This Is Not How It Ends(30)

Mom adored Philip. That didn’t mean she didn’t have her ideas about relationships and how they should proceed.

Still, our life in the Keys was blissful.

We quickly set up house and became a couple. We shared toothpaste and argued over the direction of the toilet paper roll. Every magazine article I had ever read on the subject said I should be pleased he even changed the toilet paper, which filled me with a silly pride. Philip, with all the trappings of a privileged life, helped with many of the household responsibilities. He had no qualms about wiping a dish or emptying an overflowing garbage.

Domestic life came naturally to us. We’d rise early in the mornings and enjoy a long walk. Sunny would tag along, barking at anything in sight, and the locals had grown to avoid him, despite his handsome charm. My boyfriend and my dog had learned to respect one another like an older couple. They coexisted for the sake of peace. Some mornings, we’d sit on our dock, watching the sun creep off the water, and other times we would remain in bed, watching the splendor through our glass doors. It was remarkable how rare beauty could rise and fall each day. I wished my mom were here to see it, though Philip said she was, and I believed him.

Most mornings we’d sit on the deck while he pored over the latest news, checked and rechecked his e-mail, and I breathed in the quiet mist, calculating the necessary requirements for certification in the Monroe County school system. The sound of those early mornings echoed through the ocean, hugging the rocks along the coast. Our view was the Atlantic, and the water was erratic. Some days she flattened like glass, reflecting the sky and overhead clouds, and you could see through the crystal blue to the bottom. Other days she showed her mood with choppy waves. Then there were days she was undecided. Her color darkened, and she rippled warily in no direction.

The residents, friendly and unassuming, understood the idyllic beauty of their home, while my fascination had just begun. Unlike Kansas City, there were no seasons, only varying degrees of hot. And while I would miss gathering leaves and the splash of color on the trees, I relished the new terrain. I treasured the foliage that garnished our backyard—the yellow of the ixoras, the bright-pink chenilles, the purple bromeliads—and how the sun-kissed sand sprouted sweeping coconut palms. Their branches swayed against the pale-blue sky, painters brushing their strokes along an empty canvas.

Sometimes we drove to the Ocean Reef Club, where Philip was a member, and we’d laze in the sun or flit around the lagoon. We’d rent paddleboards and eat at the Raw Bar, where Philip would get kicked out no less than every single time for being on his cell phone. The club was strict with their rules, but Philip didn’t care. He purposely walked into the dining room one night with holes in his jeans so they’d throw him out and we’d have to return to our suite and order in room service. He could be naughty, but it always ended up in our favor.

Once he chartered a boat for us to spend the day exploring the Keys and the natural habitat. Another time, we drove to Key West and toured the charming city bordered by two shores. The southernmost tip of the US was a draw for many, though I was enchanted by the flock of writers who once, or now, resided in the tropical paradise. Ernest Hemingway. Tennessee Williams. Judy Blume. Judy Blume! I was fixated on strolling past her home and running into her, tempted by the fantasy of sipping tea with her on her deck and discussing the ways in which she helped Mom raise me.

Driving back to Islamorada, Philip dropped the top of his tiny sports car, and we raced up US 1 with the wind in our hair. Bruce Springsteen was playing on the radio, and I closed my eyes and strained my neck up toward the sky. The breeze whipped against my face, and the sun warmed my cheeks. I turned to Philip—handsome, sexy Philip—driving with one hand on the wheel, going well above the speed limit, and sang the words to him. I don’t think I ever felt happier or more alive. And unafraid.



One night, we were seated at our usual table by the water at Morada Bay.

Philip was just happy to be able to go out for dinner. I was in the thick of allergy treatments that required me to eat at home several days a week on a diet of eggs or green vegetables. Brett strummed his guitar. It was Eric Clapton, because he knew Clapton was one of Philip’s favorites. He was singing along, brushing the words against my neck.

Liberty approached in a long purple frock. Tonight was a final exam of sorts. I got to eat an almond. She smiled at Philip, who stood up to kiss both her cheeks. Philip was rubbing his palms together. “I’m ready, ladies. Let’s see if the voodoo really works.”

Liberty flicked him and focused on me. “You taped the almond to your arm without a reaction?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“You rubbed it against your lips?”

“Yes. No reaction.”

“All righty then,” she said. “It’s time.”

But Philip, always determined, interrupted my rippling anxiety. “Ladies, I called upon one of my doctor friends at Columbia Presbyterian, who made it clear, under no uncertain terms, that a treatment without FDA approval can’t be trusted.”

“Now, Philip?” I said. “You’re going to challenge weeks of my not eating today?”

“Don’t listen to him, Charlotte. Any reaction at this point is mind based.” She handed me the almond. “Don’t let the fear in.”

I insisted Philip hold the EpiPen and stand guard. “You can’t chicken out,” I said. “You have to save me!”