At 6:00, Sara decided she needed to get out of the hotel. The light was just beginning to die, fading into pinks and blues, and the tide was low. She walked along the beach, weaving her way through a labyrinth of sandcastles and yelling kids, until the long string of beachside condos and hotels ended and gave way to restaurants and shops. The sky and ocean had turned dark and blended by the time she finally chose a place to stop. It was a tiny mom and pop café, one with big windows that revealed a Norman Rockwell-esque scene inside. There were white-aproned waitresses pouring coffee to satisfied old men reading newspapers, and happy families laughing over hamburgers and apple pie. The cashier smiled as she rang up a young couple with linked arms; a small boy slipped a quarter into a gumball machine. Sara felt the corners of her mouth turn up a bit. She stood outside the café for a few more minutes, admiring. When she finally pushed the door open and heard the musical jingle of a bell above her, she felt as though she were entering another realm.
"Evening," called a beaming woman with a gray bun.
Sara gave a weary smile, and let the woman, whose nametag read Marie, lead her to a booth.
Like a character on an outdated TV show, Marie removed a pen from behind her ear and shifted her weight to one foot before whipping out a pad of paper.
"Know what you'd like to drink? Some coffee, maybe?"
Coffee. How long had it been since she'd drunk coffee?
"Sure," Sara answered. "Coffee sounds great."
She was suddenly acutely aware that she didn't have a headache, didn't have a single one of the withdrawal symptoms she usually got in a day without coffee.
Marie returned quickly, and set the mug in front of Sara cheerfully.
"Fresh coffee. It's our specialty—you'll never taste better."
As Sara murmured her thanks, a portly man at the counter waved Marie over, and Sara was left to her own devices.
She pulled out the map she'd stuffed hastily into her pocket, and took a tentative sip of the coffee as she unfolded it. Ten miles. Only ten miles to her childhood, and she knew the path like the back of her hand. Another sip of coffee. Sara ran a finger over the spot where she had spent so many years.
"How's the coffee?" Marie was standing over her, smiling sympathetically.
Sara gazed into her cup. She hadn't really tasted it.
"Great," she answered. "Thanks."
Marie grinned. "Everyone says it's the best." She nodded toward Sara's map. "You got family there?"
Sara hesitated. "Yeah," she answered finally, and took a sip of coffee to be appreciative.
Marie shook her head dejectedly.
"Well, that's really too bad."
Sara felt surprise jolt through her body.
"Too bad? Why?"
Marie looked uncomfortable.
"Oh, honey. They're tearing that whole neighborhood down."
Sara shook her head.
"Tearing it down? Why? It's a nice neighborhood."
"They're adding on to the hospital. Need the extra space. Everybody's pretty torn up about it, but there's not much we can do."
Adding on to the hospital. Sara let out a bitter laugh.
Over the next half hour, Marie refilled Sara's cup and brought her a plate of eggs and toast "on the house", which Sara ate distractedly at Marie's motherly urging. When she finally got up to leave, the only the people in the café were ebullient teenagers, tanned and disorderly, returned from a day on the beach. Sara thanked Marie and began her long walk down the beach toward her hotel.
She arrived at her hotel without even realizing it. It wasn't until Sara closed the door to her room that she was aware of how tired she was. Next door, her neighbors were in the middle of what sounded like a relaxed conversation.
"…she's doing well," the man said.
"Yep," said the woman gladly. "Listen, I'm going downstairs to get a bite to eat. You want anything?"
The man said that he would love something to drink.
Feeling as though she were walking underwater, Sara made her way slowly to her bathroom and turned on the light that made her skin look like a dead fish. She showered quickly, strangely bothered by the feeling of the water droplets against her skin, and fell into bed without bothering to check her phone for missed calls. She fell asleep in a way that was, somehow, truly as quick and as terrifying as falling.
The room smelled like coffee. Had she made coffee? Sara opened her eyes. Where were the coral colored walls? Where was her suitcase? This room was white and sunny, and someone named Dr. Brown was watching her, sipping coffee. Sara realized, irritated, that she was dreaming. It was one of those dreams that came with an unsettling sense of déjà vu.
"Hi, Ms. Sidle," Dr. Brown said. "I'm Dr. Brown."
Sara nodded. Her throat hurt. Her entire body hurt.
"Do you know where you are?"
Sara felt a pang of annoyance. In a nightmare. Where the fuck else would she be?
"The hospital," she muttered. Each word was a knife in her throat.
Dr. Brown nodded approvingly.
"Very good. You've been through quite an ordeal, but you're going to be just fine. All you need is some rest."
Sara ignored him and closed her eyes, willing herself to wake up. This time, it worked. Dr. Brown's voice began to fade and contort, and then she was back in her hotel room. She was tired. She was tired, and she had come to California to rest. To recuperate, to find the things she needed to find. How could she possibly rest when her every moment of sleep was filled with these dreams? Groaning, Sara dragged herself to a sitting position and turned on the TV. Next door, her neighbors were silent.