The wedding. The wedding!
L. and J. were so happy. The weather was just warm enough to warrant the pints of Pimm’s Cup I consumed, learning halfway through what a Pimm’s Cup was: ginger ale, fruit, cucumber, mint, and Pimm’s #1 (gin). I made it through my reading without a hitch. Will engineered the sound like a champ. The service was excellent. The toasts were hilarious and touching and well-crafted. The food was great. I danced until my knee ordered me to stop and we stumbled happily back to the inn, singing George Michael.
Dad: So I got two calls from you during the night. I answered but you didn’t respond. I heard voices—one sounded lie Will—were those butt calls?
Me: So strange! I must have sat on my phone or something. Sorry! We are fine here. How are you?
Dad: Butt otherwise fine.
The wedding is a castle, and the castle has been rented for five days. During business hours, it’s open to the public. After hours, it belongs to the bride and groom, and their friends who keep trickling in from around the globe.
“We’re hanging out in a castle,” Will kept saying, squeezing my hand.
Will and I are staying across the street at an inn, which is mostly* lovely, with a group of other Americans, relatives and friends of the bride. There’s a charming dining room that serves breakfast for guests and other meals to anyone wandering by. And people do wander by—there’s the castle to see, of course, and then a short walk down to a beach or up to an ancient-looking church. From the garden of the inn, we can see visitors to the church wandering amongst the gravestones. So far we’ve been content to play with the inn’s dogs, who could literally fetch sticks and pieces of bark and tennis balls for hours.
*I set off the fire alarm at the inn by taking a shower. There was something wrong with the water controls. As I told Will after my first shower of the weekend, “Turn on the hot water and wait five minutes.” But the next day when I showered, I couldn’t seem to get any cold water. When I opened the door, the steam hit the fire detector, and a minute later, while I was still toweling off, the fire alarm started. Will went downstairs to see what was wrong and was told that someone in room 3 (me!) had let steam out of the bathroom, and voila! Piercing alarm.
The groom’s parents rented a tour bus for the American visitors (and some Brits, too) and we drove all around southwestern Wales.
We walked around Carew Castle (throw a stone anywhere and you could hit a castle. Well, not really), then were dropped off in Tenby. For some reason, we were all desperate for ice cream at the same moment, which is exactly my type of people and exactly my type of vacation.
Something happened on this trip—just a little something, ten minutes of panic, and not even to me—and sitting again in my seat in the bus, I could see it all as a piece of fiction, something I would write in a year when I was done with my current manuscript. The story unfolded in my mind, gaining characters, the moment extending backward and forward in time, the plot growing legs, becoming a story.
I promised myself to store it for later.
Some scenes from Tenby:
The day ended with the rehearsal and the following dinner, and a general sense of goodwill and warmth, partially fueled by new friendships, partially by wine, partially by weather that locals were calling “magic”—early rain gave way to puffy clouds and then an endless blue sky. And then it ended again with a trip to the pub up the street (literally everything here is just up the street), pints of Guinness, and mingling as guests from London began to arrive.
The barkeep was less than thrilled with our crowd, though—noisy Americans, drunken visitors. Every now and then I got a glimpse of him in the corner, scrolling through the feed on his phone.
Our train from Paddington was delayed by twenty-some minutes, which meant we missed the connection at Swansea to Manorbier.
“Don’t worry,” the agent told us, checking our tickets. “Talk to someone in an orange vest, and they’ll take care of you.”
We found the people in orange vests, who huddled, discussed, and herded those of us who were heading in the direction of Manorbier into two waiting taxis.
Will, in the early planning stages of this trip, had talked about renting a car at Heathrow and making the drive to Wales, and I was at turns skeptical and discouraging and firm. We’d been to Wales once before and I remembered the roads to be narrowing and winding, with towering hedgerows and nearly incomprehensible roundabouts, not to mention the added challenge of driving on the “wrong” side of the road.
Our taxi driver, in the tradition of taxi drivers everywhere, was in a hurry—he tailgated, he sped up to pass, he zipped between lanes and took the roundabouts at a speed that made me, in the backseat, long for a handful of Dramamine.
Views from the train...
On the radio:
September by Earth, Wind and Fire
Stuck in the Middle with You by Stealers Wheel
The driver’s GPS led us to Manorbier, the tiny town where we’d be staying for the wedding. He drove down the narrow road (but that describes all roads in Wales, at least from what I’ve seen of the southwest)—that lead to the train station, pulled forward, reversed, and said apologetically, “I’ll have to let you off here. There’s no carpark.”
