by Laura Lane
* * *
Catharsis
I drive up the dirt road and stop at the top of the grassy cliff. I turn off the car, leaving the keys in the ignition, and I sit momentarily suddenly feeling heavy. I roll down the window and feel the cool sea breeze caress my face and mess with my loose mousy hair. I don’t tie my hair back anymore. I leave it wild and hanging, the way you liked it. I would do everything the way you liked it. If only you’d come back.
The seagulls are calling me as they glide over head and then drop to the ocean out of my sight. I get out of the car with great effort. It was a long drive and I feel stiff. I carelessly leave my purse on the front seat. From where I stand on the cliff I can see that the shoreline is deserted. To my left I can see the lighthouse at Pipers Peek; automated and deserted. Was it that way when you disappeared beneath the waves? Was the beacon flashing to show you the way, but no one there to watch you flounder? No one to hear your cries.
I step to the edge of the wild rye grass and I am stranded at the edge of the sheer cliff. My dry eyes search the horizon, straining to find a blue and white troller. I fantasize that you will be cresting the next white cap. There is a cramped feeling in my stomach that my sigh does not release. I want to walk on the beach below, but there is no way to go down—unless I jumped. But not yet. I smile wryly at my own black humor.
Instead I retrace my steps slowly to the car, lost in my thoughts. I remember waving to you from the dock that last day. You stood tall and blond in the stern of the boat, fiddling with some tangled fishing gear and trying to steer the boat at the same time. You took off your “Gone fishin’” cap, that I had just given you, and waved it at me. You wanted me to come with you and be your deckhand for the day. You wanted to teach me to drive the boat. Next time, I told you, again. It was more important that I pick out a new outfit to wear, to meet your parents. I did meet your parents.
There is an unkempt maritime cemetery a quarter mile down the slope that my averted eyes had missed before. I hesitated momentarily, then I trudge through the long grass toward it. The wicket faded boards that surround the weather beaten white stones are broken and crooked, but the rusted iron arch signaling the entrance stands proud. The twenty odd grave stones are porous and jagged, and jut above the waving grass like white caps breaking. I don’t know where one grave ends and another begins. Long forgotten souls. Do they know that I am here? I try to read names and dates, but they have been erased by time.
I kneel beside one stone and feel the cool grass bend beneath my knees. I close my eyes and touch the stone. The coldness goes up my arm and down my spine. I keep my eyes closed and I trace your name on the blank stone with my finger. But you are not here. I cannot feel you. I suddenly can’t remember your face. I stand up and run away from the cemetery back to my car, and I drive recklessly toward the lighthouse.
There is a black pick-up parked on the cement ramp leading to the towering beacon. I park beside it, but I hesitate to get out. This is our time. I don’t want the thread of my thoughts to be broken. I don’t want to be social. I scrutinize the huge white cone with its red hat. I cannot tell from this angle if the light is on, but it does not appear to be rotating.
I can hear whistling from the other side of the lighthouse. A gray bearded man in paint slopped overalls saunters up and tosses paint cans and they clatter into the pick-up box. He nods at me, and keeps whistling an unfamiliar tune. I feel uncomfortable as he glances frequently at me while he straightens out his supplies. I feel obligated to say something.
“Can I get down to the beach from here?” The man stops whistling and comes to my door.
“It’s a pretty rocky place here, and the only safe way down is if you take the lighthouse stairs. The only hitch is that when I leave, I have to lock the gate, and you have to be out of here.”
“Okay,” I nod, “I can do that. Are you the watchman here?”
“No ma’am, just maintenance for the historical society. There hasn’t been any lighthouse keeper here in decades.”
“So,” I passed my sandpaper tongue over my weather dried lips, “so, if a boat sinks out there, there is no one here to rescue them?”
“No ma’am,” the man took off his cap, scratched his head then replaced the cap. My eyes lock his. I needed to know. “Only a call to the coast guard would do any good. Even functioning lighthouses are all automated. They’re only a guide to keep a boat off the rocks and find its way to port.”
I feel a tightening in my chest that radiates to my throat. I nod my understanding. I avert my eyes to the sea and hold my breath. No call was ever made to the coast guard. I do not want to cry here.
“Are you all right, ma’am?”
I nod and whisper, “I just want to walk on the beach.”
The man takes off his hat and scratches his head again. “I’ll tell you what, I’ll leave the padlock on the gate unlocked and when you leave, lock up for me. All right?”
I nod and whisper thank you. I follow him to the gate beside the lighthouse. He stooped down at the gate to pick up some crumpled paint rags to clear the way and I pass through the gate quickly and breathlessly run down the steep and twisting wooden steps.
“Watch your step!” he calls after me. “You can use the hand rail now, it’s dry. Don’t go into the water—there’s no life guards around here.” I stop to wave back at him, but he is already gone and I hear a motor start. I am alone.
It is difficult to walk on the dry sand with my sandals and I kick them off and bury my feet feeling the coolness beneath the sun heated surface. The sea is calmer and rolls into the shore without breaking. I am again walking with you along the beach at Sandpipers cove. I can feel again my hand in yours.
