The Summer We Came to Life

Chapter

31





I WOKE UP AND NEARLY BOUNCED OUT OF BED. A smile reached across my face so wide it made my jaw hurt. I felt like a balloon pumped full of helium. I gave a little Jesse cha-cha-cha wiggle of my butt that shook loose a giggle.

Isabel opened one eye and caught me smiling with my hands cupped to my cheeks. She promptly closed the eye.

I couldn’t get the Lynette-Cornell story out of my head. It had reignited all my Remy daydreams. I’m gonna marry that man, world be damned. The thought triggered an avalanche of giddiness. I wanted to call Remy and set the date right then and there. What was I waiting for? I put a hand at my hip and got a flash of his strong hands sliding up my waist. I put a hand to my lips and was nearly knocked over by a vision of Remy leaning in to kiss me. Then I thought of the fifty other things I liked about him—his friends, his nice clothes, his smile—

“You’re in a good mood,” Isabel said in a tone like pickle brine. There was a smile waiting in the wings, though. I could tell.

“What was so bad about marrying Remy again?” I said, and laughed.

“Oh, come on.” The smile would not be making an appearance after all. I stopped smiling, too.

Isabel waited for a response. Then she understood. “Ah, you’ve been inspired by Lynette’s story of true love.”

“Well, it just goes to show that when two people are meant to be together, they can overcome anything.” I folded my arms across my chest.

“No, I think the story means you should avoid years of wasting your life with the wrong man—the rich guy who cheats on you—then having to divorce him and live with your parents till you find the right one,” Isabel said, and rolled away from me.

I stood and looked at Isabel’s back.

“What? Didn’t hear that part?” Isabel rolled back over. She propped her head up on one hand and looked at me. She must have seen the drop in my demeanor because now she looked sorry.

I sat down on a chair, utterly deflated. “Maybe Remy and I would be happy. He’s so stable. He could jump-start my photography. He’s famous—”

“Oh, sweet pea. I love you. I adore you. But you are the worst picker of men.”

“Look who’s talking.”

“Okay, I’ll give you that one. You are the best at picking men as adventures, as lovers, as life lessons, and stories for when we’re old and gray. The professional skydiver? A Dutch DJ in Argentina? I admire your flair. I do businessmen and bankers, you do kite surfers and famous French directors. But hon, I know how you love to daydream. I suspect you think of marrying Remy as a ready-made adventure, as the answer to turning thirty.” Isabel paused to take a breath. “But I think you’re in over your head.”

“So, then it doesn’t work out. So what? It’s a fifty-fifty shot.”

“Yeah, so what, Sam, so then you’ll be divorced and forty.”

I looked at her in surprise. “I thought you were the one that didn’t care about getting older—”

“I do do a good job of putting on that show, don’t I?”

We looked at each other and said nothing.

Finally, I ventured a grin. “So, feminism dies at thirty? We’ll have to break the bad news to your mom and Lynette.”

“Ha!” Isabel snorted. “We’ll blame the hormones. Suddenly all babies start looking cute. Puppies and babies. We’re genetically programmed. It isn’t fair.”

“Isabel, whatamIgonnado?” I said quietly.

“Well, we are going to go swimming with the Garifuna princesses. And remember that everything’s going to be just fine and you’ll make the right decision. But either way, you’ll remember—” Isabel snapped her finger so I looked at her and stopped staring off into space “—you’ll remember that at least we’ll always have each other. Me, you, Kendra. And Mina.” She pointed at Mina’s journal on the nightstand.

Then she lumbered off to the bathroom.

I resumed staring off into space. Something she’d said…



“Puppies and babies,” Remy said, and tweaked my nose.

“Excuse me?” Remy and I were walking down the boulevard, licking ice-cream cones. We were the consummate couple in love, out for a stroll on a windy afternoon.

“Your friend. She can’t help it. All women think about are puppies and babies.”

I nearly spit out my mouthful of hazelnut ice cream. “That’s what you got out of my explanation of Kendra’s argument with Michael? Kendra is the VP of sales. She manages a dozen multimillion-dollar accounts. I tell you that she wishes her boyfriend would appreciate her more and make a little more effort at romance, and all you can say is puppies and babies?”

Remy chuckled and made a motion with his thumb.

“Tweak my nose one more time, mister—”

“Okay, oui. Yes. The boyfriend should be more romantic. Silly Americans with their work ethic. They should learn from the French man. Woo the woman and she will stop worrying about mistresses and babies. For a little while.”

I stopped strolling. “That is your view of relationships? After all the strong women in my life I’ve told you about? Lynette, Jesse, Isabel and Kendra. They all have successful careers and somehow still make time for their family and for love and romance. You can’t be serious—”

Remy had taken two steps without me. Now he looked back. And cocked his concealed weapon—that sexy, laughing smile of his. A weapon without a permit this time. But then he ceremoniously dropped his ice-cream cone into a trash bin and swept me up in his arms.

“I was teasing, ma chérie. Teasing. You shouldn’t be so cute when you’re mad if you don’t want men to tease you.”

He kissed me, but I resisted valiantly. It was so hard to stay mad, with the warmth of his body coursing into mine and his arms encircling me in a sepia-toned postcard of Parisian romance. With our foreheads touching, we heard a whimper. Around the corner bounded a golden retriever puppy with its female owner. The woman called after the scampering puppy but only laughed when the leash jerked her hand. On her hip, she bounced a rosy-cheeked toddler.

Remy turned back to meet my eyes and to his credit did nothing but raise one eyebrow.

I burst out laughing and kissed him hard on the lips.

The consummate couple in love on a windy afternoon.



Gulp. I reached for Mina’s journal and took out the leaf. As I lifted it, dried brown pieces flittered onto the pages. The leaf was no longer soft and velvety, just lifeless.

There was no magic in the leaf.

There was just a lost soul who had no idea what to do without the advice of her best friend.



December 5

Samantha



We’re losing you. Today you didn’t seem “there.” I know it’s the medication. I know it’s the pain. I’d be the biggest whiner, I bet, in your shoes. But not you. You’re too good, too patient. Your pain tolerance for life is admirable, my friend, but baffling. Why aren’t you angry? Mina, none of this makes any sense. Of all the people in the world, you’re in the top tier. These are the days that a just God seems like an absurd notion.

Dammit! I cannot cry anymore today.

Let’s keep on keeping on, shall we?

Locality: it means that if you want to communicate with or affect anybody or anything, you have to do something to the distance between you and it, whether by sound waves, by throwing something, by a laser of light, whatever. It’s based on the idea that “I” am separate from everything else.

Einstein treasured the idea of locality, and tried to prove it true. In the end, locality was proven wrong. Turns out “Spooky action at a distance” (Einstein’s words) does happen. Spirit mediums and Buddhists were right all along.

There is theoretically no reason why you can’t communicate with me from anywhere. But it might be up to you. Maybe we don’t hear from the deceased because they don’t want to hear from us. So get angry, Mina. Don’t disconnect. Don’t accept. Don’t go quietly. Don’t forget about me.