Reckless Abandon(6)
So I took the damn pills and spent the next three months numb. So numb that I was void of myself. I hated taking them but only did so I didn’t have to see the look in my family’s eyes. The one that said they can’t move on until I do.
Two months ago, I told Dr. Schueler I didn’t want the pills anymore. I wanted to do this on my own. She didn’t think it was a good idea but I stopped them anyway. I’ve been doing really well for the last eight weeks. It drives me insane that Leah felt the need to bring them with her.
She probably did it for Mom.
When I hear Leah hang up, I grab the sun block and walk it into the bedroom, motioning for Leah to apply some. She doesn’t even mention she was on the phone with our mom, and I don’t bring it up.
Turning to the wardrobe, I pick out a pair of white shorts and a green tank top, opting for comfort over style. I slide on my Sperry Top-Siders and head out the door.
“You are not wearing a fanny pack!” Leah chides as soon as I step outside.
“Don’t knock it. I have our passports, cash, and travelers checks in here. No one is getting away with our stuff.” I pat down the bag holstered around my waist to make sure everything is secure.
“There are so many things wrong with that statement, I don’t know where to start.” Leah’s arms flail about her body in mock exaggeration. Or maybe she’s being serious?
“What’s wrong with my bag?”
“Uh, everything?” She holds up a finger. “Numero uno, you are wearing a fanny pack.” She stretches out the words fanny and pack as if I don’t understand English and need to hear her diction perfectly. “Those are for tourists at Disney World and marathon runners. Are you riding the teacups or running twenty-six miles today? No. So take it off.”
“It’s practical and keeps all our stuff safe.” It also happens to be super cute. It’s gray with white chevron stripes. It’s the most adorable fanny pack ever. If it were Gucci Leah probably wouldn’t mind. Maybe if I got a Gucci one—
“Numero dos, that’s what a safe is for. Why are you taking all of our valuables with us?” Her hands are still in front of her body making dramatic gestures. I think talking to the Italians last night rubbed off on her.
“It’s due, not dos,” I say.
Leah just taps her foot and waits for an answer.
“I am not leaving our money in some chintzy safe where anyone can walk out with it. Been there done that.” Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice . . . you know how it goes. “If you want to get stranded in a foreign country with no way to get home, be my guest.”
She throws her hands up in the air. “Fine. Whatever. Take the stuff. Just leave that horrible pack in the room.” She concedes.
Not wanting to cause a fight, I back up into the room and grab my shoulder bag, removing all the items from the fanny pack and inserting them into the new bag. It won’t be as comfortable but it will be more stylish. I shouldn’t worry. By midweek, Leah won’t care what I’m carrying her stuff in. She doesn’t carry a bag at all.
Like Leah promised, after some espresso and a croissant, paired with some blood orange juice, my hangover is a dismal headache.
Leah made arrangements for us to take a boat tour of the island, starting with the Blue Grotto and then winding around the island to see the sea caves of Capri. Since the tides don’t always cooperate enough for people to view the Grotto, Leah wanted to do this on our first day, just in case we aren’t able to during the others.
We walk down to the Grande Marina and pass the vendors and shops we saw yesterday. Past the hydrofoil dock, there is a small area with many boats, anchored idly in the water.
I follow Leah down a concrete path to a boat about fifteen feet long with an Italian flag waving from a pole in the center. The boat is completely open, a day bed taking up half of the boat with a small seating area in the back and motor for the captain to drive. It’s a leisure boat made for tours of the island.
I take the gentleman’s hand who will be driving us on our tour and take my spot on the day bed, sitting up straight and holding on to my bag. Leah stretches out next to me and leans back on her hands, looking up at the sun.
The gentleman escorting us on our tour speaks a little English, but it is very hard to understand with his thick accent. I know a tiny bit of Italian from taking it in high school, which doesn’t amount to much. We nod and pretend we know what he’s saying. All we can make out is that his name is Raphael.
Starting the engine, Raphael drives away from the dock and the rocking of the boat in the water forces me to brace myself. I place my hand on the bed behind me and lean back on my side, my back facing the water, my front to Leah.
The boat turns left and drives us past the Grande Marina. Leah points out our hotel and takes a picture of it with her phone. Then, she snaps a few pictures of me and asks me to take a few of her in return.
She slides the phone back in her pocket and goes back to taking in the sun.
Before long, Raphael slows the boat down and Leah and I peer up to see why we’ve changed speed.
Ahead of us is a sea of boats similar to ours and smaller wooden rowboats. They look like gridlock traffic, all idling in the water, dangerously close to the rock that is the island of Capri.
“Grotto Azzurra,” Raphael says as he idles the engine.
Amongst the boats before us, there is a larger one with a sign over it. It looks like a concession stand of sorts. Squinting my eyes I try to make out what the sign says. It’s where people pay their admission to see the Blue Grotto.