Chapter Twenty-Nine: Is Doug moving forward or backwards?

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE



Scarborough Beach is known for its surf and tonight is no exception. Doug watches a pack of surfers seize the ocean breeze, their torsos impossibly lean. They lie down on sleek boards and paddle out to deep waters, to risk. The current drags them back easily until, arms extended like wings, they stand up and squat. Billowy waves pass beneath them before an enormous one rolls forward, gaining speed and astonishing height. They glide along the wave’s lip then drop amazingly into its wide open throat.

Miles behind them, a peaceful September sun sits low on the horizon. Feverishly pink, its rays fan out, splashing brilliant color onto a clear sky. Doug stares at the sunset, reflecting on the dichotomy between the sea up-close and beyond. They are blissfully ignorant, these surfers, and Doug envies them. He raises his chin and tips the last of his Miller Lite into his mouth before crushing the can into the sand. He cries some more.

“You think I’ll be able to do that someday, Dad?”

Josh loved watching the surfers. He’d sit beside Doug on a damp towel, his arms propped up on bent knees.

“I think you’ll be able to do anything you set your mind to, Josh.”

The comment was as sappy as a Hallmark card, he knew… but he had meant every word of it. He actually believed that his son was invincible, and that he’d be there to watch him soar through life’s highs and lows. Even after the abduction he had felt this way, as though he and Serena had been granted a second chance to do a better job as parents.

How had they failed so miserably?

The abduction was tragic, no doubt. Jaded by the incident, Serena was never quite right afterwards. Had her decision to hook up with Bari been part of a weird self-fulfilling prophecy? A curse?

“I thought you’d be here.”

Justine.

“You found me…”

“Yes… and I come bearing goods.” She kneels beside him, snaps off the cover of a small cooler, and brandishes a pint of Black Raspberry ice-cream.

“You’re too much,” he says, touching her wrist.

On the first day they’d met, she had been sitting alone in the teacher’s lounge, stripping the wrapper off of a granola bar. The rest of the staff—older and more miserable—had been complaining about unfair contracts. He casually made his way to the vending machine when her soft brown gaze lifted to meet his. She wore an off-white cashmere sweater, black leather skirt, and designer boots, perfectly fitted to her calves. Her smile was modest. A burning desire to take care of this girl had overcome him. What is it about certain women… that makes them impossible to resist?

Alyssa Galica’s face invades his mind. Josh, too, had been bit.

He stares at his girlfriend as though studying an exquisite sapphire, feeling buzzed by the four previous beers. A warm breeze blows strands of wavy brown hair across her cheek. She scoops a mound of ice-cream into a small plastic bowl. He sweeps the loose strand behind her ear. “You gonna be okay?” She hands him a spoon.

He gulps his beer and swallows. “I don’t think so.” His eyes drift to the horizon. At any moment, an asteroid could explode in the atmosphere and blow them to pieces. The sound of the gunshot invades his mind again, as it has for the last few weeks. He sees his son, lifeless on his lap, his eyes open and lucid. Regret charges in like a bull. If only the front door was locked, if only he had chosen to have the sex talk at his apartment, if only Serena had chosen someone else—


Her hand finds his. “I know this isn’t going to be easy, Doug.”

“I don’t think we’ve met.” It had been raining hard that day. The teacher’s lounge had smelled of musk and leftover coffee. The inevitable gossip burned through his thoughts. The divorce was so hard on him. He deserves to love again. She’s a bit young for him, though. He’s been through so much….


He turns to her. “Why do you think Bari would kill him? I mean, even if he thought he was avenging his daughter… he shot my son at the expense of his own life.” He scrunches his nose, holds back tears. “Bari turned himself in, you know. He didn’t even attempt to get away.”

It was true. Following the shooting, Bari had raised his hands in the air. “I do not expect you to understand why I had to do this.” He was wearing a white polo golf shirt and cargo shorts. He clutched the pistol tightly with his right hand as he said this, as though deciding whether or not to shoot Doug as well. In hindsight, Doug wishes he had.

“I couldn’t speak. My throat went dry and I became disoriented. At one point, I couldn’t see.”

Justine rubs his knee. “I don’t know if you’ll ever be able to make sense of what happened that night, Doug.”

“I felt like I was in one of those dreams… where you know you’re supposed to run, but your legs won’t move … only it was my voice that seemed to be paralyzed.”

She rubs his back, tickles his neck with her long fingernails. “I’m so sorry that this happened to you, baby.”

He lowers his head to her lap and lets her run her fingers through his hair. By now, the sun has dunked its fiery head under the sea’s surface, turning day into night. A few stars twinkle to life. The roar of the waves rolls through his mind, easing him, until, for a perfect moment in time, he forgets. Justine’s spiral curls tickle his neck like a soft paintbrush as she massages his shoulders. Instinctively, his arms float to the back of her head where he pulls her face down to meet his lips. They exchange a kiss that tastes of salt and beer and raspberries.

