The Guest Book (6 page)

She could see his form kneeling down beside her bed, the place where she’d always confessed her deepest fears and hurts to him. In her memory, his face was not as detailed as she could once recall, but she could still feel the assurance that came from him being by her side as vividly as she did at five years old. How she longed to feel as safe in her current situation as she had when her daddy was physically by her side. Memories didn’t stand up to reality very well.

At the thought of past memories, her heart picked up its pace. She thought of the exchange that had thrilled and excited her ever since she was just a little girl. She looked around. She was at the house she had been hoping to return to since she left it for the last time when she was sixteen years old. She was
this
close to that long-ago promise and had been for hours. And yet she hadn’t gone to see if he had fulfilled her last request, in spite of what she had done. Now she was here, and in the rush of unpacking and the demands of her family, she had forgotten to look.

She stretched and looked over at Max and Emma, who were searching the ocean’s edge for glimpses of the submarines Max claimed were out there.

“See?” he was saying. “See that ripple way out there? That’s a sub!”

Emma giggled and rolled her eyes at Macy as if to say, “Uncle Max is crazy.”

“Hey, I’m going down. You guys want to stay up here a bit longer?” she asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

“Sure,” Max said, putting a protective arm around Emma. “I’ve got the munchkin secured.”

Macy brushed her hand along the tops of both of their heads before walking back down the exterior stairs that led to the roof deck. She loved the view from the roof deck but hated the height.

Once inside, she slipped into her room and shut the door behind her. She looked around, her heart beating wildly as if she were doing something wrong. Then she took a deep breath and opened the closet door, pulling the cord that hung from the bare bulb to turn on the light. She remembered frantically scribbling the note she’d left for him the last time she’d been here:

She used to hide her favorite shells there, leaving a piece of herself behind in the house, assurance of her return. When she’d left that last time, she’d hoped somehow it wouldn’t be
the last time she’d ever hear from him and yet … she’d never even known his name.

Kneeling down on the floor she felt around for the raised corner of a board that only needed to be tugged lightly to come up. What if it had been fixed? What if someone had found the guest book? What if he’d ignored her request, and she pulled up the board to find some old dirty shells and … nothing else?

She inhaled deeply and closed her eyes, thinking of how this part of her past was a touchstone of sorts. This habit of trading pictures with a stranger who had somehow known the most intimate part of her was the beginning of so many things: her desire to be an artist, her strong attachment to this place, her longing to be loved and be known. Her fingers found the raised board and she began to tug. As she felt the board give way, she whispered aloud into the silence, “The moment of truth.”

She reached into the dark hole, hoping what she was reaching for would be there.

M
acy heard Max leave for the night, slipping out the front door after one last attempt to get her to join him. Wincing when she heard Brenda’s car start up, she wondered if Brenda heard it too. She sat in front of her open window, watching the stars and wishing on them all. She looked down at the open guest book in her lap. Her wish was big enough she couldn’t just wish on one star. She tucked her hair behind an ear and searched the sky for the answer to all her unspoken questions. Opening the guest book after all these years was like opening Pandora’s box. With it came so many things that were currently buried beneath layers of life experience and disappointment. And yet, beneath all the layers, there was a tiny hope sprouting. Even after all that had happened in the past ten years, she still recognized it, like an old friend she’d lost touch with.

She ran her hand over the picture he’d left her, grateful that he hadn’t held her decision against her. She had tried to accept that he might not have done as she asked. She wouldn’t have blamed him. She hugged the book to her chest and closed her eyes, envisioning his hand sketching out the drawing, this one done in charcoal with no color added. The absence of color was perfect for communicating what they both felt. A sense of loss pervaded the page.

She was transported to the last picture she had drawn, the feeling as she sketched that she was losing not just her father, but the artist too. She couldn’t have foretold this future then, but she’d known something was slipping away from her. Her only hope back then was that it would not be forever; that somehow he would come back to her. Or she would come back to him.

Though Macy was not prone to believing in miracles, this one, she realized as she stared at the picture, was one she’d always believed in. She’d just forgotten in the ensuing years.

He’d drawn a picture of the two of them sitting on the swing that sat on the back porch of the house. In the picture he had his arm around her, pulling her close as she buried her head in his shoulder, comforting her. From the drawing, it was obvious he cared for her a great deal and she cared for him. Somehow he had managed to communicate their shared history in such a way it jumped off the page at her, the image coming to life. Anyone could see just by looking at the picture that these two people shared something profound. How could Macy have diminished that in her mind? How could she have
believed herself when she’d told herself that it was nothing—a foolish tradition shared between mere children?

