North Of Happy

I can smell her perfume, something floral she’s worn forever.

“Just tell me where you’re going.”

It’s not Mom’s fault, but I can’t bring myself to say anything. I don’t want to lose my nerve.

The doors ding open. Mom doesn’t follow me out, but she holds her hand out and keeps the doors from closing. “I won’t tell your dad. I promise.”

Our doorman comes over, all smiles, to grab my suitcase. I want to just rush to the taxi, but leaving Mom is harder than storming away from Dad. “Just tell me you’re coming back,” she says. There’s a tear in the corner of her eye, just waiting there on the precipice, and it’s what I say next that will determine if it tumbles down the edge.

I look from her to the car, and I know that it’s not too late to stop this and turn around. Tell them what’s going on with me, open myself up to their help. “I just need to do one thing,” I say, finally. “For Felix.”

“One week,” she says. I’m not sure if it’s a plea or a question or a command. The tear, thankfully, doesn’t fall. I might have stayed put if she cried.

I nod and then rush to greet the taxi at the door.

Slam the trunk, slam the door, if only the taxi driver would peel out and leave rubber trails on the asphalt.

I break free.

CHAPTER 3 (#uda688454-fc94-5f12-a98e-eb95253a8a72)

AIRPLANE SANDWICH

1 pseudo-croissant roll

2 slices highly processed ham

2 slices maybe cheese

1 mustard packet

1 mayo packet

METHOD:

I have a quick layover in LA, then a red-eye to Seattle. The plane is half-empty, and I have a row to myself. But instead of laying out and getting some sleep, I stare out the window. Stars, and the moon reflected on puffy white clouds.

It’s like I can feel every mile that I’m farther away from home, from Dad, from the haunted life that had set itself in stone before me. I try to think about what my parents are going through, what my friends will say, but, with my forehead against the window, it’s hard to think of anything but that restaurant, waiting out there in the dark. The plane hums insistently; the screen in front of me shows a little cartoon depiction of us escaping from Mexico.

By the time we land in Seattle I’m exhausted and it hits me that I don’t know where I’m staying tonight, that I have no concrete plan. I just had this destination and now I’m here. I’ve officially been spontaneous. It makes me feel like Felix.

I’d thought he might get left behind in Mexico with the rest of my family. I thought that was why he kept wanting me to go, to get away from him. So when he shows up at baggage claim, sitting on top of the carousel among the luggage, I’m disappointed that I’m not so easily cured.

I’ll eat once at the restaurant, I think to myself, heart pounding. Eat once, honor Felix’s memory. Maybe spend the whole meal just crying or something. Get it all out. Come back normal, or whole, or as close to whole as possible.

I turn my phone on finally, but I keep it on airplane mode. I’m not ready to hear from anyone in Mexico. As the sun rises, I take a cab to the Seattle piers, where the morning rays light up Puget Sound.

I buy a cup of coffee at a nearby stand, though I don’t even like it. I just know that’s what Felix would be doing. The heat and bitterness feel surprisingly nice, even if I’m wincing at every sip. A few minutes later the ferry boards. The trip is lovely, sun warming my face. I have to fight off sleep so that I don’t miss any of the scenery. White birds fly alongside us, emerald islands all around, the Seattle skyline fading in the distance, swallowed up by the haze of the ocean.

Needle Eye Island is smaller than I’d realized. There are no taxis around, just a slew of people waiting to board the ferry bound back to Seattle. I approach the empty information booth and grab a map of the island, looking up at the greenery and then back down to get a sense of what it all looks like. Fog creeps in from the ocean, filtering the sunlight. What the hell am I doing here?

Provechois marked on the map as a tourist destination. It seems to be within walking distance, so I set out in the direction of the restaurant. Soon I reach Main Street, a couple of blocks’ worth of quaint old-school America that I’d always thought movies exaggerated, until now.

The restaurant’s façade is simple: a large window facing the street, a black sign with white lettering. It’s on the corner of the block, and I can see the edge of the picket fence that borders the patio.

I finger-comb my hair, wipe away some of the sweat from walking around. A car rolls by slowly, gravel pebbles bouncing behind it and rearranging themselves into the word enjoy, in Felix’s handwriting. I wish he’d stop reminding me he’s around, but I find myself grinning all big and stupid, and I realize I’m excited for the first time in months.

