Here Today, Gone to Maui (9 page)

The tree provided some small protection from the wind. Shade wasn’t a factor since the murky clouds had obliterated the sun. Would that affect Jimmy’s visibility? And if so, would he cut his dive short? I doubted it, somehow. Jimmy had a tendency to get caught up in the moment. I pictured him in the depths, gliding past coral, staring at a puffer fish, hovering over a moray eel.

When my bathing suit went from soaking wet to merely clammy, I pulled on my terry cover-up, wishing I’d brought something warmer. Jimmy’s T-shirt was in the car, but I didn’t want to risk being away from the beach when he came out of the water. With surf this rough, he might need help getting out.

Above me, the dense clouds darkened. The remaining blue sky, to the left of the beach, seemed far away. Farther down the sand, the last of the beachgoers packed up their gear and disappeared up the path.

I thought about dinner, about what I might make in that dinky little kitchen. Fish, certainly—Mary told me the best stuff came from Safeway. Lemon. Bagged salad. A loaf of nice bread. A crisp Chardonnay. Sometimes simple meals are the best. We could eat out on the lounge chairs again, assuming it didn’t rain. Or I could do something cold, crab salad maybe, which we could take someplace idyllic and quintessentially Hawaiian, one of those spots that I’d dreamed about from California.

Like: the Hyatt lobby.

It began to rain. I said a bad word. When that didn’t make me feel any better, I said a worse one. That helped, but only a little.

According to my cell phone, it was 1:56 in California, which made it 10:56 in Maui. What time had Jimmy gone under? I wished I’d checked before snorkeling. He’d have a timer and an air gauge with him, but knowing Jimmy, he’d stay under as long as he could, till he was almost, but not quite, out of air. You never want your air to run out completely. You need to keep some in reserve to get you back to the surface. But even if Jimmy’s air did run out, he’d be okay. His dive was so shallow, he could shoot up without risking decompression sickness, otherwise known as “the bends.”

I tried to remember how long a tank would last. A lot depended on the depth of the dive; the deeper you went, the faster the air ran out. But Jimmy was an experienced diver, and slow, measured breaths could make his air last longer.

I needed to distract myself. Had it been a weekday, I would have called Lena because she always made me laugh. Instead, I called my sister, Beth, in New Jersey.

After three rings, a girl’s voice said, “Hullo?”

“Hi . . . Samantha? This is Aunt Jane.”

“This is Savannah.”

“Savannah! Wow. You’re starting to sound so grown-up.” Savannah, Beth’s second girl, was twelve. Or maybe thirteen? I’d lost track.

When Savannah didn’t reply, I said, “It was nice seeing you at Christmas.”

After a pause, she said, “Yeah.”

“Did you use the Gap certificate I gave you?”

There was a bit of static, and then, “No.” I tried to think of something else to ask her, but she saved me. “You want to talk to my mom?”

“Hello?” Beth sounded harried. Beth always sounded harried.

“I’m on the beach in Hawaii,” I said.

“Isn’t that a Ziggy Marley song?”

“It’s raining,” I said.

“You’re looking for pity?”

“And the hotel lost our reservation, so we’re in a crappy condo.” I heard the sound of running water, dishes clinking. “Did I interrupt your dinner? What time is it there?”

“It’s almost dinnertime, but no one’s eating. Sierra and Sindy have the stomach flu. Eleven times they’ve thrown up today. Samantha was home all week with a sinus infection, and now she’s locked herself in her room so she doesn’t start puking. Savannah says she feels nauseous, but I think it’s just because she wants attention.”

“Okay, you win,” I said. “Your day sucks more than mine. Where’s Stacey?”

“Slumber party.”

“Sal?”

“Nauseous. But I think that’s just his personality. And, oh—Mom was supposed to come to dinner tonight, and when I called to cancel, she said she could tell all along that I didn’t really want her to come, so I’m probably glad to have an excuse.”

My phone beeped. “Oh, crap—battery’s low. Anyway. Just wanted to say hi. Jimmy’s diving, and I’m stuck on the beach waiting.”

“My heart bleeds for you,” Beth said, sounding a touch more chipper than she had at the beginning of the conversation.

I threw the phone back in my tote and stared out at the water. The sun peeked through in patches, the rays reaching through the raindrops like a child’s drawing. When I thought I saw Jimmy’s head pop out of the water, I hurried to the water’s edge and peered out, but it was just a whitecap.

The rain slowed to a mist. It was 11:09. Figuring that Jimmy went under at around ten-thirty, and his air would last around forty-five minutes, I decided he would resurface no later than eleven-fifteen.

The rain stopped. At eleven-fifteen, I reconsidered the shallowness of the dive plus Jimmy’s diving expertise. He could probably stay under for an hour, which meant he’d be up by eleven-thirty. I wouldn’t tell him I’d been worried. I wouldn’t even let him know I’d been cold.

At eleven-thirty I decided that Jimmy had begun his dive later than I’d assumed. He’d had to swim pretty far out. And maybe I wasn’t in the water for as long as I’d thought. I’d been nervous, after all, and time slows down when you’re afraid. Surely Jimmy would return to the surface no later than 11:40. I’d act a little annoyed, but not enough to ruin the rest of the afternoon.

On the way back to the condo, I’d ask him to stop off at Safeway. I’d buy fish.

I wouldn’t tell him I’d been worried. Because it was just so crazy to think that something bad might have happened.

