The storms are hovering offshore, whipping the midnight surf into a 
murderous frenzy that pounds relentlessly at the empty beach.  Dark clouds dot 
the sky, hiding the moon and the stars.  That's fine with me.  I don't want to 
see them anyway.

     I'm walking barefoot down the beach; I feel the broken shells crunch and 
cut beneath my feet.  I bend and pick one up, study it in the dim light.  It's 
one of those nice, spirally shells that you see in the gift shops, only this 
one's broken in half.  I hurl it out into the water, where it's swallowed up 
by the angry tide.  I throw a few more and watch them disappear forever.

     Kurt is gone forever, too.

     I want to push the thought from my mind, but I can't.  It's like the part 
of my mind that's in charge of bending over, picking something up, and tossing 
it away has gone on autopilot, and the rest of my brain wants something 
unpleasant to think about.  

     I think of the funeral.  Funerals should be dull, ugly days that scream 
pain and despair and death, but Kurt's funeral was bright and sunny -- not a 
cloud in the sky.  I remember the heat bearing down on me, all in black, and 
all through the priest's eulogy I could only stand there, cursing the world 
and the stars and the moon, and especially my long black dress and heels 
(heels, for chrissakes!), and feeling like something was inside wanting to 
break out, and not knowing what it was.

     There were people standing all around -- some silent, some weeping, most 
probably not caring at all.  I remember seeing his mother, her face hidden 
behind a veil, pouring her grief onto Martin's shoulder, the pretentious 
bitch.  Like she'd ever cared about Kurt before he died.  And then, there was 
Kurt himself, lying there quiet and unobtrusive, his hair neatly combed and 
wearing a crisp and well-tailored suit.  I remember feeling sorry for Kurt; he 
never would have put up with that kind of shit if he was still alive.

     And then I was standing before the casket, looking down on him; his face 
was serene and peaceful, like he'd been when we'd lain here on the beach.  I 
wanted to reach down and hold him in my arms like I'd done a million times 
before, but lying there before me he was already too far away.  I didn't know 
what to do, so I just sort of bowed my head and pretended that I was saying a 
prayer (and I did, in a way, sort of deep down, without words).  And when I 
was done, I started to move away from the casket, and I saw Ellen -- Kurt's 
mother -- standing there before me.  I wondered if I should say something to 
her, but as she moved closer, I could feel her eyes burning into me, even 
through the veil.  She said nothing to me, and I couldn't bring myself to 
break the silence, either.  I walked past without looking at her.

     That bitch, I think.  That goddamned bitch.  Ellen and Martin -- a lush 
and her corporate bigwig boyfriend.  My parents aren't anything great, but at 
least they're not jerks.  They're probably the most normal people in the 
world.

     They tried to be "understanding" after the funeral.  Mom made lasagna -- 
usually my favorite -- for dinner, and Dad tried to give me one of his talks. 
 I didn't eat, and I told Dad that I wasn't in the mood, and they actually let 
me alone.  I went to my room, shut and locked the door, and fell down on my 
bed.  I didn't cry.  I just sat -- and listened.

     Mom and Dad never learned that if they stood in the kitchen and talked, 
that I could hear just about every word from my room.  When I was younger, if 
I was bad they would send me to my room, and I'd hear them talking about me 
downstairs, about how badly I'd been spoiled, or how I should be punished, or 
something else parental.  Things hadn't changed, even now.  As I lay on my 
bed, their muffled voices floated up through the walls.

     "You should talk to her about all of this," Dad was saying.

     "No.  She needs to be alone for a while, to sort it out for herself," Mom 
replied.

     "She just lost her boyfriend -- her only boyfriend.  Do you think she can 
handle that by herself?"

     "I don't know!  It's not like this sort of thing happens every day!  I 
just don't think we should try to pry, that's all.  If she wants to talk to 
us, she will."

     "She won't, and it will eat her up.  Think.  Would we have gone to our 
parents when we were her age?"

     "Yes."

     "Julia -- "

     "I would have."

     "She hasn't yet."

     "Give her time!  She's just come back from her boyfriend's funeral!  She 
doesn't want to talk!"

     Mom was right.  I didn't want to talk, but I didn't want to listen 
anymore, either.  Them going on about my life -- about me -- like it was some 
heads-or-tails decision.  Talk to her or not.  Fuck them.  I took off the 
dress I was wearing, put on a long t-shirt and a pair of shredded jeans.  Then 
I opened the only window in my room.

