T. Parker - Summer Of Fear

"What was that?"

"You were alone."

She considered this. "You know something? I was always happiest that way."

"I know."

"Do you think that somehow, in a different time or place, it might really have been good for us, together?"

"Yes."

"That's a nice sentiment. Thank you."

"Does it matter?"

"If we think it does, then it does. Take care in Mexico,

Russ."

"Thank you, Amber."

"Please know the offer is there, if you need money."

"We'll make it. That wasn't what I meant."

She smiled, actually blushing a little. I kissed her on the cheek, then held the car door open for her. The car is a red Maserati. It roared and echoed down the steep street. I could hear it all the way to Laguna Canyon Road. Amber Mae Wilson- surrounded by herself, and alone as always-guided her fast car around the bend of Our Lady of the Canyon and disappeared toward town.

Isabella greeted me back to the porch with a knowing look on her face. She had always been able to carry on a conversation without the words, and I wondered if, in the future, this subtle capacity might serve us well.

She was sitting in her wheelchair, with a cap on her head. I guided her over beside the patio bench, then sat next to her. Fall was approaching. A warm breeze filtered in from the desert and the shadows had begun to change. We looked out at the canyon, my hand in hers. She squeezed it.

"This is what we have, Russ."

"Yes."

"It isn't what we wanted, but it's what we have."

"I’ll take it, Izzy."

"No matter what happens, remember how I loved you. Please don't ever forget that."

Next month, Isabella and I will leave for Mexico. Our destination is the unglamorous hamlet of Los Mochis, where Isabella's relations-a great many of whom she has never seen-live. She yearns to know the people from whom she came. They have prepared a home for us, cleaned and painted and furnished. It is reputed to have a nice view of a small valley. Joe and Corrine will arrive ahead of us.

There has been some assumption on the part of friends-unvoiced but nonetheless apparent-that we are going to Mexico for Isabella to die. When viewed from the outside, this idea is understandable. Three days ago, I received in the mail condolence card from a distant friend, comforting me in my great loss. I had the notion that Izzy would get a laugh out of this ill-timed gesture but then decided she might not. I chuck it, sent the friend a photograph of Izzy holding a current newspaper (date visible!) and a brief note of correction. Isabella pressed me for an explanation of the newspaper ploy, but I refused, good-naturedly, to give one. She has since lost interest in the incident. We are not a man and woman who live in terror of secrets. The known is terror enough.

Our secret, if we have one, is this: We are going away next month not for death, but for life.