With the tip of her index finger she traced his profile with her finger. He’d only drawn himself in profile—giving her just a glimpse of who he might be but not enough to know who he was.

“What is it with you?” she said aloud in the quiet room. “Why would you never tell me who you were? Why was your identity such a secret?”

She shook her head and closed her eyes, trying to picture what he might look like now, to piece together the great mystery of her life. More than whether she and Chase would ever work things out, more than whether Max would stop drinking, more than whether her mother would really move past her grief, Macy wanted to know who this man was.

Suddenly, knowing was not just important, it was the reason her life wasn’t together, the meaning she’d been searching for. This boy who’d drawn her pictures somehow held a key to her life’s purpose. She closed the book and laid it beside her on the bed. She had to know.

She stood up and walked out of the room, pausing at her mother’s doorway.

“I think I’m going to go for a walk,” she said, leaning against the doorframe as she studied her mom, who was clad in a granny gown, covers pulled to her chin. “Guess you’re going to sleep?”

Brenda answered, nodding, “I’ll probably only manage to read three pages of this before I fall asleep.” She waved the novel in her hand. “I’m exhausted.”

“I’m pretty tired too, but I just feel like getting out.” Macy tried to look nonchalant. The last thing she wanted was for Brenda to use her special mother powers to discern what was going on. At some point, she’d remind her about the guest book, confide in her about the last picture he’d left for her. But not yet, not tonight. Tonight she wasn’t ready to share this feeling with anyone. By holding onto it, it felt like hers … hers and his, wherever he was, whoever he was.

“Think your brother’s going to be careful with the car?” Brenda asked, surprising Macy. At home they never spoke of Max’s escapades. But Macy was starting to figure out that things at Sunset Beach weren’t going to be like things at home. Which was a good thing.

Macy shook her head with a wry smile. “Probably not.”

Brenda laid the book down. “I worry about him. That he’s never going to recover from your dad’s death. It seems like he’s carrying some guilt over it —and he keeps punishing himself by doing these self-destructive things. I wish I knew how to help him. Pretending like it’s not happening isn’t working.” Brenda traced her finger along the edge of the sheet.

Macy thought about her own guilt —the little memories of things she could’ve or should’ve done differently, especially that last summer they were all together in this house when she’d been a selfish, moody teenager intent on giving her parents a hard time, foolish in her belief that having two parents who loved you was a given, a right. She hadn’t thought about Max feeling guilty, hadn’t imagined he was capable of that particular emotion.

“Maybe being here will help him,” she suggested.

“That’s what I’m hoping.” Brenda picked up the book again. “I’m hoping it helps us all.”

She thought about the guest book and her decision to figure out who the mystery artist was. She gave her mom a little wave.

“Don’t wait up,” she teased her mom.

“I can’t,” Brenda replied, fluffing her pillows as she slid further down under her covers and turned her attention back to her book.

Macy shut the bedroom door quietly, hoping Emma didn’t wake up while she was gone. She paused by the front door and slipped on her black-and-white polka-dot flip-flops. As she reached for the doorknob, she could almost hear her father coming through the door whistling “Time in a Bottle.” And as she left the house, she found herself humming the familiar tune, the lyrics running through her head. She thought about saving time in a bottle and then giving it to the people she loved like a treasure. She wondered, as her feet carried her to the beach, what times she would save and to whom she would most like to give them. Funny how a nameless, faceless boy was the first person she thought of.

She walked across the street and followed the long public-access boardwalk that would take her out to the beach, the moon providing plenty of light for her to see the way. She took in the sea oats waving on the dunes, the light bouncing across the
waves, the dark shapes of other people out for nighttime walks. Macy imagined lovers out walking: the feeling of being half of a whole, fingers laced together, steps in tandem. No matter how often she told herself she didn’t want that — didn’t need it — her heart betrayed her, aching with longing as she stepped onto the sand. Sometimes the ache was strong enough to persuade Macy that anyone would do — even Chase. But coming here reminded her of the one person she’d once wanted to share her life with.

She found herself wishing she could walk with the artist on the beach, hold his hand, time his steps with hers. Other than the photo of himself he’d left for her with his first drawing, she’d never seen him. But she could dream of what he might look like now, a grown-up version of the boy in the photo.

