21
When I wake, the first thing I hear is rain splattering against the window—but not a porthole window, thank God, a real one.
There’s also a new man lying beside me—no surprise—and I immediately extricate myself from his limbs. Grateful to be on land?
Yes. But the saga continues. I brace myself for today’s iteration, which begins in some ritzy high-rise condo with a modern
painting on the wall and a shirtless man lying face down on his pillow.
I tiptoe to the closet to dress, then sneak into the living room. The familiar view from the window heartens me: the Smith
Tower, my favorite building in Seattle. Seattle! I may be stuck, but at least I’m back , with Bainbridge Island just a ferry’s ride away. I know what I need to do.
I head for the door, pausing in the kitchen when I notice a man’s wallet on the honed marble countertop beside an empty wine
bottle and two glasses—one with lipstick on the rim. I eye his ID: Robert Fenway. Green eyes, six-foot-two, 195 pounds. Organ
donor. My type, at least. Now to place him. Who are you, Mr. Fenway? I struggle for a minute, but then something about his smile hits me: the lack of braces .
Robbie? I think back to my crush at age fourteen, each of us in braces and that near-miss kiss. I picture his lips, puckered up,
as I pry the American Express card out of his wallet along with a few hundred-dollar bills and some twenties.
“Lena?” he calls from the bedroom. My pulse races as I dash for the door, slipping into the elevator in the hallway.
Outside, the rain hits my cheeks as I make my way down Pike Street, picking up my pace when I see a ferry pulling into Elliott
Bay. I shudder, thinking back to yesterday’s ordeal on the sailboat, the storm, Colm. I have the urge to fall to my knees
and kiss the ground, but I don’t stop; in fact, I pick up my pace, speed-walking through the familiar streets of my adolescence—this
grungy old beautiful city—until I arrive at the ferry dock, where I pay my fare for the next crossing. Finally, I’m going
home .
“Rosie?” I say, cautiously peering through the front door. My heart skips a beat at the sight of the framed photos on the
entryway wall as I slip off my shoes and sink my feet into the old wool runner with ragged tassels. Thank God, I’m back.
I hear music playing inside—1950s jazz—and footsteps in the living room as I walk through the kitchen and around the corner,
my jaw dropping when I see my aunt dancing with a man beside the fireplace.
I clear my throat.
“Oh, hello, dear,” Rosie says. “What a nice surprise. I didn’t hear you come in.” She looks up at the man beside her, who
appears equally as startled. “This is Jim, my friend and dance partner. Jim, this is my niece, Lena.”
Since when does Rosie dance—in the living room—at eleven o’clock in the morning?
“Hi,” I say to Jim, with his bow tie and his thinning gray hair neatly combed. He has the vibe of a retired geometry professor
who leads a Boy Scout troop on the weekends.
“Pleased to meet you,” he replies, adjusting the pale pink rosebud in his lapel.
Rosie beams. “Jim is the finest dancer on the island.”
“Second only to you, my dear,” he counters.
“And he’s a master gardener, too! That’s how we met.” She looks at Jim. “Tell Lena about your work at the Bainbridge Botanical Gardens.”
“Well,” he begins, in an awe-shucks tone. “It’s a labor of love, I guess. I’ve been volunteering there for a few decades. There’s nothing quite like putting
a seed in the soil and watching it grow.”
Retired-people shenanigans.
“Well, I should probably let you two catch up,” he says, kissing Rosie’s cheek as she waves him away like a bossy schoolgirl—one
with a secret crush.
“Who was that ?” I ask after Rosie’s seventy-something Casanova makes his exit.
“I told you,” she replies, smiling confidently. “My dance partner. Jim’s an absolute pro at the western swing—eastern, too.”
She smiles, taking a pill from a prescription bottle, which she washes down with a glass of water. “Why didn’t you call, sweetie?”
she asks. “I would have made lunch.”
“Sorry,” I say. “There’s been... a lot going on. Look, can we talk for a minute?”
“So?” Rosie asks, sitting on the sofa beside me. “Is everything all right with you and Rob?”
Robbie. Braces Robbie. “Um, yeah, everything’s fine, but listen, can I stay here tonight?”
“Of course, dear. Your old bedroom is—”
“Actually, I mean the guesthouse.”
Rosie eyes me curiously. “The guesthouse?”
I reach for her hand, and in fits and starts explain what’s been happening to me—the men, the circumstances, all of the twists
and turns. She’s quiet for a long while, folding and refolding her hands in her lap. “So what you’re saying is that nothing
for you... is real?”
