An Unexpected Visitor

I shot the bolt on the door of the cubicle, hung up my purse, put both hands flat against the door, and leaned my forehead against the cool metal.

Stupid. 

I knew Hemi had that soft side hidden beneath the disciplined exterior. The way he was with Karen, and even the way he was with me. As fierce and demanding as he was when we made love—when he was holding me afterwards, I could feel all the emotion he couldn’t express. At least I’d thought I could. The gentle touch of his hand stroking down my back, a kiss on my forehead. Surely that meant something. 

How would I know what it meant, though? For all I knew, it meant he’d had good sex, and that he was relaxed, and maybe even a little grateful for it. If I started wishing for something more—that was when I’d start asking to be hurt. 

I’d told Hemi I didn’t want pain. Well, a woman who didn’t want pain shouldn’t lie down and ask for it. From now on, I vowed, I’d keep it light. If something more developed between us, fine. If not...I’d call it good sex and be grateful myself. Yeah, that was what I’d do. Well, I’d try.

And then I sat down and realized pretty quickly that that wasn’t going to be in the program, and why I’d only felt like having soup for lunch. The ache in my lower belly wasn’t from those Chinese dumplings after all, and the wetness I’d felt while Hemi’d been talking to me, smiling at me, sharing with me hadn’t been arousal.

Oh, great. 

When Hope came out again to join me, I braced myself. 

“Ready,” she said, and that light was gone. If her open, pretty face could ever look pinched and tight, it was looking that way now. 

I considered apologizing, then gave it up. We’d cleared the air, and that was always a good thing. “We’ll walk back to the hotel,” I said as I held the door for her. “Got a car there.”

“Fine.” She hitched her purse up over her shoulder. But I need to stop at a convenience store along the way. I’m afraid your weekend isn’t going to go exactly the way you’d planned. The sexy part of it’s over.” 

“Oh?” If my voice was cold, it was because I felt that way. She was withholding sex because I hadn’t told her what she’d wanted to hear? I hadn’t thought that of Hope. If she’d been anything, she’d been honest. But then, that just showed how foolish I’d been to let down my guard the way I had. “I’ve never told you I’d...share my feelings, or whatever it is you wanted. But I’m not going to push it. I’m not interested in an unwilling partner. Or in bargaining for sex.”

She huddled a little more deeply into her coat against the wind. “You’re right. You never told me you’d share. But no. The point is, I got an IUD when I got back from Paris. For birth control.”

“I’m aware of what an IUD is.”

“Yeah. Well. They told me it might make my periods irregular and heavy for a while, and voila. Real life messes with your carefully planned arrangements once again. I’m sure there was a form for this, too, but I didn’t sign it, so...” She sighed and put a hand to her lower belly, rubbed a little. “I’m rambling. I feel pretty crappy all the way around, and you’re mad, and I’m embarrassed. And if you want to just skip the rest of this and go back to New York...well, you made it clear what our deal was, and I’m not going to do my part of it. So there you go.”

I was taken aback, I couldn’t deny it. This didn’t happen, I guessed because the women I spent time with scheduled their dates with me around it. And I’d never heard Hope sound like this. Stroppy, yes. Defeated, never. And I couldn’t stand it.

“No,” I said. “Of course I don’t want to go back, unless you do.” I tried to think of what else to say, and I couldn’t.

“I don’t,” she said. “I probably should, but I don’t. Could we just...pretend for a while? That it’s all right?”

Something happened to my throat at that. Some...some blockage, and I had to look away and take a moment.

What was I doing with this girl? I should let her go, should break it off, and I knew I wasn’t going to. That I was too selfish for that, even though there was nothing in it but pain for her. Exactly what she’d said she didn’t want.

“Yeh,” I said, then had to clear my throat. “Yeh. But I don’t have to pretend to like you, you know. I do like you. I know that’s not enough, but it’s what I’ve got. So if you still want to see it, let’s go look at this bridge.”

And there he was, back to being sweet again. Waiting for me to get myself fixed up, then driving me over the Golden Gate Bridge and telling me stories about its construction as if he wanted to be here, as if he were enjoying himself.

“Eleven men died building this,” he told me. “And then there were the ones who didn’t. The ‘Halfway to Hell’ club. They put a safety net underneath, and a couple dozen more fell into that and lived to tell the tale. Something to think about, eh.”

“How do you know?” I asked. “When you aren’t even American? How do you know this? You knew the language of flowers, too. Do you have a photographic memory or something? I’ve wondered ever since that day.”

He glanced quickly at me before turning his attention back to the narrow roadway as the suspension cables flashed past. “Because I looked it up beforehand. Wanted to impress you, maybe.”

“Really?” It shouldn’t have warmed me. It should have seemed calculated, and maybe it was. But it was effort, wasn’t it?

“Yeh,” he said, concentrating on the road. “Thought you might like to know, so I checked.” 

