Destiny Lingers

by Rolonda Watts

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  I am going to kill whoever is beating on my door like that. I stumble my way to the door and swing it open, ready to lay one on the big banger—and much to my shock and surprise, there stands Mother.

  “You look horrible!” she exclaims as she pushes her way past me and inside my home. “What in the world has happened to you?” Mother looks me up and down.

  “Why are you here?” I ask.

  “Because you didn’t sound right last night, and your father and I were worried sick, that’s why!” She moves into the kitchen.

  “Did Daddy come?” I ask, looking toward the car. My heavy and hurting head is still in a fog, but I would give anything for a hug from my daddy right now.

  “No.” She shakes her head and sighs while peeping into the kitchen cabinets. “He had patients to see today and thought it would be best if we had a little mother-daughter time”—whatever that’s supposed to mean.

  “I see …” I say, but I don’t.

  “My God! Do you eat?” Mother has made her way to the empty refrigerator, where there’s nothing in it but the light.

  “I just haven’t had the chance to shop, that’s all,” I explain.

  “You may not eat but clearly, you are drinking.” Mother raises the half-empty bottle of scotch to my eye level, peering at me with a raised brow through the pinched glass.

  “So I had a drink,” I say.

  “A drink?” she asks incredulously. “Not the way you smell today and sounded last night. You had a lot more than one. And you had us worried stiff! So I jumped in the car and headed here first thing this morning. The last thing we need is for you to go off the deep end again.”

  My head is throbbing even harder now. I wish that she would stop making me field all these questions and get back in her car and go home. Somehow, having her five hours away makes my life a lot easier.

  “Let’s go shopping,” she suddenly chirps. Mother loves to shop. To her, the thrill of buying things seems to solve every problem. “Well, you have to have groceries in here. You can’t survive on scotch alone.”

  “Mother, I can’t make it,” I confess, knowing there is no way I can handle being cooped up in a car with Mother right now.

  “Well, I’ll run to the market. You jump in the shower and be ready for lunch when I get back. And comb your hair.” Mother grabs her keys and her Hermes purse and is out the door.

  I drag myself upstairs, pop a couple of aspirin, and jump in the shower; the cool water is soothing. How in the world am I going to deal with my mother today? I do need groceries, and I do appreciate her wanting to feed me, and maybe once she sees that I’m okay with a house full of food, then she’ll leave.

  I move out of the shower, feeling a bit better. By the time I get dressed, Mother is in the dining room, putting the finishing touches on our mother-daughter brunch table. She has broiled salmon, boiled rice, and tossed a fresh salad. I can’t possibly be mad at her today. We get through lunch with a long talk about my future—whether I’ve chosen the right divorce lawyer, and Mother wants to make sure I get every set of Wedgewood china we got as wedding gifts. She also presses the point that alcohol is never going to solve my problems, so I should lay off the bottle, since I apparently don’t handle it well anyway.

  I would love to escape from my mother—take a walk on the beach, clear my mind, clear the air, clear the area—but it has started to rain, so I make a cup of tea and sit here on the couch where my day began, listening to the brawling brook that is my mother. While she talks on and on, I stare out over the stormy sea, thinking about Chase and the irony that we have known each other most of our lives and have waited for this moment of rediscovered friendship for a lifetime.

  “Thank you for sharing lunch,” Mother says as she clears the last dishes and crumbs off the table. “I’m going to take a nap now. This day has exhausted me.”

  You? I think, but instead, I say, “Good, Mother, that’ll be a good thing to do.” I’m happy to finally get a break.

  I turn on the television and am watching a late-afternoon soap opera when a tropical storm warning scrawls across the bottom of the screen. I hope this nasty storm passes. It’s a bear being trapped inside this house with Mother, even when she’s sleeping.

