First published in Florida Writers Association Collections, Vol. 15: Secrets, 2023

Memories of Sarah fill my Sunday afternoon as I sit beneath the canvas roof of our favorite place on the beach, a little Tiki bar called Jamaica Johnny’s. My sun-warmed skin cools as palm fronds feather-dance against a darkening sky and rain etches circles in the sand. I sit alone, sipping rum and coke as lightning strikes in the distance. The pounding beat of a Reggae band silences the thunder. The chair to my left is empty. Sarah’s chair. I summon a vision of her wind tousled hair, a half-smile playing on her lips. The Reggae beat is sensual, the song suggestive.

     I close my eyes and will myself to see her as I did that other rainy Sunday when we sat here together, her fingers reaching across the table, pressing into the palm of my hand. We listened to the Reggae beat, the same singer singing the same suggestive song.

     I remember how captivated I was the first time I saw her at David’s party. He brought me into the family room to show off an art déco sculpture he had purchased from a Sarasota gallery. Sarah stood a few feet from the sculpture, talking with a small group of women, hands in her pockets, laughing. The round tortoiseshell glasses she wore had slipped down to the end of her nose, but she didn’t seem to notice. The sight enchanted me.

     “David,” I murmured, tugging on his sleeve. “Who is the blonde wearing the khaki overalls?”
     “That’s Sarah,” he said. “She’s new in town.”
     I asked if she was there alone, and if she was single. David told me I should ask her myself and dragged me over to the women.

     “Excuse me ladies,” he announced in his drama queen voice. “I have an important introduction to make.” He grasped Sarah’s left hand. “Sarah, I’d like you to meet my dear friend Rebecca.”
     She smiled. A crooked, brief smile that was adorable. I know that sounds corny, but it’s true. Then David placed my right hand into Sarah’s left hand, so that we were not shaking hands, but holding hands. I felt my cheeks warm when he pressed our palms together and said, “stay” as if he were commanding a dog. Then he turned and sauntered away. Sarah and I both laughed self-consciously, and as much as I hated to do it, I released her hand.
     Two things I never believed in were love at first sight, and happily ever-after. But meeting Sarah changed my mind. Within the first nine months of dating, we committed to each other. I dreamed of someday marrying Sarah, if such a thing ever became possible. Yet we never even lived together. When I proposed the idea to her, she reminded me she wasn’t out to her family, and may never be.

     Sarah’s parents are Christians with a capital C—Southern Baptists who consider homosexuality a sin. Even worse, her brothers believe being gay is an abomination, which caused Sarah to fear being cut off from her nieces. Sarah’s sexuality had to remain a secret, and that secret forced me back into the closet with her.
     For the next year and a half, we kept separate homes. And then the unthinkable happened. A malignant brain tumor struck Sarah down. Of course, I wanted to be with her at every stage, to support her, to let her know I loved her, but her family shut me out. I had always suspected Sarah’s mother disliked me—that she could sense Sarah, and I shared a secret relationship.

     The night before her surgery, I found Sarah alone in her hospital room, sitting on the edge of the bed, barefoot and wearing a blue hospital gown. When I leaned over to kiss her, she turned her face, offered me her cheek.

     “Mother is here somewhere,” she whispered.
     “Okay.” I perched next to her on the bed. “Your teeth are chattering. Where’s your robe? You should have socks on.”
     “Not cold,” she said, her chin quivering. “Scared.”
     I grabbed her hand. “Oh, Sarah, I—”
     Before I finished my sentence, her mother bustled into the room. “Well, hello, Rebecca. How long have you been here?” Sarah pulled her hand out from under mine. “You know, dear, it’s not proper to sit on a patient’s hospital bed.”
     “I’m sorry,” I said, my cheeks burning. “I just got here a couple of minutes ago.” 
     Sarah told her mother she was okay with me sitting there, but I stood and moved to the foot of the bed.

     “Get under the covers, Sarah.” Her mother dimmed the lights and gestured to the door. “She needs her rest now.”
     Sarah’s eyes pleaded with me to stay. I wish I hadn’t given in to her mother’s obvious command that I leave, but I did. I leaned over, brushed Sarah’s forehead with my lips, and whispered, “I love you.”
     Many months have gone by, and I’ve returned to Jamaica Johnny’s alone, to sit near the beach, to close my eyes against the images of hospital sheets soiled with bodily fluids, the silent blip of Sarah’s heart monitor arcing and falling in syncopated rhythms. I struggle to erase the hospital scene and instead try to hold on to the memory of Sarah and me making love against a backdrop of the Reggae beat. I long for her breath on my cheek, to press my mouth against her throat, and feel the vibration of her life force. My darling, blue-eyed Sarah.

