She gets up, and I see her march to the front of the plane where the flight attendant meets her. I point my straw at her back and whisper, “Avada Kedavra.”
She doesn’t come back, and I get lucky because the middle seat stays open.
“Thank you, Jesus; thank you, Harry,” I say.
There are mountains. Great big ones that poke through the clouds, tipped in snow that looks like whipped cream. My heart. It is not raining when my plane lands at Sea-Tac. The sky is so cloudless I press my nose to the window and stare around in disbelief. Liars! Where is the rain? There is no one to meet me at baggage claim; that’s what makes the whole thing feel sore. There is no mother to hug me, and no father to load my luggage into the trunk while making jokes about how heavy it is. I am alone in all things, singular and frightened and excited. I collect my bags and a cab drives me the short fifteen miles to Seattle proper. I can see the city rise in a pageant of lights from the highway. There are cities that take your breath away by their sheer size; some by the beat of their rhythmic culture, but Seattle gives you your breath back. Fills your lungs. I take it in and feel like I can breathe for the first time in my life. My God, it’s like I’ve been looking for this place all along. My hotel is nice; I made sure of that. You never know what type of serial killer you’ll meet in a seedy hotel. Things may get rough in the coming months, but for the next four days, until my apartment is ready, I am a tourist. Kit sends me texts of places to go see. It’s sweet, except it keeps him present on my mind all day, the notifications on my phone with his name flashing up at me. I explore the city first, the fish market, The Needle, and the Nordstrom that started it all. I get a cramp walking up one of the steep hills, and a homeless man wearing a grubby pink beanie offers me a cigarette. I take it, even though I’ve never smoked a cigarette before. I don’t want to be rude to my fellow Washingtonians.
“I like your fucking socks,” he says, pointing at my feet with a dirty finger. I’m not wearing socks, so that’s super cool that he sees them anyway.
“Thanks,” I say. “I knitted them myself.”
He nods, looking thoughtfully at my feet. “Hey, do you have a couple bucks to loan me? It’s my birthday.”
I reach into my purse and pull out five ones. “Hey, happy birthday,” I say.
He looks confused. “It’s not my birthday.”
“Of course it’s not.”
He shuffles back down the hill. I stick my cigarette behind my ear, grinning at the lunacy. Magic, I tell you.
Kit texts me: What are you doing?
Having a birthday smoke with a friend, I send back.
K: Guy or girl?
I make a face, and then type: Guy
He doesn’t send anything for a while, so I tuck my phone back in my purse while I browse a paper shop until I realize how nerdy it is and leave. Ten minutes later I hear the ping that signifies I have a message.
I feel jealous… that you’re there and I’m not, he sends.
I type a response, and then delete it. Too flirtatious.
K: What were you typing?
I laugh out loud. Nothing. Go away.
He sends a sad face.
And then…
K: Are you going to go see Port Townsend?
Should I?
I sit down at a cafe for lunch. Actually, I sit down at a cafe so I can text Kit. I’m not really that hungry.
K: YES! You’ll have to take a ferry.
That scares me, I send back.
K: Precisely the reason you should do it.
He’s right, isn’t he? That’s why I came here—to kill the things that control me.
I’ll think about it.
Kit sends a thumbs up.
K: Also, for being in my state- #Fuckyou.
I chew on my lip for a few seconds before I respond: In a Range Rover on the ferry.
It takes him a minute to get it. He responds with a shocked-faced emoji.
K: Range Rovers aren’t very spacious. Someone’s going to get hurt.
I can’t anymore. I’m blushing so hard I turn my phone off and bury it in my purse. I can’t believe I instigated that. And why a Range Rover? God, I’m so pathetic.
I decide to go to Port Townsend, though. I look up a place to rent a car, and catch a cab over. They have a Range Rover. It’s way expensive, but I get it anyway. And why? All because of a conversation I had with Kit that I’m still embarrassed about? Maybe it’s because he challenged me not to be afraid. I check out of my hotel and load my suitcases in the trunk. I’m the last car to be loaded onto the ferry, and it scares me that I’m so close to the water. It scares me. I get out of the Rover and walk around until I’m standing with my back against the trunk. The wind has cold fingers; it pulls me toward the water. I’m shaking.
I hear the high-pitched voice of a woman yell, “Here goes the feeeerry!” just as we pull away from the dock. I’m terrified. A car on a boat. Me, in a car, on a boat. The Rover could just roll backward and sink into the Sound, taking me with it. I envision all the ways this ferry could kill me, but I stay where I am. All because I’m scared, and I don’t want to be. When it gets too much, I close my eyes and let the wind touch me. She’s not as aggressive as I thought. Maybe she’s not trying to push me into the water; maybe she’s trying to make me see the water. I step forward and look down. The ferry is spitting out a thick stream of wake. It froths and churns. It’s beautiful. I look back at the city of Edmonds, the hill with the houses—someone called it a bowl. It does look like a bowl of houses. I like that. I imagine a giant spoon scraping all of the houses off the hill and into the Sound. Is that sick? Who cares? I’m okay; this is okay. To me, this ferry is a novelty, but to the people who live here, it’s part of the landscape—a way of life. I want to join them. There are people getting out of their cars and walking up a flight of stairs. I decide to follow them. But, before I go, I take a picture of the side of the Rover, outlined by the water, and Instagram it: #Helenatakesonherfears.
There are four decks on the ferry; two are for cars, the third is an enclosed area. There is a little cafeteria with booths, and past that are different areas to sit and watch the water. The top deck is open, and the braver people are up there walking around and taking pictures. Children hang over the railing and it makes me feel ill to watch them. I grab a paper container of French fries from the cafeteria and find a seat near a window. The fries are epically delicious. I’m soaking them in ketchup when I get a text from Kit.
