The Fire, the Water, and Maudie McGinn: Chapters 50–72

Etta leads me out past the picnic table where the surfing regulars hang out. A couple of grizzly nut-brown old dudes sit up a little straighter when they see her, and lift their coffee cups in salute.

“He’s a great board shaper, now honorably retired. I reckon he’ll fix Esmeralda up for you.”

“Can you help my little friend here? This is Maudie, my little mini-me. My protégé.”

Have you told your dad you’re hanging out with an old crone like me?

“I’m not really thinking long-term. Everything’s pretty much still in flux. Depends on work. But, yeah. I guess we could stay here awhile.”

Begonia and I have a plan to embellish them: we’re going to paint the shapes in pretty colors, then cover them with little silver milagros from Begonia’s bin.

In tiny, tiny handwriting, with a very fine Sharpie, I’m writing down all the good words people have used to describe me. Writing them right on the wood of the heart plaque, between the milagros.

A stormy clash,
a swirling dustup,
things about to break.

I try to put the impending end of the summer out of my mind, and just enjoy this last great month.

He leaps off and swims to shore, wet strands of moose fur hanging over his face as he galumphs onto the sand.

Leonard has made it very clear that he’s a landlubber dog.

I saunter over to them.

I keep my eyes half closed, and try to concentrate on one thing only: the feel of the braided nylon strap, secure under the sole of my foot.

He looks bigger and burlier than ever.

Her voice falters a tiny bit before growing more firm.

“Maudie has been surprisingly keen on getting to the Surf Bash.”

I am still howling as Dad’s silhouette recedes completely into darkness.

I wish the water
would shrink me down to nothing,

so small, the tub would feel like an ocean,
and I could surf away on a sliver of soap
and slip down the drain
and disappear.

All the feelings I’ve squashed down and compacted into a little hard fiery ball behind that locked door in my chest are starting to go supernova.

I stop, panting, and stand there on the empty beach, thinking.
And some common sense kicks into my addled brain.

Because, once I think it through, I realize what he would he do, if he saw me at our camper door at two in the morning. He’d hug me and be all concerned, of course. But then, out of parental responsibility, he’d feel obligated to call Mom and let her know where I was, so that she wouldn’t worry.

And there is the one I’m looking for: big and red, with checkered curtains.

A few wan rays of morning sun fall onto my face.

It’s nine in the morning and already a loud band is starting up on a makeshift sound stage.

She points to two white buoy markers on either side of the surfing contest area. “Stay inside those markers,” she says.

Was that their idea of how to trash-talk with a girl? Make it about my looks, instead of my skill?
I don’t engage.

Funny, I’ve spent most of my life trying to block out all the extra too-muchness of the World of Other People. Their noise, smells, shrill voices, and shriller demands always pulling at me, criticizing me, bothering and poking and jostling my body and brain while I long to be left alone, alone, alone.

Did all that happen to me in only ten minutes? Life, death, drowning, loss, risk, rescue—all in ten measly minutes? It felt like a lifetime!

He flubs a turn, drops back, and calls out, “Hey, girl! It’s your wave!”

Dad looks haggard under his tan, his blue eyes heavier and cloudier than usual.

“She should THROTTLE you!”

I dart around and between tents and food trucks and music stages and clumps of dancing, eating, partying, oblivious people.

He bustles around noisily, checking on me every three minutes.

“Just tell me this, Mouse. If someone hurts you, even lays their hand on you. If someone says something cruel to you. Does that detract from your value, from your inherent worth?”

It was really hard for Mom to admit she did wrong. Dr. Shakti, whose PhD is in social work, spent hours talking with Mom, and so did a professional mediator, so that she could understand what everyone is calling “the situation.”