Desperation Reef

“I do appreciate that. I’d be careful. Can we talk about the Monsters? As I told you last month, I’ve begun having the dreams again. Almost every night. Very vivid and believable.”

“Describe your most recent.”

“The one where I drop in and make the wave and the lip crashes into my back. I don’t see it coming. I’m on my board, down at the bottom, and there’s fifty feet of water behind me, over me; I don’t see it, either. I think I’m going to make that bottom turn, then I’m flat down on the rocks holding on like John did and everything looks infrared, then I wake up. Sweaty and hot and my heart beating fast.”

The scratch of pen on paper.

“One of your three near-death scenarios.”

Jen adds nothing to that.

“We can increase the Xanax and suppress the dreams. Though I don’t recommend it.”

“It actually seems to be encouraging them lately.”

“Then we can decrease, or stop that medication altogether and see what happens. Try another mild sedative. Even an over-the-counter sleeping aid.”

“That backfired years ago.”

“And you’ve been having these same three dreams since the very year we began therapy.”

“You sound accusatory,” says Jen. “I don’t control my dreams.”

“Not an accusation. Rather, I’d like to suggest a new modality for reducing the emotional negativity of the dream, or even finding a pathway for allowing these dreams to help you.”

Jen feels a jab of impatience. “Doctor, I respect your judgment very much, but that backfired before, too.”

“We can consider a just-approved anti-anxiety medication. Stronger than the Xanax.”

“I don’t want the heavy stuff.”

“The recent literature is promising.”

And now, along with the impatience, disappointment.

“Am I that big a nutcase?”

“Just frightened,” says the doctor.

“Nothing scares me but those waves and these dreams. But okay. I’ll think about it.”

“There’s another attack we can try, not involving medications at all.”

“Lay it on me,” says Jen.

“Maybe you should reconsider. Don’t surf the Monsters. Don’t tow in Casey on your jet. With that adjustment, I think there’s a very good chance that those dreams will recede again, as they did for so many years. Before your decision to compete.”

“I don’t look on them as a warning.”

“Maybe you should. They are damaging your emotional strength, and could hinder your performance in the contest.”

“So just quit? Isn’t that, like, a ruptured appendix infecting my stomach, and you remove the stomach? You know me better than that, Doctor Parker.”

“Consider it.”

“You don’t understand, I have to beat the fear of the big waves. Not just avoid them. I have to get back on the horses that threw me. And threw John. And might throw my boys. I’m tired of running and hiding, Doctor. I need to confront the past. I need to find my courage. I need to win. I need to finally beat these fucking monsters.”

“But, Jen, fear is one of the many things that keeps us alive. It has helped through the ages. It allows courage but discourages death. Allows fight and flight. We wouldn’t be here without it. You told me that John respected those potentially deadly waves. That he was always prepared and always cautious.”

“But he was never afraid of them!”

“Do you think, possibly, that he should have been?”

Because I had his back, Jen thinks. That was my character and my love and my calling. Protect and serve. She looks at the tissue box on the end table beside her, decides not to, just lets the damned tears roll down her freckled cheeks.

“Jen, after John’s death, you experienced these fearful dreams over years. But you gave up the alcohol and didn’t require the sedatives. You listened to your subconscious, and you decided to stay away from things that can harm you. Or worse. Now, you’ve chosen to ignore yourself by entering the contest that killed John. The dreams are back, and you are depending on alcohol and Xanax for sleep again. What’s taking you back to Mavericks? Why now?”

“Six months ago I decided to tell the truth about John and myself and what happened. Tell all. The truth, from start to finish.”

“Was there an inciting incident? Some moment or event?”

“No. Just twenty-five years of evasion and silence. On my part. I need to tell, Doctor. I need to write it down.”

A long pause from the doctor, pen poised over the notebook.

“You’ve been telling me the truth for twenty years, haven’t you?”

“Mostly. But I mean publicly. For the world. To write it.”

“Well, I read your first installment in the Surf Tribe Magazine. It was touching and beautifully sad. I learned a lot I didn’t know about you and John. I’m sure the writing is cathartic for you. And I encourage you to continue the series.”

“I think I’m done, Penelope.”

“I suppose that’s between you and your editor. But it’s absolutely your decision to make.”

Another long beat, then Jen snatches a tissue from the box and wipes her face.

“We have four minutes.”

“I think I’m done with this, I mean. You have helped me so much. I love you, Dr. Parker. Thank you.”