We scrambled out and stood with our suitcases and the side of the road, just beyond what had to be the world’s tiniest train station, with the world’s tiniest platform, which was currently deserted. The driver sped off, and we looked at each other. It felt like we were standing in the middle of a road at the edge of the world, which I guess we were.
About two minutes later, a van came around a corner and we recognized Sadie behind the wheel. The van, a rental for the wedding weekend, reminded her of the A-Team. In the passenger seat was a woman with wild red curls. She opened the door, stepped out with her arms raised above her head and said (this only works if you can imagine it in a British accent): “Hello! I’m Jane!”
And we were headed toward our final destination.
(From my parents, taking care of Baxter, the beloved aging beagle and LG, the high-strung rat terrier).
Dad: Get enough rest for your knee.
Dad: LG is making a pest of herself on my lap.
Dad: Baxter concluded another walk and did not lose a shoe yet.
Dad: Hope you’re not at the Mandarin Hotel in London… because it’s burning.
Mom: We had a nice walk. The getting ready was the hard part. I naturally put LGs leash on wrong and had to redo, much to her consternation. One of Bs little boots came off on his first step onto the porch, so it was back into the house to try again. I was sweating before we left.
We lost a day somewhere over the Atlantic, and time lost meaning.
It was nearly 24 hours from leaving our house in Modesto, BARTing from Hayward to SFO, running from one terminal to another, flying to Seattle, flying to Rekyjavik, flying to London, taking the train to Paddington Station, and dragging our luggage to our hotel a few blocks away. Within two minutes, we’d collapsed into bed.
“Remember we can’t sleep that long, or we’ll be a mess tonight,” Will said. Or maybe I dreamed it, because I was already asleep.
Will at Paddington Station.
“We’ve upgraded you to a family room,” the receptionist at the hotel said, handing over a key. There was a life-sized cutout of Prince Harry and Meghan Markle next to the counter.
The family room was down a hallway and a steep flight of stairs, tucked into a forgotten corner of the hotel. We opened the door to a room crammed with beds—apparently designed for six family members who like to be all up in each other’s business. The twin beds were perfect for holding an open suitcase, though, and the slightly-smaller-than-double beds were perfect for one each.
This was no time for romance.
Night’s agenda: food (Italian, seasoned with incredible hunger), wine, a walk through some charming neighborhoods, a stroll through Hyde Park. Back at the hotel, we turned on the television, having been alerted by my father that a hotel in London was burning (but not, apparently, ours).
“I’m going to watch for at least an hour,” I said from my less-than-double bed. “I don’t want to wake up at four a.m.”
That was the last thing I remembered before falling asleep.
In Hyde Park (with a serious lack of sleep happening).
Sometimes travel makes me sad.
While Will showered, I sat in Norfolk Square with my stomach rumbling, last night’s early dinner disappeared like a mirage. It was a tiny rectangular park, running the length of a street lined with hotels. Ours, the Cardiff Hotel, was behind me. Paddington Station was close by, a five-minute walk.
At first, it was just me and some pigeons, and then a very determined man with a leaf blower began to remove some of the park’s natural charm, and some workers gathered to smoke and rib each other over what I can only assume was a football match.
No, the sad part of traveling for me is realizing that these moments, ordinary or extraordinary—are fleeting. This moment will not exist again—or anyway, not with me in it. Soon, my husband, freshly showered, will come around the corner, reading to head to breakfast. Then I will return to my room, repack my toiletries and zip my bag and walk the five minutes to Paddington Station for a train to Wales, and this moment will exist only here, only now.
On our flight to Seattle, Will had the middle seat. I recognized the woman who took the aisle seat next to him; she was the woman who held up the line at the check-in counter about an hour earlier, when we were panicking (or at least, when I was panicking) about getting through the security checkpoint and making it to the gate on time. We’d already had ourselves a little adventure that included Will walking very fast (and me running, and still far behind him) from the International Terminal to Terminal 2, each of us dragging about 40 pounds of luggage.
I was still sweating when we boarded, my bra uncomfortably damp under my tank top and cardigan, my cheeks burning. Slap a blood pressure cuff on my arm and my reading, I was sure, would be through the roof. We’d bought overpriced water bottles once we were through security, and I was sipping mine like it was a delicacy. It was. It would have to last me until the food service cart came rumbling our way at least an hour later with a thimble-sized plastic cup.
Facing out the window, trying to determine if my luggage was among the heap being loaded into the bowels of the aircraft, I heard Will say, “So where are you headed?”
(A side note: There are introverts and then there are extroverts, and I’ll have you guess which type Will is.)
