by John Decure
The shorepound was more of a sound than a sight and rushed up like a linebacker, dunking me twice before I glided into slack water. Weaver would kill me if he knew, I thought; but he’d understand. He was turning out to be a very patient guy, willing to let me take my time shedding my lonely-girl ways.
The first wave I rode on instinct alone, as my eyes were still adjusting to the myriad shadings of night. I paddled back up the point, reflecting on Dora. By now, I’d deciphered a pattern in my manic visions. Mostly I’d been chased by the present, in the form of buildings; and chased by the past, by my father’s ghost. Past or present, the visions had the same effect: to compel me to seek an escape.
Weaver’s assessment that night at the fifties diner was essentially correct. Dora had fled this place long ago; my visions of him therefore fit the pattern. Only now, my desire to escape was diminishing daily.
Seemed I had it all figured out.
Until just before I came in, when on my paddle back up the line, I saw him swing into a jet-black insider, click his feet and dance and arch and stall and toy and power his way through a series of falling sections, right by me, both of us feeling the moment more than seeing—well, the electricity, the exquisite delicate celebratory buzz, the stoke that permeated our cynical defensive fears and told us to live this life no matter the rest, just take off and glide in… it was all too much, too perfect beyond imagining—even for me.
Which led me to reassess the true depth of my understanding of this phenomena, boiling it down to more subtle, durable essence.
Dora lives.
* * *
They brought in a cake for Mendibles to celebrate his last day in our section, sent an e-mail to everybody on staff to come to the conference room at three. I thought about leaving, just going home early to avoid the whole awkward spectacle, but I was behind on a brief that had to be filed the next day and had to keep typing.
About five minutes past three, I heard a knock on my door.
“I’m busy,” I called out.
The door rattled open a few feet and Raul’s secretary, Virginia, wedged her head in. I know she thinks I’m quite insane—her description—because I overheard her once in the ladies’ room when I was occupying the end stall. At the time I hated her guts for it. Now, I don’t even seem to care anymore.
“We’re cutting the cake,” she said. She’d worn a soft gold tapestry dress and put her blonde hair up for the occasion and I was reminded that for all I knew, Mendibles may have been a completely different person when he was with her. But none of that mattered enough to change my mind about today.
“I’m really tied up with this motion.”
Her hand stuck fast to the doorknob, as if holding back the frustration and disdain she had for me. I feigned deep concentration, bearing down on my computer screen with the hope that she’d just leave me alone. Instead, she stayed put.
“What?” I said finally.
Virginia sighed. “He’s… asking for you.”
I took my hands off the keypad, concocting an apropos excuse, a suitable white lie. “Tell him…”
Not a damn thing came to mind. At first, I felt tangled up; frustrated, as if I could do better to conjure something, anything to get rid of this lady, to help her conclude this fool’s errand she so plainly loathed. Yet… I had to give myself credit, for my thinking was perfectly clear: the answer lay in the nothingness of my response.
“Uh, excuse me, but… you were saying?”
I smiled.
“Sorry. I can’t think. Tell him anything you want.”
She sighed and shook her head. “Anything?”
“Just, don’t hurt his feelings. No need for that.”
Virginia’s demeanor seemed to soften as she stood in my doorway, mulling a private decision. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Thank you.” I had an impulse to say something out of character. “Hey, that dress? Gold is your color.”
“Thanks.” She looked at me as if considering me anew. Reassessing, I almost hoped. But not quite getting there. “Okay—um, gotta go.”
After all, I am still the Warrior Queen.
The door closed, but the future—my future—seemed to crack open a little wider. My hands slid off the keyboard and I sat back, pinpointing the calm welcoming quiet and pulling it in until I was centered in the broadest possibility of the moment, which in that instant, revealed a gift: to be alone again, alone to dance freely within the crystal palace of my thoughts.
THE END
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My thanks go out to Fatemah Abooterab, MD, Josh Naqvi, MD, Paul S. Levine, Alexandra Hess, and my sister Suzanne for their thoughtful and timely guidance. Special thanks to my wife, Cynthia, for her support and encouragement. I am also grateful to Elyn R. Saks, JD, PhD, whose memoir, The Center Cannot Hold, casts an unsparing light on living—and thriving—with mental illness.