Chapter 15
fifteen
JOHANNA
“ I think my lungs are gonna fall out of my butt,” Quinn huffs out next to me.
“ Yup ,” I agree, trying to catch my own breath. “ I kinda forgot how steep the incline was.” I know this trail like the back of my hand, but I swear it’s gotten steeper. “ Sorry , I don’t remember it taking this long to get to the lookout.”
“ Oh , don’t sweat it. It’s so nice to be out of that tiny kitchen and get some fresh air,” she says in her usual chipper tone.
“ So , the Rockies , hey? I’ve always wanted to visit Colorado . What’s it like?”
“ Definitely in my top three of places I’ve lived. I haven’t been back to San Diego for years, not since I was eighteen, but that’s a great place to visit too.”
Quinn is originally from California and has lived in twelve different states since she left. Her dream has always been to run her own bakery; she just needed somewhere to start it. She has zero connections here, but a dart thrown drunkenly at a map made the decision for her. I’m grateful it landed on Sutton Bay .
“ This view will put the ones you saw in Colorado to shame.” We have mountains here, but we’re known for our vast forests and breathtaking ocean views.
“ Oh , it already has—what more could you want.” She throws her hands up in the air and spins around in a circle.
“ I’ve missed this place like crazy. You’ll love it in the summer. We’ll have to go camping as long as you don’t mind the mosquitoes.”
“ Bah , they’re just hungry. I heard fall is pretty spectacular around here?”
“ Yeah , it’s something else. Watch out for the leaf peepers come October .”
“ The what peepers?” she asks.
Chuckling at the look on her face, I step over a large muddy puddle. “ Tourists who flock to New England to look at the changing colors of the trees. It’s a whole thing, but I know the best spots to avoid them.”
“ Ooh , I cannot wait. I’ll be knitting us the cutest sweaters for fall.”
“ I didn’t know you could knit?”
“ I can’t,” she says. We stare at each other for a beat, before breaking out into a fit of laughter.
The path ahead narrows, so I walk in front and pull back some overgrown ferns, letting Quinn pass by first.
She really is the most sunshiny human I’ve ever met and has a wardrobe to match her personality. It’s been really nice getting to know her and making a friend who doesn’t know me as the girl who abandoned her friends and family.
“ I’ll have no issue finding you if you get lost,” I say with a glance at her outfit. She’s wearing a bright pink raincoat, paired with purple space leggings.
She shoots me an overly dramatic look of worry. “ You will not lose me today, Johanna . Shit , the bears can probably smell the sugar on me.”
We walk and talk for another ten minutes, planning a wine and cheese night at my apartment soon. When a set of jagged rocks comes into view, I know we’re near the top.
“ Almost there.” I’m unsure if I say that for my sake or hers, but as the horizon breaches the hill, the ground below our feet flattens and the breath in my lungs stalls. This view never fails to take my breath away, but after not seeing it for years, I’m immobilized by how awestruck it leaves me.
This is home.
Stopping a few feet from the scraggy cliff edge, we stand between a small opening in the trees; pine, aspen, and fir encircle us. The water reflects the clear, blue sky, making the horizon appear seamless. Lush green and cerulean blue. The water is choppy today, and the waves crash below us, lancing up into the sky when they hit the small islands dotted around the inlet. Sea birds dip and dive into the water with ease, cresting the surface minutes later with a fishy dinner.
Calmness sweeps over, all the stress that’s built up in my muscles dissipating as I soak up the picturesque view. A splash of water lands on the back of my hand, and I look up at the clear sky in confusion, only to realize I’m crying. These are sad tears as much as they’re happy. It feels therapeutic, like a weight is being lifted with each tear that falls and every breath of pine and salt water I take in.
It’s easy to forget the days when I couldn’t see myself escaping the black hole of anxiety and depression when I’m standing here.
My eyes drift to a large pine tree that stands out from its neighbors, its trunk thicker and rougher, showing its age. Where all the other trees have started to tilt from being exposed to the strong winds, this one stands steady. That’s exactly why my dad, Harriet , and I chose it. Resilient , with a striking presence, just like Mom .
Forgetting that Quinn is standing next to me, I brush away the tears, hoping she isn’t weirded out by my sudden outburst of emotion. But when I turn to her, she gives me a knowing look.
Smiling softly, she takes hold of my hand and gives it a squeeze.
“ We all need a good cry now and again. Happy , sad, angry, excited—you name it. It’s healthy. Don’t feel ashamed when you need to let it out.”
Her words of acceptance abolish the shame I know I shouldn’t hold about being vulnerable, and I squeeze her hand back. And then I do exactly as she says. I let it out. The tears track down my face and I don’t know how long we stand there, but she doesn’t let go of my hand the entire time. When the well of emotions is empty, I let out a watery laugh as the wind cools my tear-soaked cheeks.
“ It’s just so good to be home. I never thought I’d be here again and feel so…so content. It’s been a rough…” I pause, but her encouraging smile gives me the push I need. “ It’s been a rough few years. I’m sure you’ve overheard people talking about it.”
“ I try not to listen to town gossip. From personal experience, nothing good ever comes from it. I won’t pry, but if you ever want a judgment-free zone, I’m all ears. We all have our ghosts.”
I nod my thanks and pull my backpack off my shoulders. Pointing to a few smooth boulders, we make our way over. “ Let’s get set up over here, it’s a great spot to eat lunch, and you can see the whole bay.”
“ Wow ,” she says, taking in the view as we sit. “ So this is Anakiwa Lookout ? It’s special to you, huh?”
