When people resolve themselves to something, it becomes very difficult to feel anything but that resolve. And so, as I board my plane to Seattle, wearing a Sounders sweatshirt that June gave me as a goodbye gift, I do not cry, I do not worry, and I do not have feelings of self-doubt. This was what I had decided to do, and that was that. I pull my wine cork from my purse and hold it tightly in my fist as I take my seat and stare out the window. The Florida rain is hard and slanted. I wonder if it will be raining when I reach Seattle, which I hear has more of a gentle mist. I do not think of Kit, who is at a doctor’s appointment with Della. I do not think of Della, who is at a doctor’s appointment with Kit. I think only of my new adventure. In fact, it’s the only adventure I’ve ever taken, which makes it more exciting. A first. I want to be a magical folk, and not a muggle. I pull out my worn, dog-eared copy of The Goblet of Fire. It’s the same book I’ve kept on my nightstand since I first read it six years ago. My favorite of the seven. I brought it with to read on the plane, for courage. To remind myself of why I am doing this. It’s my Felix Felicis.
“Harry Potter,” a voice says from my left. “Have you tried reading the Bible?”
A woman, mid-forties, judgment scribbled all over her pinched, powdered face. Why do Bible lovers always have that constipated look on their face? Don’t stereotype, Helena! I do my best to smile politely.
“Is that the book where that lady turns into a statue after looking back at a burning city after God told her not to?” I say. “And where three defiant men are thrown into a furnace and don’t burn. Oh, and isn’t there a gal who feeds and puts to sleep the general of an enemy’s army, and then uses a mallet to drive a tent peg into his brain?” She looks at me blankly.
“But those are true. And that,” she says, pointing to Harry, “is fiction. Not to mention devil worship.”
“Uh huh, uh huh. Devil worship? Is that like when the Israelites made a cow god of gold and worshipped it?”
She’s enraged.
“You would love this book,” I say, shoving The Goblet of Fire at her. “It’s PG-rated compared to the Bible.”
“You, young lady, are part of a depraved and lost generation.”
She gets up, and I see her march to the front of the plane where the flight attendant meets her. I point my straw at her back and whisper, “Avada Kedavra.”
She doesn’t come back, and I get lucky because the middle seat stays open.
“Thank you, Jesus; thank you, Harry,” I say.
There are mountains. Great big ones that poke through the clouds, tipped in snow that looks like whipped cream. My heart. It is not raining when my plane lands at Sea-Tac. The sky is so cloudless I press my nose to the window and stare around in disbelief. Liars! Where is the rain? There is no one to meet me at baggage claim; that’s what makes the whole thing feel sore. There is no mother to hug me, and no father to load my luggage into the trunk while making jokes about how heavy it is. I am alone in all things, singular and frightened and excited. I collect my bags and a cab drives me the short fifteen miles to Seattle proper. I can see the city rise in a pageant of lights from the highway. There are cities that take your breath away by their sheer size; some by the beat of their rhythmic culture, but Seattle gives you your breath back. Fills your lungs. I take it in and feel like I can breathe for the first time in my life. My God, it’s like I’ve been looking for this place all along. My hotel is nice; I made sure of that. You never know what type of serial killer you’ll meet in a seedy hotel. Things may get rough in the coming months, but for the next four days, until my apartment is ready, I am a tourist. Kit sends me texts of places to go see. It’s sweet, except it keeps him present on my mind all day, the notifications on my phone with his name flashing up at me. I explore the city first, the fish market, The Needle, and the Nordstrom that started it all. I get a cramp walking up one of the steep hills, and a homeless man wearing a grubby pink beanie offers me a cigarette. I take it, even though I’ve never smoked a cigarette before. I don’t want to be rude to my fellow Washingtonians.
“I like your fucking socks,” he says, pointing at my feet with a dirty finger. I’m not wearing socks, so that’s super cool that he sees them anyway.
“Thanks,” I say. “I knitted them myself.”
He nods, looking thoughtfully at my feet. “Hey, do you have a couple bucks to loan me? It’s my birthday.”