     There's a huge chestnut in our backyard, with thick, spreading branches 
that almost reach to my window.  I used to have a treehouse up there, but it 
went to rot years ago, and Dad had to take it down last year.  But the tree is 
still there, and the branches are as strong as ever.  I went out the window 
and climbed down the tree, the same way I've been doing it all my life.  The 
way I did it when I used to meet with Kurt.

     Once I was out, I had no idea where to go.  It wasn't like I was going 
somewhere, it was more like not being at home.  I walked through the maze of 
back alleys and dimly-lit streets, wondering if I could lose myself forever. 
 The roads I took were random, each intersection an arbitrary turn, and after 
a while I wasn't even sure if I recognized the streets I was walking.

     I stopped when I got to Kurt's house.

     I stood there, looking at the house with its lit, shaded windows looking 
back at me like slitted demon's eyes.  I'd always hated that house, with its 
square modern angles and its stark, smooth exterior (Kurt hadn't cared much 
for it, either, but for its proximity to the beach), its perfectly-arranged 
landscaping and its three-car garage.  And suddenly I was shaking, thinking -- 
knowing -- why I'd come.

     I'm still not sure what made me go at last.  I remember the bitter 
dryness in my mouth as I climbed the steps to the front porch, the race of my 
pulse as I touched the glowing button next to the front door.  Martin answered 
it.  He was wearing a silk bathrobe.  "Yes?"

     "Is Ellen here?"

     "I'm sorry, but she's not in any condition to see anyone right now."

     "Oh."  Deep down, I heaved a sigh of relief.  "I guess I'll stop by -- "

     "Who is it?"  It was Ellen, after all.  She looked like shit.  Her hair 
was mussed and tangled, her makeup smudged.  She was still wearing the dress 
from the funeral, although she'd removed her shoes and the hat and veil.

     "It's Cara, hon," called Martin.

     "Karen," I corrected.

     Martin didn't answer me.  Ellen came to the door, sneering.  I didn't 
need to smell her breath to know she was stone-fucking drunk.  "You little 
whore," she spat.  "You've got a lot of damned nerve coming here."

     Martin tried to hold her back, to calm her down.  "Why don't you go lie 
down now," he prompted.  To me, he said, "I'm sorry, but you'd better leave 
now."

     "You little whore!  You bitch!  You put him up to it!  It's all your 
fault!"

     I sat there and took all of it.  I should have told her to her face that 
maybe if she'd given more attention to Kurt and less to screwing Martin that 
Kurt wouldn't have taken to drink.  That maybe if he'd never started in the 
first place, that he wouldn't have been under the influence that night, that 
if he'd been sober, he wouldn't have gone around that curve doing just over 
eighty...

     Instead, I left, with Ellen cursing behind me.

     That's when I came out here, where I -- where we -- always came to be 
alone.  I realize that I've got a shell in either hand -- a shard of cowrie 
and a lump of white coral.  I throw them away, but have to stop myself from 
picking up more with a conscious act of will.  It's hard -- Ellen's in my head 
now, her inebriated anger lashing out at me.  No matter how I try, I can't 
help but see her scornful visage, hear her caustic epithets.  For a second, 
just for a second, I wonder if I should just go and get myself completely 
wasted.  Just like Ellen.  Wonder if it would make the thoughts in my head go 
away.

     It would probably make me a bitch like her, I think.  And there was the 
promise that I made to myself, long ago.

     We'd just come down to the beach from Kurt's house.  It was a clear 
night, and calm.  "Look what I got," Kurt said with glee, producing something 
from his backpack.  He was holding up a half-empty bottle in the moonlight.

     "Shit.  That's heavy stuff.  You sure it's safe?"

     "Yeah.  I do this all the time."

     "Where'd you get it?" I asked.

     "My mom's cabinet.  She'll probably be too shitfaced to notice it's 
gone."  He unscrewed the top and took a swig.  "Unh -- ah," he said, wiping a 
thin trail of vodka from his lips.  He handed the bottle to me.  The scent of 
alcohol was overpowering.

     I figured, what the hell?  I raised the bottle to my lips and drank.  It 
felt like my mouth was going to explode.  I wanted to spit it out, to do 
anything but swallow it, but it was already draining down my throat, burning 
as it went.  "Shit," I gasped.  "Holy shit."

     "Pretty good, huh?"  Kurt took the bottle back.

