Gifts Along the Ocean Road

It was a glorious day outside the Melbourne airport, the air sweet and warm, the sun positioned to cast the strip of sidewalk floating outside baggage claim in morning shade. There were no doubt frills of riotous flowers, and flitting glimpses of birds, and fronds of all kinds stooping radiantly overhead, but none of it could make up for the amount staring back at Mrs. Hammel from the lit icon of her Wells Fargo app; $3,000 less than there’d been a week ago.

A flash of aggravation towards her dead husband rose from nowhere, a horrible feeling that left her cheeks flushed and her eyes stinging as soon as she managed to pack it away. Layton had always delt with the finances, the air miles, the taxes, the days to put the garbage on the street, always with a plan, her Layton. She had to remind herself it wasn’t out of spite he hadn’t thought to mark all those passwords and contacts down somewhere in the event of his untimely death—that’s just not something a man thinks about at thirty-five, not even when there’s ice on the road.

And they likely were written down; he’d probably tucked them away in some spreadsheet amongst his neatly ordered file folders. Probably saved it under some incomprehensible acronym like, TTAATSOW; Things To Address After Tax Season’s Over With. Or maybe, DLTSMII; Don’t Lose This Shit, Mary, It’s Important.

She swiped the phone off with a sigh and scanned the order of taxis loitering in the sun like gleaming black beetles, no doubt with the engines running and the AC cranked, at least she hoped. She took a measured sip from her freshly purchased water bottle. She’d never delt well with heat and drinking tap water was liable to result in a migraine, same as spicy food and red meat and crowded spaces.

“Mary Hammel! Is that you? Sorry, mate, this fare’s taken.” Mrs. Hammel spun, her broad sun hat clutched tight to her scalp. A round, sunburnt man was elbowing through the drivers stalking the crowd. He caught her in a broad grin, teeth gleaming so white they were almost blue. “Welcome to Australia,” his accent laid thick over the word. “I know the agency has me posted as Richard, but that’s to keep the legal guys happy, you can call me Rick. You got bags? No? Well, not often we get an American traveling light.”

Mrs. Hammel followed Rick to his cab, parked for convenience in a red hazard zone. He held the door for her and looked around, probably for signs of a police vehicle coming to chase him from the spot.

She thumbed the strap of her backpack, staring into the black interior of the cab. “How did you know it was me?”

Rick slapped a hand to his forehead, reddening it even darker than it had been. “Right! Here, the agency sent me your picture.” He pulled out his phone and she frowned to see the photo from her driver’s license; hair without the grey, but cut to an unfortunate A-line. The bags around the eyes were the same. “I’m a vegetarian. Not a cannibal, I swear,” he grinned his white smile at her. “You can place your faith in me, Mrs. Hammel.”

Her palms itched at that, sweat soaking the cotton under her arms despite what was supposedly mild weather for the outback. “We’ve just met,” she grumbled, but got in the car anyway. She’d also seen the dollar amount next to her picture for her use of Rick’s taxi that day. Not an amount she’d forget exchanging if she wanted to.

Rick climbed into the front seat, his bulk lurching the whole vehicle like a ship undocking, and squinted at her though the rearview mirror. “Alright, so you may not have faith in me, but I bet you could kick me to the side if you wanted, easy enough.”

She gave him a tight smile as they departed into the streets of Melbourne, knowing he was being nice and not quite liking it. The most she did was toil in the garden, and it wasn’t difficult to see in the shape of her hips and stomach, which had started pouching out just this year. An extra kick from the universe that seemed unnecessarily cruel.

“So,” Rick drummed his fingers on the wheel. “What brings you to Melbourne?”

The AC was cranked, but the car interior was still hot and smelled faintly of tobacco smoke. She reached into her bag for the stash of snacks she’d brought. Almonds, dried coconut, and a cliff bar, but no Dramamine. She’d be gone again by nightfall if all went to plan, but Layton wouldn’t have forgotten the Dramamine, not even for a day trip. And there’d be sandwiches in her bag. She pulled her hand back into her lap reluctantly. There’d be no time to stop for food is she wanted to make her flight back, so the snacks had to be rationed.

“It’s my birthday,” she said flatly, hoping to ward off discussion.

Rick whistled, a sharp noise that made her jump. “Birthday, eh? No better way to spend it than on the Great Ocean Road. You meeting a party out there on the sands? You come back in town tonight, there’s bars and spas and museums—you’ve got my number for a ride. I’d give you a discount.” He flashed her a wink.

“It’s just me.” She winced to have heard herself say it and swallowed a tiny sip of water. “And I won’t be going down to the beach, just the cliffside.”

“Then back to the airport?” Rick scratched his cheek, a dry sound of trimmed nails over stubble. “A long journey just to take in the view, stunning as it is. You won’t even be there long enough for sunset.”

“I’m not here for the view. There’s a flower called the Copper orchid, my… I get one every year on my birthday.”