“If you find a perfectly round sand dollar,” you said, “all your wishes will come true.”
I can hear your voice in my mind, but I am alone. I start to search the sand in earnest for a sand dollar. I find one, then another. The gray leaf pattern on the bleached shells draws my attention only briefly as I begin to search the shoreline in earnest. I am in a frenzy. The only shape I find is oval. I know my wish is impossible. I want a miracle. I want you.
I drop down on the sand, exhausted from the feverish futile hunt. I stretch my legs out into the sun. The midday sun is warmer and I remove my sweater, the one you bought me. I didn’t like it at first, and I imagined all sorts of ways I could return it to the store, or ruin it. I wanted some roses, or jewelry for my birthday. You surprised me with a sweater to wear whenever I come fishing with you. But I never did. Fishing wasn’t my thing. Now I take that sweater everywhere and cry into it at times.
Where do I go from here? I stand up and advance into the water. One step at a time. The cold water rushes at me like a greeting and sweeps the sand between my toes, then pulls away sucking my feet into the bottom. The water is icy, but I continue. I have found your face again and I keep myself focused on it. The water reaches my thighs and I can feel myself being pulled physically forward. The waves continue to roll towards me, and I am the breakwater, until I am enveloped.
One thousand and one, one thousand and two, one thousand and three. The water has swept over my head, gurgling in my ears, blocking my nose. One thousand and four, one thousand and five, one thousand and six. I am holding my breath. I am so calm. I am floating beneath the waves. One thousand and seven, one thousand and eight, one thousand and nine. I am still alive. I have hopes. I have dreams. I have a life. I love you. I miss you…but I can’t follow you. And you would not want me to.
I fight my way back to the surface, swimming to shore, coughing and crying. I trip over my numb legs. My sobbing sounds foreign to me. But I am not alone in my grief, the seagulls cry with me.
I pull the dry sun warmed over-sized sweater over my shaking body and crouch down on my knees. I am quiet now and I stare out at the growing whitecaps starting to break again on the shore. My vision blurs from the salt water and the tears that wash my eyes.
* * *
&
nbsp; Leave Your Message At The Beep
The sky scraper shook like a leaf in a furious autumn windstorm. I dropped the phone receiver that I had been dialing. I tried to hang onto the edges of my desk as my chair kept sliding away from it. In that instant, the lights went out and the air conditioning stopped, then the fire alarm rang, followed by the water sprinklers spraying cold water.
The people around me were all calling out, everyone demanding to know what was happening. We still had light through the solid unopened tinted windows. We could all make out each other’s horror stricken faces. Someone down the hallway was crying. I wasn’t at that point yet.
Earth quake in this city? I don’t think so. I pulled my chair back to my desk and picked up the telephone receiver. Luckily I hadn’t yanked the cord out of the telephone. I hung up the receiver, and then lifted it up again. The phone lines were dead. I watched a few fellow colleagues run for the exit, and thinking I should join them, I started fumbling around under my desk to grab my purse, and then make my exit.
“Oh my god!”
I banged my head under my desk at the screech. When I looked up through the rain from the sprinklers, there was black smoke invading through the exit door.
“Close the damn door!”
But the damage was complete. The toxic fumes were mixing in with our last reserves of breathable air. I went back under my desk, and rummaged in my purse that was beginning to float on the wet floor. I fished in it for my cellphone. I was starting to cough a little now, like everyone else. I was relieved that I had a signal, and I punched in a number, while trying to protect the cellphone from the downpour. I was getting the answering machine after four long rings. The water was heating up on the floor and my feet felt a little warm in my shoes. I brought my feet up on the wheel support legs of the chair.
The walls around us were groaning their misery. They seemed to be trying to buckle, and cracks were slithering along the ceiling above me. I prayed that I would be heard above the racket and screaming, as I waited for the beep. Beep.
“Honey, I think I’m going to be late for supper again. Please don’t be mad. And Honey, I don’t think I’ll be getting that promotion I was counting on. I really wish I could talk to you right now. I love you—“
* * *
If I Tell You The Truth
If I tell you the truth
Will it hurt you?
Would you cry?
Or would you turn your face away from me?
Then walk away.
If I tell you the truth
Would you believe me?
If I said that I never meant to hurt you?
Would you react in anger?
Pound your fist against the wall
Instead of striking me?
I would be afraid to approach you.
Would you leave?
Or collapse against the wall?
Burying your face in your arms?
If I asked for forgiveness
Would you forgive me?
Has what I’ve done destroyed us?
I am afraid
Of what might become of us
I seal my lips
And vow never to tell you.
I will carry this burden alone
Until it destroys me.
* * *
Black and White Photograph
Quite a looker
Slim and Trim
Hair styled popular in the ‘50s
Black and white photograph bearing no resemblance
Bloated and jaundiced
Tubes poking out of all orifices
Orifices where they don’t belong
Did you ever imagine what lay ahead?
Face frozen in time
Still smiling
###
Laura Lane continues to write and plans to release more of her writing for readers in the world to enjoy.
Also by Laura Lane for Children/Young Adult: Herakleion Treasures, and Dragon Tamer