The woman replied, loud enough for me and the entire back of the plane to hear: She was heading to an Interplanetary Peace Conference in Geneva. It turned out she was a world renown expert on alien abduction, and also a hypnotherapist. Over the next hour and a half, she talked of regressing people. She mentioned an alien implant that had been deeded her in a will. She was writing a book. She’d been on Coast to Coast, not with Art Bell, but with the other guy. Last week, she said, she’d been in Canada. Later she mentioned that she’d just come from an Indian reservation where there had been a Bigfoot sighting, but the witness had been drunk and disorderly and landed himself in jail, so she would have to return to the reservation later to debrief him.
Will asked her about Betty and Barney Hill (“one of the most notorious cases of alien abduction,” she confirmed) and mentioned the X-Files episode of La Chupacabra, which took place in Patterson, a small town near ours in the Central Valley.
She made a note of the name and said she would plan a research trip there in the future.
At one point she laughed loudly at something she herself had said, and the woman in the seat in front of me turned around and asked her to be quiet. Not missing a beat and with what I thought was an admirable display of chutzpah, she handed the woman in front of her a business card.
And then we were in Seattle.
I’m sitting in the backseat of my own car on the way back to the Valley from a production of Ragtime at the Berkeley Playhouse when I realize that there is a deep and aching pain in my left breast, and that if I’m being honest with myself, it’s not a new pain. It’s been there for a while—days? Weeks? As long as a month? I’ve had a tenuous grip on time this semester—it’s been marked by readings and book club appearances and physical therapy for my knee and lesson plans and always, the essays waiting to be graded, and when I start to count backwards, thinking of the pain’s first appearance, the days are slippery, time that elusive thing rounding the corner just out of my grasp.
I’m in the car with my husband, a good friend, her friend, and her friend’s girlfriend. In other words: A person I’ve loved and known for more than half of my life, a person I’ve grown close to over the last year, an acquaintance, and a stranger. The realization of the pain, the gnawing sense of its significance, is therefore something I can’t, or anyway don’t, share.
Instead, I sit silently in the backseat, and I can feel myself drawing in, pulling tight, my own body, the bones and sinews and cells that are still Team Paula, closing ranks.
Cancer is when the cells in your body divide uncontrollably. It is, literally, when your own body turns on you.
Certain lifestyle factors make me a risk, as well as certain genetic factors, and it’s impossible not to know this. My familial medical history is a mess, a complicated chart I have to fill out every time I see a different member of the medical profession. I’ve checked the boxes: paternal grandmother: breast, cervical and bone. One paternal cousin. Two maternal aunts. Maternal grandmother, 95 and still sharp as a tack: leukemia, a cancer of the blood.
I have colleagues with cancer. I attended a memorial service last week for a friend who died of lung cancer, a non-smoker, if it matters in this narrative. My father-in-law beat kidney cancer. My brother-in-law is currently in remission.
It is impossible not to know these things at a deep, yes, cellular level.
Still, a week passes before I call to make an appointment for a mammogram. It’s like the concept of Schrodinger’s cat – until I receive a form of medical proof, the cancer both is and isn’t present in my body.
But I’m not sleeping well. My breast aches, and sleeping on my left side is impossible. I’m afraid to take something for the pain, afraid to hide something I’m supposed to see. Night after night I read by the silvery glow of my Kindle, burning through thrillers real and fictional. One dog is snoring on the floor next to the bed, and the other is entwined between my legs, where she has slept every night for the last five years, since we found her on the street and took her into our home. I listen to my husband’s breathing and think that life is such a beautiful thing, so simple and so fucking precious.
The earliest known appearances of cancer, Wikipedia tells me, date to 1600 BC.
Back then, there was no mammography, no white-coated technicians, no HMO or PPO or health savings plan or open enrollment period.
Medical treatments in 1600 BC were probably indistinguishable from torture methods.
During a mammogram, a technician guides you to place your breast and much of the surrounding breast tissue onto a lower plate, and then the upper plate comes down and basically the breast is flattened while an image is taken. If you have not experienced this, or cannot imagine it (perhaps because you do not have breasts), imagine another sensitive area of your body being flattened while you hold your breath and remain immobile, the sides of your dressing gown flapping open, gooseflesh forming on your limbs.
“Hold it, hold it, don’t move, one more second… okay,” the technician says, and the plates pull slowly apart while your body sighs with relief.
This isn’t my first rodeo; I know the drill. Tie the loose flaps of the gown back together and sit in the waiting area with other anxious women and months-old copies of US Weekly and Better Homes and Gardens. Pretend this is a normal thing. Pretend my sore breast isn’t screaming from being compressed into a pancake. Think about something else. Think about how this summer I’m going to sleep in every freaking day if I feel like it.
