The Loose Ends List(47)

“It’s freezing,” Janie whines.

“It’s Iceland, for Pete’s sake,” Dad says. “Grab your suits. Let’s check it out.”

God forbid we actually get a chance to take a nap or eat a meal before we plunge into a geothermal lagoon. We riffle around already messy suitcases for swimsuits. The only one I can find is my still-damp seashell thong. Gram walks straight into the communal shower, a tiny shriveled raisin wedged among Nordic goddesses.

“I’m not getting naked with Aunt Rose,” Janie whispers. “This is just wrong. And what in hell’s name are you wearing?” Janie stares at my seashell thong.

“A Brazilian souvenir.” I’ve barely talked to Janie since we left Brazil, where she puked three more times at the airport and slept the whole trip.

A tunnel connects the locker room to the Blue Lagoon, so we only need to freeze for a few seconds before wading into the steaming cauldron.

“Kids, kids, over here,” Dad yells. There they are, the misfits, sticking out like sore thumbs. Janie and I slowly wade over to them through the chest-deep pool that stretches as far as I can see.

“What is that awful smell?” Janie says.

“Sulfur. Because of all the volcanic activity,” Dad says, floating on his back with his hairy belly sticking out of the water.

The mystical properties of the Blue Lagoon lull us into a collective trance, and we float aimlessly for an hour. Nobody wants to get out. It’s probably fifty degrees, but the arctic chill feels subzero against the steamy water.

Back at the rental cars, we look like a pack of mole rats, shivering with sulfured hair shellacked to our heads. It’s hard to believe yesterday morning we were strutting on Copacabana Beach.



By the time everybody gets to the hotel lobby for dinner, Wes has made friends with an overly pierced couple, Helga and Magnus, and they’ve made a date to go out next Saturday night. I’m envisioning another pukey ride for Janie to the next destination.

We find a quaint restaurant with paper napkins and miniature lobsters. My family eats enough lobster to deplete the North Atlantic. We lick our fingers clean while Gram pulls out her tattered copy of Journey to the Center of the Earth and tells the story of the book, the note, and her * parents.

“I’d like to leave the book at the volcano if I can, as a tribute to Mr. Jules Verne.”

“We can make that happen, Mom,” Uncle Billy says.

I picture lava streaming down a monster volcano and trapping us for eternity in twisted poses like the Pompeii victims. People will discover us in a thousand years and make stupid guesses about who we were and what we were doing there.

We check out the wool sweater shops and modern street sculptures, then stop to feed the swans at a lake in the city center. Compared with vibrant Rio, Reykjavik is a watercolor of muted blues and grays.

Jeb and Janie and I go into a café for hot chocolates.

“I’m so excited. If Ty and I last another month, it’ll be my longest relationship ever,” Janie says.

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Jeb says.

“Why do you have to be so negative, Jeb? That’s rude.” Janie gives Jeb the death stare.

“I’m not rude. I’m a realist. Number one: There’s too much temptation.” He slurps his hot chocolate. “Number two: You’re weak,” he says with his jackass smile. “I bet you’ll hook up right here in Iceland.”

“Shut up, Jeb. You’re just feeling guilty for cheating on Camilla with that Brazilian girl,” Janie says.

“I didn’t cheat. Camilla is not my girlfriend. She’s not even my type.”

“Yeah. She’s normal,” I say as I get up to venture out by myself. I need a little break from the family. People are laughing and strolling next to the bay. Nobody strolls in Connecticut. The island is so volatile, the ground below me could erupt any minute, sending me into a Jules Verne dimension.

Gram always says there’s a difference between being alone and being lonely. Tonight I’m by myself on an island of light and cold and heat and stark beauty, but I’m only lonely when I allow myself to think of life without my gram.



Wes texts: The Jeeps have arrived to journey us to the center of the earth. Move your behinds.

Janie and I pull our still-shellacked hair into buns and bundle up. Our guide Kristian is dirty blond with a gleaming smile and Bermuda-blue eyes. He’s cute.

Another guy pulls up next to us in a matching mega Jeep. He’s cute, too, in an elfish kind of way. He’s slighter and more delicate than Kristian, who must be a direct Viking descendant. I climb into Kristian’s Jeep and wave to Mom, who has decided to stay at the hotel with exhausted Aunt Rose.

Kristian takes us on a sightseeing detour, narrating the whole trip. We pass mist-shrouded waterfalls and grass-thatched cottages, simmering calderas and geysers. Kristian tells us the Icelandic people believe Iceland is full of elves.

We stop on the side of the road next to a mammoth waterfall pouring over a jagged cliff. Dozens of seals bob in the sea across the road. We walk down to the black sand beach and watch the seals ride the choppy waves.

A seal waddles right onto the beach, unafraid of our raucous family.

“What shall we name him, Assy?” Wes calls.

“How about Jules Verne?” she calls back, just as the waves pull Jules Verne back out to sea.