Although Greg had been hoping it would, the hurricane did not destroy North Myrtle Beach. At best it would have killed him, getting his picture on the news where Rose could see. At least it could have slammed him into a tree, giving him a broken arm and some sympathy. But all it did was wet the roof of the timeshare that he had not evacuated.
What the hurricane did destroy, among other things, was a tiny island off the coast of Georgia, where forty people and their cult leader lived in order to avoid processed foods and government surveillance. The storm killed all forty-one people and swept their twenty-six Quonset huts into the ocean. It was a big story, because no one had heard about the cult before, and because there was a dramatic SOS radio call, from one of the members to the Coast Guard. The call had screams and wind and remarkable staying power, playing several nights on the 5 o’clock news. On what would have been his and Rose’s anniversary—except that it was instead the six-month anniversary of their break-up—Greg had devoted himself to Chinese food and several hours of television. He heard the calls seven times.
Years later Greg saw the island in an issue of National Geographic, in a dentist’s office. He stole the magazine as proof that he had not imagined the events of this summer, the events of this story (which itself should serve as proof enough). In the first photo in the magazine the island was a bare knob in the ocean. Then a year after the hurricane, it was a lush forest and the subject of a National Geographic article called, “The World after People.” Then it was forgotten.
The twenty-six Quonset huts and all of their worldly possessions floated on the surface of the ocean, some for a day, some for several weeks, and then, a piece at a time, they washed onto North Myrtle Beach, where Greg’s parents had a timeshare.
That week, as Greg went for long lonely walks on the beach, he found himself trudging through more and more piles of washed-up trash: refrigerator doors, old milk cartons, down pillows. Not the kind of thing you’d expect from a cult. The amount was remarkable, and drove most other vacationers away. Greg, feeling brave, soldiered on.
+ + +
He was trying to ignore the piles of trash, feeling romantic, and was thinking about something Rose had said to him on their trip to New York the year before—something about love being a person who remembered when your cycle started—when Rose’s raincoat washed up in the sand at his feet, billowing in the water and then settling into the sand like a wet noodle. But like a beautiful wet noodle. He would have recognized it anywhere.
But he would not have seen it if it hadn’t washed up just then, just when he had paused to scan the horizon. He took this as a sign, picking it up by the shoulder (as he would have grabbed Rose to stop her from oncoming traffic) and running his finger over the label (as he would have liked to run his finger over her). LL Bean. Small. He resisted the urge to wrap it in his arms.
That night he called Rose. “It’s weird,” he said, “It’s too weird not to call.”
“No, it’s not, no matter what it is, it’s not too weird that you can’t call.”
“Listen, you heard about the hurricane, right? Off the coast? I’m in Myrtle Beach.”
“I thought it didn’t hit Myrtle Beach.”
He was touched that she had paid attention. “No, but all of this stuff is washing up onto the beach and I found your raincoat. Do you remember that orange rain coat?”
“I thought we had an agreement.”
“I just thought it was weird, don’t you? That your same rain coat washed onto the beach right at the same time as I was walking here?”
“They make a lot of those raincoats. I have to go, Greg.”
He thought that maybe she was crying. The thought heartened him.
+++
He didn’t think it was possible, but the next day, twice as much crap had washed onto the sand. “This is twenty-six houses?” he muttered, kicking through a pile of old prom dresses, shielding his eyes in the sun and seeing the beach transformed into a Salvation Army as far as he could see. “Must have been some kind of pack-rat cult.” A cargo cult for the worthless, used and forgotten.
He walked down close to the water, taking off his sandals and carrying his flip-flops. He walked a few steps, and then something hit him in the toe, causing him to cry out. Standing on one foot and trying to breathe deeply, he looked down and saw what had hit him: Rose’s favorite coffee mug.
The pain faded, and he set down his foot carefully and picked the mug up. He ran his fingers over the slightly embossed red letters, the Garamond font: Move Me ’98. She’d gotten it at a dance competition in high school. The last time he saw her, she still had the body of a dancer (although he sometimes hoped she’d let herself go without him).
“I know, I know I shouldn’t call,” he said.
“Then don’t,” Rose said, “You know what this does to me?”
He felt warm, hearing her say that. “I just found your coffee mug. You remember your favorite coffee mug? It hit me in the toe, on the beach.”
“Did anything hit you in the head?”
“We said we wouldn’t fight.”
“We said we wouldn’t talk!”
“I have it right here. It says, Move Me, ’98. Don’t you remember, it’s from that dance competition?”
“Stop inventing reasons to call me, Greg.”
“I just think it’s weird. Don’t you think it’s weird?”
“There were four hundred people at Move Me ’98. Goodbye Greg.”
He was willing to acknowledge that the second call was stupid. He was willing to accept it, even. On his walk the next day he refused to look at the IKEA MALM side table that she’d had in her dorm room when they first met, lying on its side by a pile of beach towels and a deck chair. He stormed down the beach, past baby dolls, and linoleum tiles, and books with their covers bleached white. He passed her make-up case and the fender from her car and several other things that could have been Rose’s, which he refused to look at: Her lucky shoes. Her jewelry box. The pot that held the dead cactus she’d nursed for a year.
He was overcome with how long it was taking to get over her. They said it took half the length of the relationship to bounce back, but he wasn’t willing to wait two years. He had always been an overachiever. He gave himself exactly one more month to be fully O.K. He kicked at an old quilt, tangled around a field hockey stick, furious, and resolved to drive to Charleston and sleep with the first woman he could find to prove that he was over her when he realized it was her quilt, Rose’s quilt, the one that her aunt had made for her. It had a very distinctive rose pattern.
He picked it up and traced his fingers over the faded stitching. He even found the square that he had spilled her facial hair bleach on, the same, New Jersey-shaped splotch still whiter than the rest of the faded, ocean-stained fabric. He picked it up and gathered it into his arms and thought he could still smell himself, there, in the quilt he had slept under so many times.
The realization, when it came, was quiet. He was holding the quilt, staring at the ocean, when he had his moment of understanding. It was the thing he had been waiting for all of his life, and it was as simple and plain a fact as anything. He felt a fool for not seeing it sooner. He was like the character in all of those movies, the one too stuck up in his foolish pride or whatever to see the nose on his own face. It was a wonderful realization, and the more he thought about it, the quicker his breath came, and he felt his eyes drinking in more light as he felt his life change.
Rose had joined the cult. Of course. She got out before they all died, but not before she gave them all of her stuff. Now she couldn’t get it back, and she was embarrassed. That’s why she’d stopped talking to him for those months. That’s why her things were washing up on his beach. That’s why she—he stopped, not yet daring to believe it.
She had played intramural field hockey in college. It was even her field hockey stick. His heart sang. She had turned to the cult in the wake of their breakup. She had been devastated. Devastated enough to give up processed foods and government surveillance. He looked out across the ocean and the shimmer of the sun on the waves seemed to lift his heart up into his throat, and he let himself believe it: She wanted him back. She was just too afraid of what he would think. Because she had joined a cult. He ran back to the house and grabbed the telephone.
“Oh, Rose, why didn’t you say so? Why didn’t you just say so?” he said to her voicemail. “Listen, I know about the cult. It’s fine, really. Call me. I love you.” He paused, wondering what else to say. “These messages always sound silly, don’t they?” he said, and laughed. “Well. Like I said. Don’t worry. Call me.”
He hung up, and waited for her call, for when it was time to rescue her.