She doesn’t come back, and I get lucky because the middle seat stays open.
“Thank you, Jesus; thank you, Harry,” I say.
There are mountains. Great big ones that poke through the clouds, tipped in snow that looks like whipped cream. My heart. It is not raining when my plane lands at Sea-Tac. The sky is so cloudless I press my nose to the window and stare around in disbelief. Liars! Where is the rain? There is no one to meet me at baggage claim; that’s what makes the whole thing feel sore. There is no mother to hug me, and no father to load my luggage into the trunk while making jokes about how heavy it is. I am alone in all things, singular and frightened and excited. I collect my bags and a cab drives me the short fifteen miles to Seattle proper. I can see the city rise in a pageant of lights from the highway. There are cities that take your breath away by their sheer size; some by the beat of their rhythmic culture, but Seattle gives you your breath back. Fills your lungs. I take it in and feel like I can breathe for the first time in my life. My God, it’s like I’ve been looking for this place all along. My hotel is nice; I made sure of that. You never know what type of serial killer you’ll meet in a seedy hotel. Things may get rough in the coming months, but for the next four days, until my apartment is ready, I am a tourist. Kit sends me texts of places to go see. It’s sweet, except it keeps him present on my mind all day, the notifications on my phone with his name flashing up at me. I explore the city first, the fish market, The Needle, and the Nordstrom that started it all. I get a cramp walking up one of the steep hills, and a homeless man wearing a grubby pink beanie offers me a cigarette. I take it, even though I’ve never smoked a cigarette before. I don’t want to be rude to my fellow Washingtonians.
“I like your fucking socks,” he says, pointing at my feet with a dirty finger. I’m not wearing socks, so that’s super cool that he sees them anyway.
“Thanks,” I say. “I knitted them myself.”
He nods, looking thoughtfully at my feet. “Hey, do you have a couple bucks to loan me? It’s my birthday.”
I reach into my purse and pull out five ones. “Hey, happy birthday,” I say.
He looks confused. “It’s not my birthday.”
“Of course it’s not.”
He shuffles back down the hill. I stick my cigarette behind my ear, grinning at the lunacy. Magic, I tell you.
Kit texts me: What are you doing?
Having a birthday smoke with a friend, I send back.
K: Guy or girl?
I make a face, and then type: Guy
He doesn’t send anything for a while, so I tuck my phone back in my purse while I browse a paper shop until I realize how nerdy it is and leave. Ten minutes later I hear the ping that signifies I have a message.
I feel jealous… that you’re there and I’m not, he sends.
I type a response, and then delete it. Too flirtatious.
K: What were you typing?
I laugh out loud. Nothing. Go away.
He sends a sad face.
And then…
K: Are you going to go see Port Townsend?
Should I?
I sit down at a cafe for lunch. Actually, I sit down at a cafe so I can text Kit. I’m not really that hungry.
K: YES! You’ll have to take a ferry.
That scares me, I send back.
K: Precisely the reason you should do it.
He’s right, isn’t he? That’s why I came here—to kill the things that control me.
I’ll think about it.
Kit sends a thumbs up.
K: Also, for being in my state- #Fuckyou.
I chew on my lip for a few seconds before I respond: In a Range Rover on the ferry.
It takes him a minute to get it. He responds with a shocked-faced emoji.
K: Range Rovers aren’t very spacious. Someone’s going to get hurt.
I can’t anymore. I’m blushing so hard I turn my phone off and bury it in my purse. I can’t believe I instigated that. And why a Range Rover? God, I’m so pathetic.
I decide to go to Port Townsend, though. I look up a place to rent a car, and catch a cab over. They have a Range Rover. It’s way expensive, but I get it anyway. And why? All because of a conversation I had with Kit that I’m still embarrassed about? Maybe it’s because he challenged me not to be afraid. I check out of my hotel and load my suitcases in the trunk. I’m the last car to be loaded onto the ferry, and it scares me that I’m so close to the water. It scares me. I get out of the Rover and walk around until I’m standing with my back against the trunk. The wind has cold fingers; it pulls me toward the water. I’m shaking.
I hear the high-pitched voice of a woman yell, “Here goes the feeeerry!” just as we pull away from the dock. I’m terrified. A car on a boat. Me, in a car, on a boat. The Rover could just roll backward and sink into the Sound, taking me with it. I envision all the ways this ferry could kill me, but I stay where I am. All because I’m scared, and I don’t want to be. When it gets too much, I close my eyes and let the wind touch me. She’s not as aggressive as I thought. Maybe she’s not trying to push me into the water; maybe she’s trying to make me see the water. I step forward and look down. The ferry is spitting out a thick stream of wake. It froths and churns. It’s beautiful. I look back at the city of Edmonds, the hill with the houses—someone called it a bowl. It does look like a bowl of houses. I like that. I imagine a giant spoon scraping all of the houses off the hill and into the Sound. Is that sick? Who cares? I’m okay; this is okay. To me, this ferry is a novelty, but to the people who live here, it’s part of the landscape—a way of life. I want to join them. There are people getting out of their cars and walking up a flight of stairs. I decide to follow them. But, before I go, I take a picture of the side of the Rover, outlined by the water, and Instagram it: #Helenatakesonherfears.
There are four decks on the ferry; two are for cars, the third is an enclosed area. There is a little cafeteria with booths, and past that are different areas to sit and watch the water. The top deck is open, and the braver people are up there walking around and taking pictures. Children hang over the railing and it makes me feel ill to watch them. I grab a paper container of French fries from the cafeteria and find a seat near a window. The fries are epically delicious. I’m soaking them in ketchup when I get a text from Kit.
