topics in my pocket. “You know what’s funny. You should write about this. The song, ‘California Dreamin’.’ It’s about people who don’t live in California, but want to.”

She hesitated, but then nodded. “It’s about people who have a cold life and want a warm one. Which your picture offers to the world. Right? And it’s such a beautiful picture. The person who took it has an eye.”

Hers were steady on me, her words probing. “It’s a beautiful record of a life. A most unusual life.

“I know you think I don’t understand it, but I do. I understand secrets. And seventeen-year-old girls running away. You know, I wish you could be proud of that California Dreamers exhibit in the Brand. Even visit it. We all have a right to bear witness to our own lives.”

Could she know? My breathing caught and I looked longingly at the bright orange raft, wishing I’d ignored her summons. I blurted, “What’s your favorite version of that song? It’s been covered a million times. There’s a Bobby Womack version, do you know that one?”

“Oh, Ronan. I didn’t come here to trap you, or hurt you.”

She let out a pained sigh, telling me my clumsy attempt to steer the conversation to safe waters was obvious, it was noted, and it was pitied.

A long whistle from below. Mag’s perfect middle C.

“Up here!” I called gratefully. Mag emerged from under his raft shelter, and then Charlie. Then another camper joined them, someone with a bulging tan backpack. Dyl hadn’t been far, then. I’d guessed that, and wondered where he’d bivouacked last night. He’d probably made himself more comfortable than any of us.

“Your little brother,” Pauline said, watching him as I was.

“Look, Dyl brought a bunch of food, you must be starving,” I said in relief. “And you must be impatient to get the interview done and go back, so you can sleep in a proper bed on the mainland—”

But Pauline grabbed my hand. “Ronan. I—I’m sorry I’ve bungled this visit. I have a lot of respect for your family.”

“You’re just doing your job,” I said brightly, shrugging.

But she wouldn’t let go of my hand. “To answer your question. I like the original version of that song the best. But it always makes me cry. It’s so beautiful. So full of longing for a better life.” Her hand held me, and the understanding in her voice held me. At last I looked at her, directly in her eyes for the first time. Dark blue eyes, shining with compassion, with intelligence and kindness.

I met them for no more than a second or two. But this seemed enough for her—the price she exacted from me so I could get away from her pitying gaze.

She released my hand.