I stayed in Starbucks long enough for the smell of coffee to cling to my sweatshirt and my hair. The salty ocean air by the beach doesn’t do anything to tame the scent as the wind whips around me.
I hop off my board and study the crowd gathered around a small pop-up stage at the mouth of the pier. It’s the same stage the mayor stood on to sing the national anthem before the Fourth of July fireworks. The same stage local first responders stood on in May, a month after we moved here, to talk about earthquake safety. It’s a stage made up of about six planks that snap together, small enough to set up and disassemble easily.
There are mostly grown-ups here. Or parents with little kids. A few elderly folks. Nobody seems to be my age. And I worry that makes me stand out more.
A little girl in a blue dress offers me a gap-toothed smile and an unlit candle, with a doily attached at the base, from the handful she’s carrying like a bouquet of flowers. I take it, not sure what to do, since I don’t have anything to light it with and neither does she.
As I wander closer to the stage, I notice people are quietly tipping their lit candles to the wick of the person standing next to them. And so on. I take my place in a row near the back and wait for the flame to get to me.
Did everyone here know Katherine St. Pierre? Has an overwhelming hurt taken over their guts and their bones? Or is that only me? I tuck myself in. Hide in the crowd. The sun has set. A late September harvest moon is out. It’s big and bold and bright orange, like it’s meant to glow for Baby Kat along with all these candles.
Eventually, as my candlelight flickers, a woman in a clergy robe stands up to talk. She says things into a microphone about how a parent’s heart knows love instantly, and that even though Katherine St. Pierre wasn’t here for long, the pain of her loss is undeniably enormous. She calls on the community at this time. To ask us to love and support not only the St. Pierre family, but anyone around us who might be hurting. She encourages us to reach out to our neighbors and friends. And then there’s a prayer. And some songs sung by a kindergarten class from Playa Bonita Elementary School.
They open the mic to anyone who wants to come up and say something, and a few people step forward.
There’s not a lot to say. Katherine St. Pierre was only six weeks old. Nobody can talk about her favorite songs or the things she liked to do. If she was good at soccer or ice-skating or drawing pictures. Only her family can say how much they miss her. How empty their house must feel. How they probably keep the door to her room closed because of the reminders.
I imagine that. Coming home to a house with a room and a crib and a baby blanket and a stroller. It has to make the loss even worse. To see the signs of her everywhere, even though she’s gone.
The woman next to me keeps sniffling and holding tight to her son, who has tangled himself around her leg. He’s little and only comes up to the top of her hip, making him younger than Sequoia but old enough to be singing with those kids onstage. I take a couple of steps away. Like I should give this mom and her kid distance from someone like me. What would she do if she knew who I was and what I did?
What would this whole crowd do?
Mob mentality.
My dad had me write a paper about it last year. I didn’t entirely understand the point at the time, but I do right now. I attempted to dissect Shirley Jackson’s “The Lottery” and how an entire town went along with the ritual of stoning a woman to death for no other reason than the fact that everyone else was doing it. It was what they’d always done because it was what they’d always known.
What if that happens now?
What if someone from the hospital is here? Recognizes me? Calls me out? What if someone read the notification the CDC representative from the hospital said she was going to put in the newspaper and figured out who I am? What if I’m pushed to the ground? Kicked and trampled? Destroyed?
Maybe that’s what I deserve.
Because this town seems like it was better off before I got here.
I grab my board and roll away from the crowd to hover on the outskirts, mapping out an escape route in case someone figures out who I am.
A stern voice booms behind me. “Hey! You!”
I turn. Freeze. A police officer and his flashlight are in my face. His name tag says ALVAREZ. I’m pretty sure I start shaking. My upper lip trembles. Why did I come here? Was I secretly hoping I’d be caught?
“Do you have a helmet?” he says. “Anyone under eighteen is required by law to wear a helmet while biking or skateboarding in Playa Bonita.”
I shake my head. How do I tell him I took off in a fit of fury, leaving my annoying parents in my dust? I barely had time to grab my board, let alone a helmet. “It’s at home. I left in a hurry. I guess I forgot.”
“Technically, there’s a ticket and a fine for that.”
“How much?”
“Presumably enough to make you not forget your helmet again.” He turns off his flashlight. “I’ll let you off with a warning tonight. Considering you came down for a good cause.”
“I appreciate that. Thanks.”
I wobble on my board. Realize I should get off it altogether. I disembark and let it dangle from my fingertips as my other hand grips my melting candle, the wax dripping onto the doily.
He looks at the checkerboard Vans on my feet. Assesses. “You haven’t been drinking or anything, have you?”
“Just Frappuccinos. Well, samples of Frappuccinos.”
He smiles and pats his stomach. “They’re pretty good, aren’t they?”
“Yeah, they are.”
My voice quivers.
The pain in me breaks.
Because sometimes, someone says something so simple, at just the right moment, and it makes all of you want to open up. I’m pretty sure that’s exactly why I imagine myself sitting down on my board and spilling my guts. But I’m also done with this night.
I want to leave.
I tighten my grip on my board.
Blow out my candle.
“Will you be able to get home okay?” he asks.
“Yep.”
He taps his head. “Next time, a helmet.”
“Uh-huh.”