Serious Moonlight(67)

And I didn’t want to walk away from that.





“We all try to forget what hurts us. It is sometimes the only way we can continue.”

—William Monk, A Sudden, Fearful Death (1993)





21




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I circled the drugstore aisle two times. My first time around, a chatty mom was browsing while talking on her phone while a screaming toddler ran behind her. The second time, a man was walking through. I waited until I was certain he was gone, and then I darted into the aisle.

My eyes scanned the colorful boxes on the shelves.

Fiery Ice. Studded. Sensitive. Extra Sensitive. Bare. Second Skin. Natural Lamb. Perfect Fit. Snug. Quickdraw. Colossus. Glyder. Extra Safe. Triple Safe. Armor of the Gods.

“Good grief,” I mumbled. Why were there so many choices? And half of them had dire warnings on the box about allergic reactions. MAY CAUSE IRRITATION AND/OR BURNING and WHEN TO SEEK MEDICAL ATTENTION. Maybe this is a mistake. It is probably a mistake. Give me a sign if this is a huge, horrible mistake. Maybe I should have gone somewhere off the island to buy these. What if I saw someone I knew?

I needed to calm down. Grandpa had left for his fishing trip an hour ago, so I for sure wouldn’t see him. Everything was fine. I could do this.

Another customer was approaching the aisle. I took a step to the side and pretended to be browsing . . . tampons. Terrific. When they passed, I grabbed the first box I could get my hands on. It was some kind of variety box, but it didn’t have a burning warning. Good enough, surely. I booked it so fast to the front counter, I was breathing a little heavy when I slapped the box in front of an older woman with white hair. I probably should have gotten something else to buy, so that the box wasn’t sitting there all alone and conspicuous. But it was too late now, and the cashier raised her brows to me as she scanned it. “Good for you, honey,” she said. I didn’t answer. I just prayed the government wasn’t tracking my bank card purchases like Aunt Mona says they do. Then I took the flimsy bag and strode out of the store as fast as my legs would take me.

I was young. I was free of parental guidance. I had the night off from work and a box of condoms. I was living my best life.

Trial one complete.

Now for trial two.

Locating Daniel’s cohousing community was easy. Getting there by ferry and bus was a struggle and took me a couple of hours. Once I got to West Seattle, I hiked through gray residential streets under a grayer sky, passing houses packed like sardines, a sea of cracked driveways, blue recycling bins, and wooden privacy fences. But at the end of a short cul-de-sac, I spotted a small parking lot beyond a private drive.

The Nest.

Tucked away in a few acres of green, the cohousing community was somewhere between modest and upper-middle class. Most of its two-story houses were painted in bright colors. They ringed a much larger building in the middle—the common house Daniel had told me about. Parking was in the front lot. I walked through it and passed a panel of mailboxes as I hiked down a wide sidewalk that meandered through the property. It was lushly landscaped, and there was an extensive garden near the common house, as well as a playground filled with loud kids.

As I strolled, it hit me that I didn’t know which house belonged to Daniel’s family. Each house was numbered, but apart from a red painted horse-shaped sign near someone’s door that said VELKOMMEN, along with several Danish flags, there were no indicators of family names.

A plane flew overhead, somewhere above the trees. It was noisy here. And colorful. A couple of bikes sped by me. And when the rumble of the plane passed, I found myself looking at an elderly man with rosy cheeks, white hair, and wearing a pale blue beret.

“You look lost,” he said, smiling, with a slight Scandinavian accent.

“Yes,” I agreed. “I suppose I do. This is the Nest?”

He nodded. “That’s right. Founded in 1972 by my parents. They brought the idea of cohousing with them from Denmark. Every child should have one hundred parents—that was the motto. We have twenty-eight parents here and seventeen grandparents. That’s close enough,” he said with a laugh. “I’m Mr. Jessen, the community Elder. You interested in living here?”

“No. I’m actually looking for someone. The Aokis?”

“Ah,” he said. “You have a private lesson with Cherry?”

“Uh . . .”

His brow furrowed. “She didn’t log it.”

“Log it?”

“She usually gives lessons in the common house. I’m almost positive that the room she uses has a bridge game booked. Mrs. Griffith is sick, but the game will probably still be happening. And it’s best without her anyway, because Bob has been getting a little flirty.”

Um, okay. Mr. Jessen was clearly the community gossip.

“Did I hear that you have a private lesson with Cherry?” another male voice said behind me.

I turned to face a stocky Asian man with a heavy beard, cradling a metal bowl filled with lettuce greens in the crook of his arm. He was dressed in jeans, sandals, and a sky-blue Hawaiian shirt covered in volcanos and palm trees. A leash was clipped to one of his belt loops; on that leash was the biggest cat I’d ever seen. Alarmingly big. Like a small bear.

“Jack,” Mr. Jessen said, adjusting his beret. “This girl is looking for you.”