We arranged to meet at Driftwood Tavern, a nice restaurant on the peninsula.  I got there about twenty minutes early and sat at the bar in front so that I could see her arrive.  I knew we wouldn’t recognize each other, and I wanted to have the advantage of figuring out who she was before she tried to identify me.

I had been surprised to receive Grace’s email, mostly because I hadn’t had contact with the Jensen family in years.  She wrote that she would be visiting from back east, suggesting that she was considering moving out here permanently.  I wasn’t sure what the best response was, whether I should ignore the email and hope that she didn’t try to contact me again, or if I should acknowledge her immediately and take steps to prevent her from ruining my life.

Grace showed up about fifteen minutes late.  I immediately recognized the energy of a young, untroubled woman operating without any sense of urgency.  I stood up from my seat and waved at her.

“Aunt Vicki,” she said, walking towards me with her arms outstretched.  

“It’s so good to see you,” I said, accepting her hug.  “Call me, Tori,” I added.

“Of course, I’m so sorry,” said Grace.  “My mom always calls you Vicki around the house.”

“It’s fine,” I said.  “I just never liked the name Vicki.” 

I directed her to the two barstools I was controlling.  Grace waved for the bartender and ordered a drink.

“I hope you haven’t been waiting long,” she said.

“Not at all,” I said.

As it happens, it had been about sixteen years since I had become Victoria Jensen.  Vicki and I had lived together for about six months and had dated for eight months prior to that.  Though our personalities were very different, our lives became so intertwined that it was very simple for me to stop being Angela Moore and start being Tori Jensen.

Not only did I have intimate knowledge of Vicki’s private life, but I also had access to all of her financial information.  I controlled her phone, her computer, and the mail she received at the house.  And though we had differing hair types and skin tones, it was very easy for me to start using Vicki’s driver’s license whenever I needed to.  Not once did a bank or store ever question if I was actually her.  By the time I eventually went to the DMV to have her photo replaced with mine, I was quite confident that my true name was now Victoria Jensen.

Grace, it seemed, knew none of this.  Aunt Vicki had been estranged from the family for some time, not even exchanging Christmas cards.  Sitting next to her at the bar sipping our cocktails, I didn’t detect any sense that she was suspicious of the woman claiming to be her aunt.

We chatted about the unimportant things that young people care about, about the hip boutique hotel she was staying at, the cool brunch place she had reservations for the next day.  She ordered a second drink right before the hostess walked us to our table. 

As we wove through the dining room towards the rear of the building, Grace spoke at a volume that made me nervous about casual eavesdroppers.  “My mom doesn’t even know that I’m here right now,” she said.  I noticed at least one elderly couple cast a judgmental look as we walked by.

“I have to admit I’m surprised that your mother even acknowledges my existence,” I said as we sat down.  “It’s been so many years.”

“Yeah, it’s not something that comes up in daily conversation,” said Grace.  “Just random comments here and there.  We all know not to bring up the subject.”

“I hope you know I have no bad feelings towards her,” I said.  “But also there’s so much history there that I really don’t want to dredge up.”  I wanted Grace to know upfront that I wasn’t about to talk about growing up with her mother, a woman I had never actually met before.

“Oh, I understand,” said Grace.  “I just thought that there was such a huge divide that it wouldn’t hurt for me to reach out and try to know you on my own terms.  Like two grown-ass, adult women.  Getting to know each other for the first time.”

After Grace’s email arrived, but before I had decided how to respond, I excavated my hallway closet to find a particular box of odds and ends.  It had been so long since I had become Victoria Jensen that many details had faded from my memory.  I felt a weird combination of dread and nostalgia as I sorted through the contents of the box.  An old checkbook, the envelope from a birthday card, an outdated insurance ID – the items felt as though they were air-dropped from a different existence.  

At the bottom of the box, under a dead cell phone, I found an old photo and a folded note.  The photo was of Vicki and I, standing on the pier with our arms around each other, a warm smile on each of our faces.  The note was a list of places, written in my own handwriting.

The locations were random at first.  Deliberately unremarkable places designed to be forgotten as part of my long-term plan.  But as the list continued it commingled with my sentiment at the time.  Locations inevitably carried memories from my time with Vicki.

Holding the note in my hands, it felt as if it had been written by somebody else.  I noticed the short, abrupt style that I used, the rough, horizontal line that separated the final three items on the list.  I remembered the complicated feelings I had back then, but enjoyed the detachment that I felt some sixteen years later.