Yes. It was effort. “So if it’s the Golden Gate,” I said, filing that away for later, trying not to let it get to me, “why is it red?”

“Golden Gate’s the strait. The gateway to the bay. Not the color. What d’you reckon? Think it’d look better gold?”

“No,” I decided. “It’s perfect. I love that it’s red. And where are we going?” 

“Stinson Beach. You said you’d never seen the sea, not as it’s meant to be. Not wild and empty. I checked, and that seemed like the closest we could get.”

Effort again. He knew he wasn’t getting anything else out of the trip, and he was willing to be here, to do this. So I wasn’t going to pout like a little girl who hadn’t gotten her way. I was going to enjoy the day, enjoy his company. Nothing had changed. All he’d done was tell the truth. 

And besides, the ocean was beautiful. We drove along a winding coastline with the breathtaking expanse of the Pacific below us until we got to the top of a crescent of sandy beach that stretched into the distance, and I saw what Hemi’d meant about space. He parked the car, and we took off our shoes and walked near the water’s edge with the wind fresh in our faces and the sand gritty and cool under our feet. A Labrador bounded into the surf after a ball, every line of its body radiating joy, a wetsuit-clad surfer caught a wave and rode it to shore. 

I watched it all and felt better, felt perspective returning and was glad of it. So everything wasn’t going to work out the way I wanted. When did that ever happen? Right now, I had this, and this was good.

“Is it like New Zealand?” I asked Hemi after a while. “Being here?”

“Yeh, nah. The sea is. The long beaches like this. But not as many people there. And more bush on the other side, normally. More...wild. And then, when you’re out of it, in town again...not the same at all.”

“Uh...Hemi. There are maybe twenty people around us.”

“Yeh. What I said. Not as many there. Because there are only a few beaches here. There...it’s everywhere, the sea. You can always find an empty place.”

“And you miss it.” He’d taken my hand as we walked, had threaded his fingers through mine despite everything we’d said. Now, as the wind picked up, I dropped his hand and took his arm, moved in a little closer, and he tightened that arm around my hand as if he wanted me there.

“I do,” he said. “I miss the sea. Miss the bush as well. Miss the green, and the birds. Miss waking in the morning and hearing the tui and the bellbirds, miss looking out over my Koro’s front garden, down over the paddocks to the sea. Miss being able to ride my bike to the beach anytime I fancied. I miss everything that meant I had to leave, because the pace is too slow, and the opportunities aren’t there. You could call that irony, I guess.”

“Your...koro?”

“My grandfather. I lived with him when I was in high school. In Katikati, on the Bay of Plenty. Best part of my childhood, you could say. Before that—it was South Auckland. Not so good.”

He didn’t go on, and I didn’t press, because this time, he had shared, and I wanted to respect that. The last thing I wanted was to destroy the mood by pushing for more. “How old were you when you came to the U.S.?” I asked instead.

“Twenty-two. Got an internship out of Uni—university—to New York. Boy from the wop-wops in the Big Smoke. Thought I was tough, and I wasn’t one bit tough. Not then.”

“And sometime in there,” I said, “you got on that show.”

“Yeh. Launched my career, didn’t it. Even if it was just the Maori bit. The tattoo and all.”

“Mm.” I’d read the articles and seen the clips. I knew what a sensation he’d been. His spectacular body and face, the accent, the tattoo that the producers had taken care made an appearance at every opportunity. He hadn’t even won. He’d come in second, but the fashion reality show had made him a star all the same. “And then you started buying things.” 

“Eventually. Because that’s what I’m good at. Deciding.”

“Deciding?”

“Most people can’t decide. They faff about, worrying and wondering and regretting. If you’ve got enough discipline to gather the information, decide, act, and move on, that’s half the battle.”

He stopped speaking, raised his other arm to point, but I’d already seen them. A line of heavy bodies, huge wings outstretched, flying low in a V formation over the water.

“Geese?” I guessed.

“Pelicans.” 

We watched as they came closer on wingspreads so wide they didn’t have to flap. They caught the air currents and soared, never breaking that perfect formation. And when they flew overhead, they were so low that I could swear I heard the rush of their passing.

“Beautiful,” I said.

“Yeh. They are. Birds are special.” He sounded a little abstracted, and I wondered if he were thinking about that idea again. That new line of his. About the tui and the bellbirds, whatever those were. And if nothing else, I’d helped him think of that. Or at least I’d been there.

But then he asked, “And what about you?” So maybe I’d been wrong about what he’d been thinking of.

“Me?” I started walking again. “What about me? You know all about me.” 

“I know your mum died. I know you took care of Karen. I know you worked for Vincent. I don’t know your...your dreams.”

I thought about telling him that it wasn’t wise of me to share my dreams with him. But I hadn’t been wise from the beginning. Why start now?

