This Is Not How It Ends(14)

The air was warm, as it always was in the Keys, and I began the short walk to Liberty’s clinic. Philip had never really wanted me to work. He encouraged ambition and supported my job search, but he kindly reminded me that I didn’t need to work ever again. The schools down south were heavily staffed with capable teachers, and the union members eyed me sympathetically before letting me know they’d be in touch. A yearning for my students tucked itself away, and while doing nothing was foreign to me, the tides turned when I’d met Liberty.

When I first saw Liberty traipsing up and down Anne’s Beach, I remember thinking she was the kind of pretty that meant a life well lived. Before she’d handed me her business card and drawn me under her spell, I was caught in her lively energy. Liberty was a frenetic speaker, rarely stopping to catch her breath, her words jamming into each other like one exhausting monologue. Sunny had been pawing at something in the nearby sand that resembled a bone, and Liberty called out, “Don’t be fooled by those bones.” I hadn’t had a clue what she meant, and quite honestly thought she might be a little nuts, so I tugged on Sunny.

That only made Liberty move in closer. She had pale, flawless skin. “You’re new here?”

I’d nodded, and she sidled up next to me, grabbing hold of my wrist. Sunny hadn’t flinched. “Legend has it there’s human remains along this beach.”

It had been our second week in town. Philip and I had finally finished unloading boxes, and I was not in the mood for farfetched tales. I wrested my arm from hers, but she latched on tighter. Sunny and his discriminating taste and fiercely protective watchdog skills were of no assistance either. He liked the lively woman, choosing to sit patiently by her feet, biting down on the object that might or might not be mired in folklore.

She continued, detailing the grisly story of the great hurricane of 1935. Roosevelt had sent veterans to build a highway connecting Key West to Miami, and they tragically perished in the strong storm. “A horrific aftermath,” she’d continued. “The lost souls, without refrigeration, without transportation . . . there was no way to give them a proper burial. The only option was to burn the bodies.”

Try as I might, my feet were unable to take me in a direction away from Liberty Scott. Her story tethered me to the ground.

“I think the skeletons of those poor souls wash up on the shores from time to time.”

I’d reached down and inspected the matter hanging from Sunny’s jaws.

“Spooked you, didn’t I?” And then her mouth burst into a laugh.

“Was that some kind of joke?” I asked.

She peered inside my eyes. Hers were a clear blue. “Why would anyone joke about something like that? Legend has it those angry men stormed the skies and churned Irma our way. Eighty-two years later.”

I soon learned that Liberty was born and raised in the bosom of the connected islands and was famous for sharing its tales. That first afternoon stretched into miles of terrain, and Liberty entertained me with a long tapestry that formed the island’s history. She told me Islamorada attracted all types, though they shared some things in common: an affinity for natural splendor, a deep appreciation for earth’s treasures, and, of course, Jimmy Buffett. I liked to believe I fell in love with this part of the country by peering through Liberty’s colorful lens, but I knew there had to be more.



The stand-alone building resembling a charming cottage came into view, and I turned the door handle. Liberty’s cheerful, rambling voice spilled through the hallway even though I was late. Despite her attempts to shock me with her strange, ghoulish stories and chilling legends, she had taken me under her wing, and I would always be grateful.

It was easy for those who didn’t understand Liberty to call her a “kook” or a “crackpot.” Sunny liked her, from the very start, and that always stood for something. My body softened thinking about that afternoon and all it opened up for me. She’d insisted she could help with the almond allergy, that I didn’t have to live in fear, and she demanded I call her the next day. And I had.

I noticed one of our signs dangling from the bulletin board in the waiting room. “Out of consideration for those with serious allergies, please do not bring food or drinks into our clinic and refrain from using perfumes or strong scented lotions.” I pressed the pushpin into the crisp paper and smoothed out the edges.

The clinic was Islamorada’s first and only center for NAET therapy. I had come to learn that Nambudripad’s Allergy Elimination Technique was as widely criticized and debated as Liberty, but since I’d graduated from its program, I was qualified to defend its virtue. After my own Google search, I read that NAET treats those who suffer from mild to severe allergies in a noninvasive, needle-free environment. It was a long way from my teaching background with the practicalities of sentence structure and the precise rules of grammar. The treatment was not for everyone, and I understood and respected the skepticism.

I would never forget Liberty’s expression, her beaming smile, tears sprouting from her eyes, when she shared the picture of a former patient tasting birthday cake for the first time. The child was twelve. A lifetime without chocolate and frosting was the result of a plethora of unkind allergies. If I had once questioned gravity and the principles that tugged us in the direction of someone so foreign and wrong for us, I had fallen into my own trap when Liberty offered me a job in her office.