40
August arrives with the suddenness of a summer rainstorm. I’m caught unaware and surprised. In the two weeks since the beach I’ve existed in a haze of summer heat, with morning swims in the cove, cool kisses in the shade, and pink cheeks burned by the sun as Aaron drags his hand through my salt-kissed hair and we dream up futures: double-decker bus rides in London before a Channel swim; the swim around Manhattan so Amy can finally see New York; a trip to South Africa to swim False Bay—futures that don’t exist.
I launch into the dream, though, with the fervent wholeheartedness of a child instinctively knowing summer is ending. The last days are here. So I play, I run, I abandon myself to experiencing everything the long, hot days have to offer.
In the real world, Mila and I take evening trips to the beach, splashing in the cold lake water and eating picnic baskets full of tart red grapes, sweet nectarines, and pungent summer cheeses spread on crispy baguettes. Daniel joins us on weekends, diving deep in the water with Mila or joining us on long, rambling bike rides through the countryside. In the last two weeks we fit in a full summer of memories.
Max joins us for a train trip winding along the lake, where we hop off at a lakeside village and climb the slope to a cobblestone-studded town. There’s a tiny vineyard planted by monks hundreds of years ago where we drink sweet young wine and grape juice and gorge ourselves on cheese and olives. In Paris Max holds my hand at an outdoor symphony. In Gruyères we play tourists. At Chamonix we soar to untold heights in cable cars and then stand at the pinnacle of the world, and my chest expands at the wide blue ocean of the glacier fields and valleys below.
In Geneva, at August’s close, Mila will start school. Cool winds will blow down the mountains and spread autumn colors across the valley. Our halcyon days will come to an end. School, work, busyness, all leading to the tumbling of leaves from the trees, the cold edge of winter, and then our Christmas Eve Gala.
But even before autumn and winter have arrived, there’s an ending. And a small voice inside me, the one that tells me the truths—in my dreams, if not in life—whispers that everything is coming to a close.
That whisper has been there since I said the words “I love you.”
It’s as if the moment I uttered them, the watch I grip in my hand during sleep has been ticking down. It’s that mechanical movement where the second hand slows, slows, then finally shudders to a stop.
I feel it.
So I dive into my dreams. I cling to them.
Whether it’s my subconscious or the watch, every night that I return I land back in the moment with Aaron. I wake in the morning and I leave when I fall exhausted into bed, curled into Aaron’s side.
So I’ve had two weeks of summer bliss.
I glance over at Aaron now. His hand is tangled in mine, his thumb stroking over my skin. He smiles at me, the corner of his mouth lifting. The breeze rustles his hair and the shouts and laughter of our neighbors bounces around the back garden at Sue’s.
“Do you think she likes it?” I ask him, nodding toward Junie.
“Yes,” Aaron says, his brown eyes warm. His look makes a flush rise over my cheeks. “I think so.”
He smiles at the pink rushing over my face. Junie and Jordi are exclaiming over the crib we built them. We threw a surprise baby shower. There are dozens of people here, everyone bringing baby clothes, cloth nappies and pins, bottles and bibs. Amy even made the baby a book of poems, handwritten and illustrated, with a poem for every letter of the alphabet. I wish I could take it with me back to Geneva. I’d share it with Mila and then with anyone else who asked.
“This is how you make a crib,” Junie says pointedly, rubbing her hand over the smooth white slats.
“Babe,” Jordi says, sensing the tears lurking at the corners of her eyes.
“And look at the yellow onesie. Look at the sun hat.”
“Babe, it’s all right.”
“Maranda gave me a rocker.” Junie’s voice wobbles and she wipes the back of her hand across her cheeks.
Jordi shifts uncomfortably, twisting his hands. “Aww, babe, don’t cry.”
Junie hiccups, scowls at her husband, then punches him in the arm. “Don’t tell me not to cry! My ankles are swollen. My back hurts. It’s hot and I’m the size of a hippopotamus. I have a rocker now. I have a crib! I can cry if I want.”
Jordi looks around the back garden, frantically searching for help. No one is paying enough attention to give him any.