​     The Reggae band stops playing, but its sensual beat continues in my head.

Anne and I had been dating only a few months when she suggested we spend the Thanksgiving weekend together camping in The Everglades. I agreed, happy to get to know a place so dear to Anne’s heart. Not only had she been their Poet-In-Residence, she was also an Everglades volunteer. Anne is connected to The Everglades in a deeply meaningful way, although I’m not sure Anne would agree that ‘connected’ is the right word. Finding the right word is important to Anne—this woman who hums to alligators.
     Although eager to spend this holiday weekend with Anne, I felt a little anxious. I was still pretty shy around her, and I didn’t want to screw things up by making any camping faux pas. Aside from that, I had never before camped in an alligator’s backyard, and wasn’t thrilled about the incursion of pythons to the area.
​     I remember we had gotten a late start that day. Neither of us had eaten lunch, so we stopped for dinner at a Chinese restaurant along the way. I don’t recall if my gut sent any red flags up at the thought of General Tso’s Chicken, but as a longtime sufferer of IBS, I should have nixed the suggestion of any foods containing MSG. Coupling nerves together with Chinese food can be a disaster for me.
​     By the time we finished dinner, the sun was making its way below the western horizon, and my gut was urging me to use the restroom even before leaving the restaurant. But a few miles down the highway, General Tso’s Revenge hit again. I had no choice but to ask Anne to stop somewhere so I could use a restroom. It embarrassed me to ask, but Anne is kind and so she pulled into a McDonald’s at the next exit.
​     The drive took longer than I had expected, over two hours, so when I saw the sign for The Everglades, I voiced a silent hooray because my stomach was cramping again.
​     “How far is the campsite?”
​     “Just a few miles,” Anne said.
​     A few miles? Oh, no. I squeezed my butt cheeks together and gave silent thanks to the inventor of Kegel exercises. By now the sun had set, and the road was dark. Nothing was visible out the windows except trees and bushes. It mortified me to tell Anne I needed a bathroom again, but it would have been much worse if I had an accident.
​     “Anne, if it’s much further, I’m afraid I won’t make it. I need a bathroom.”
​     “Again?”
​     “I’m sorry. I think it’s the Chinese food.” I’m certain Anne is mentally scolding herself for inviting me along.
​     “There are no bathrooms around here. I’ll have to pull over.”
​     As soon as the car stopped, I darted behind the closest bush and pulled my pants down. That’s when they swarmed me. The mosquitoes. What the hell? My butt became a target, a feast for the bloodsuckers. I pulled my pants back up, ran to the car, jumped in, and slammed the door. Anne asked if I was okay.
​     “Mosquitoes attacked me.”
​     “Oh, dear, did they bite you?”
​     Bite me? They fucking tried to eat me alive!
​     “Kinda. Ha ha.”
​     When we reached the campsite, I had to leave the safety of the car to help Anne erect the tent. Mosquitoes swarmed my head, my neck, my ears, and my arms. They even bit between my fingers. I slapped myself so much I may have left bruises.
​     Anne saw my torment. “Get back in the car,” she said. “I can finish this myself.”
​     Once Anne had the tent up and our gear stashed, I crawled inside.
​     “Stupid me, I never gave a thought to mosquitoes,” I said. “I didn’t bring any bug repellant. Did you bring any with you?”
​     She unzipped her backpack. “I brought some natural repellent that doesn’t contain deet.”
​     Of course it doesn’t contain deet. Why would you use deet? God forbid you bring something that actually repels mosquitoes.
​     “That’s okay, Anne,” I lied. “I don’t use deet either.”
​     “I wish there was something I could do for you.”
​     Kill me now!
​     Anne touched my shoulder. “I’m concerned about you. Will you be alright?”
​     No, I’m not gonna be alright. I’m in agony. I feel like I’m lying in the sand and a thousand ants are eating me alive. Every inch of my body is on fire. “Yeah, I’ll be fine. I’m sure the itching will stop soon.”
​     “I can’t believe how tolerant you are,” Anne said. “Not everyone would be so calm after having so many mosquito bites.”
​     Damn right they wouldn’t. In fact, if you were anyone else, if you were Pat, or Jane, or Pamela, I’d be screaming at the top of my lungs to get me the fuck out of here.
​     “Don’t worry, Anne, it’s not a big deal.”
​     Anne retrieved an itch crème in her bag, natural of course, and I slathered it on, all the while mentally screaming every four-letter word I knew. I laid down on top of my sleeping bag, knowing sleep would be impossible if the itching didn’t stop. I squeezed my eyes shut and gritted my teeth, not wanting to make a fool of myself by thrashing and moaning next to Anne, who I could tell was already asleep.     
​     I liked Anne a lot, and this was our first weekend away. I didn’t want to ruin her plans by making a big stink over mosquito bites. I also didn’t want her to think I’m a sissy who whines over every little thing on a camping trip. It’s not like I’ve never camped before. I loved camping in Upstate New York, and we had plenty of mosquitoes there, but nothing, I mean nothing, like the Everglades’ mosquitoes. They’re like a Red Cross Blood Drive.
​     I must have passed out eventually because I woke up alone in the tent, the yellow, pink, and orange of sunrise peeking through the trees. Anne was sitting outside, brewing coffee around a camp stove. I spoke to her through the tent’s mesh window. “Is it safe for me to come out?”
​     Anne smiled. “I think so.”
​     Just as I was about to unzip the tent, I peered at Anne’s face.
​     “Look out. You have a couple of mosquitoes perched on your forehead.”
​     Anne brushed her hand across her face and the mosquitoes flew off.
​     “They didn’t bite you?”
​     “No, mosquitoes don’t seem to bother me.”
​     Goody goody for you. In the meantime, I’m trapped inside this freaking tent until the sun comes up.
​     The sun came up, and I learned how to avoid mosquitoes by remaining inside the tent from dusk until dawn, not frantically waving my arms around whenever one flew near me, and I avoided walking through canopies and grassy areas as much as possible. I refrained from whining about my mosquito bites and ended up having a good time. I’m glad I didn’t dwell on the Everglades pythons, or the alligators on The Anhinga Trail. They stayed in the water and off the boardwalk.
​     During the ride home, still focused on my bites, I googled information about mosquitoes and once home, wrote a poem about them:
           
