In Goa

Grilled lobster over a bed of mango rice was the most expensive item on the menu, but Rosemary decided to splurge on her last night in Jamaica. She had also enjoyed more than a few drinks. When the busboy started removing tablecloths, upending chairs and sweeping the floor, she knew it was time to return to her rented bungalow, tucked away amid the palm trees.

Rosemary paid for her meal and painfully pushed herself up from the table. The ache in her bones was nearly constant now. Her multiple myeloma had entered its terminal phase, and she always hurt. Her cane was useless in the fine white sand, so she’d left it in her room. Gritting her teeth, she made her way out the door.

She began to limp down the deserted beach but had to stop to rest after a few hundred yards. Rosemary leaned against the trunk of a palm tree and looked out over the dark water, remembering her first visit to Negril Beach, just before college when she was nineteen. It had been a glorious time. Since then, resorts had replaced most of the simple beach huts, and in daylight hours parasailing outfits and noisy speedboats took up space in what had once been an endless, empty horizon of blue sky against blue water. Still, some things remained the same. Young people continued to wear tie-dyed T-shirts decorated with images of marijuana leaves and Bob Marley, and even at this hour, reggae music drifted over the treetops. It was loud, but never loud enough to drown out the chirping of tree frogs.

Rosemary knew that this trip would be her last opportunity to relive the feeling of those few years before college when she’d been so free: hitchhiking around Europe, crewing on a sailboat, having romances with exotic, handsome men. Rosemary had loved her life fiercely and mourned its looming loss at only age 64.

“How ya stay?” came a low voice behind her.

Startled, Rosemary turned. An immense black man with shaggy dreadlocks loomed over her. His leering eyes seemed almost to glow within in his wide, dark face. His ratty T-shirt was full of holes and smelled of sweat.

Rosemary had no idea what “How ya stay?” meant. She blurted out, “No thank you!”

The man’s grin disappeared.

Rosemary turned and began to walk away from him as fast as she could, looking around for refuge. At this hour, all the beachside bars and restaurants were closed, but she spotted a group of young people a bit farther down the beach, sitting around a campfire.

"Hey!” she yelled, and began waving her arms to get their attention. “It’s me!”

Five fire-lit faces turned toward her. A young woman with blonde braids waved back, and Rosemary finally felt that she could slow her hurried pace. The scary black man man certainly wouldn’t follow her if he thought she was with friends.

Still waving and smiling, Rosemary neared the group. She entered the circle of firelight and pretended to warm her hands.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” she said in a hushed voice. “A man’s following me and I’m afraid. Do you mind if I wait here with you until I’m sure he’s gone?”

The girl with the flaxen braids looked quizzically at her partner, a dark youth wearing gold earrings. He spoke to her in another language—German or maybe Dutch. The girl smiled and made room for Rosemary to sit next to her on the driftwood log.

The tallest man sat leaning against his large backpack. He wore a blue chambray shirt and a leather headband. He raised his hand.

“Come join us! I’m James.”

“I’m Rosemary.”

James introduced her to the blonde and her partner. “These are Rahel and Peter, from Zurich.” James indicated the chubby girl with red curls around her face seated on a blanket beside him. “This is my girlfriend, Jenny. We’re from Donegal, Ireland.” He nodded toward the other young man sitting on the log. “And that’s Julian.”

Rosemary sat down between Rahel and Julian and watched as James put a small pipe to his mouth, held a lighter flame over it and took in a sharp, deep breath. He passed the pipe to Julian, who did the same. Julian held the pipe out to Rosemary and without expelling his breath asked, “Do you toke? This is hashish.”

Rosemary took the pipe. “I haven’t smoked hash in years,” she said, “But I’ve got a pot prescription at home. For pain.”

Julian leaned toward her to help her light the pipe. She inhaled and within minutes began to feel the high. Julian smiled at her. In the firelight his pale blue eyes sparkled. Rosemary had a fleeting feeling of knowing him or someone like him. Perhaps it was his smile that recovered that pleasant memory. His full lips, almost like a girl’s, turned up at the corners.

“I am from Amsterdam,” Julian said. “Where are you from?”

“I live in California,” Rosemary replied.

Julian nodded. “California! Cool! We are friends who travel to all the far-out and groovy places in the world.”

She laughed at his funny word choice. She liked his accent. She liked the way he looked her directly in the eyes, though she found it slightly unnerving.

Jenny leaned forward. “California? Do you know San Francisco? It’s my dream to visit Haight-Ashbury someday!”

Rosemary smiled. “Of course. But the Haight’s a very different place now. Expensive. Lots of fancy coffee shops and organic food stores, but there are still a few head shops. You can find Summer of Love memorabilia everywhere.” It felt strange for her to be a fountain of historical knowledge for modern hippie wannabees.

“My favorite is Janis Joplin,” said Rahel, her unease with the English language apparent. “And also, the Slick Airplane.”

“Jefferson Airplane,” said Rosemary. “With Grace Slick. I liked them, too.”

Two hours passed, and Rosemary continued to answer questions from the young travelers as the pipe and a rum bottle or two were passed around the circle. The fire danced and crackled within its ring of stones. Colors seemed brighter. Laughter and words seemed to drift in and out, floating through her head like smoke. She felt happier than she had felt in—well, in as long as she could remember.