Pink and blue bunting hangs from the eaves and crisscrosses between the branches of the flowering trees. The late-afternoon sun slants low enough that shadows fall across the garden. There are grills glowing bright with coal, with fish charring and strips of mango blackening. There are long wooden tables full of crab dips, mango salsas, spicy pepper and olive tapenades, grilled sweet potatoes, and rum cakes and coconut pies.
Above it all, the Beach Boys (Jordi’s favorite band) play on the old speakers, sending out sun-bright music.
Maranda, Dee and Essie camp out at a table, eating pie and arguing about how they’ll set up their basket business. Amy dances with Sean under the white pom-pom flowers of a shade tree. Robert, Aldon, and Chris man the grills. Odie plays solitaire while eating a massive piece of coconut pie. There’s more. Kids running after the chickens. The rooster and his hens somehow knew there’d be a party today. Families I recognize from the anniversary party and the search for Amy, new faces too. Sue’s back garden is full, and none of them are going to help Jordi.
Junie wipes at her face, tears tracking down her cheeks.
When Jordi sees no one is paying him and Junie any mind, he sighs and says, “Babe. If you’re gonna cry, do it right here.” Then he holds open his arms.
Junie gives a little hiccup and then buries herself against Jordi. He folds his arms around her and rubs her back.
“It’s a crib!”
“I know, babe.”
“We’re having a baby!”
“Yeah, we are,” Jordi says, and a wide smile grows on his face as he rubs his hands over Junie’s back and stares at the crib.
“They like it.” I look at Aaron and he nods.
He brushes a hand over the pink on my cheeks. He knows why they’re flushed. When he measured the wood, when he screwed the slats—really, when he did anything—I was mesmerized by the line of his shoulders, the strength of his forearms, the steadiness of his hands, and I couldn’t help but touch him and kiss him and put my mouth on him.
So the crib ended up taking at least five times as long to build as it should have. I have a bruise on my back from lying on a scattering of wood, kissing in the grass. I scrubbed for fifteen minutes one day to get all the white paint off my skin from when we became a little too enthusiastic stroking on paint. Making the crib was literally a labor of love.
Across the garden Robert’s eyes narrow as he follows Aaron’s hand drifting over my cheek. He and I haven’t spoken since he warned me about playing games. But there’s a building tension in the looks he sends me, and I can’t help but remember him saying we’d be leaving come Christmas.
A chill washes over me, leaching the flush from my face. I turn from Robert, putting my back to him.
Aaron’s watching me, curiosity in his gaze. “You all right?”
I nod, stepping closer. Aaron tucks me under his arm and pulls me into his side. I fit there. Perfectly. His salt-and-sun scent wraps around me. I press my hand to his chest, to the warmth of him and the beating of his heart.
The sun slips lower, nearing the close of the day. The warm breeze of summer blows over my cheeks and tangles my cotton dress around my legs. I take it all in. The feel of Aaron’s arms, comforting and solid. The beach music singing of waves and summer. The grill smoke charring the air, the perfume of the garden. Amy waving from under the shade tree, grinning as she tickles Sean’s nose with a palm leaf.
“I wish today could last forever,” I say, thinking about how this morning we were wrapped around each other in the soft salt water of the cove, and we touched and kissed, and I whispered, “I love you,” as I threw my head back, and he kissed me and said, “Say it again.”
“Maybe it does,” he says, looking down at me tucked into his side. “Who knows, maybe every moment lasts forever. What is that poem Amy loves? ‘To see a World in a Grain of Sand. . .’"
“‘And a Heaven in a Wild Flower.’”
He smiles. “‘Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand.’”
“‘And Eternity in an hour,’” I finish.
He holds me close, wrapping me tight against him. “Maybe this is our eternity. And even after we’re gone we’ll still have this moment.”
I nod, my cheek rubbing against his chest. “Maybe so.”
He strokes a hand over my back and places a kiss on my forehead, butterfly-soft.
I look out over the party, at the daylight leaking away, and I feel the ticking of time deep in my chest.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
It’s stuttering to a stop.
So I fling myself into the moment, grasping the end of summer, clutching it to my heart. I hold Aaron’s hand tightly and say, “I love you.”
It feels like the last time. Like I’m a leaf set free and floating on the wind, and when I fall the ground I land on will be back in Geneva, far, far away from here.
“I love you too,” he says. “Fi. I love you too.”
And that is the end of the dream.