Looking up from my menu, I finally noticed familiar features in Grace.  She had a similar facial structure as Vicki and when she talked her eyes lit up in a way that made me think back to dating her aunt.  Listening to her talk excitedly about graduating college and being anxious about the next stage in her life, I found myself traveling back to a different time.  I then realized that she could also be looking at my face in the same way and wondering why it didn’t look like anybody else in her family.  

I picked up the thread of the conversation, if only to distract her from the business at hand.  “It can be exciting to start something new, especially when you’re young,” I said.  “But you have to be careful that you don’t get yourself in a difficult situation.”

“That’s exactly what my mom said,” said Grace.  “She said I would regret moving across the country for no reason at all.”

“I hate to say it, but she might be right,” I said.

When their waiter stepped over to take our orders, Grace had hardly looked at the list of entrees.

“I’ll just have what she’s having,” she said, smiling across the table at me.  I ordered two dishes of pasta with vegetables and another round of drinks.

After the waiter walked away, Grace picked up where she left off.

“In any case, I’m really enjoying your city.  I could totally see myself living here.”

She spoke about shopping near her hotel in an area that, not too long ago, was entirely industrial.  She talked about gentrified coffee shops and yoga studios as if she was visiting from Mars.

“That’s a pretty cool part of town,” I said.  “A lot of artist types and what not.”

I remembered visiting an art gallery there once with Vicki.  How the streets were still lined with dumpsters and random piles of post-industrial waste.  It occurred to me that it was an area that was not generally visited by tourists.  Not one that a person would usually seek out on their first visit to the city.  I wondered if she made that decision on purpose.

“Back in the day, that area was nothing but warehouses and factories,” I said.  “Nobody down there but homeless people and drug addicts.”

A place where bad things went unnoticed.  Where evidence went undiscovered, I thought.

“It’s still a bit rough around the edges,” I said.

“I’ll be careful, Aunt Vicki,” she said with a sly grin.

“Aunt Tori,” I corrected.  She offered a sheepish look as an apology.  

“So what part of town do you live in?” she asked.

Her question caught me off guard.  I cursed myself for not expecting it.

“I’m over on the east side,” I said, deliberately avoiding details.

“Oh, that seems like a nice area,” Grace said, not really meaning it. “It seems quiet.”

“Yes, it is,” I said.

The waiter returned with our cocktails.  Grace murmured her approval and raised her glass for a toast.

“To new beginnings,” she said.

“New beginnings,” I said.

We each took a sip and returned our glasses to the table.

“By the way,” Grace began, “I know I wrote it in the email, but I just wanted to say that I really admired how you separated yourself from the rest of the family.”

I hadn’t remembered that sentiment from the email.  I felt a shiver go down my spine.

“That’s not something I would expect a family member to say,” I said, covering for my surprise.

“I mean, sure, it would’ve been nice to have you around when I was growing up.  But I’m sure you had your reasons,” Grace said.  

I nodded, letting her set her version of the record straight.

“And it takes a lot of courage to do something like that.  To take a decisive action.”  Her demeanor loosened by the alcohol, she began to gesticulate as she spoke.

“It’s not something I did lightly,” I said. 

“Of course not.  You were starting a new life,” said Grace, her hand motioning across the table at me.

I considered my words carefully, trying not to fill in any blanks.

“It didn’t feel like I had any other choice,” I said.

“We never do,” she said nonsensically.

When the waiter delivered our meals, Grace immediately began to devour her food.  In between bites she spoke of random relatives I had never met, delivering updates I didn’t care to hear.  Eventually she turned the conversation back to her plans for the future.

“I really like the outdoors,” she said.  “Maybe I should look for a place near the foothills.”

She pulled out her cell phone, rested it on the table, and began swiping around a digital map of the area.

“It gets pretty expensive up there,” I said.

“And where exactly do you live?” she continued, not looking up from the phone.  “The eastside?”

“Near the freeway,” I said, watching her carefully.

“Oh, it looks green over there,” she said, her eyes still on her screen.

“There are a few parks in the area,” I said.  “Nothing to write home about.”

“Oh, there’s an arboretum here,” she said.

I immediately felt blood rush to my head.  She said those words so casually, so nonchalantly.

“Yes, there is” I said.  

“We had an arboretum at my school,” Grace said.  “I used to eat my lunch there sometimes.”

I nodded, familiar with the experience.  Vicki and I had picnicked at the local arboretum several times.

“Such beautiful trees,” Grace continued.  “It can really feel like you’ve traveled to a different part of the world.”

I thought back to the last time I had been to the local arboretum.  How I parked under a tree on the far side of the property, removed a backpack from my trunk, and hopped a wire fence undetected.

“It would be nice to live near one again,” Grace said.

