by Sorbe, Lisa
The room starts to tilt, swaying like the bow of a ship on rough seas. Suddenly nauseous, I press my palm to my forehead, surprised to find it slick with sweat. I swallow down bile, lean back against the pillows of my king-sized bed, and take a few deep, cleansing breaths. But the bed’s broad dimensions only add to my unease, emphasizing my loneliness, and chills followed by a hot flash followed by more chills course through my body. The comforter and sheets are white, so white, eye-burning white, and all this empty space around me – this empty, negative space – throws me into a panic, makes my heart flutter and my blood rush and my teeth clench.
And then I laugh. I laugh and cough and sputter because the bottle of gin I had for dinner is doing its best to come back up for a second act. I hiccup and snort hot bile through my nose, which makes me laugh harder, and it’s only when I taste the tears on my lips that I realize I’m crying.
Another laugh, a phantom laugh, trills lightly through the room, as if someone from somewhere, spying through a portal in a hidden reality, thinks that whatever breakdown I’m having is so funny, so outright hilarious, that it’s pulled up a chair to watch the one-woman show.
But when an image of her and Hollis floats ghost-like before my eyes, appearing the way they were that day at the café, when she leaned against him while reading his morning’s work and he kissed her forehead while she did, making her giggle, I realize the laugh is simply an echo stirred from memory.
Not that it matters. Because figment of my imagination or not, it’s still there, right in front of me, as if I’m sitting in the café and witnessing the entire scene all over again.
If I could crack open my head and claw that memory right out of my brain, digging my fingernails in as deep as I could, I would.
I howl and throw my phone across the room.
My life is dull.
This is something I’m aware of, yet never something that’s been an issue.
Until now.
Most people think that being filthy rich would lead to exciting things, like exotic trips and fabulous parties and unending access to all the newest gadgets and gizmos that are being pumped into society’s hands more and more as the years go by.
But for me, at least, it doesn’t. And, as it stands, I’m not the one who’s filthy rich. My husband is. I’m just along for the ride.
Up until now, I suppose I’ve felt powerless to rectify it. Although that would be complete bullshit. When you’re depressed – and yes, I’ll admit it, I’ve been suffering from some degree of depression for years now – just getting out of bed each morning is a challenge. The weight of the day is overwhelming, all consuming, leaving barely enough energy to shower much less take on an insurmountable task like totally reinventing my life.
And really, what am I supposed to do? Branch out on my own when I’m in my late thirties with nothing to my name but an outdated degree in the arts and a mildly successful business that, even though it bears my name, I don’t even own?
I wouldn’t even know where to begin.
I’ve become too complacent, too comfortable in my discomfort.
And therein lies the problem. Apathy has become the norm, and the only feelings I feel are the rotten ones, the hurtful ones, the despair and ache and hopelessness. Bad memories swim easily to the surface, and even the good ones are so tainted by sourness that they’re too painful to indulge.
I crave and abhor the days when numbness reigns.
Ford stares at me now, waiting for an answer. His expression is a blatant reminder of why I still need him, even after proving myself in the sack. I need him so I can remember how to live. My life is dark, so dark, and it’s been that way for so long. And for no real reason, either. There’s been no horrible, traumatic event that would make this darkness festering inside of me easy to explain away. And somehow, that makes it all the worse.
I wish I had a reason, one moment in my life where I could point my finger and say, Yes! Yes! That’s it! That’s the thing that makes me feel this way!
Because if you know the reason, you can work outward from there. I have my suspicions, of course. But no concrete proof. No actual evidence, no tug in my gut that, when I evaluate scenes from my past, lets me know I’m on the right track. It seems I’ve always been this way, prone to melancholy, and for years I just thought this was how life, my life, was meant to be. I accepted it, even filled a glass and drank to it, figuring if you can’t beat it, drown it with drink.
And then I read Hollis’s book.
Holy shit, I read Hollis’s book.
It was a ray of hope, a needle of light piercing the shadow cocooning my heart.