“Maybe I had dreams once,” I said. “Maybe so.” I looked into the distance, at the waves breaking in a foam of white, curling toward the beach. Again and again, because they’d never stop. Reminding me how small my life was in the context of those waves that had carved this beach long before I was born, and would go on carving it long after I was gone. Of how little it mattered, in the end. 

Life wasn’t about dreams. Life was what you did instead. It would only hurt to share those foolish dreams if I allowed it to. 

“Not for a long time,” I said at last. “Dreams, I mean. To go away to college, I suppose. Once.”

“And you didn’t.”

“No.” I swallowed down the disappointment that, despite everything, insisted on being remembered. “No. I got a scholarship, a decent one. To Mount Holyoke, which is a women’s college that tends to fund girls like I was. Smart girls who do well in school but don’t have many...opportunities. With loans, a summer job, I could’ve done it, if I’d only had myself to think about. But of course, as it turned out, there was no question of that. I got a job instead, and an A.A. degree, too. Eventually.”

“And beyond college?”

I shrugged. “I couldn’t even tell you. It’s been so long since I gave it up, I never looked past that. I think I can do a job if I get the chance, even though I don’t have a degree. I think I could have ideas, and that I could make them work. In marketing, maybe, I guess. That’s why I was so excited about your job. I thought maybe I could go somewhere, maybe move up from the bottom. At the beginning.”

“Before...”

“Yeah.” That memory wasn’t so great, either. “Before I realized why I’d gotten it.”

“Could be you still can.”

“Could be. Someplace else, once I put in a year or two with Martine. Maybe you’ll give me a reference,” I said, trying to joke. “I’m not sure she will. And it’d be easier for me to work someplace else. A good job...that’d sure make it easier to send Karen to college. Although she’s going to get a scholarship, if there’s any way in the world we can swing it. One way or another, she’s going to go. I don’t care how.”

He was looking down at me now. “If you’re going to be that fierce about it? Reckon she is.”

I laughed a little. “Sorry. But I care about that.”

“Yeh,” he said. “I know you do.”

I looked out to sea again, breathed in that salt-sea tang that could never be anything else, let the hiss and roar of the waves fill my soul. Something else to remember, later. A memory to hold onto when this was gone.

“People leave,” I said. “We both know they do. Men leave. Fathers leave. And I guess women do, too. Even mothers can leave.” If that was too close for comfort, too bad, because I’d just said it. “But I won’t leave Karen. Everyone needs one person who loves them no matter what. One person who’ll be there for them, always. I’m that person for Karen. She’s never going to doubt that.”

My throat had closed over the words, and I was grateful for the wind that was bringing tears to my eyes. I didn’t let anyone see me cry. I wasn’t going to start with Hemi.

“She’s lucky,” he said. “And I’ve never thought of it that way, but my Koro’s that for me as well.”

“If you’ve got one,” I said, “you’re all right.”

“And you?” he asked. “Who do you have?”

“Karen,” I said. “I have Karen.”

You could have called it romantic, under other circumstances. It was hard enough not to call it romantic even now, not when Hemi had booked us into a big old Victorian bed and breakfast inn with a fireplace in the room, a huge four-poster bed heaped with pillows, and a clawfoot tub in the bathroom. But after that, it changed some, because after he took me for an early dinner in the dining room, he left me alone to take a bath and watch a movie in bed.

“As you’re feeling unwell,” he said, “I may as well get a bit of work done. I’ll do it downstairs so I don’t disturb you.”

So my movie didn’t disturb him, more likely, but it was polite of him to put it that way. 

“I’d apologize,” I said, “but I don’t think you’d be excited by the alternative.”

“Excuse me?” He looked startled. Really? He’d never thought of this?

“That would be pregnancy,” I pointed out. “The normal alternative to having inconvenient periods.”

“Oh.” I could see that the idea truly hadn’t occurred to him. Must be nice to be a man. “I’ll just go do that work, then.” 

“Fine.” I tried not to be disappointed that he didn’t want to lie on the bed with me and watch a romantic comedy. Of course he didn’t. 

Except that he did end up doing just that. He was back in the room again an hour later, climbing into bed beside me. I reached for the remote, and he said, “Nah. Watch till the end.”

He actually smiled at the funny parts, and watched the happy ending with me, and didn’t say anything about it. But then, neither did I. I just turned the TV off and did my best to get comfortable, stuffing a pillow under my stomach and not caring too much that I wasn’t exactly appearing irresistible. 

The third time I shifted position, Hemi said, “Hurts, eh.”

“Just achy, that’s all.” I shifted again. “My belly and my lower back.”

“What d’you need? What would help?”

“A heating pad, but I don’t have one.”

“Mm.” I was turned away from him, my knees drawn up, and he snuggled up behind me, pressed himself against my back, and laid a gentle hand over my belly. “Better?”

“Yeah,” I sighed. “Better.” 

The warmth of his big body was so soothing, his touch so comforting. And just for tonight, I decided, I’d let myself believe in that comfort. I’d pretend that the security I felt in his arms was real. Just for tonight.