  The sky has turned gray, and the wind and rain are whipping through the sea grass, tossing it into a wild and frenzied dance. The waves crash violently against the shore. I snuggle back underneath Aunt Joy’s old throw, dreaming of falling asleep in Chase’s arms to the pounding ocean and rain. I am snuggling in deeper, readying myself for my much-needed slumber, when the doorbell rings. Who in the world could it be now? In the middle of the afternoon? And in this bad storm? Annoyed, I drag myself to the door and impatiently swing it open.

  There stands Chase. Is this a dream? Was he reading my mind?

  “Chase? Hey, how you doing? This is a surprise,” I say, just as a fierce, wet gust of wind blasts through the doorway. “Oh, please come in.” I fumble nervously, fighting through my daze, exhaustion, overwhelming surprise, and embarrassment. “Come in and get out of the rain, for goodness’ sake.” I pray he doesn’t smell the scotch and hope my face isn’t green. I quickly rub my hand over the back of my hair just in case of bed-head strays.

  Chase politely wipes his thick black leather boots on the doormat and enters. He removes his police hat and rubs his thick fingers through his sun-kissed hair. I am taken by how incredibly valiant, gentle, and handsome he is. Even in a drenched police slicker and rain-soaked boots, he is still my golden Adonis.

  Time stands still.

  But why is he here?

  “May I take your coat?” I offer.

  “Oh, no,” he says. “I’m on official business today. Just wanted to stop by and warn you to avoid driving tonight until this storm passes. We’ve got some nasty hurricanes headed this way and just want everybody to keep an eye on the weather reports in case we have to evacuate the island.”

  “Evacuate? Chase? Are you serious?”

  “Yes, it could get a lot worse. It’s a tropical storm; it’s hurricane season. You never know what Mother Nature might do, so make sure you batten down the hatches.”

  “I will. Thank you, Chase.”

  “But be on the safe side. Keep an eye on the news,” Chase says with a paternal yet genuine concern. This only adds to my all-the-great-things-I-like-about-Chase list. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a business card with his name embossed in gold: Police Chief Chase Monroe McKenzie. I rub my finger across the raised letters and silently swoon.

  “That’s my number if you need me. This’ll put you right through to the dispatch, and they’ll radio me in the patrol car. I’ll be right here.”

  “Okay, thanks. I’ll be all right.”

  “Well, Miss Dee—Miss Destiny—I better be moseyin’ on along now. Got some elders, babies, and pregnant ladies out there to calm down in this bad storm. Hope this puppy clears soon. I want to see you back On Assignment.” Chase winks.

  I blush.

  I know he cares because it’s his job to care, but I also feel his deep and loving concern for me and the other islanders. He’ll probably spend this rainy night stopping door-to-door, checking on each and every resident and renter. I hope he cares as much about himself as he does for others. And I pray he’ll continue to care this much about me.

  “You be careful out there too,” I warn him.

  “Will do. Bye now, Miss Dee,” he calls over his broad rain-drenched shoulder as he grabs the brim of his hat and ducks and dashes through the rain to his waiting patrol car.

  “Good-bye, Chase,” I call after him through the howl of the storm.

  I stand here in the threshold of my home, getting splattered by the wind-driven rain. I watch Chase sprint to his patrol car, agilely trying to dodge the raindrops. I could have sworn, as perfect as he is, he could hav
e just walked between them.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  I wake up the next morning and can smell coffee brewing and bacon frying. The sun is bursting through the windows, the sky is clear, and I can hear the playful cries of seagulls as they scurry along the beach, happy to have discovered a windfall from the sea. Interesting things always wash up on the shore after a major storm has churned up the ocean. I can’t wait to get out there and scavenge along with the seagulls, but first—Mother and breakfast.

  I walk into the kitchen, and Mother is setting the table.

  “What’s all this?” I ask.

  “Go wash up. Breakfast is almost ready. I wanted us to start this day fresh.”

  Mother has no idea how beautifully my day ended. And I take a certain pride and delight in holding this secret from her. She would fall into the coffee percolator if she knew that Chase McKenzie was actually in this house and that we enjoyed a wonderful reunion right there in my doorway last night. I look in that direction, remembering yesterday, hoping to find any trace of Chase still standing there. I smile a secret smile as I remember how sweetly he looked at me and how surprised and happy we both are to have finally found each other again.