For so long, I thought I needed that shadow, my shadow, the one that’s kept me from risking too much, from daring to the point of getting irrevocably hurt. I suppose it’s just another safety mechanism of the ego, a cryptic code stemming from the reptilian part of my brain or some psychological bullshit like that.
But now I’m beginning to wonder. Maybe I don’t need it.
Maybe the wisest thing to do would be to step right into the fucking fire.
Right into Ford’s sunshine.
“Sure,” I say in answer to his question. “Why the hell not?”
• • •
This. This is why the hell not.
The waves batter the bow of my kayak, spilling up past the nylon spray skirt connecting the kayak to my waist. Water slaps my chin, stings my eyes, so that the view of the shore seems farther away, more distant than it is.
I throw a desperate look at Ford, who is bobbing beside me in a wetsuit, just as another waves rolls over Lake Superior’s rough surface. My kayak dips and tilts, first to one side and then the other, taking my stomach with it. “I’m…I’m not so sure about this.”
Ford’s smile is gentle, encouraging. “You’re doing fine, Becca. Great, actually. Now, get in the setup position that I showed you, okay?”
I take a deep breath and place my paddle parallel alongside the kayak, the blades flat along the water’s surface. But when I tuck my head and body forward, leaning in towards the paddle, and feel the dip of my kayak, I squeal and freeze up. A small wave coupled with the weight of my body is just enough to flip me over, and suddenly I’m under, the icy water burning a path up my nose. I swing my blade out like Ford taught me while rotating my upper torso, pulling downwards as I do. But panic sets in when I don’t feel the catch of the water and, frantic, I start pinwheeling my arms, flailing beneath the surface of the waves, the pressure in my chest swelling, swelling, the need to take in air overwhelming. Just when I’m certain I’m going to drown, literally die while suspended upside down in the Great Lake, the kayak flips again, and suddenly I’m upright, my body swaying from the whiplash, water coursing down my face, my neck, the back of my halter top. I take a moment to gather my bearings, gulping in breath after delicious breath as I do, and try to remember why I’m doing this.
“Thanks,” I sputter, swiping the back of my hand against my mouth. My life jacket is up around my ears, and I’m sure I look worse than a drowned rat. But it’s just Ford, so who cares?
My rescuer, the one who saved me by flipping this fiberglass contraption over when I couldn’t, reaches up and gives my arm a squeeze. “You’re panicking when you go under.”
I snort. “Obviously. It’s hard not to.” The water is suffocating, the way it closes in, filling my ears, turning the silence into a scream. Flipping upside down in the icy waves is like being suspended over my own watery grave. I’m not exactly afraid of water, but I’ve never been a swimmer, despite growing up in a state that’s coined itself The Land of 10,000 Lakes. I never had time for leisurely activities when I was a kid because I was too busy taking care of everyone: running our house, watching my younger siblings, and making sure my mother made it out of bed and into the shower at least once a week. She demanded so much of my time, even more so after my dad left, and frivolous hobbies like swimming took a backseat to more pressing matters like cooking, cleaning, and smooth-talk
ing our landlord into letting rent slide in later and later each month.
When Ford asked me to go kayaking with him, I didn’t figure there would be this much to it. This much preparation before I could even start – like learning to roll the kayak in case a wave knocks you over, less you get stranded upside down and drown. The spray skirts are a necessity, but they lock you in fairly tight, and it’s almost like you’re a caterpillar in a cocoon who can’t break free. Sure, I knew Lake Superior was considered an inland sea, that its surface wasn’t as calm as the smaller lakes around the area. But this monstrous body of water makes the others look like mere ponds, even puddles, and until you really get right down on it, you have no idea how the surface rocks and rolls, sways and swoops. It’s alive, a goddamn entity, and if it feels like sucking me out of the world above and into its murky depths, then I’m powerless to stop it.
“It’s just…” I pause, waiting for a bout of teeth chattering to pass. “I didn’t think it’d be this hard. I thought, you know” – more teeth chattering – “kayaking. S-sounded pretty s-simple.”
Ford gives my kayak a little push. “Okay,” he says, gliding along with it. “Enough for today. Let’s get you back to shore and warm you up.”
