That Birthday in Barbados Read online

He laughs, pleased by my response. “Yep. Come on,” he says, opening his door and vaulting out of the truck.

  I climb out as well. Anders takes my hand and leads me toward the group of a dozen or so people already standing on the beach. I’m surprised, but don’t pull away, following him with the same kind of feeling I had as a child on Christmas morning when my sister and I would sneak down early to see what Santa had left under the tree. The thought of Nicole drops an instant veil of sadness over me, but I blink it away, determined to be in this moment, this place. And nowhere but here.

  “Hello!”

  The woman who calls out to Anders is tall with beautiful dark hair divided into two long braids that hang to her waist. The look on her face is one of happy anticipation. “So glad you could come,” she says, and then looking at me, “And you’ve brought a friend. Welcome.”

  “Catherine, this is Hannah Brathwaite. She’s one of the main reasons here in Barbados that sea turtles have a chance to survive.”

  I stick out my hand, find her grip warm and firm. “It’s so nice to meet you,” I say. “What an amazing thing to be a part of.”

  “It is,” she says. “I’m the mad woman rushing beach to beach trying to collect every hatchling possible and release them at the time of day they’re most likely to survive.”

  “Thank you,” I say. “For what you do. It’s incredible.”

  Hannah shrugs, smiling. “The reward is all mine. Barbados is fortunate enough to be the nesting home for Hawksbill, Leatherback and Green Turtles. I’ve always believed that places a heavy responsibility on us as a country to do what we can to protect them.”

  “Some people wouldn’t see it that way.”

  She shrugs as if she knows this is true. “Leatherback turtles keep fish populations healthy by controlling the number of jellyfish. If they didn’t do that, populations of fish larvae would be decimated. They’re incredibly important to the ecosystem. The Hawksbill turtles eat sea sponges and help keep them from over-growing on the coral reefs.” She lets out a deep breath and smiles. “Okay. Me. Off my soapbox.”

  “No,” I say. “It’s fascinating. Really.”

  “Are you a new citizen to Barbados, Catherine?” she asks, politely curious.

  “Ah, no. Just here on vacation,” I say, noting the smiling glance she throws Anders, as if I’m not the first vacation romance she’s met of his.

  It’s not as if I should be surprised. He works in a place where he constantly meets new people, and what single woman wouldn’t be drawn to him if he gave her that look of interest I am now admittedly familiar with?

  “Well,” Hannah says, clapping her hands together. “We have ninety-seven babies to release, so we better get busy. It’s really nice to meet you, Catherine.”

  “You too, Hannah.”

  Once she walks away, Anders touches a hand to my arm and says, “I know what you’re thinking.”

  “I have no right to be thinking anything other than that I’m happy you brought me here.”

  He gives me a look of surprise, and I watch the desire to question what I’ve said melt from his face, and he says, “Most of these babies hatched out earlier today.”

  “It’s so nice to see how important they are to the people here.” I say, studying the happy faces of the people lined along the beach, waiting for the release.

  “This is the time of day when they have the fewest predators. The goal is to give them the greatest chance of survival. Once they’re in the ocean, they’ll swim up to seventy-two hours, trying to get their bearings and figure out what they’re supposed to be doing.”

  “That’s incredible,” I say, unable to imagine something so little working that hard.

  “Okay, everyone, it’s time!” Hannah calls out from the back of the crowd, making her way through with what looks like a wide white tray. Four other volunteers walk behind her carrying similar trays. They move to the center of the crowd, and she says, “If you all could form a line on either side of us, we’ll leave the center open for these little guys to have room to do their thing.”

  It’s then that I see inside the trays and spot the dozens of baby turtles scrambling about. They’re about the size of a silver dollar with little legs that stick out and are already trying to make a swimming motion. My heart leaps to my throat, and I let out a gasp of delight. “Oh, my gosh, they’re adorable.”

  Anders looks at me and smiles, and I can tell he is pleased that I’m so taken with them.