Cradling her lithe body in his arms, he draws her even closer until she’s on top of him, beside him, and both of their hands are sliding in and out of loose clothing. The surfers are hooting joyously in the dark, oblivious, and Doug feels as though, like them, he’s breaking a rule. He’s about to have sex on the beach with a perfect woman and a terrible tragedy has not taken place. It was only a dream.

His fingers glide along the skin beneath her sundress, surf along her curves. Justine works at the button of his fly. Led Zeppelin’s ‘Stairway to Heaven’ punctuates his thoughts. His new ring tone.

He sits up awkwardly, digs in his pocket for his phone, and checks the caller ID . Kim Murray, Serena’s best friend. “Jesus… I have to take this one, honey.”

He presses the ‘answer’ key. “Hello?”

“Doug—this is Kim. You’ve got to come home… I mean to Serena’s—and quick.”

“What’s going on?”

“I think she tried… I mean, I don’t know for sure, but—”

“Tried what? What are you talking about, Kim?” He levers himself up.

“Suicide, Doug.”

A sharp pain jabs at his stomach. His knees wobble as he struggles to stand.

“What’s this all about?” Justine asks, adjusting her dress.

“It’s—it’s Serena… she’s in trouble. Suicide, I-I gotta go.”

“Oh my God. I’ll drive.”

* * *



Saddled with beach bags, damp towels, and a single cooler, they stumble anxiously to Justine’s car. Doug is unable to drive. She fumbles in her pocketbook for her keys and pops open the trunk. They stuff their belongings inside and Doug slams it shut.

He rounds her Saab to the passenger’s side. Justine does not join him “All set?”—he calls out. “Oh gosh, Doug,” he hears her say.

“What’s going on?” He walks back towards her.

“We just locked my keys in the trunk.” She pats at her pockets, as though looking for another set.

“When you opened it, the doors don’t automatically unlock?” He yanks at a backseat door.

“Yeah, then they automatically lock when I shut it.” She bites her thumbnail. “My spare is at home.”

“We’ll take my car, then. I’ll drive you back here tomorrow with the spare set.”

“That’s fine. Give me your keys. I’ll drive your car.” She holds out her hand, palm side up.

The request, though appropriate in this situation, catches him off-guard. His dad, an automobile hobbyist, just handed him down a restored Corvette. It’s not that Justine is a bad driver. It’s just that he’d rather not take the risk of something happening, something he could have prevented.

“Oh, I’m fine now, hon. I can’t even feel the beer, seriously. I’ll drive.”

“It’s not worth taking a chance, Doug. Rhode Island is loaded with Stateys this time of the night. With everything you’re already dealing with, you don’t need a DUI.”

He stuffs his hands into his pockets and draws out a set of keys, trying to remain casual. “Totally true. I’ll go slow. Let’s go.”

Justine stands still, tilts her head slightly. “You don’t trust me to drive the ‘Vette, do you?”

“I just want to drive, that’s all… no big deal.”

She squints at him, as though perplexed. “The mother of your dead child is suffering and you’re actually thinking about your car.”

“Give me a break, Justine! Why are you doing this? It’s been hard enough for me, without having to argue!” The words are a throw-back of a marriage past. In his mind, he hears himself fighting the same cause with Serena. The umbrella.


“I promise I won’t break it, Doug… it’s just pouring buckets out and the large one is so much better than my cheap, busted one.”


“It’s my umbrella. Why don’t you buy your own?”


“Why don’t you share your things?”

He had held his own that day, and refused to let her use his gigantic green umbrella, a free gift given to him by the advertising firm he had previously worked for. Eventually, she had stopped asking and purchased her own umbrella, along with other things. It didn’t take long for their materials to multiply. By the time of their divorce, they had owned two iPods , two recliners, two television sets, and two coffee makers. Ironically, dividing their things had been easy—they hadn’t been sharing them anyways.

“Gee, Doug… I don’t know why I’d argue for the sober person to drive? Are you crazy? What’s more important here?—protecting your mint vehicle, or saving a life?”

It’s maddening, this moral reasoning, always making him fall short. The second time around, he decides, is no less forgiving. He looks at Justine: golden skin, full lips, perfect teeth. The sleeves of her hooded sweatshirt are too long. They shield her small hands, though he catches of glimpse of the ring he bought her for Christmas last year. He does not want to make the same mistake twice.

“I just want to drive my own car, Justine, alright?”

But he will.

“Fine, then count me out.” She turns away from him and approaches the parking lot steps leading back to the beach.

“Your keys are in your trunk, Justine. You can’t stay out here alone.”

“Watch me.”

She fades into the cool, salty night, though the sound of her footsteps remains palpable.

“Come on, Justine… don’t be like that!”

He’s about to chase after her, when his cell phone rings again.

This time, the caller ID reveals Serena’s name.