Maybe it’s the familiar scenery, the tranquil sound of waves crashing, or birds calling overhead. Or perhaps it’s Quinn’s assurances that it’s okay to be unguarded, for whatever reason, I tell her all about Anakiwa Lookout . The hikes we took every month, the camping trips, and how this is where we came to scatter my mom’s ashes.
“ Fucking stupid door!” I mutter to myself as I wiggle the key in the front door of the restaurant. I’m trying to be quiet, not wanting people to think I’m breaking in and call the cops on me, but my impatience is getting the better of me.
It’s almost 1:00 a.m. on a Saturday and well past my bedtime. We closed hours ago, and I’m so exhausted from working a double and experiencing serious brain fog, that it took me hours to realize I left my phone here. Or I hope I did.
That’s why I’m standing outside the restaurant, in my pajamas, freezing my tits off, and very close to kicking down the door if it doesn’t open in the next five seconds.
I’m trying to remember what Patrick said about the front door getting stuck sometimes. Something like, “ Pump the handle up and down, then turn the key as soon as you hear it click.” Honestly , I don’t remember. I was too busy looking at his arms flexing with the motion he made when he said pump.
I’d find it funny that I was so distracted by his biceps if I wasn’t so tired and having an all-around shitty day. Nothing seemed to be going right. I got a flat tire driving to my dad’s. Burned my breakfast. Chipped a nail. All microscopic, but sometimes they just add up. I’m about to force my way inside when I hear a snick and feel the handle pop. Not wasting my opportunity, I twist the key and almost cry in relief when the door swings open.
Wincing at the alarm blaring louder than usual, I scramble over to the keypad and clumsily type in the six-digit code. It takes me three tries to get it right, my mind somehow drawing blanks every time I press the numbers. God , I need to sleep.
My feet drag across the floor to the back, and once I’m inside the office, I flick on the light. A big sigh leaves me when I spot my phone sitting on the desk. I grab it, switch off the light, lock up, and trudge my way to the front. In and out, no issues.
Each step toward the front door is another step closer to my warm bed, where I plan to sleep until mid-afternoon. As I walk alongside the bar, my feet dragging behind me, I run my hand along the multicolored surface of the driftwood. The feel of the different textures beneath my fingertips usually comforts me, but not tonight. I’m so on edge, and I snatch my hand away when the lights of a passing car shine through the window and reflect off something on my left.
My steps falter before being rooted to the spot. A chill runs through me, like I’ve been plunged into an ice bath. Front and center, in the middle of all the liquor bottles, sits my mom and Ted , forever frozen in time.
I’ve seen that photograph every day when at the restaurant, and my heart has never seized like it is now. Grief is fickle like that. It sits below the surface of your mind on some days, barely noticeable, then hits you out of nowhere.
Their smiling faces are a stark reminder that they’re no longer with us. Ripped away too soon. And there was nothing I could do about it. That last one is something I try not to think about too deeply, but I’ve triggered the thought now, and the roots of anxiety and grief burrow deep in my chest.
Mom has been gone for almost two decades, but sometimes that pain is as fresh as the day we lost her. Those roots now creep down my arms, my legs, and remind me of how all my loved ones will be ripped away from me in the same way.
Dad . Harriet . Patrick . Claire .
So many people I care so deeply about, and I have no control over how long they will be on this earth.
I try to remind myself these thoughts are unhelpful, that everyone I love is fine, but the pressure in my chest and tingling in my fingers lets me know the anxiety has got a good grip on me now.
“ It’s fine,” I mumble to myself. “ I just need…”
My words drift off when I realize my anxiety medication is all the way back in my apartment, which sets off a whole new wave of panic. It isn’t far, but as I take a shaky step toward the door, I know it’s too late for the meds to do their job.
Discarding my phone on top of the bar, I crouch, running my hands through my hair in frustration, willing the beating of my heart and the shaking in my hands to stop. I slowly massage my temples, but it all feels useless. All of this because of one photograph. I grip the edge of the bar and pull myself up to standing, eyes landing on the framed photograph. If I can just get it out of sight so their memory stops haunting me, this will all go away. Right ?
With shaky legs, I make my way around the bar until I’m standing directly in front of the shelves of liquor bottles and glassware. The photograph is higher up than I anticipated, but I use the bottom two shelves to climb up until it’s in reach. As my fingertips graze the cold edges of the metal frame, the bottom of my sneaker slips.
As if in slow motion, I watch the picture frame tip forward. It tumbles off the shelf and brings a bottle of bourbon with it. The moment the glass cracks and shatters against the wooden floor, so does my heart. The floodgate holding back the tidal wave of emotions splinters open.
“ No , no, no, no,” I repeat frantically. Falling to my knees among the mess of broken glass and bourbon, my hands hover over the broken frame, like I might do more damage. Mom and Ted stare up at me, their happy faces now tarnished. I try my best to shake the glass and sticky liquid away, but the damage is done.
In more ways than one.
Heartbreak and panic aren’t a good combination .
The pressure in my temples increases.
The tingling in my fingers spreads all over, leaving me numb in its path.
My already quickening breathing turns to desperate gasps for air.
The corner of my vision fades to black, and icy panic seizes up my muscles. I try to slow my breathing and think of a color, any color.
Green .
I clench my eyes shut, count to ten before opening them again, and search the small space in front of me.
Five things. Just five green things.
I manage to find four from my spot on the floor but come up short when I try to find that fifth and final item. It’s too dark in here.
Why didn’t I turn on the lights?
Will anyone find me?
Do I want anyone to find me?
I sink further into the floor. The panic truly has its claws embedded in me.
I’m drowning in grief. In darkness. In sadness. In hopelessness.
There’s no use fighting it anymore, so I succumb to it.
Then all I see is black.