  “We’ve been collecting this group of hatchlings throughout the day,” Hannah explains. “It’s a bit of a tedious process because once they’re out of the egg, they’re ready to go. We hold them in a setting that allows them to remain as rested as possible. If they’re put in water to wait for the release, they’ll often swim the entire time and be exhausted by the time we’re ready to let them go.”

  Each of the volunteers lines up alongside Hannah and her hatchlings. They squat down and place the trays on the sand. “Our goal is to handle them as little as possible, but we’ll take four volunteers to help place them in the sand.”

  I’m itching to raise my hand, but feel as though I shouldn’t since many of these people are probably locals and much more entitled to the privilege than I am.

  Hannah points to the back of the line, calls out a name, another, and another, and then turns toward me. “Catherine, would you like to help?”

  I’m stunned into silence, and a wave of happiness sweeps over me, and I’m smiling like I’m in first grade, and the teacher has asked me to be her special helper. I nod and say, “Thank you. I would love to.”

  I look at Anders. He smiles and says, “Go for it.”

  Hannah waves me over to her tray, and I drop down on my knees beside her. She glances at me and says, “The look in your eyes reminds me of how I felt when I first heard about the plight of the sea turtles. You’re moved by them, aren’t you?”

  I nod. “Yes. I am.”

  She smiles at me, and says, “Okay, little guys, welcome to the world.”

  She picks the first one up and sets it gently on the sand. “Go ahead, Catherine.”

  I reach for one and set it down beside the other. The volunteers begin placing theirs on the sand, and all of a sudden, the hatchlings start forward, going as fast as their little legs will carry them, straight for the ocean in front of them. We continue placing the other hatchlings on the sand until the trays are empty, and what’s before us looks like a crowded highway of tiny turtle cars speeding for the water. I sit back on my heels, taking in the miracle before us.

  Hannah glances at me, and a sudden sadness crosses her face like a stray cloud over a blazing sun. In a low, soft voice, she says, “The odds are so against them. One in one thousand survive to reproductive adulthood.”

  The words shock me, and I stare at her in disbelief. I turn my gaze to the baby turtles, struggling across the sand with a determination that makes my heart ache in my chest. Their desire to get where they know they’re supposed to be and the urgency in their efforts that says they know they must hurry makes me realize how for granted I have taken my own life and all that I have.

  And all of a sudden, tears well in my eyes, streaming down my face in a rush of emotion so overwhelming I don’t bother to wipe them away. I want to feel this experience. For the past three years, I’ve been trying not to feel anything, putting my focus on the tasks of my day and plodding through. Not exactly running from life but idling in neutral.

  Seeing how badly these little creatures want to live, find what they need to survive, I’m hit with a sudden desire to find my life again, to run toward it with everything that has made me who I am. Standing here on this beach in a place I am beginning to love, I realize I’ve been considering my life over. Something to be ridden out, all the best parts in the past.

  Anders walks forward, puts his hand on my elbow. He smiles as the first of the hatchlings find the water. We both watch as a small wave lifts them up, plants them firmly back on the sand. But t
hey are not to be deterred. They struggle forward once more, so visibly convinced that they know where they belong. The voice inside them is that strong, that innate.

  Anders’ arm slips around my shoulders. He pulls me in against him, and I hear the voice inside me. Is it really saying what I think it is saying? But there is no doubt. By any reasonable measure, I haven’t known him long enough, don’t have a log of days, weeks and months spent learning who he is. But my pull to him is as strong as the pull of the ocean to these magnificent little turtles. Just as real. Just as undeniable.

  I lean my head against his chest, and I know he feels my acknowledgment in this single gesture. No words needed.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  “It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye.”

  ― Antoine de Saint-Exupery

  Catherine

  IT’S DARK BY the time we reach Anders’ house.

