Chicken Soup for the Beach Lover's Soul (12 page)
The wind pushed us closer together, gently biting exposed skin, and we huddled side by side. I had forgotten my jacket and he had not, and I wondered vaguely at the dark blue fleece that seemed familiar, but too large, for himâdeciding it to be a leftover from the restaurant we had recently sold, a forgotten take-out container, no longer wanted, and did not question its origins as he wrapped his arms around mine, enfolding me in his warmth.
The music from the festival played behind us; the oompahs and twangs of tubas and steel guitars mixed with the carnival ride screams and party laughter from the dance floor. We had been a part of that, just moments before, souvenir sacks crumpled into the pockets of the hooded fleece jacket, but now we stood apart and knew that while we could go back, we wouldn't. It was quieter where we were now and the dark hid our faces.
The wind blew colder as we waited for the show to start. Now we turned and faced each other so that he blocked the wind, then pushing me away, he opened the over-sized jacket and pulled me inside, zipping it up around us. We laughed at what a funny sight we must be, in the dark, on the beach, zipped up together in the dark blue fleece jacket, waiting for the fireworks show to begin, trying not to stumble as we sank into the sand.
Wouldn't
the children be embarrassed to see us?
Then he said, “I'll tell you something, but it'll make you cry.”
“Okay,” I said.
“This is your daddy's jacket.”
And he was right. It made me cry to remember where I had seen this jacket before, why it was familiar; on Daddy's shoulders in the living room where he always felt cold, then draped over the walker he hated having to use, and finally, laid across the back of the wheelchair that had gone back to the rental store after he died and Mom had no more use for it.
“Daddy loved the beach,” I said.
And then I was not the only one crying, as he remembered, too, and missed the man who had loved us both so well and for so long. Hugging each other, we knew that we were not alone, standing on that windy beach in the dark. He was with us. And as the salt water sprayed our faces, I licked my lips and wondered whose tears I tasted.
Sally Clark
I keep expecting to see Scott's head and shoulders appear over the beach dune, the way they would if he were on his way down to our chairs on the sand. The way they did every summer for two decades, and last summer at this time. The way they never will again.
This beach trip is the first without him, and the first of the annual family gatherings that we are remaking in the wake of his loss. Soon will come Thanksgiving, then Christmas. Then, the year will turn and we'll face next Easter Sunday, the one-year anniversary of his suicide.
I know exactly where we were at the moment Scott put his car in a closed garage and engaged the ignition. We were miles away, saying good-bye after a holiday weekend with family. We didn't know as we drove past the white clapboard country church, where congregants were amassing to celebrate rebirth, that Scott was in his final desperation.
We didn't find out until the next day, after Scott hadn't shown up for work and his boss went to find him. He feared what the rest of us soon came to know; Scott had destroyed himself before the world he perceived as hostile had a chance to.
This man, who was a musician, a father, a husband, a friend, and my husband's only brother, constantly dared life to hurt him. Scott would fling his body into the roughest ocean waves and surf barebellied to shore until he scraped himself on the sand. He took few precautions.
His outward bravado masked his private insecurity. Few guessed how fragile Scott actually was.
And then came the Monday after Easter, and phone calls ricocheted through the family, catapulting a routine weekday into a time out of time. Scott was thirty-seven years old and left two sons under the age of six and a wife whose own mourning was put aside to make sure the boys' world remained intact.
The first blurry hours consisted of unexpected arrangements and hopeful ideas. People arrived in disbelief and gradually became mourners who had to be fed. In the cold light of the supermarket, I allowed Scott's five-year-old to pick whatever cookies he liked best, dumbly believing his favorite treat would make everything all better.
And later, from the quiet isolation that insulates pain, Scott's mother turned to me and offered, “Of course, we'll go to the beach.”
