Miracle Beach by Erin Celello Read Free Book Online

take his eyes off that mountain. That , Jack thought, is God right here on Earth—God saying, “Hi—’member me?” Jack had always had an affinity for this area, and moments like this—with Mount Baker lit up like a Japanese lantern in the late-day summer sun right when he needed a little reminder that there was something bigger than him out there—moments like this were why.
    Given the views and climate of British Columbia’s coast, he couldn’t understand why people would choose to live anywhere else. Wisconsin, with its fields and trees and cows, had always suited him just fine. He had felt at home there, a true part of it, until he saw this place for the first time. This place with the mountains and the ocean and the gentle drizzle now starting to coat it all. It made a person feel whole and humble all at once, like a person should feel. If it wasn’t for his business and Magda and the house, and the post–September 11 tightening of the INS rules, he would have moved out here in a second. But you didn’t , he reminded himself, thinking of how different his relationship with Nash might have been if he and Magda had bucked inertia and routine and taken that leap. How different he would have felt just then. There still would have been grief to stumble through, but there wouldn’t have been regret, heavy and stinging, heaped atop it all.
    They made the rest of the trip in silence, punctuated only by Macy’s sporadic singing to a Canadian band that she said was called the Tragically Hip. It was as if neither of them wanted to start the business of bringing up all that had happened, even with it all looming so large over them.
    On the ferry ride to the island they split up. Macy planted herself at a table with a Diet Coke and a magazine, while Jack wandered around the decks, stretching his legs. Magda didn’t much care for this corner of the world; she often wondered, out loud, why Macy would choose to live on Vancouver Island, of all places—why not somewhere a little more civilized, like Vancouver or Calgary at least? But looking out over the dark, roiling water, watching the island emerge from the horizon all lush green and peaceful, Jack understood perfectly. In Vancouver, you could smell the ocean a little bit; but on the island, it was all you could smell. It was the sharp, salty fragrance of hard work and perseverance and Mother Nature waiting right out there at your doorstep. It was a smell that percolated in your blood, so that it became more than a smell, more than a pretty view. For islanders, it became a way of life. And once it got into you, Jack could see how someone would have one hell of a time getting it out.
    Once off the ferry, Jack settled back into the motion of the truck and stared out of the passenger-side window, the trees and houses and restaurants and gas stations blending together in a late-afternoon light as if they were caught between the pages of a flip book. If he looked out the window a certain way, everything was in plain view. But when he turned his head just a touch, the edges of the buildings and landscape blurred into one another and back out again, a hazy amalgamation that seemed to pass them by, instead of the other way around.
    Jack wondered if Nash used to sit in the passenger seat like he was now, letting Macy pilot the beast of a truck down the asphalt, admiring her quiet ease in doing so. Had Nash hummed along with her singing, or had he joined his wife in a duet? Jack wondered what kind of music Nash listened to, what his favorite movies were, what television shows he and Macy watched. He wondered if Nash was content, or happy even. He wondered what would be on tap for Nash’s perfect day, what he really wished for in life, what he still really ached to do, what he hadn’t yet accomplished. Sure, they had talked at least weekly since Nash had moved away, but it was always about how the Pack was doing, how Nash’s job or Jack’s business was going, about how busy