There’s more to this story… still to be written.
But the most important part is that the mammogram was negative (which in medical terms, of course, is a good thing).
What I love about NetGalley is that I can take a chance on new (or new to me) authors and discover books I might not otherwise encounter. (Do you love books? Do you write reviews? Check out www.netgalley.com.) That was the case with Gods of Howl Mountain by Taylor Brown (St. Martin’s Press, 3/18).
So many things are done well in this book, but I’ll start with the atmospheric setting. When I read a book, I want to feel like I’m there. I want to be able to picture the topography, the vegetation, the weather; I want to understand the era through the clothes and cars and tools and technology. Brown does this on just about every page – I never forget it’s the 1950s, and that Howl Mountain (in North Carolina) is the setting of a whiskey-running empire at a time when the federal government (the revenuers) are cracking down—and looking for their share of the pie. There’s Granny, the local medicine woman who knows just where to dig the roots for her potions; there’s the snake-handling church that meets in the old service station, the weekend car races; there’s Rory Docherty, back from the Korean War with a wooden leg.
Reading this book feels a bit like taking a master-class in characterization and plot. The characters are clearly drawn; their wants and decisions and choices bump up against each other in ways that continually move the plot forward.
My thanks to NetGalley, St. Martin’s Press, and the author for this delicious find.
Also, this week, I finished I Liked by Life by Abby Fabiaschi (St. Martin’s Press, 1/17)—an audio read that kept me going on my weekly commute.
The short take: In the first third of the book, I was trying to decide if I hated all of the characters and if I should just switch back to the next installment of the Charles Lennox series by Charles Finch, which has quickly become my go-to. But, I stuck with it and was more than rewarded. In fact, by the time I was in the final fifteen minutes of the story, I was a happy, sobbing mess.
Fabiaschi tells the story of a Massachusetts family in the aftermath of (wife, mother) Maddie’s suicide, with workaholic husband Brady and typical self-centered teenager Eve coming to some hard realizations about themselves. The story is also multi-generational, asking tough questions about the impact of family and upbringing, and whether we’re doomed to repeat the mistakes of others.
The audio is really good on this one, too.
This week I mainly painted (my living room… I’m no Van Gogh or anything), binge-watched HGTV shows where things were going far worse in their major renovations than in my little paint-splotched corner of the world, and devoured I’ll Be Gone in the Dark: One Woman’s Obsessive Search for the Golden State Killer by Michelle McNamara.
Even though the subject of this book is right in my wheelhouse (example: in between episodes of Property Brothers, I did occasionally peek at the ID channel to see whether I’d already seen this particular installment of American Monsters), somehow I hadn’t heard of Michelle McNamara, a writer and creator of the blog True Crime Diary, and I might never have seen her work if I hadn’t heard the news of her untimely death a few years ago, in her sleep, at age 46.
This is my loss, and it is a tremendous one.
I’ll Be Gone in the Dark is really a hybrid, a combination of notes, essays and interviews compiled by McNamara, interspersed with some autobiographical content that explains, in part, her obsession with the Golden State Killer. This was McNamara’s name for the serial rapist, killer and prowler who stalked various communities up and down the state (Sacramento, Stockton, Modesto, Contra Costa county, Goleta, Irvine, and others). Other names for this perpetrator include the East Area Rapist and the Original Night Stalker (not to be confused with the other Nightstalker).
I don’t think this is much of a spoiler: I’ll Be Gone in the Dark doesn’t solve the case, nor does it narrow a vast and aging amount of evidence to a few specific names. What it does is detail the crimes—the path of terror this man wreaked on victims and their families. He is the unnamed shadow haunting every page of the story, elusive and shape-shifting, his crimes only linked years after the fact when law enforcement agencies began sharing information and the CODIS database became an essential crime-solving tool.
Also, it brings to life the woman behind the scenes: a woman who was haunted by an unsolved case from her childhood, and whose obsession with cold cases brought her to the GSK. In I’ll Be Gone in the Dark, she interviews cold case detectives, tours neighborhoods and crime scenes, gathers a startling amount of evidence, and narrows in on certain theories. After her unexpected death, some of her crime-solving friends stepped in to look through the mountains of files and bring closure to her part of the story.
Recommended for: Anyone who can name upwards of five serial killers without the aid of Google, anyone who watches the ID Channel despite somewhat cheesy reenactments, anyone who has ever been obsessed with an unsolved mystery, anyone who worries about her own obsessions.
In short: Anyone like me.
Paula Treick DeBoard