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Mako turned and looked. “Huh,” he said. “That’s odd.”
“What is it?” asked Cricket.
“There’s another cabin over that way,” he said. “There shouldn’t be anyone out there, though.”
“When did that light go on?” asked Hannah.
“No idea,” said Mako.
Just then, as they were all looking, the light went dark again.
22
Liza
How had she gotten here? To this dark place?
Liza crept down the stairs, leaning heavily against the wainscoting. She was in so much pain. Her head, her abdomen. She didn’t think there was any way she would be able to sneak out of the house.
Maybe it didn’t matter anyway.
Her life was about to blow up and it was her fault. She’d always thought if she and Mako ever split, it would be because of him. His transgressions, his mistakes.
But no. It would be because of her, what she had done. She’d had an affair, had managed to get herself pregnant—maybe by another man. Now she was being punished. Brutally. This was another one of those moments where you could do something better, something smarter. And then didn’t.
She remembered that day so clearly. Her biggest mistake. It was Christmastime; she’d been shopping for Mako and his family.
Inside the refrigerated air of the mall, an ambient remix of Elton John’s “Tiny Dancer” greeted her. And she wandered through the departments, avoiding the baby clothes—no need to torture herself today even though she needed something for Gigi. She moved slowly through designer bags, picking out a lovely tote for Sophia (who would no doubtnotlike it since she didn’t seem to like anything or anyone), some perfume for Hannah (who would be kind and grateful for any gesture, even the smallest). She found some beautiful ties for Leo, who would be absently pleased. What about Mako? There was literally nothing she could buy for him that he hadn’t already bought for himself.
So she picked up some of his favorite underwear and socks, a cool pair of boots (which he’d probably return because he was so picky). It didn’t really matter how things were received, only that she gave with love. That was the subject of the guided meditation she offered today on YouTube.We give because we love, not because we fear. When we give with love, we can disconnect from how things are received. Only the act of pure giving is important.
Some of her viewers didn’t seem to get it.But don’t you give to please the people you love?asked one woman who always had the most difficult questions.
It’s lovely when people accept your gift with gratitude, but you can’t control that. You can only control your intention.
Crickets. No likes. No responses.
She had to take her own advice then, which she often did—especially when it came to YouTube and social media comments. Talk about something you couldn’t control; the whole catalogue of humanity was online, feeling entitled to their opinions and to their right to share. It could be brutal.
When she was done shopping, she found herself famished. There was a lovely organic café over by Tiffany, so she wound her way there. She could call Mako. His office wasn’t far, but sometimes she’d rather be alone. She had some journaling to do, some thinking to do. And when Mako showed up, it was the Mako show. Not always, but definitely during the workday. He’d bluster in, full of big ideas, or complaints, or ranting about this or that. He’d take up all her energy, without even meaning to.
The hostess seated her by a window, and she piled her bags on the empty booth seat across from her. She ordered the kale apple walnut salad with lemon vinaigrette, a large glass of ice water. She took out her journal, and sat a moment, centering. Taking in the aromas of the café, a brewed coffee, some fresh sage in a little glass jar on the table, the scent of baking bread somewhere. There was ambient music on low, soothing.
She saw him come in, ask for a table. He was tall and lean, walked with an elegant swagger as he followed the hostess. Liza recognized in him something that she liked about Mako, an easy confidence. He had dark skin, and wide shoulders; the limber, fit body of a practiced yogi, or a dancer. As he moved closer, she picked up the lightest scent of patchouli, noted the expensive cut of his jeans.
He caught her looking and gave her a smile. She felt herself blush stupidly, then opened her notebook. Those eyes. My, my. She was reminded of her mother who often admired handsome men, even if they were much younger than she was. When Liza admonished her, she’d say:I’m an old married lady, but I’m not dead, Liza.Which Liza always found funny.
She started writing, forgot about him, though he was seated one table over.
“I’m sorry to bother you.”
She looked up and he had moved himself to the table closer to her. He had a nice energy, something gentle, easy. She was sensitive to energies. Some people made her want to wrap her arms around her middle, or shift back—like her mother-in-law. But something about him made her want to shift closer.
“Can I help you?”
He smiled, leaned a little closer. “Are you Liza? Yoga with Liza?”
She startled a little. She’d never been recognized anywhere before, not by a stranger. Lots of people she knew took her yoga and meditation classes. But she’d never been approached by anyone who wasn’t a friend, or a friend of a friend.