I shake my head as a surge of emotion rises in my chest. “This isn’t my life.”
Rosie squeezes my hand, her expression strong and sure, signaling to me that, no matter what, it’s all going to be okay.
“Well, I, for one, wouldn’t mind waking up next to a handsome Frenchman.”
I laugh. “Not this Frenchman. Sebastian was... complicated—and that’s putting it lightly.”
“What about Marcus?” she asks. “He sounds nice. And that sweet baby girl...”
“Sabrina,” I say, with a lump in my throat. “Her name is Sabrina.”
Rosie holds her hand to her heart. “And that Irishman?” She raises an eyebrow. “I’ve always loved an Irish accent.”
I look out the window to the beach, where a flock of pesky Canadian geese startles and flies off. “Colm might have had my
heart, but he lost it.”
Rosie shrugs. “Maybe in real life he’s—”
I shake my head. “Not in real life, not in any life—just no.”
“Well,” she continues. “So many eligible bachelors, it’s almost too much for this old heart of mine to process.”
“To be fair,” I add, “some of them were a bit more ineligible than others.”
Rosie takes off her glasses and turns to me, her expression curious. “How do you feel about it all?”
“Like I have a major case of whiplash,” I reply. “It scared the hell out of me to see how different my life could look, but
it’s also opened my eyes.”
“How?”
“Well,” I continue, “like realizing that I could be a mother—and a good one.”
Rosie nods.
“And that I’ve been on autopilot for so long that I’ve failed to notice the scenery along the way—experience the good things that come when you go off course. To think that I was sitting in this chair ten days ago, heartbroken that Kevin didn’t propose, and now I’m actually, well, relieved.”
“Kevin?”
“Kevin Shmevin.”
Rosie laughs.
“Listen, all this time, I’ve been trying to figure out how it happened—how it works. I mean, why the guesthouse? Is it your
crystals? Space-time continuum stuff? Something else?”
“Something else, indeed,” she replies, nodding. “What, exactly? I’m not sure. All I know is that little corner of the island
out there is special. I’ve always felt it.” Rosie folds her hands in her lap, deep in contemplation. “So this all began when
you fell asleep in the guesthouse, correct?”
I nod, looking out the window where the little cottage sits at attention on the edge of the rocky hillside. It’s more weathered
than ever, but fortunately, this time, not bulldozed to the ground.
“Then, tonight, that’s where you should be.”
The afternoon flies by, and I soak up every minute in Rosie’s company. After dinner, I pour us each a glass of wine and we
sit in the living room by the fire.
“I can’t wait to talk to you about all of this in the morning,” she says, squeezing my hand reassuringly, as if our science
experiment is predestined to go off without a hitch. But the truth is, neither of us knows for sure. All we can do is hope.
We linger for a long while, sharing memories until we’re both yawning.
“Is it time?” she finally asks.
I nod, taking a deep breath as I follow her to the kitchen, where she pulls out a tarnished brass key from a lower drawer,
placing it in my hand.
“I’m going to miss you,” I say, memorizing her face.
“Enough of that talk! We’ll see each other in the morning.” She grins, reaching for a book on the counter, flashing me the cover: Fifty Shades of Grey . “I picked this one up at the library the other day—might be a bit scandalous for an old lady like me, but, hey, you only
live once, right?”
I blink back tears. “I have a feeling you’re going to like it.”
Rosie smiles, handing me a quilt and fresh sheets before kissing my cheek. “Good night, dear child.”
“Good night,” I say as she heads toward her bedroom.
The wind picks up as I cross the lawn to the guesthouse and, shivering, unlock the door. Inside it’s just as I left it, but
maybe with a few more cobwebs. As I lie down on the bed, I ponder the road that led me here, the people I encountered along
the way, some more endearing than others, and all the alternate lives I experienced. For better or for worse, all those memories
are with me now, some more appealing than others. But the cumulative experience makes me realize that I’m capable of doing
more with my life, though maybe not working as a ceviche chef in the Mediterranean or a real estate agent in Florida.
Each day has been like a Choose Your Own Adventure novel, with some choices exhilarating, others downright scary. But they
all taught me to value the actual life I’ve been given, even if it’s flawed and not going according to plan. For too long,
I’ve been operating from a script, checking all the boxes. Changing course from that feels scary, even a little rogue, but
there’s a sense of freedom that comes with going off-script, and I’m finally ready to embrace it. I lie still for a long moment,
watching the stars through the window and listening to the waves crash against the shore. I’m home, yes, but not really— not yet . Tomorrow can’t come soon enough. I’m ready.