I had entered the arboretum just after sundown when I could still find my way without a flashlight.  I knew security was lax there, but I still moved quickly, avoiding open spaces where I would stand out.  I reached the lake where Vicki would sit and placed my backpack on our favorite bench.

“It’s definitely beautiful there,” I told Grace, “but there are a lot of other beautiful places in the world.”

I removed a wrapped package from my pack and hurled it into the water.  Feeling a rush of unmanageable energy, I immediately ran full-speed back the way I came.

“True,” said Grace.  “But if you find beauty where you are, why would you try so hard to keep looking.”  Grace was stumbling over her words, the alcohol starting to affect her thoughts.

“In any case,” I continued, “I wouldn’t recommend that area.  It’s expensive.”

Grace smiled at me broadly.  “I’m okay for money, Aunt Tori,” she said.  

The waiter paused at our table on his way to the kitchen.  “How is everything, ladies?” he said.  “Can I get you anything else?”

“Let’s have another round of drinks,” I said.

After we had finished our meals, I dismissed the waiter’s suggestion of dessert and requested the check.  Grace was slow to respond to my signal that it was time to leave.  But after I signed the credit card receipt, she downed the remnants of her cocktail and stood from the table.

“This was great,” she said to nobody in particular.

I motioned for the door and followed as she headed in that direction.  Grace kept upright, but her pace was uneasy, avoiding obstacles that weren’t there.

Stepping outside, the cool ocean air was a bracing reminder of time past while we were inside.  “Let’s take a walk,” I said, motioning down the sidewalk to a path that led away from the restaurant.

“This is such a great place, Aunt Tori, I’m so happy you suggested it,” said Grace, taking a few missteps as she spoke.

“I’m glad you liked it,” I said.

“I loved it,” she said.

The path wound across the terrain, sloping downward as it followed the contour of the peninsula.  Small, decorative lights were situated in various places along the side of the path, illuminating treacherous dips along the way.

“Do you come here a lot?” Grace asked.

“Sometimes,” I said.  “I used to come here a lot with my ex-girlfriend.”

“That sounds nice,” she mumbled.

She was focused on her feet as if she was afraid she would forget how to walk.

“You know, Grace, I know you’re an adult and you’re going to make whatever decision you want to make,” I began.  “But I think you should reconsider moving so far away from home.”  

Grace slowly rolled her head in my direction, as if she was sizing me up for a brutal comeback.

“It might not feel like there’s a lot back there for you right now,” I said, “but once you put that distance between you and your family, you might wish it was easier to get back.

“Easy for you to say,” Grace finally responded, her tone roughened by the booze.  “You never came back at all.  Not even for Grandma June’s funeral.”

Finally a crucial connection was made inside my brain.  A piece to the puzzle that I wasn’t sure was missing.  Some eight or nine years earlier, a mysterious envelope had arrived in the mail.  A letter from a law firm back east, a check from the Estate of June Willis Jensen.  

I remembered thinking at the time that it was too risky to cash that check, but the amount was simply too large to ignore.  It was probably the clue that Grace needed to find me.  It’s probably a trail that remained visible today.  

As we continued along the path, it moved closer to the edge of the bluff, cracks in the pavement increasing and growing in width.  A sturdy wooden rail followed along, separating pedestrians from invisible cliffs on the edge of the ocean.

When a clearing arrived along the path, I neared the railing, trailing my fingers along the surface.  Near a particular live oak tree, I glanced down into a crevice, where waves rushed into empty spaces, leaving behind swirling pools of water.  In the right moonlight the pools seemed impossibly deep, giving the impression of a tunnel from which nothing could return.

Grace noticed my hesitation and stopped.  She turned back and faced the ocean, resting both hands on the railing and looking out to the horizon.

“It’s so beautiful here,” she said.  

“It is,” I said.

“Very romantic,” said Grace, with a grin.

“It can be,” I said.  

Grace glanced sideways at me as if she was making her final judgment.

“You know, there’s a staircase down to the beach,” I pointed out.  “It’s just a few feet ahead.”

“Really?” said Grace.

“Not many people know about it,” I told her.

Grace’s smile once again reminded me of Vicki.  The youthful glee that she exuded when times were good.  “Can we go?” said Grace.

I looked back down at the crevice, watching the vortex of water crashing against the rocks.

I thought back to the last time I had been at this site some sixteen years before.  How I rested the package on that railing for one last moment, mentally checking off the thirteenth location on my list. 

And I remembered the wave of energy I felt when I finally cast it off, throwing into the chasm a box containing the head of Victoria Jensen.

“Yes,” I said to Grace.  “Before it gets too dark.”

I escorted Grace along the path.