     We went through the rest of what was in the bottle.  We did it that 
night, too -- more than once, guessing by the soreness the next day.  I didn't 
remember any of it at all.

     I never drank again after that.  Neither did Kurt -- at least, not when I 
was around.  Even though he'd never said that he had, I'd always thought he'd 
decided to give it up.  Maybe I was just lying to myself because I didn't want 
to believe it.  Maybe if I'd confronted him about it --

     The tide continues its restless churning.  I've read stories about 
Olympic-level athletes who couldn't survive that watery gravity.  I wonder if 
they are true, if I rush out to greet the waiting waves, whether or not I 
would outlast them.  

     I wonder if Kurt would be waiting on the other side.

     I walk along the shore, just at the edge where the water comes before it 
falls back into the ocean.  The retreating surf bites at my feet; the water is 
bitterly cold, not that you'd be able to tell simply by looking.  The waves 
have power and majesty and rhythm.  With Kurt, I fancied them a sort of tidal 
poetry, a symphony of land and water.  Without him, it's a dirge of erosion, a 
fatal siren's call.  

     I take a step towards the water.

     I can hear the conversation taking place in my head.  What's the good of 
killing yourself?  Do you think it's going to make people feel sorry for you? 
 Do you think it'll bring Kurt back?  

     Do I really care anymore?

     I wonder how long it will take before the end comes, how long it will be 
before they notice that I'm gone, how long it will be before they find me, or 
if they will find me at all.  The surf is up around my ankles, now, splashing 
around my legs like hungry, foaming tendrils.  I take a look back up the 
beach, my final farewell, and that's when I see them.

     I stop and look.  

     They're lying there, arms entwined and legs embraced, and I suddenly 
think that I'm seeing a vision of me and Kurt.  All at once, I remember the 
press of his hand against my breasts, the tangle of his hair in my fingers, 
the whisper of his breath on my face.  The first time out, I'm not sure if 
either of us knew what to expect, aside from all the crap we'd been fed by our 
teachers and the other teenagers.  But then, lying there on the sand with our 
clothes lying around our shins and ankles, we were going to find out.  I 
remember I was trembling, but I don't know whether it was from cold or fear or 
anticipation.  The next thing I knew he was bearing down on my lips with his 
own and I felt a sensation building up inside me and I wanted him then more 
than I had ever wanted anything ever before.  There was awkwardness at first, 
but then came the push, and the pain and the rush and the build and the push 
and the push and the --

     I realize I've been walking forward the whole time, and I'm standing 
there, about five feet away from them, staring at them.  And then I realize 
they know I'm there, and they're staring back.  Coitus interruptus, I think to 
myself.  "What the hell are you staring at?" the guy says in a short, barking 
voice.  "Get the fuck out of here, you fucking pervert!"

     It's like I'm paralyzed, and when at last I can move the only thing that 
still works is my mouth.  "Shit.  Sorry."

     "I don't care if you're sorry.  Get the fuck out of here!"

     Some other time and place, I would've said something -- anything -- to 
put that bastard in his place.  But all I can do is walk away, with the 
bittersweet taste of memory in my head.

     I walk until I can no longer see the couple on the beach.  The storm is 
moving closer to shore, now; the rain falls in large, heavy drops and the wind 
is whipping through my hair and clothing.  

     Lightning cuts the sky, painting the beach in sudden clarity.  It's like 
staring at a flashbulb, freezing the drifting sand and the angry spray and the 
looming clouds against my vision for seconds, an eternity.  The thunder roars, 
drowning out even the angry noise of the surf.  The wind is driving needles of 
cold rain into my skin.   I start to run.

     It's coming down hard, now; it's falling in grey, running sheets, so hard 
that I can barely see five feet in front of me.  The water is all around me, 
now.  I push blindly through the storm, back through the alleys and the 
streets reverberating with the echo of the pouring rain.

     Then somehow, I'm stumbling into our backyard.  I'm up the old chestnut 
tree in an instant, through the window and slam it shut behind me.  The rain 
pounds on the window, insistent.  I'm about to fall onto my bed when I see 
that the door to my room is open.  More than open -- the hinges have been 
pulled from the wall.  "Jesus," I say.

     " -- thought I heard something," I hear Mom say, and the sound of 
footsteps hurrying up the stairs.  She appears in the doorway, redfaced and 
breathless.  "Joel!  It's Karen!"  She  throws her arms around me, hugging me 
so tightly that I can hardly breathe. "Oh, Karen, Karen, thank God, Karen," 
she gasps.