I dig my paddle into the water. “No! Let’s keep g-going. I want to do this. I can do this.”
“Becca.” Ford frowns, the expression transforming his features from flesh to stone in seconds. The water has darkened his light hair, and his eyes are the steely color of the lake, containing within them depths just as unfathomable. He’s beautiful here, in his element, like an oceanic god who thrives in wild seas that easily devour mortal men.
My heart stutters, and it’s not from the cold.
“Please?” The begging feels good, like a relinquishment of control. There’s relief in it, this need for permission. In letting someone else take the reins for a while. The anticipation I get while waiting for his answer is delicious.
Ford doesn’t smile, and I kind of like it when he doesn’t. He’s all hard edges and firm spirit, somehow larger when he’s the one who holds my desire in the palm of his hand. For a moment I forget Hollis, forget Nicholas, forget about my plan altogether. Right now, Ford is my focus; he’s all I can see, all I can feel.
“Please.” Just a whisper this time. Though I’m starting to realize my request has little to do with staying out on the water and everything to do with…with…something else entirely. A ghost of awareness hovers, though it’s still too ethereal to fully grasp.
“One more try.” He says this with a sternness that makes me bite my lip, bite back a smile and a swoony sigh.
I nod and allow him to glide me over the waves, back in place, and then watch as he pushes away, treading water off to my right.
“Just relax,” he says, and though his voice is soft, the words come out like a command rather than a suggestion.
Determined, remembering that Hollis appreciates an unrestrained sense of adventure, I assume the position and…roll. Like the last three times, my heart rises in my throat, though only briefly, and I’m able to swallow it back down with a new resolve, a fortitude I didn’t even know I had. The water is thick, the pressure suffocating, but I force myself to remain calm, remain present. I don’t think about the precarious angle from which I’m suspended, nor the fact that one desperate inhale would be the death of me. Instead, I think of Ford, of his kind eyes and dark intensity. Of his unwavering belief in me, a woman he met only days ago yet already seems to have so much faith in. He’s a light to my inner world, chasing away the fear, the doubt. Gritting my teeth, I maneuver my paddle to a ninety-degree angle, snag water, pull, and snap my hips at just the right moment.
When I pop up out of the water, I do it with a little squeal of excitement, the sense of accomplishment to enormous to contain. “I did it!”
Ford is smiles, all smiles, and he slaps the lake’s surface with his hand before swimming over to me. “I knew you could!” Pressing his palms against the kayak, he lifts himself up slightly, just enough to brush a kiss over my lips. Then, he moves his mouth to my ear. “That’s my girl.”
His voice is a husky whisper, one that makes me swoon. Right there, atop the wobbling waves, I fucking swoon. Pulling back, I shoot him a look. “Is that what I am, Ford? Your girl?”
He doesn’t even hesitate. “Yeah, Becca. Fuck yeah, you are.”
Marla uses the hashtag blessed, like, all the fucking time.
In fact, she posts to her Instagram account so much that, at any given time of the day, I know where she is and exactly what she’s doing. Some of the photos contain Hollis. Almost all of them contain the kid. Quite a few images display meals – both homecooked and of the restaurant variety. From the looks of it, Marla is fond of her crockpot.
Set it and forget it.
Because Marla is a busy girl. Her life is full. She always has something going on, some place to be. Yesterday it was ballet class with the kid, who was so decked out in pink tulle it made my ovaries twist. Apparently, the class is preparing for an end of the summer recital, though the tiny dancers could barely be coaxed into paying attention to the teacher much less maintain the sort of focus needed to perform complex ballet movements. But no one seemed to care; everyone was laughing and smiling and having the best fucking time ever. Marla filmed a portion of the class (of course she did) and uploaded it to her Instagram video feed (of course she did), which I watched no less than twenty-seven times.
Annoying, annoying, annoying.
Today Marla is teaching yoga. And not just any kind of yoga. Laughing yoga.
I mean, good fucking grief, right?