I reach into my purse and pull out five ones. “Hey, happy birthday,” I say.
He looks confused. “It’s not my birthday.”
“Of course it’s not.”
He shuffles back down the hill. I stick my cigarette behind my ear, grinning at the lunacy. Magic, I tell you.
Kit texts me: What are you doing?
Having a birthday smoke with a friend, I send back.
K: Guy or girl?
I make a face, and then type: Guy
He doesn’t send anything for a while, so I tuck my phone back in my purse while I browse a paper shop until I realize how nerdy it is and leave. Ten minutes later I hear the ping that signifies I have a message.
I feel jealous… that you’re there and I’m not, he sends.
I type a response, and then delete it. Too flirtatious.
K: What were you typing?
I laugh out loud. Nothing. Go away.
He sends a sad face.
And then…
K: Are you going to go see Port Townsend?
Should I?
I sit down at a cafe for lunch. Actually, I sit down at a cafe so I can text Kit. I’m not really that hungry.
K: YES! You’ll have to take a ferry.
That scares me, I send back.
K: Precisely the reason you should do it.
He’s right, isn’t he? That’s why I came here—to kill the things that control me.
I’ll think about it.
Kit sends a thumbs up.
K: Also, for being in my state- #Fuckyou.
I chew on my lip for a few seconds before I respond: In a Range Rover on the ferry.
It takes him a minute to get it. He responds with a shocked-faced emoji.
K: Range Rovers aren’t very spacious. Someone’s going to get hurt.
I can’t anymore. I’m blushing so hard I turn my phone off and bury it in my purse. I can’t believe I instigated that. And why a Range Rover? God, I’m so pathetic.
I decide to go to Port Townsend, though. I look up a place to rent a car, and catch a cab over. They have a Range Rover. It’s way expensive, but I get it anyway. And why? All because of a conversation I had with Kit that I’m still embarrassed about? Maybe it’s because he challenged me not to be afraid. I check out of my hotel and load my suitcases in the trunk. I’m the last car to be loaded onto the ferry, and it scares me that I’m so close to the water. It scares me. I get out of the Rover and walk around until I’m standing with my back against the trunk. The wind has cold fingers; it pulls me toward the water. I’m shaking.
I hear the high-pitched voice of a woman yell, “Here goes the feeeerry!” just as we pull away from the dock. I’m terrified. A car on a boat. Me, in a car, on a boat. The Rover could just roll backward and sink into the Sound, taking me with it. I envision all the ways this ferry could kill me, but I stay where I am. All because I’m scared, and I don’t want to be. When it gets too much, I close my eyes and let the wind touch me. She’s not as aggressive as I thought. Maybe she’s not trying to push me into the water; maybe she’s trying to make me see the water. I step forward and look down. The ferry is spitting out a thick stream of wake. It froths and churns. It’s beautiful. I look back at the city of Edmonds, the hill with the houses—someone called it a bowl. It does look like a bowl of houses. I like that. I imagine a giant spoon scraping all of the houses off the hill and into the Sound. Is that sick? Who cares? I’m okay; this is okay. To me, this ferry is a novelty, but to the people who live here, it’s part of the landscape—a way of life. I want to join them. There are people getting out of their cars and walking up a flight of stairs. I decide to follow them. But, before I go, I take a picture of the side of the Rover, outlined by the water, and Instagram it: #Helenatakesonherfears.
There are four decks on the ferry; two are for cars, the third is an enclosed area. There is a little cafeteria with booths, and past that are different areas to sit and watch the water. The top deck is open, and the braver people are up there walking around and taking pictures. Children hang over the railing and it makes me feel ill to watch them. I grab a paper container of French fries from the cafeteria and find a seat near a window. The fries are epically delicious. I’m soaking them in ketchup when I get a text from Kit.
K: #Fuckfear
We’re talking in hashtags now. I like it. I don’t answer him. Fuck fear, and fuck Kit, and fuck love. I don’t need any of that muggle shit.