I’m going to walk in the sand. I’m going to lie in the sun and feel the burn on my skin. I’m going to put my newly red toes in the water and then the rest of myself too. Just me. Just because I want to. The second I’m on the sand a series of what if questions pop in and out of my head.
What if I’d always been allowed to do this? Would I be a different person? What if Fatima is right, and there are ways to be both a saint and a normal girl? What would that life look like? Would it be a life where boyfriends and long days of swimming and hanging out with friends are allowed? What if my reputation did change? Would it really erode my gift?
What if my mother’s words from last night came true and just by telling people my gift was waning, it did?
What if God is really the kind of God that Fatima believes in, a God who doesn’t punish?
I halt at the shoreline, my feet sinking into the dark wet sand, erasing my bright-red shiny nails from view. I kneel down, the cold of it nice in the heat. The waves are small and gentle, a child’s hiccups. They thin to a pleasant sizzle as they near the place where I am, hands digging into the sand, disturbing a delicate white crab that buries itself again, disappearing into the mud. The sunshine against the water is almost blinding but I don’t take the sunglasses from the top of my head. I like the glare. The heat on my bare skin. The emptiness of the beach because it’s a school day and a workday and it’s September, not August. I crawl closer to the water, until the edges of the waves almost reach me as they come in. I park myself there, legs extended toward the sea. I remember the little girl on the afternoon of my forbidden, rule-breaking swim. She was sitting just like I am now. Are you an angel? she asked. She was piling wet sand onto her legs, making a dribble castle.
I dig my hand deep into the sand, then hold it high above my right thigh, letting it seep through my fingers. When it lands on my skin it is cold and smooth and it hardens as I keep going, dig, dribble, dig, dribble. Soon a spiny tower rises up from each leg, like layers of melting frosting. The sun beats down on me and my castle, drying us both. The tide gets closer. When it seems like my dribble castle is high enough that another layer will topple it, I lie back, propping myself with my elbows, and survey my work. I am covered nearly head to toe with dark, shiny sand, like so many kids I’ve seen over the years at the beach. Patches of shiny red nail polish peek out from under the mess. Not exactly a sexy look, but maybe that’s okay since I’m trying to make up for years of missed childhood. Besides, I practically have the whole beach to myself. The sun is high, the cool water a perfect relief. The sky is blue everywhere I look.
What if this is all there is? No God at all, but instead just this world in all its beauty and joy and horrors and pain? I dig up another handful of sand and watch as it drips through my fingers, shiny flecks of mica flashing as it falls. Could this be enough? Is it possible to love a life, to live a life, however imperfect and short it happens to be?
A wave bigger than all the others rushes into shore and bowls right over me, knocking my dribble castle to pieces, splashing sand up my body all the way to the side of my face. I start to laugh. I lie back on my elbows again as another rushes up behind it and covers me nearly to my chin. White foam swirls and bubbles around my body, the ties of my bikini bottom rising, then falling, heavy and wet as the wave recedes.
Yes, I think, as I get up, the remaining sand sliding down my legs. I think this could be enough for me. I wade into the water as another wave crests, so gentle and slow I can see right through it.
Why are we always looking upward and elsewhere when all of this is right here? If this is all I have, this day on this beach, skin salty and sandy, the promise of seeing Finn later on stretching ahead of me, then yes, I am satisfied with “just” this. This, right here, right now, is all I could ever ask for and more than I’ve ever dreamed.
TWENTY-NINE
“Okay, now put it in reverse.”
I look over at José, then down to my hand as I shift into gear. Ever so slowly, I inch the car backward. Then I shift the gear again so I can go forward a teensy bit. Backward, forward, backward, forward. It feels like it’s taking forever, but José seems pleased. That’s it, he keeps saying. Muy bien!
He’s teaching me to parallel park, even though we are miles from a city and the only parallel parking spots are along the seawall, and those aren’t even real ones. My hair is still damp from being in the water, my legs sandy from the beach. I’m still in my bathing suit, too, but I put on a tank top and skirt over it.
I pull out of the spot that José chalked—that he actually chalked—onto the asphalt of the big empty lot where we are practicing my driving.
“Nice job!” he says. “Now, let’s try it again.”
I look at him like he must be kidding, but he is grinning. He gulps a sip of the limonada I brought him, then a big bite of the Twix I also brought him—payment for driving lessons. I tried to offer him more but he said that was all he wanted.
He swallows his chocolate. “Once you master this,” he says, “you will be able to do anything, cariño. Trust me. Go ahead.” He nods at the wheel. “Pull back into the space and then we’ll work on getting out of it again. Just imagine there’s a very expensive Mercedes in front of the car. And how about a Ferrari behind us? You don’t want to scratch those things. A new paint job would cost a fortune.”
“Great,” I mutter under my breath.
“Hey now,” he says. “Do this well and I might let you drive the car over to that boy’s house.”
“Really?” I asked José if he would take me to Finn’s place afterward.
“He’s obviously desperate to see you since your phone keeps pinging like mad in your bag.” He chuckles. “¡Ahhh, el amor!”
I barely bring the phone anywhere, but today it’s with me. “It could be someone else.”
José’s entire face registers his skepticism. “Who else? Helen? I bet you only have two contacts on there.”
I don’t say anything because he’s right.
José chuckles again. “It’s okay, Marlenita. It doesn’t matter how many contacts you have, only that they are people who matter to you. Someday you’ll have dozens of friends. You’ll see.”
“You think so?”
“I do.” The phone pings again.
“Shouldn’t I see what he wants?”
“Not while you’re driving, cariño. You know that. After, you can ping him all you want.” He taps the steering wheel. “Now let’s do this one more time.”
I sit up in my seat, eyes straining through the windshield in search of those chalk lines. Slow and steady, my hands placed carefully at ten o’clock and two o’clock just like José showed me, I begin the process of parking. It takes me nearly five minutes but I manage to do it. Then I breathe a sigh of relief, put the car in park, turn to José, and say, “Can I text Finn to tell him I’m on my way?”
José digs in my bag and comes up with the phone. “Now that the car is no longer in gear, sí.”
I take it and read Finn’s messages.
When are you coming over?
OMG, it’s a nice day. Hurry.
What if I tempt you with culinary delights? Will that make you get here faster?