I walk up to the front door, salivating already at the prospect of the meal. But the door is locked, because of course it’s locked. It’s not even eight in the morning yet. The schedule etched on the glass says they don’t open for a few hours. Well, then.

I peer into the door, cupping my hands to remove the glare. There’s no one in there. I step back to my suitcase, look both ways down the street. There’s hardly anyone out here with me. It almost feels like the entire island is abandoned, like I’ve flown directly into isolation. As if to confirm that, I look down at my feet. Still no shadow.

I take the bend around the street, wanting to see the patio I saw on TV just yesterday. The view makes me feel better immediately. Water, green islands, sailboats, puffy cartoon-like white clouds. It’s a dream. I keep staring at the ocean, partially because it’s impossible to look away, partially because I want to stall, give myself time to think of what the hell I’m supposed to do now.

Then I hear a door creak open, and to my left a guy in a chef coat and checkered pants appears. He moves a nearby rock over to keep the door open. His arms are tattooed to the wrist, and he’s pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He doesn’t notice me right away while he lights his smoke and checks his phone. It almost feels like an apparition, like he walked off the set of a cooking show.

I cough, and then the cook looks up. He’s got bags under his eyes, a couple days’ worth of scruff. Surprisingly young, maybe a year or two older than me, if that. Americans always look older to me, so it’s hard to tell. “Not open,” he says, cigarette in his mouth.

“No, I know.”

The cook eyes me, the suitcase at my side. “Then what the hell do you want from me, dude?” He takes a long drag, and when I don’t say anything he looks back down at his phone, exhaling a puff of smoke that dissipates quickly in the breeze coming in from the water. From the cracked door, I can hear the vague clattering of people moving about the kitchen. I want the smell of Chef Elise’s food to waft out, but all I get is the cigarette.

“Sorry,” I say, feeling like at least one of us is an asshole. I turn around, go back to the front entrance, where I see a girl slip a key into the door and push it open. She’s wearing earphones, a baggy brown sweater, a bag slung over her shoulder. I know this is stupid and weird, but I don’t have anywhere to go and can’t stand the thought of wandering around the island with no place to go and no one to talk to, so I roll my suitcase over to the door. I knock on the glass.

A few seconds later the door swings open. The girl standing in front of me is pretty—late teens, dark hair, large sixties-style glasses—and for a moment I forget what the hell I’m doing here. Then, over her shoulder, I see the restaurant, exactly like it was shot in the TV show. Thirty tables, a mirror along one of the side walls to make the space feel bigger, a bar adjacent to the hostess stand for people waiting. The back wall is floor-to-ceiling windows looking out at the patio and the ensuing view.

“Sorry,” I say, realizing how long it’s been without me saying a word. “I wasn’t staring at you. I know it probably looked like that. I was just...” I point over her shoulder, stammer, feel my mouth start to go dry. “I want to make a reservation?”

The girl chuckles. “You might officially be the earliest person to ever show up for a reservation.” She holds the door open to let me in and then heads to her hostess stand. “What’s with the suitcase?”

“Um. I just got here,” I say.

“That’s cool. From where?” She opens up a large leather-bound agenda and runs her finger down that page.

“Mexico City.”

She looks up at me over the rims of her glasses, takes me in for a moment. “You came straight from Mexico City to this restaurant before dropping off your bags?”

I fiddle with my luggage tag. “When you put it that way it sounds kind of insane.”

She laughs, eyebrows raised. “No, not insane. Just eager.”

I wonder how I could possibly explain my arrival without sounding nuts. Revealing a single detail could unravel my whole story, and my whole story begins and ends with Felix bleeding onto the sidewalk. “I guess I couldn’t wait.”

She looks back down at the scheduler, biting her bottom lip as she flips a few pages back and forth. We fall into silence, and I look around as if it might all disappear at any moment. I can hear faint music coming from the kitchen. It’s hard to believe that I’m standing in a place Felix never got to.

“Looks like you’re going to have to wait,” she says. “Earliest I have is Tuesday.”

“Oh.”