  He’s suggested we could make dinner there, and all I know is that I want to be with him, wherever that might be. I can’t even explain to myself exactly what I’m feeling. It’s almost as if a different person has taken over my mind and body. I have a hunger to experience things all but forgotten as a part of who I am. I used to be adventurous, curious about life and experiences.

  Somewhere along the way, I started to believe life didn’t have much left to show me. How could I have thought I’d seen all there was to see? How could I have convinced myself that the end of my marriage was the end of me, the end of living my life?

  I don’t really know how, but I convinced myself of that.

  And now? Now, I feel ravenous for more. I feel like a person starved of vital nutrients, as if Anders has slipped a few in my drink, and my body is screaming for more.

  We’re standing in the kitchen when this realization settles over me, and I am filled with the desire to thank him. But I think it will sound a little crazy if I put it into words, so I say, “Why don’t I cook dinner for you? It’s the least I can do given what you just showed me.”

  “You cook?”

  “I do.”

  “I can probably scrounge up some pasta. I have basil growing on the terrace.”

  “I happen to make a very mean pesto sauce.”

  He claps his hands together. “All right then. Pasta’s in the cabinet there. I’ll go pick the basil.”

  My gaze hangs on his wide shoulders until he disappears through the doors leading outside. I open cabinets until I find the box containing the pasta noodles. It’s a good one. Harry Cipriani. If Anders has garlic and olive oil, I’m in business.

  I find the oil, also a nice Italian one. I grab a shaker of pink sea salt while I’m at it. In the refrigerator, I spot a glass jar of minced garlic. A blender occupies a corner of the countertop. I’ve made the pesto so many times, the recipe is committed to memory. I find measuring spoons and scoop out the garlic and drop it into the blender. I add the olive oil, a half cup or so. I then add the salt.

  I search around until I locate a large pot, set it in the sink and fill it halfway with water. I then put it on the stove and turn on the heat.

  Anders appears with the basil. Its aroma arrives before he does, and I remember how much I love the smell of it fresh from the garden. “My mom used to grow basil in pots in the summer,” I say. “It smells so good.”

  “It does,” he agrees. “I love herbs. I keep them growing and use them for cooking and salads. They’re highly nutritious. I count them among the nine vegetables I try to eat every day.”

  “Nine, huh? That’s a lot of vegetables.”

  “It is. I used to hate eating vegetables.”

  “What changed your mind?” I ask, rinsing the basil under the sink faucet.

  He considers my question to the point that I am curious.

  When he finally answers, his voice is almost too deliberately casual. “I decided one day I had to figure out what a body needs to stay healthy. I read this book by Dr. Terry Wahls. She basically cured herself of MS by completely changing the way she ate. Nine cups of vegetables per day.”

  “Wow.”

  “It sounds like a lot. I’m used to it now. I juice pretty much every morning. That makes a big dent in my daily quota.”

  “What do you juice?”

  “You name it. Carrots. Broccoli. Kale. Celery. Apples. Oranges. Dandelion greens.”

  “Hard core,” I say, smiling.

  He laughs a soft laugh. “I guess so.” He sobers a little. “I’ve come to understand the power of food to give our bodies the ability to fight off things we don’t want. I didn’t used to eat like this though.”

  Something in the admission makes me want to ask more because there seems to be more beneath the surface I’m missing. I shrug it off and say, “I could be a lot better about what I eat. I actually love salads. I get lazy at night after work and usually opt for something easier.”

  “I’ve come up with some shortcuts that make it a little easier.”

  “Such as?” I drop the basil into the blender, add a half teaspoon of the sea salt.

  “I chop vegetables, a lot at once, and store them in a big glass bowl in the fridge. For a single meal, I can take out whatever I want, make a good dressing with my herbs and some olive oil, and I’m set.”

  “I’m impressed,” I say. “I need to do better. In fact, I will do better.”

  He laughs. “Would you like a glass of wine? I’ve got a good red.”

  “I would love one,” I say. While he’s opening the bottle, I turn on the blender and pureé my ingredients into a pesto that smells like an Italian restaurant when I remove the lid.