At eleven forty-five, there was still no sign of Jimmy.

That’s when I knew: he was gone.

I shouldn’t have called my sister. Without those minutes, there would have been enough charge left in my battery to call 911. If Jimmy was trapped underwater, every second counted.

I should have checked the time when he went in.

I should have left my cell phone charged.

I should have gone for help sooner.

It didn’t even occur to me to blame Jimmy for breaking a basic safety rule by diving alone. I didn’t want to be angry at him.

I ran up the concrete steps, tiny red ants swarming at my feet. Even without any sun, the air in the car was humid. I ran my hand under the seat and yanked open the glove compartment. Surely Jimmy had brought his phone along. But then I remembered him tossing it on the table at the condo: he didn’t want it to get stolen.

Adrenaline made my body shake and my heart race. My breathing came in strangled gasps. I stepped into the road and looked both ways, but Jimmy had chosen a deserted stretch, and there was no traffic. Driving away was out of the question: I couldn’t leave Jimmy.

I ran back down the stairs, just far enough so I could see Jimmy if he had reappeared. In my mind I pictured him staggering breathless onto the beach and falling into my arms. I’d hold him tight, not caring that he soaked my already-damp terry cover-up.

Already, though, I knew that wouldn’t happen. He had been down too long. Everyone needs to come up for air.

I was about to get back in the car when a tan sedan appeared around the bend. I dashed into the street and held my arms up. The car jerked to a halt.

The man who got out was silver-haired, older but not old. I think his wife had silver hair, too, but I can’t be sure. So many details escape me. All I could think about was Jimmy. All I could see was Jimmy in the ocean, kicking away from me.

The older couple stood there quietly, their rental car’s engine humming, as I dialed 911 on their cell phone. “My boyfriend is gone!” I sobbed, tears appearing as if from nowhere.

When the operator asked where I was, my mind went blindingly white. I couldn’t remember the name of the beach. “Do you know where we are?” I pleaded with the silver-haired couple. The husband took the phone and gave directions to Slaughterhouse Beach. His wife offered to stay there to flag down the police so I could go back to the water. Just in case.

Stupidly, I still felt hopeful as I ran back down the path. Jimmy could be there. It wasn’t impossible.

He wasn’t there, of course. And he wasn’t there fifteen minutes later when the rescue workers arrived: police, fire, coast guard, lifeguards. All those people could have made me feel optimistic. Instead, the swarms made me realize just how bad things were. I felt numb and cold—so cold.

The beach was no longer deserted. Divers barreled out beyond the waves, dragging a flag-marked float along to mark their descent. If only Jimmy had brought a float. If only he had picked up the air tank himself, he would have thought of it.

“Did your friend have any health issues?” a firefighter asked me. “Any problems with his heart?”

“Nothing,” I said. “No problems at all.” Why were there firefighters here? Where was the fire?

The buzz of Jet Skis filled the air. They’d launched from Flemings Beach, just down the coast. (Lifeguard? Coast guard? I couldn’t keep them straight.)

I kept my eyes on the water, but it was so hectic out there, Jimmy could swim to shore and I wouldn’t even notice.

And then: hope. The currents were strong today, a lifeguard said. He was a young guy, on the short side, with a wide, smooth chest, dark hair, and kind eyes. It’s easy to get lost underwater, he told me. My friend could have popped up down the shore. He could be a mile away, sitting on the beach and trying to figure out how to explain this without sounding stupid.

I took this as good news. Great news. I began to laugh with hysterical relief. “You think he’s okay?”

“We’re checking the beaches along the coast,” he said. “See if he’s turned up.”

He hadn’t turned up.

But he could be floating around somewhere, another lifeguard told me later, when I had retreated to my spot under the low-hanging trees. Someone had brought me a blanket, but nothing could warm me.

“So you think you’ll find him?” I pleaded.

The lifeguard paused a long time before replying, very carefully, “Yes, I think we’ll find him.” He didn’t say any more. He didn’t have to.

Someone offered to get me a sandwich, but I wasn’t hungry. I wasn’t thirsty, either, but a paramedic—a woman, I think—made me drink a can of overly sweetened pink lemonade.

“Is there anyone we should call?” a policewoman asked me. I shook my head. I had no one local, of course, and calling my friends or family from home made it too official. As long as no one knew that Jimmy was missing, he still might come back.

“Do you want a ride somewhere?” the policewoman asked me.

I shook my head: I wasn’t leaving. As long as Jimmy was in the water, as long as there were rescue crews about, I would sit under my tree.

I sat there. And I sat there. My bladder began to hurt from the lemonade, but I ignored it.

The sun, which had finally come out, slipped below the horizon: a beautiful Hawaiian sunset made especially magnificent by the elaborate clouds. Rescue workers on Jet Skis buzzed over pink-tinted water and disappeared around the corner. Divers emerged from the depths and pulled off their masks. A crazy yellow bird danced in the branches above me.

“It’s getting dark,” a firefighter told me. “There’s nothing more we can do tonight.”

On Sunday, I awoke just before daylight and had an instant of peace.
Jimmy’s slipped out for another one of his meetings,
I thought.
Maybe he’ll bring me breakfast—the scones are getting stale.

And then, cruelly, the memories washed over me like an icy wave. Had they found him?
Please, please let him be alive,
a voice inside my head begged. He could have washed up somewhere in the night, unconscious, injured, but still alive. I pictured him lying on the beach, moaning, whispering my name.