Field Notes on Love(75)

Even in his dreams, the Pacific Ocean was never quite this color.

The dusty hillsides and rows of fruit trees have given way to sand dunes, the water flashing into view every now and then until, at last, they’re clear of anything but the shore. He wishes he could open a window and breathe it in, wishes he could run down to the surf and let the water rush over his toes, wishes the person beside him wasn’t a grim-faced executive with a laptop who keeps swearing every time he loses service.

He wishes it were Mae.

They come to a stop along the coast, and the conductor announces they have to wait here for another train to pass. The executive gets up and carries his laptop into the observation car, and Hugo yawns and shifts in his seat. This is the first time the trip has felt long, which is a bit silly, since it’s only twelve hours, and they’ve done much more than that in a day. But there are still seven hours to go, and he can’t help feeling restless.

It’s like the laws of physics are different now. Twelve hours with Mae is somehow shorter than twelve hours without her. Especially when that time is spent on the way to find her.

    He supposes he should have some sort of plan for when he gets there, though he doesn’t know a single thing about Los Angeles aside from what he’s seen in films. But plenty of them are about showing up with nothing but a suitcase and a dream, so he figures at least he’s not the first idiot to try it.

All he knows is that Mae has a meeting with the dean of admissions at four o’clock on the first day of classes.

Which is today.

The train begins to move again, haltingly this time, and Hugo leans to look out over the cliffs. His phone jitters on the tray in front of him, a message from Alfie that says Miracles do happen. There’s a link attached, and when he opens it, Hugo finds himself looking at his mum’s blog, something that he usually tries to avoid.

Across the top, there’s the old sketch of the six of them, Hugo bringing up the rear. But he doesn’t mind it so much anymore. Not now that he’s found himself so far from the group. In fact, it makes him smile, seeing these younger versions of the six of them.

He skips down to the most recent post, which is dated from this morning:


Those of you who have been following this blog for a long time know that we used to compare Hugo—our sixth out of six—to Paddington Bear.

It started because of a coat he had, the kind with little toggles on it, and when he wore it with wellies, he looked just like the bear. But as the years went on and it became clear that Hugo needed a bit more looking after than some of the others—he was always getting lost or losing things, always lagging behind and daydreaming—the joke became even more apt.

     This past week, Hugo has been traveling across America by train. It’s the farthest anyone in our family has ever wandered, and now, it seems, he might be about to venture even farther.

We never expected all six of our children to walk the same path. They’re too unique for that, and it will be a privilege to watch them decide what to do with their lives. (Except maybe Alfie, in which case it will be a nail-biter.) But we also never imagined one of them would branch off quite so soon. Maybe we should’ve known. And maybe we should’ve guessed which one it would be.

There will always be a part of me that wants to send him off with a tag that says Please look after this bear. But the truth is, he doesn’t need it. Not anymore. Hugo might be hopeless when it comes to keeping track of his wallet or his mobile or his keys. But those things don’t really matter in the end. What he’s managed to keep track of is much more important. He knows who he is and what he wants out of life.

Hugo was the last to arrive, and now he’ll be the first to go.

We couldn’t be prouder.



Hugo’s eyes drift up to the top of the screen as the train starts to move again. There’s been no reception for most of the trip, but now a few bars appear, and it feels to him like a sign. He looks at the time; it’s nine-thirty at home, which means his parents are probably side by side on the sofa, each of them reading a book, as they do every night before bed.

When they answer his video call, they both look surprised to be hearing from him.

    “Hugo?” his dad says, his face too close to the screen. “Where are you?”

“I’m in California.”

His mum takes the phone. “Hugo, darling? We know all about what’s going on. Alfie showed us your letter to the university, and it was just so lovely, and I wanted to say—”

“Mum, it’s okay. I know.”

“I realize we’re not always the best listeners, but I wish you could’ve said all that to us. We all read it together, me and your father and Poppy and George and Isla and—”

“Mum.”

“No, listen. We didn’t understand before. But we can tell how happy you’ve been this week, and if this is what you want, then you should know we’re all behind you. They’re going to miss you next year, you know, even if they won’t exactly say it. And so will we. But if this is what you need to do—”

“Mum?”

She stops. “Yes?”

“Alfie sent me your blog post.”

“He did?”

“He did. Thank you. It meant a lot.”

“We should’ve listened to you more,” she says. “I’m sorry.”