  Anders leans in and inhales. “That smells incredible. You weren’t kidding about the cooking skills.”

  “You haven’t sampled the final product yet,” I say. “You might want to hold up on the praise.”

  He hands me a glass of wine, and I take a sip. “Um. Very good.”

  “A Chateauneuf du Pape. One of my favorites.”

  “Love it. Several years ago, I attended a trade show in Paris. I decided to take a few days to explore some of the French countryside and ended up touring a couple of vineyards in this region. It means the Pope’s new castle.”

  “That’s cool. Did a pope live there at one time?”

  “In the thirteen hundreds, the current pope relocated to Avignon and loved the Burgundy wines and helped them to become much more widely known. Before that, they had been mostly drunk by locals.”

  He nods and looks at me as if he’s seeing me for the first time.

  “Ah, sorry. Probably more than you wanted to know about this wine. I’m kind of a geek about knowing the story behind things I like.”

  “Actually, I like that you’re a geek about the things you like.”

  We stand there in the middle of his kitchen, and I’m overcome with a desire to know him better, to answer my own questions about the life he has made for himself here.

  He turns away, sets his glass on the counter and retrieves a spoon to stir the pasta, his back to me. And somehow, I know that he has felt my questions. And all but said the words. Please don’t ask.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  “If you are in a beautiful place where you can enjoy sunrise and sunset, then you are living like a lord.”

  ― Nathan Phillips

  Anders

  ONCE YOU’VE ACCEPTED the inevitability of death, I mean the inevitability of your own death, living becomes a tricky thing.

  When the doctors at Sanoviv finally declared my body cancer-free over two years ago, I had no idea how to navigate the road back to living without the fear that any day could be my last. Death had defined my life long enough that I didn’t know how to expect more.

  Of course, it could be the last day for any of us, at any time. There’s nothing to say that my heart won’t stop beating in the middle of the night. That I won’t step off a curb in front of a moving bus. I do believe that when it’s my time, it’s my time. But apparently
, it isn’t yet. And I wonder on a regular basis if some part of me is afraid to live like I have forever, if that might in some way tempt fate and make it change its mind on the u-turn it gave me after I went to Sanoviv.

  I’ve just stepped back into the house to turn the speakers on outside. I stand now inside the French doors, watching Catherine sit at the edge of the pool, her feet dangling in the water. Her silhouette against the dim lighting around the pool is beautiful, her long blonde hair a curtain against her back. She dips a hand into the surface of the water, lifting it high and letting it trail through her fingers. She does this over and over again, the simple motion cathartic to watch. The moon is large and yellow-orange tonight, and it casts a perfect arc of light across her figure. Staring at her, I am lit with a flame of desire like nothing I have felt in a very long time. With my illness, all physical desire dissolved inside me, and I had no reason to believe it would ever return.

  It did when I met Celeste, but it was always marked by reserve, fear, I guess. And so I held some piece of myself back, as if I were living as an imposter, the old me gone forever.

  Catherine turns, sees me, holds out her hand. I am torn between a want so strong it is as if it has wrapped its roots around my heart and a terror equally capable of robbing me of all courage to give this thing between us a chance.

  I step outside, close the door behind me, walk across the travertine and sit down next to her. The water in the pool glistens beneath the moonlight.

  “Hey,” she says.

  “Hey.”

  She studies me for several long seconds, and says, “I can go back to the hotel now if you’d like for me to.”

  Something strong and innate tells me I would be wise to agree that it’s time for that. But what I know more than anything right now is that I don’t want her to. I want her to stay. “A stronger man would make that happen.”

  “You are a strong man.”

  “Not when it comes to you,” I admit in a barely audible admission.

  She lets out a soft breath, as if she has been holding it, waiting for my answer. She puts her hand over mine, presses her palm against my skin. “There’s something you’re not telling me,” she says. “I can feel it.”