The little cruise ship had every luxury you’d expect. I emailed Aunt Marie every few days via Lorraine’s email address, and we tried to schedule video calls on Sundays after she got home from Mass.
As soon as Lorraine saw that Curt and I were leaving for the ten-month assignment, she told the partners at her law firm that she would only work three days a week. They let her cut back, and from the tone of her emails, I figured she was enjoying her new, more peaceful, life. Aunt Marie had fallen twice since I left, but nothing broke, thank God, and except for some horrific bruising, she was mostly okay.
“Tell them I said hi.” Curt sat on the edge of the bed, all showered and shaved and ready for breakfast. We wouldn’t hit land again for a long while, but that was okay with me. I liked sea days. The writing desk sat near the sliding glass door to our balcony, so I could look out whenever I wanted. I’d prepared for our trip by loading several projects onto my computer and had immersed myself in both genealogy and photo organizing. I was also dabbling in a memoir, about being a chronic workaholic and what caused that to happen.
Curt was happily busy as well, doing research and learning about Arctic geology. He’d revise and prepare lectures which he gave every few days to a couple dozen passengers who’d gather in the ship’s lounge. At lunchtime, if it were a nice day, we’d meet on deck by the hot tub, where the cook put out a handful of tables. With only about a hundred people aboard, our fellow travelers were open to conversation, and we comprised a friendly little community. After lunch, Curt and I would read outside if it was warm enough, or maybe snuggle in for an afternoon together.
“I’m sorry it’s taking so long.” I sighed, waiting for the internet. “The signal is almost nonexistent.” The staff had advised us that relay station at Barrow would be the last signal we’d get for the next ten days, and even that wasn’t reliable. Finally, my email loaded. I scrolled through my messages, passing the fluff and searching for something from Lorraine. To my delight, she’d sent an email, already a week old. I clicked on it and waited patiently for the interminable load time. Finally, it opened, and I read the short message.
My breath stopped. My heart thudded in my chest.
My legs collapsed underneath me.
AUNT MARIE HAD PASSED away on Tuesday. The fall down her porch steps had been one too many. She developed difficulty breathing, then had a stroke, then her heart gave out.
The funeral was yesterday.
I stayed in bed all that day and most of the next. Every time I tried to get up, my body seemed to weigh a ton, and my brain felt like it was packed with soggy gray cotton. Tissues littered the bed around me. The blackout curtains had been pulled. The cabin was dark.
Curt was kind to me, bringing soup from the galley, trying to ply me with nutrients as if I had the flu. In a way I did. I had the family flu, the grief flu. I slept a lot, because every time I woke, it felt as if Mom had died all over again.
But worse this time, because with Aunt Marie’s death, a generation had fallen, and with it the wall between me and my own mortality. When I thought about my parents being gone, and my sixtieth birthday looming, I felt like life had turned very bleak, and I became afraid. I’d look at Curt, and the lines on his face, and wonder how long we’d have together, and what it was going to be like when I lost him and had to live with only his memory...I was a wreck.
I’ve heard it said that older people’s brains react differently to this kind of fear, that something happens and they’re more comfortable with drama of all kinds, including the ultimate drama of death. If it’s true, it’ll be good to get older, because at the moment I felt as if I were under a cloud of depression that would never lift.
But of course, it did. Like fog burning off the southern California coastline and retreating to its ocean lair, eventually, my grief cloud thinned and broke up, and I saw little patches of blue sky shining through. I began to wonder about our farmhouse, and how our renters were doing. About Alice, and her budding relationship with my nephew, Randy, and about my horses. And Glenda and what she’d decided to do about Denise and Dale.
You know. Life.
I felt like I was going to have to keep relearning things, in different variations or even the same, and that’s life. Maybe the learning will sink in better over time. Or maybe the challenges won’t be as fraught. I knew life was unpredictable and could be difficult, but also sometimes, you got to fly over the top rail on a big horse.
After a few days in bed, I finally dragged myself out one morning while Curt was in the shower. The ship was carving its way through some islands on the way to Resolute, Canada. I wrapped myself in a blanket and went out on the balcony. It was freezing.
Curt came up behind me, and his strong arms wrapped around me. He rested his head on my shoulder and our faces touched, our skin warm. I felt wobbly but hungry, and I wondered if there was anything in the galley left over from breakfast. Arctic terns, their wings sharp against the clear blue sky, gamboled and wheeled across the bow. We stood there for a long time, as our ship wound its way through the Northwest Passage, squinting against the brilliance of the Canadian sun.
Thank You for Reading & About the Author
I HOPE YOU ENJOYED my book. If you’d like to leave a review, I’m at Amazon and Goodreads. I’d be very grateful, since reviews are the only way authors can find new readers. Also, if you’d like to join my reader group for updates and giveaways, go to AnyShinyThing.com. Love to see you there!
Thanks to my critique group, my editors and beta readers, my cover artist Damon Freeman of Damonza.com, and my friends at the Diamond Valley Writers’ Guild, who offered me a virtual campfire around which to warm my writing heart.
About the Author
WHY DO I WRITE ABOUT older people?
Most novels feature the coming-of-age story in which young people figure out who they are and what they want to be. I want to know what happens next. What happens when the young ‘uns turn 45? 55? 70?
At midlife, we experience a second coming-of-age. This is the time to make it happen, reexamine choices, and forge new paths. We know the clock is ticking, so we’re on fire to make our time count. We face unique obstacles, whether illness or death, or life-threatening heartache, or the low expectations of the culture.
As we age, our characters deepen. We might decide to stop being doormats and take a stand, or make the greatest sacrifice of our lives. We have dreams. We lay out goals and objectives. We start businesses. We cook up schemes. We fall in love.
We throw the Hail Mary pass, risking everything, just like young people.
That’s the Older Adult coming-of-age story. As fascinating as the kids are, older peeps are just as fascinating. We may not be as pretty, but we’re more devious and complicated, and so are our stories. These are the stories I’m passionate to write about, God willing, for the rest of my life.
For more information about my books, please visit http://www.anyshinything.com/
Dakota Blues Box Set Page 77