“You fly all this way every birthday?” Rick whistled again, his eyes glinting. “Expensive.”

Mrs. Hammel didn’t like the way he’d said it, like he was sizing her up as some new sort of whale that’d come flopping out of the sea and into his boat. “This is the first time I’ve flown here, actually,” she said, a little defensively, her fingers itching towards her bag for the salted almonds. “My husband has a man he usually goes through,” she swallowed saliva and counted ten almonds into her palm. Plenty left over for later, that’d be fine. “But he lost his contact information.”

“The Copper orchid,” Rick repeated, nodding. “You must be something mighty, ma’am, to have a man get you that each year; it’s a tough one. Tourists like it’s shine, but not many know it seeds in the wake of fires. A whole forest goes up in smoke, and the orchid’s the first thing sprouting from the ashes.” He made a mighty fist. “Tough!”

Mrs. Melbourne licked the salt from her lips, feeling woozy as the city fell away for the flat strips of tanned hills and scrub. Layton had liked the plant for its shine too. When they’d come across it in the botanical gardens their first year living together in Seattle, he’d said it looked just like her hair.

A good man, Layton, a loving man.

She tugged hard on her braid, feeling the sting in her scalp. The heat was crisping the ends already, turning the hairs wiry like rusted iron. A loving man, but no botanist, and her no creature for hardship.

The ride got along in comfortable silence until the Great Ocean Road at last met the ocean. Short prickles of grass dusted the flat clifftops overlooking the turquoise water, and she found herself leaning close, her forehead leaving a smear of sunblock against the warm glass before she hastily wiped it away. Layton had flown on business to New York, and Boise, and once to China, but he’d never been to Australia. She wondered what he would say about the view. He’d probably roll down the window and let the hot air infiltrate the cab, allow some sort of flying spider to zip in and cause chaos likely to land them souring over the cliff, and all the while laughing like it was a good joke between the two of them. He’d say something like… something like…

She wasn’t sure what he’d say. She guessed she’d never know.

She sat back with her hat pulled low over her face and left the window rolled up.

“Port Gamble’s ahead,” Rick said, and pulled a tube of chap stick from the cupholder, unscrewing it with some maneuvering of his thumb. “You ever seen Point Break?”

“Not recently.”

“Everyone thinks it was filmed here. Some drivers ’ll tell you it was just so they can swindle you for a tour of the ‘set’”, he took hands momentarily off the wheel to cinch the word in quotes and Mrs. Hammel felt her jaw lock up in brief terror. “The surfing’s no lie, though. For those that don’t mind the sharks.”

“Sharks?” She stared down at the churning blue, the strip of grass separating them from the cliff’s edge seeming much narrower than before.

“Mmhmm,” said Rick, rubbing his lips together, then sat up and pointed. “Hey, I think that’s one of your orchids!” He let out a single cracking bark of laughter and wheeled them suddenly onto the gravel side of the highway, the taxi’s wheels skidding and lurching, dust kicking up all around them. “You know, I wasn’t going to say anything, but I thought you’d be too late in the season to find one. That must be the last Copper orchid left in all Victoria.”

Mrs. Hammel kicked open the door and stumbled from the car coughing on the dust. “I’ll just be a minute,” she said to Rick who got out of the car also. He squinted around the cliffside with the look of a man who’d just successfully landed them on the moon.

Mrs. Hammel stepped carefully over the scrubby dirt, her boots wobbling on lose stones as she rifled through her pack for the flower press—another purchase she wouldn’t have needed with Layton around. But here she was, down three grand on a dusty cliffside with a strange man poaching an orchid. It was too late to turn back now.

She was surprised to find her heart thrumming, sending energy zinging down her spine as the shine of the orchid’s petals came into view. She was hit with a sudden need, but whether it was to laugh or cry or turn and run she couldn’t say.

More than anything, she wished Layton were there.

She stopped and wiped at her eyes, the sack with her carefully rationed snacks almost too heavy to keep hold of.

“Watch out, Mrs. Hammel!”

She looked up at Rick’s shout just in time to see a massive white shape angle out of the sky. The bird, looking like an overlarge seagull, snapped the orchid in its sharp beak and ripped it from the ground. She stood staring as the creature soured over the side of the cliff and settled on top of a tall rock formation standing a little out into the surf below. It cocked its head to stare back up at her.

“Bad luck,” Rick said as he came up rubbing his neck. “Those albatrosses are serious about what goes into their nests. They mate for life, you know.” Then he frowned and squinted out over the white caps of water. “I don’t see her mate, though. They get caught sometimes in the fishing line. That’s tough odds. Tough odds.”

Mrs. Hammel found herself jabbing a finger at the rock and the bird sitting atop it, like some sort of smug princess in her castle. “Do you think you could climb that?”

“Climb?” Rick rubbed his cheeks and grinned sheepishly. “Oh no, I don’t climb. My back, you know?”

