and father were farmers who largely shunned the outside world. They avoided doctors, in particular, and refrained from getting their son vaccinated and having his cleft palate repaired. My colleague asked whether Kristine and I would consider adopting the boy.” She beamed. “You know the answer!”
“He was such a fine boy!” Kristine chimed. “Precious smile—even
with
the cleft palate.”
“The truth is, he adopted us,” Emma said. “He swept us into his heart where we blossomed as parents, and he never judged us.” She jumped ahead to face me squarely, stopping in my path. “Do you know what I mean about the non-judgmental part?”
“I do,” I replied. “I suspect it stemmed from your unconditional love for him.”
Emma released me to walk again.
“Danny told us
you’ll
be a father soon,” Kristine said, her first smile since we’d hugged.
I wondered how she could muster joy when she’d just lost her own child.
“Yes,” I replied in hollow affirmation. I looked about, eager to change the subject.
Emma splayed her arms. “This was Danny’s getaway.” She took my hand and led me to a sandstone wall where, over the years, storms had etched designs into its slope.
“Danny adored these,” Emma said, fingering a groove that outlined what I imagined to be a horse-drawn chariot.
“And these,” Kristine added, holding a piece of driftwood. She ran her fingers across it.
“You remember Danny’s hair,” Kristine laughed, “so frizzy in the moist ocean air.” She dropped to her knees, smoothed a patch of sand, and sketched a head with spirals atop it. “ ‘Brillo-boy’—that’s what we called him at the beach.”
We walked to the promontory where the ebbing sea had left a series of tide pools, many rimmed by pinkish-green algae. In one, I saw a sculpin fish dart away. Further out, sea palms stood like miniature trees brazenly daring the waves to douse them.
“He felt restored here,” Emma said. “This beach invigorated him.”
I could see why: In the Pacific’s throbbing blue was an oceanic heart, its pulse reaching the shore in swells.
“Come,” Emma said. “Let’s go to the other end.”
We retraced our steps past the parking lot before continuing to the hill along the southern end of the bay. A path through a carpet of ice plants brought us to the summit which afforded a view of swells morphing into thunderous waves that crashed below, each striking the seabed with sufficient force to shake the ground. In the surge of white water that followed each wave, a roar ensued as loud as a passing train.
“This is where Danny came to work out his problems,” Emma said. “Relationships and the like.”
A year earlier, Danny told me he had proposed to a woman, a joyous event for a man with a self-professed slow-start on the dating scene. A letter inked shortly after that delivered the crushing news that his fiancée had been unfaithful; marriage no more.
After watching the sea, we returned to the parking lot where we sat at a picnic table beside the cars. Above, the last of the mist had peeled away to leave a blazing blue sky.
“Danny’s illness was horrific,” Kristine said, clenching her hands. “Intractable pain, vomiting, and bleeding. He drowned in blood.” She beseeched me with penetrating eyes. “Dr. Muñoz asked repeatedly if he could have eaten shrimp, but
you
know Danny: it was impossible.” She paused, then: “I think it was a drink that poisoned him.”
I raised my brows.
Emma explained. “A juice he drank every morning while commuting to his surf shop in Half Moon Bay. Just before dying, he told us he thought it was the drink that sickened him. It hadn’t tasted right. He saved the bottle with the remnants and asked us to pick it up from his cabin.”
My heart skipped. “Do you have it?”
Emma went to the car and returned with a paper bag, wrinkled and twisted at the top. She extracted a half-filled bottle containing an orange fluid and handed it
“He was such a fine boy!” Kristine chimed. “Precious smile—even
with
the cleft palate.”
“The truth is, he adopted us,” Emma said. “He swept us into his heart where we blossomed as parents, and he never judged us.” She jumped ahead to face me squarely, stopping in my path. “Do you know what I mean about the non-judgmental part?”
“I do,” I replied. “I suspect it stemmed from your unconditional love for him.”
Emma released me to walk again.
“Danny told us
you’ll
be a father soon,” Kristine said, her first smile since we’d hugged.
I wondered how she could muster joy when she’d just lost her own child.
“Yes,” I replied in hollow affirmation. I looked about, eager to change the subject.
Emma splayed her arms. “This was Danny’s getaway.” She took my hand and led me to a sandstone wall where, over the years, storms had etched designs into its slope.
“Danny adored these,” Emma said, fingering a groove that outlined what I imagined to be a horse-drawn chariot.
“And these,” Kristine added, holding a piece of driftwood. She ran her fingers across it.
“You remember Danny’s hair,” Kristine laughed, “so frizzy in the moist ocean air.” She dropped to her knees, smoothed a patch of sand, and sketched a head with spirals atop it. “ ‘Brillo-boy’—that’s what we called him at the beach.”
We walked to the promontory where the ebbing sea had left a series of tide pools, many rimmed by pinkish-green algae. In one, I saw a sculpin fish dart away. Further out, sea palms stood like miniature trees brazenly daring the waves to douse them.
“He felt restored here,” Emma said. “This beach invigorated him.”
I could see why: In the Pacific’s throbbing blue was an oceanic heart, its pulse reaching the shore in swells.
“Come,” Emma said. “Let’s go to the other end.”
We retraced our steps past the parking lot before continuing to the hill along the southern end of the bay. A path through a carpet of ice plants brought us to the summit which afforded a view of swells morphing into thunderous waves that crashed below, each striking the seabed with sufficient force to shake the ground. In the surge of white water that followed each wave, a roar ensued as loud as a passing train.
“This is where Danny came to work out his problems,” Emma said. “Relationships and the like.”
A year earlier, Danny told me he had proposed to a woman, a joyous event for a man with a self-professed slow-start on the dating scene. A letter inked shortly after that delivered the crushing news that his fiancée had been unfaithful; marriage no more.
After watching the sea, we returned to the parking lot where we sat at a picnic table beside the cars. Above, the last of the mist had peeled away to leave a blazing blue sky.
“Danny’s illness was horrific,” Kristine said, clenching her hands. “Intractable pain, vomiting, and bleeding. He drowned in blood.” She beseeched me with penetrating eyes. “Dr. Muñoz asked repeatedly if he could have eaten shrimp, but
you
know Danny: it was impossible.” She paused, then: “I think it was a drink that poisoned him.”
I raised my brows.
Emma explained. “A juice he drank every morning while commuting to his surf shop in Half Moon Bay. Just before dying, he told us he thought it was the drink that sickened him. It hadn’t tasted right. He saved the bottle with the remnants and asked us to pick it up from his cabin.”
My heart skipped. “Do you have it?”
Emma went to the car and returned with a paper bag, wrinkled and twisted at the top. She extracted a half-filled bottle containing an orange fluid and handed it
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