  “Well, don’t just stand there with that dumb look on your face. Wake up, girl! Go wash up now. We’ll have breakfast, and then I’m going to hit the road.”

  “You’re leaving?” I try not to sound too obviously happy.

  She sighs. “Yes, it’s time to go. No need in prolonging your misery, dear.” She raises an eyebrow and a slight smile in my direction. “Plus, the storm has passed, the sun is out, and you seem to be back on your feet. You have plenty to eat here now, so go wash your hands.”

  It amazes me how my mother still orders me around, even in what is now my own house. She rarely spent a moment here throughout my childhood, and now she just shows up, starts shopping and cooking and ordering me around as if she lives here. I bite my tongue and count to a million, longing for the moment her Louis Vuitton overnight bag is back in her car, and she’s pulling out of my driveway. I do appreciate that she is at least trying. She has prepared a wonderful breakfast of waffles and strawberries, bacon, and scrambled eggs. She has even decorated the fluffy yellow eggs with pieces of fresh green parsley. “Presentation is everything, my dear!” she often reminds me.

  “It looks delicious, Mother,” I say as I sit across the table from her with cleaned hands.

  “Well, I hope you enjoy it,” she replies over her coffee cup.

  “Oh, I’m sure I will,” I say as I dig into Mother’s scrumptious peace offerings.

  “So, how long do you think you’ll be here?”

  “I dunno,” I reply truthfully. “Until I feel better about my life, I suppose, and in which direction I want to take it. I really don’t know right now.”

  “Well, what about your job? Your father and I are very concerned about what the station might think about all of this. I mean, how in the world are you going to bring home an Emmy if you’re down here crying all the time?”

  As harsh as her logic may be, I can’t argue with Mother. I have spent a lot of my days here crying from a broken and confused heart. But maybe that will change as time moves on and especially now that there’s an exciting chance to get to know Chase all over again. Suddenly, I can only feel tears of joy, as I am falling into the fantasy that fate is our friend. I desperately want to get to know my new home, my island, and my Adonis even more.

  “Mother, there is so much more to life than winning an Emmy,” I try to reason.

  “Like what?”

  “Well, like being happy. Like taking a second.”

  “You’ve taken weeks.”

  “No, Mother, I mean taking a second to take a second look at your life—the decisions that you’ve made. Have you ever wondered if the life you chose was really the life for you? The life you really wanted for yourself? Or were you in some way pushed into believing that that was the life you should live?”

  “Oh, Destiny, the questions you ask.”

  “Mother, look—Ralph Waldo Emerson says, ‘A life not examined is not a life worth living.’ And I really need to examine my life right now and see if this is really what I want, if I am heading in the right direction.”

  “Your father and I told you a long time ago that Garrett would one day lead you to all of this misery and confusion.”

  “Well, Mother, if it took Garrett to get me here to Topsail again, then so be it. Maybe it’s not misery you see. Maybe it’s just regrouping, catching myself turning around, taking a second chance, and starting over.”

  “Well, Destiny, I wish you luck,” Mother says as she shakes her head. “I have no idea what you’re talking about or what you see on this little country island when you have the whole island of Manhattan at your fingertips. But you have always been a romantic thinker.”

  “And thanks to dear Aunt Joy, I have a place to live and money from the generous trust she left me. I am set for quite a while, Mother. So please, don’t worry.”

  “Well, take your time—but not too long. You should put the bulk of that money into a savings account for your retirement, unless, of course, you’re claiming it now.” Mother rolls her eyes.

  “I don’t know, but what I do know is that I haven’t really spent time here since childhood. I want to take this summer to get to know this place again, to get to know the people here.”

  Mother stops her piddling around her plate and slowly looks up at me. “What people?” she asks suspiciously.

  “The island people.”