I’m scrolling through her account when the new image pops up, one of her and the kid, and the class is right there behind them, waving, all of them waving and so damn merry it makes me want to puke. The timestamp below the photo shows that it was posted one minute ago, and the caption practically screams: Laughing Yoga at the waterfront! Come on down!
I recognize the location; it’s just down the street from Ford’s building. From what I’ve learned, Hollis and his family live in the same area – the coffee shop where he writes and Ford’s apartment along with the bar where we officially met are all within the same four block radius. Many of Marla’s photos feature the industrial, loft-style apartment that she and Hollis share, and by studying the shots from various angles, I’ve pinpointed the exact building they’re in. I’ve walked by it a few dozen times but haven’t ventured inside yet. (Stupid doorman.)
It’s a little past eight on a Sunday morning, and silence fills the apartment. The quiet is relaxing, but just knowing that Marla is out in the open and so close is hard to resist. I pull myself from Ford’s bed, doing my best not to disturb him, and throw on one of his black t-shirts along with a pair of leggings. Quiet as a mouse, I wind my hair into a bun while slipping into my sandals. Then, snagging my sunglasses from the kitchen bar, I tip-toe to the door. Remembering that the metal hinges tend to shriek if opened too wide, I give the knob a gentle twist and push myself through a crack barely large enough for a child much less a grown woman. But I fit, sucking in what little gut I have, and the door falls shut behind me with a whisper.
Now that I’m out of Ford’s earshot, I pick up my pace, flying down the creaking stairs and through the front lobby, the soles of my shoes scraping against the concrete floor as I jog-skitter across it. I slam into the glass doors, pushing my sunglasses on as I go. Once outside, I force a few deep breathes and slow to a fast walk in the direction of the lake. It’s not far, and suddenly I’m there, right there, quicker than I anticipated. Marla and her hippie students are spread out in front of me, all laughing and rolling their hips and making windmill motions with their arms. There’s a bench a few yards away, and I make my way over to it, plopping down and pulling out my phone, pretending to be so engrossed by what’s on the screen that I can hardly be bothered to look up. But I do, just enough to slide my eyes their way – her way – so I can watch, watch, watch. I take it
all in, the way Marla laughs, her voice ringing out above all the rest. The kid wonders between the people, clutching a stuffed animal to her chest, and they all cackle harder when she does something cute, something kiddie, like bouncing on the balls of her feet or dancing to the music crooning from a ghetto boom box on the ground next to her mother.
It’s all I can do not to roll my eyes at this utter display of ridiculousness. The idiots wiggle their bodies and clap their hands and bounce around like they’re drunk, and all the while their mouths are hanging open like fish gulping for air. The kid is having a blast; now she’s up by her mother, circling her hips like she’s working an invisible hula hoop.
The dumbasses roar, and I snort.
I stay for the whole session, though start to regret it when they join hands and start frolicking in a circle. The kid dances around inside of it, the center of attention, always the center of attention, because it’s a kid and oh-my-god aren’t kids just the best? Her dark curls have been twisted into two ponytails, and they bob along with her movements, like tiny little birds fluttering about her head. After a while, one of the pink ribbons holding the strands in place comes undone, and it hangs loosely beside her cheek, causing the attached ponytail to sag.
Marla really should fix that.
My fingers twitch and itch, so I sit on them, but then my right foot starts bouncing, and my knee pops up and down, up and down, up and down. I still it with my hand, but then that twitchy-itchy feeling starts up again, so I hop up from the bench and circle around the group, trying to seem as uninterested as I can while still keeping tabs on the lot. The lake is only a few steps in front of me, so I turn my back to the class and snap a couple pictures with my phone, trying to calm this sudden burst of frenetic energy. The waves are lazy this morning, unlike yesterday when I was out with Ford, and I find my mind slipping back to him, to his bed, wondering if he’s awake yet, if he’s missing me, wondering where I am. Just the thought of him calms me, slows the rapid beat of my heart. I’m sure he had plans for breakfast in bed, followed by sex in the kitchen, maybe again in the shower, and suddenly I wonder what the hell I’m doing here, watching Marla and the kid when I could be getting all cozy with my hot photographer boyfriend.