Mrs. Hammel paced along the cliffside for a few minutes, taking small sips from her water, running the clock in her head. She had maybe an hour before she needed to get back in the cab and catch her flight. Was there an additional charge for missing it? Layton would’ve known, but she had no idea. Her stomach growled its agreement.

“You’re lucky I don’t have wings!” She shook her fist at the bird and kicked, lobbing a stone off the cliff in a spray of gravel.

Nothing was solved. She’d return and the bills would still be there, the drawers of Layton’s files, his carefully laid instructions that she didn’t understand. She buried her face in her hands. She couldn’t even pick a flower without him.

Rick cleared his throat. “You ready to go back?”

She peaked at him though her fingers, looked at the narrow path leading down to the beach, glared at the knobby side of the rock jutting up from the surf and the monstrous creature settling in cozy atop it.

She grunted, “Wait here,” and hefted her backpack, then began picking her way down the trail.

On the beach she stopped at the edge of the water and held her breath as white foam wetted her jeans to the calf. Too shallow for sharks, she told herself, far too shallow. She waded out, waves slapping up her chest and over her head, tearing tendrils free from her braid. Finally, she was close enough to throw herself against the rock. She looked back, struck with the sudden fear that Rick had driven away. But there he was, stood above on the cliff watching with hands on hips.

A chitter sounded from overhead. The albatross was watching her struggle with bland amusement. She gritted her teeth and began to climb.

Gardening had not been proper preparation, she quickly discovered, but after a few heart-thumping slips she managed to flop flat atop the rock. Her lips were cracked with sea salt, and she took a swig of water. Only a quarter of a bottle left; almost made her wonder what the point had been trying to conserve it in the first place.

The albatross sat like a huge white turkey only a few feet away, flipping a prehistoric spearpoint of a beak as she sat up.

Someone whooped, and she looked back to see Rick waving. “You did it!” his call echoed down from the cliff.

Mrs. Hammel frowned. Clearly, the man hadn’t gotten a good look at her feathered opponent, who was the size of a corgi and only slightly less frightening than a velociraptor when all one had for defense was a sun hat.

Perhaps smelling her fear, the beast rose onto its hind legs, colossal wings shuddering in threat. Beneath its belly an oblong egg was nestled into a nest of seaweed and twigs. The Copper orchid shone on its edge, woven in with dexterous care.

“You’re a formidable girl, aren’t you?” Mrs. Hammel whispered, inching around the edge of rock. The beast’s eyes tracked her. Pack in hand and ready to swing, she reached slowly for the nest.

The albatross cocked her head, blinked once, then launched forward with a terrible squawk.

“Ah!” shouted Mrs. Hammel a moment before a weighty ball of feathers crashed into her chest. She tipped backwards, heels hanging over the edge of the pillar, hands grasping blindly for something to catch hold of as her stomach flew into her throat and tremendous wings dark as thunder batted around her head.  

She heard Rick’s distant voice curse “Shit!”, followed by a clattering of gravel. Then the ground was gone, and she was falling. Water slammed into her back and swallowed her under.

Some time later, Mrs. Hammel emerged from the sea having fought no less valiantly for its absence of sharks, hair slopped over her face and water running down her chin like a primordial ameba finding its footing for the first time on land. Her pack was gone, gobbled up by the ocean. All that careful planning for nothing.

She collapsed onto the warm sand and stared up at the passage of uncaring clouds, skewered by white trails of jet smoke pointing towards lands unknown. There’s no way I’m making my flight, she thought and began chuckling.

“Mrs. Hammel!” She wrinkled her nose when Rick skid to a stop and sprayed sand over her face. “Sorry,” he said and helped her sit up, grimacing at the bird atop the rock flapping its wings in victory. “I thought you’d really done it for a moment there.”

“I did,” she laughed and uncurled her fingers. Inside was the crumpled remains of an orchid bloom and a crooked, white feather. She looked down at her two prizes, her eyes blurring.

“Oh, now, Mrs. Hammel, don’t cry,” pleaded Rick and he fluttered his hands before settling for a hearty pat on the back.

“I’m not,” she sniffed and separated the feather and orchid. “I did it.” She tucked one of the gifts behind her ear and left the other sitting in the sand between her legs. She looked up into Rick’s ruddy face. “Do you know any good,” sniff, “restaurants in the area?”

Rick grinned a little uncertainly. “I do. I can drop you at one, only your flight…”

She waved her hand and clambered to her feet. “I’ll figure it out later.” And she would, she realized as they trudged for the cliffside, shadows long in the golden sunset. She felt the ruffle of the white feather behind her ear. She could figure it out.

The albatross watched them scramble up the cliff, the lights of their taxi flicker on, and the automobile disappear down the winding line of road. It was only once they’d gone that she glided to the beach and snapped up the item left there—a crumpled orchid bud. She wove it back into her nest and settled in to watch another sunset.