  “The island people? Oh, Destiny, how do you sound? You have no intentions of getting to know these sandy country bumpkins down here. It’s that Chase you’re after, isn’t it?”

  “Mother—”

  “Ohhh, you’re not fooling me, young lady. In fact”—Mother leans back in her chair and folds her arms—”I heard a man’s voice at the door yesterday afternoon. From all of your giggling, I could tell it was somebody you liked—a lot. I was curious, so I looked out of the window. I saw the patrol car.”

  I suddenly feel blood rush to my face, leaving me standing here blushing like a teenager caught in the backseat of the car.

  “Really!” I say, but it sounds so dumb.

  “The police chief,” Mother slowly articulates as if I’m deaf. “He was here yesterday, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes, he stopped by. He was on official storm duty. He said he was just stopping by to check things out.”

  “Hmpf. I bet he’s ‘checking things out,’ all right.” Mother darts me a look. “You be careful, Dee. Leave that man alone. His family is nothing but trouble, and he has no good intentions of letting you be a part of it.”

  “But Mother, Chase is not like the rest of his family. He has been nice to me and shown me nothing more than kindness and respect.”

  “Nice to you? Respect?” Mother persists with an incredulous look on her face. “Destiny, he’s the police chief. He’s supposed to be nice and respectful to you!”

  I stand here, hurt, looking at the woman who refuses to like anybody but herself.

  “Okay, Mother,” I say, trying to hold back my exasperation. “Here—let me take your plate. I know you must be in a rush. Want me to help you with your bag?”

  “Please.”

  Mother has already packed and placed her Louis Vuitton travel bag by the door.

  “Tell Daddy I love him,” I say as I help her out to the car.

  “I will,” she replies with a light smile as she starts the engine. “Your father loves you very much, you know.”

  “I know.” I nod.

  “We both worry about you a lot, though, Dee. But we know you’re a big girl now. You can take care of yourself—I hope. You call us if you need anything, you hear? And please, Dee, your father and I want you to leave that police officer alone!”

&n
bsp; “Police chief, Mother. Have a safe trip home.” I blow Mother a kiss and wave good-bye. She honks her horn a couple of times, signaling her grand farewell, and slowly pulls out of the driveway, back onto Highway 1, heading home.

  Today is such a beautiful and clear day it’s hard to believe there was actually the threat of a dangerous storm here just last night. The gentle breeze smells as pleasant and fresh as just-cleaned laundry. Everything seems happy, from the blades of sea grass dancing on the dunes, to the sandpipers zipping down the beach. And as I check into my emotional self, I find that finally I am happy too.

  I can see for miles up and down the beach and way out offshore. The ocean is frisky, but nowhere near the pouty little girl she was last night, sporting her dangerous riptides and angry waves. No, today she is simply a saint.

  I walk along the shore, dreaming of days gone by when I’d take my grandmother’s hand, and we’d comb the beach for interesting keepsakes, particularly after storms like the one last night. I instinctively hunt for a sand dollar, once so plentiful along this beach that you had to hopscotch to avoid cracking them under your bare feet. They were large and small, cracked, chipped, and whole, each of them extraordinary and beautiful in its own way.

  “Do you know how you can tell these are gifts from God?” my grandmother would ask me as she kneeled on the sand, speaking to me eye-to-eye. “You know how you can tell?”

  “Uh-uh. How, Grandma?” I would ask, filled with a child’s wonder.

  Then she would gently turn the sand dollar over in her delicate hand and softly brush away the white sand. There, in the middle, appeared a cross. “You see that?” Grandma would smile. “That’s how you tell.” As a curious child, I later discovered that if you break the sand dollar in half, like a cookie, a white dove also appears out of nowhere. Indeed, glorious and curious gifts from God on Topsail Island by the sea. Tranquility. I would give anything to make such a find today. I find a piece of twisted driftwood here, a barnacle-covered conch shell there, clumps of red and green seaweed strewn about, but rarely a sand dollar. Like a child, I search for them anyway.