     "Where have you been?" demands Dad.  "Don't you know there's a dangerous 
storm out there?  You could have -- "

     "Oh, Joel, not now, Joel," says Mom.  She's turns my head so I'm looking 
at her.  "We were so worried about you, hon.  I came up here to see if you 
wanted to eat, and when you didn't answer we thought -- "

     "I broke your door down because we thought you might have done something 
rash!" Dad snaps.  I see him doing it, in my mind.  Dad is a big man, and very 
strong.

     "And when you weren't there, we thought -- "

     "We called the police  -- !"

     "Oh, God, we're so glad you're safe, honey.  Don't ever do that again."

     "I won't."  I'm surprised at how quiet my voice is.

     "Oh, God, you're shivering, Karen -- your clothes are soaked.  Let me get 
some blankets and hot coffee."  Mom rushes off, and I realize she's right.  My 
clothes are plastered to my body, and the air in the house is chilly.  I fold 
my arms tightly around my chest.

     I'm looking at Dad's feet.  I remember when I was a kid, he used to tower 
over me; I'm up to his chest, now.  I look up, just a little, and he's looking 
away, off into the corner somewhere.  He's biting the inside of his lip.  I 
look down again before he looks back this way.

     "Karen," he says, his voice soft and low.  "I know this is hard for you 
-- it's hard for all of us."

     "How?" I ask, feeling anger welling up inside me.  "How is it hard for 
you?  You hardly even knew Kurt!  I -- I -- "

     "It's hard for us because Kurt meant so much to you.  Do you think we 
enjoy seeing you in pain like this?  Don't you think that if we could, we'd 
make all the hurt and the sadness go away?"

     I don't -- I can't answer him.  He is standing close, now.  His hands are 
resting on my shoulders, but I still do not look up at him.  "I wish there was 
something I could do, but there's not," he continues.  "It's going to take a 
long time, Karen.  You won't ever completely forget, but you can always 
remember.  Remember what good times you had together.   Remember that you had 
the chance to know him while he was alive, had the chance to make his life a 
better one."

     "Oh, God," I say out loud.  "Oh, God, Daddy."  And then my arms are 
around him and the tears are running down my face and even though Dad doesn't 
understand, he's holding me anyway.

     It was about a week ago -- we were on the beach, with the thunderheads 
far out at sea, dotting the horizon like dingy cotton.  We were just sitting 
there, me in front of Kurt and his arms around my shoulders, watching the 
lightning flashing in the distance.  The sky would be dark, and then suddenly, 
a jagged line of white would appear across the sky, and we'd both find 
ourselves breathing in awe of its electric magnificence.

     "It's so beautiful," I said.

     "It's a wonderful life," he whispered in my ear.

     I moved away and turned to face him.  "What?"

     "'It's a wonderful life'.  You know -- that Christmas movie that they 
play every year."

     "Oh, God.  That piece of shit."

     He laughs again.  His laugh is quiet and warm.  "That's what I thought, 
too.  You ever watched it, though?"

     "No."

     "Yeah, me neither -- until last Christmas.  I couldn't sleep, so I went 
downstairs and turned on the TV.  It was a tossup between that or the 700 
Club.  It was actually pretty good."

     "So, what's it about?"

     "It's about this guy, George Bailey, and basically, his life sucks.  So 
he figures he should go kill himself.  But then this angel shows him that if 
he died, then a lot of people around him would've had crappy lives, too.  It 
turns out he did all this stuff for them that helped them without him even 
knowing it."

     "So he decides not to kill himself?"

     "Yeah."

     "And he goes back to having a sucky life?"

     "Yeah, but all the people he helped out over the years go and help him 
right back, so it's not so bad anymore."

     "That's lame."

     "Maybe.  But what if it wasn't?  What do you think you'd have done if 
you'd never met me?"

     I thought about it for a second, and I couldn't come up with an answer. 
 I told him so.  "But what would you have done if you'd never met me?" I 
countered.

     He didn't even pause to think.  "I probably would've killed myself."

     And then, for absolutely no reason at all, I started crying.  I don't 
know how long I was there, sobbing uncontrollably, but Kurt pulled me close so 
my head was resting on his chest and we sat there, saying nothing but holding 
onto each other like there was no one else left in the world.