No surprise, really. Scott was his best self on the Outer Banks of North Carolina. There he crafted the life that suited him. The rhythm of a town that filled in the summer and emptied in the fall, the inner circle of residents who make the strand their home in every season, a relaxed life based on the vagaries of catching fish in the surf. These were the best of Scott.
He introduced the rest of us to the place, and it became the summer destination we looked forward to all year.
But time moved Scott away from North Carolina. His twenties gave way to his thirties and a mortgage, children, and a career with challenges that intensified as his responsibilities grew. He gave hints that he was in trouble, and told it outright to a few people. But he gave no clue to his brother or his mother; he didn't tell his father. And then, on his very first effort to die, he was gone.
HAWAII
Poipu, Kauai
HAWAII
Poipu, Kauai
Summer came, and as always, we headed for South Nags Head. I looked for Scott in the blue sky, the ocean, the air. He was already so present in the silences that punctuated conversations, the spaces in a house missing an important resident, the empty chair by the window where he had been photographed the summer before.
Meanwhile for the children, it was summer vacation. They fell on the bed to wrestle with each other, jumped up and down, watched videos, and stayed up late. For them, life was a matter of what was happening today, right now. It was the lesson we adults were struggling to learn.
There were still great meals to be made and shared, days lengthened by a languid arc of the sun, walks along the shoreline that might result in finding an entire unbroken pink whelk.
We were transfigured, scarred, healing into a new unit, minus Scott. This was how it was going to be; he was never coming back. There was no reason to look for him anymore.
Still, we gaped when a cover of splendid, tall white clouds moved in one afternoon at the end of our trip. Minutes earlier, the sky had been an unbroken August blue. Massed around a perfect opening, they permitted an intense ray of yellow sunshine to fall in a solid, focused beam.
We all turned our faces up. I sat down, stunned by the purity of the light. For a moment, heaven opened to us.
Nobody said anything about Scott. And there he was.
Maggie Wolff Peterson
H
ope is the thing with feathers, that perches in
the soul, and sings the tune without the words,
and never stops at all.
Emily Dickenson
The sun glowed high in the sky as Mom sat on the balcony overlooking the beach with that forlorn expression on her face. My heart ached to see her that way. Tomorrow she would leave.
Earlier that day, all six of us played on the beach. David and I chased the three little ones, while Mom sat in a chair and watched her grandchildren explore the wonders of their first beach experience.
Would she ever be truly happy again? Would we ever see joy
reflected in her smile once more?
The baby toddled to the water's edge and plopped into the sand with a splash. He scooped up fistfuls of wet sand and laughed when he threw them back into the water.
Our daughter, the oldest at five, jumped waves with her daddy in water no higher than her belly button. With her small hand in his, she giggled with delight as each wave rolled in and gently crashed along the shoreline.
Mom watched silently with the hint of a forced smile.
Dad wasn't supposed to die. We were all supposed to come to the beach together. After the funeral, Mom took a break from legal matters to vacation with us for a few days. I rode up with her, and David brought the kids down by himselfâa twelve-hour drive with children that young.
Josh, the four-year-old, suddenly spied a flock of seagulls. He had never seen these creatures before and was totally fascinated with them. My son, who needed to experience everything for himself, scampered after the birds to get a closer look.
The birds at first scurried away from the oncoming charge. Josh slowed momentarily when he saw they were running from him. He was not dissuaded and decided to try again and darted after those birds like a bullet. The seagulls took to the air, landing several feet away. Josh ran as fast as his little legs could carry himâa new destination, but the same goal. He was determined to get one of those birds.
That's when I heard it. While the game repeated itself, I heard Mom laugh. Although briefly, she did laugh at the funny sight of a boy chasing birds he'd surely never catch.
The sound reminded me of our frequent trips to the beach when I was young. Dad loved it there. Often we'd find him early in the morning or late in the evening sitting on the deck watching and listening. That's where we found Mom most of the time on this trip.
“Picture time!” I called, opening the sliding glass door for the three bundles to rush into Grandma Mongonk's arms.