She’d always wished he’d left her more than just that one photo, but he’d kept his identity a secret for reasons she never understood. Sometimes she would make eye contact with a man on the street and—for a moment—she’d wonder if the man’s eyes were the same ones that stared out from the photo of a smiling little boy holding a sand dollar —the sand dollar he’d drawn for her in that first picture —flexing his muscles and hamming it up for the camera. She remembered his eyes were the exact same shade of brown as his hair.

Macy stood by the ocean, the bright moon overhead illuminating the waves in silver shimmers. Later she would try to capture this scene from memory, using oil pastels to recreate the play of light on dark water. But for now she just stood at the ocean’s edge, marveling at its vastness and her smallness. Her problems, though many, seemed less significant as
she watched the waves crash on the shore and pondered the distant horizon. She shivered a little as the wind picked up, thinking of what her dad used to say whenever she shivered: “Someone’s thinking of you.” She wondered if it was possible that the artist was thinking of her as she was thinking of him. She smiled at herself, at the way her thoughts had run away with her, like she was a silly schoolgirl.

She looked up at the same stars she’d watched from her window—the stars she’d wished on — and thought of something else her dad always said: “Wishing won’t get you anywhere, but praying will.” Her mouth turned up into a half smile. Leave it to her dad to inspire her to seek God even after he’d gone to be with Him.

Standing there beside the ocean, Macy felt closer to God than she’d felt in a long time. And yet she had made such a mess of things. She wanted Him to hear her, but was that too much to ask? She wanted Him to answer her prayers, but what right did she have to even utter them after her long absence?

The pictures in the guest book were nothing more than a childhood fascination, and she was simply a silly woman with romantic notions about a person who was most likely married by now and no longer visiting this beach. It was an impossibility to think of finding him after all these years.

And yet, hope stirred somewhere deep inside of her, sprouting after years of dormancy underneath the protective layers she’d let form over time. Underneath the vast, starry sky, the ocean waves pounded out an ancient rhythm, her mouth spread into a full smile, and she began to speak out loud to the God
her father told her would always be listening, no matter when she was ready to speak. Her dad believed God loved her that much. Macy hadn’t believed that in a long time, but perhaps it was time to work on believing again — in more ways than one.

Her voice was weak at first, but grew stronger with each word she uttered. “Well, God, I’m here on this beach, talking to You for the first time in a long time. And I think You saw what happened back there in the beach house.” She laughed a little. “I mean, You see everything, so of course You did. You saw Max and Emma and my mom and me. And You saw the picture I found. And I guess that’s what I’m here to talk to You about.”

She traced a line in the sand with her foot, her eyes scanning the stars as if the heavens might open. “The thing is, I know I have no right to ask You for anything. But … I’ve been thinking a lot about my dad. Being back here and … thinking of him makes me think about You.” She smiled a little, thinking how much her dad would like knowing that. “So what I want to ask You is if You could maybe find someone for me. Someone I think I’m supposed to meet. You know the person who drew pictures for me in the guest book all those years ago?”

She shook her head. “Who am I kidding? Of course You know the person.” She scanned the sky again, wishing God would spell out this man’s name with stars or somehow make this easy. “The problem is I don’t know who he is. But I’d really like to. So could You send him to me, maybe? Like soon? I mean, I’m not trying to tell You what to do or anything. It’s just we’re only here for two weeks, so … I mean, anytime in the next two weeks would be fine.”

She sat down in the sand, bowing her head so it rested on her knees. “I would really, really like to find out who he is. And maybe even see if there might still be something between us. Because it’s always seemed like there is. Or there was. Who knows what it would be like now. I mean, except You, of course. You know.”

She sighed. “I guess I’m a little rusty at this praying thing. I’m afraid I’m not making any sense.” She sat quietly for a few minutes, thinking about what she was really trying to say to the God of the universe, what she really wanted. “I guess I just want to find love. And I think I could find that with him — except I don’t know who he is. And now so much time has passed. It’s really going to take a miracle. But my dad always said You make miracles happen. And never to be afraid to ask for one. So this is me asking You for my miracle. And trying to believe that You’ll give me one.” She smiled again, allowing hope to swell inside her. “So I guess I’ll just keep an eye out for him?” She nodded to herself, affirming her plan.

Tears filled her eyes as she closed out her prayer with one final, heartfelt request. “And God,” she added, “if You see my dad, could You tell him I said hi and I love him and miss him very much? That would be good too.”

Macy stood up and headed back to the beach house, trying to hold on to the feeling of God’s nearness, images from the guest book filling her mind like a slide show as the ground changed from sand to boardwalk to pavement to the steps of the beach house called Time in a Bottle.