“Consider it.”
“You don’t understand, I have to beat the fear of the big waves. Not just avoid them. I have to get back on the horses that threw me. And threw John. And might throw my boys. I’m tired of running and hiding, Doctor. I need to confront the past. I need to find my courage. I need to win. I need to finally beat these fucking monsters.”
“But, Jen, fear is one of the many things that keeps us alive. It has helped through the ages. It allows courage but discourages death. Allows fight and flight. We wouldn’t be here without it. You told me that John respected those potentially deadly waves. That he was always prepared and always cautious.”
“But he was never afraid of them!”
“Do you think, possibly, that he should have been?”
Because I had his back, Jen thinks. That was my character and my love and my calling. Protect and serve. She looks at the tissue box on the end table beside her, decides not to, just lets the damned tears roll down her freckled cheeks.
“Jen, after John’s death, you experienced these fearful dreams over years. But you gave up the alcohol and didn’t require the sedatives. You listened to your subconscious, and you decided to stay away from things that can harm you. Or worse. Now, you’ve chosen to ignore yourself by entering the contest that killed John. The dreams are back, and you are depending on alcohol and Xanax for sleep again. What’s taking you back to Mavericks? Why now?”
“Six months ago I decided to tell the truth about John and myself and what happened. Tell all. The truth, from start to finish.”
“Was there an inciting incident? Some moment or event?”
“No. Just twenty-five years of evasion and silence. On my part. I need to tell, Doctor. I need to write it down.”
A long pause from the doctor, pen poised over the notebook.
“You’ve been telling me the truth for twenty years, haven’t you?”
“Mostly. But I mean publicly. For the world. To write it.”
“Well, I read your first installment in the Surf Tribe Magazine. It was touching and beautifully sad. I learned a lot I didn’t know about you and John. I’m sure the writing is cathartic for you. And I encourage you to continue the series.”
“I think I’m done, Penelope.”
“I suppose that’s between you and your editor. But it’s absolutely your decision to make.”
Another long beat, then Jen snatches a tissue from the box and wipes her face.
“We have four minutes.”
“I think I’m done with this, I mean. You have helped me so much. I love you, Dr. Parker. Thank you.”
The doctor looks over her blue glasses at Jen, writes something in her notebook, then sets the readers on her table and stands.
They meet halfway across the Persian rug and hug a long time. Jen can feel their heartbeats.
“I think we should continue here together for a few more sessions,” says the doctor. “I think you should discontinue the Xanax and really put your foot down on the alcohol.”
In Jen’s silence, the doctor considers her with pursed lips and sympathetic eyes.
“These narratives that you’ve been piecing together with me over the years, Jen,” says Dr. Parker. “Are they complete? Is there more?”
“There’s more. That’s what I’m writing. I’m so tired of falling. I’m ready to fly, Penelope.”
“You don’t seem ready to fly at all. More like a young bird, crouched on the lip of its nest, terrified.”
“I’m going to make those waves at Mavericks. I’m going to help my boys survive and compete. If I dream at night, so be it. Well, thank you again.”
“I’m disappointed. But I’ll be reading every word you write. I know you’ll find your way. I’ll leave this two o’clock open for a few weeks, in case you change your mind. And remember—sometimes fear is a friend, and caution a teacher. Tell your whole truth, Jen Stonebreaker. Confess it to the world and yourself. And for heaven’s sake, don’t move into the Barrel upstairs and try to guard the place with a gun.”
Jen feels like she’s been punched in the stomach by Mike Tyson.
Confess it …
Nods and hugs Dr. Parker again, then breaks free and walks out.
Heart pounding, stomach aching, knees uncertain.
14
Jen tracks Belle Becket to the beach behind the Laguna Hotel. Belle moves her business around a bit. This is Jen’s monthly three o’clock and she’s as faithful to it as she’s been to Dr. Parker—until ten minutes ago.
Belle sits at her flimsy card table in the shade of the old hotel, just outside the roped-off section of beach reserved for guests. A small yellow batik tablecloth is held down at all four corners and in the middle by big abalone shells brimming with smaller shells. Sea-glass necklaces and earrings dangle from driftwood hangers. Jen thinks of John every time she sees sea glass. Just one of those memories in the legions of memories that don’t go away.
Belle’s sign is written in her small, graceful calligraphic hand, on a brown paper Ralphs bag inverted over a shadeless brass lampstand with no cord:
PACIFIC VIBRATIONS
PSYCHIC INTERPRETATION
FORTUNES TOLD
TWO DOLLARS SHORT