Perhaps it was the hashish that made it so difficult for Rosemary to keep her eyes off Julian. His sculpted cheekbones and pale eyelashes were beautiful to her. He was just the type of boy who could have captured her heart when she was twenty. She detected the pleasant scent of sandalwood in his long yellow hair.

“I was in Amsterdam in 1969,” Rosemary whispered. “I’d love to see it again.”

Julian moved nearer to her on the log and put his arm around her shoulder. “Well, we are returning to Holland in the morning,” he murmured in her ear. “You can come with me.” Then he kissed her neck.

The thrill of it ran through her like warm water. Rosemary hardly knew how to respond! Could this really be happening? She was at least forty years this boy’s senior! Could Julian be one of those men who is attracted to older women?

She found the idea pleasing yet discomforting at the same time. “You’re too young for me,” she said.

He took her chin in his hand and kissed her lips. “Don’t say that.”

She hadn’t wanted to say it, but she knew this was too fast, too strange, too wonderful! She couldn’t deny her intense attraction to the young man. It had seemed instantaneous. They’d spent only a few hours together, yet she felt as if she knew him—in some former life perhaps—and believed that he somehow knew her in the same way. He kissed her again and she felt herself melting. She allowed him to run his hands through her hair—her long brown hair that had not been long for decades.

It’s the hashish, she thought. Of course, her hair was not long. But this experience was familiar—and these people were so much like the friends she had known when she was traveling in those wonderful places: Amsterdam, Bali, Ibiza, Goa.

Goa. She had stayed in India for three months in 1972 and had not wanted to leave. The memory of that place became suddenly vivid. She could almost smell the spices and dung and salty air. She could see the colors and feel the movement of Goa. She remembered the sound of drums at night on Ashvem Beach. Remembered dancing euphorically around a fire and falling into the arms of a gorgeous boy.

She had bought a skirt in Goa. A long skirt, in colors like peacock feathers with tiny bells sewn into the hem. She had loved the way it swirled around her ankles when she walked. Loved the faint jingle of the bells. It had made her feel womanly and sexy. She probably swung her hips a little more when she wore it. She loved the way it smelled, loved the lightness and coolness of the tiered cotton fabric. She had loved that skirt, but it was lost to her when a suitcase hadn’t shown up at JFK.

She looked down at her legs and could almost see it. Could almost see those beautiful colors swathed around her strong, tanned calves. Could almost see her sandals and that ankle bracelet.

Remembering the ankle bracelet brought a flood of more images and sensations. That boy had made it for her, stringing five cowry shells together on a blue ribbon. He had tied it around her ankle just before they made love in his tent on Ashvam Beach. It was the night before she was returning to New York. He had begged her not to go. “We’re going to Marrakesh next,” he’d begged. “Come with me!”

“I can’t. I have a life to get back to,” she had replied.

She had lost the cowry shell adornment that same evening.

***

Julian gently pulled her blouse down and was kissing her shoulder. The pleasant feeling was hypnotic, but she abruptly pushed him away. "I have to go,” she said. “I’m so sorry.

He looked confused and hurt. “Why?”

“I have a plane to catch in the morning,” was all she could think of to say, and she struggled up from her uncomfortable seat.

“Where will you go?” asked Jenny.

“Home.”

“Why?” James asked. “Why not come with us to? We are returning to Amsterdam in the morning. From there we’ll hitch to Spain, then the ferry to Morocco. It’ll be easy and not expensive!”

Rahel took her hand, “Yes! Please come with us!”

Rosemary felt her world spinning and it frightened her. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Thank all of you for this wonderful night. You’ll never know what it means to me to have spent this time with you. It was—magical!”

She pulled away from Julian and stumbled down the beach toward her cabin with tears spilling down her face. This vivid, dreamlike reminder of what her life might have been if she had stayed with the boy on Ashvem Beach was a too-sharp blade. It was too late now for adventure and excitement and love and sex. To think otherwise would be stupid. She was old. She was sick. Rosemary had walked only forty feet when she stopped.

Once, she had told that boy on the beach in Goa, “I have a life to get back to.” She had always regretted it. She had passed up an opportunity for grand adventure and romance. Now she had been offered a similar opportunity, and the friendly young people around the fire didn’t seem to care if she was decades older than they. If Julian’s sexual interest in her was outside the norm, so what? He liked her. She liked him and she liked the way he made her feel. Who would judge her? Why would she care if they did?

She had told the boy in Goa, “I have a life to get back to,” but did she now? What life? She was dying, for God’s sake! Her suitcase was already packed. She had credit cards and a passport. She could easily change her flight! She could have one more adventure!

Rosemary turned around.

The beach was empty.

Where could they have disappeared in such a short time? She struggled back toward the driftwood log. Where was the fire? She frantically dug in the sand with her foot for evidence of it, but she found no buried embers. No buried circle of stones. Only a bit of blue ribbon.

Rosemary pulled the cowry-shell ankle bracelet from the sand and collapsed onto the log, holding it in her fist. Her sobbing was lost in the chirping of tree frogs.