WET SEASON IN THE EVERGLADES
 
They are everywhere,
beneath leafy canopies, in tall grass
and dense bushes, they lie in wait.
 
Hear the fertile one humming?
Drawn by my breath, the heat of my body,
whining, droning, keening.
Thirsty. I swat at her wingbeats buzzing my ear.
 
She seeks my neck, craves my blood.
Her straw-like mouth probes, sips, tastes.
I swat. Miss. Itch.
 
She strikes again, intent to breed, to
reproduce one hundred or more
of those fucking, sucking,
vampires.
 
I slap hard, flatten her,
leave a trail of blood
on my sweaty skin.
 
​     If you’re wondering whether Anne ever took me back to The Everglades, the answer is yes. But we slept in the volunteer’s quarters rather than pitching a tent. Oh, and I remembered to bring plenty of mosquito repellent with me—no deet, of course.

Back in April of this year, I responded to a question on Quora. For those who don’t know, Quora is a social media Q&A platform. Users ask and/or answer questions on a myriad of subjects. The question I answered was: “What is the scariest unexplainable thing that ever happened to you?”
     I have had an interest in the paranormal since childhood, but as I matured, I developed a healthy skepticism in the sense that I attempt to find a reasonable explanation for something that seems magical or supernatural. However, the narrative I wrote about on Quora continues to baffle me. Perhaps you, the reader, can offer a better explanation than I for how an ancient Greek or Roman coin dropped into my bedroom out of thin air.
     To give a little background, after my sister Susan died, I began finding pennies in unexpected places—the middle of my bathtub or inside a slipper, for example. Of course, I find pennies in places you might expect to find them, such as on the ground or a table or the floor of my car. Since I find pennies in all these places, both expected and unexpected, I wonder if each time I find a penny, is it a sign from Susan? Common sense would tell me no, but here’s an incident I cannot explain: I had just taken a shower and walked naked into my bedroom. I picked my nightgown up from the bed and slipped it over my head. As the nightgown slid down my body, I heard “plink”—the sound of a coin falling onto the floor. The coin (shown below) is smaller and much thinner than a U.S. penny, and thousands of years older.