I know who she is speaking of and I feel defensive of the girl who captured a piece of my heart with her beautiful brokenness. “Did she say her name?”
“I don’t remember, Vera. She wrote down her number, but I threw it away. She seemed like a crazy.”
It is a bit after seven a.m. and I know yesterday’s trash has likely been emptied by the evening janitor, but I check anyway. Sometimes Carl misses the small bin beneath the nursing station desk. I sigh unhappily. The trash is gone. But if the woman who was here is Lena, then I am sure I can get her number from her hospital records. I likely shouldn’t—it’s unorthodox, as she is no longer our patient—but she needs me. I know this in my heart.
The hospital records only show one number, a Savannah area code, and it is listed to Truman Kent. I see in the file that he has already been called to check on Lena after her discharge. That’s normal procedure. Is it a home phone? His cell? I do not wish to talk to him; there was something off about their relationship; she wasn’t happy with him. It didn’t take strong intuitiveness to see that.
I dial the number anyways, not giving a thought to how early it is—barely seven thirty. It rings six times before a woman answers. It is not Lena. This woman has a distinctly Hispanic accent. “Kent Residence, Marianna speaking.”
A landline. I feel I am in luck, as I am sure Truman would not give me Lena’s number. He didn’t like it—that day I’d told her how special she is, that she shouldn’t let the world snuff out her kindness and shimmering aura.
“Hello?”
I’ve been quiet too long. Clearing my throat, I quickly think of what to say. “Hello, I’m sorry to call so early, Marianna. My name is Vera Clune. I’m a nurse at Memorial Health. I need to speak with a Lena McMillan, please. This is the number we have on file.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, señora, Señorita Lena isn’t home right now.”
It is odd to me, that I should be señora and Lena should be señorita, but perhaps I sound my age—a wizened grandmother with too many white hairs to count. “It’s rather urgent, about her medication.” I cross my fingers, hoping this woman knows very little about the couple she cleans for so that she has not spoken intimately with either party. Truman does not seem the type to converse with the help. Lena, though, with her soft spirit—she is the type that may have befriended Marianna.
“I wish I could help…” Marianna’s voice trails off, and then comes to life again. “Wait, I have Señor Kent’s work number, would that help? He is always there by eight.” She sounds hopeful, as if she has stumbled upon an obvious solution.
But it is not a solution. He is a barrier between me and the girl I wish to see, not a help. But I say “yes, that would be helpful” and pretend to write the number down even though the woman on the other end of the phone cannot see me. “Thank you so much for your help, Marianna.” I pause… “I really wish I could have spoken directly to her. She was so pleasant in the hospital—one of my best patients. I hope she’s doing well?”
“I think she’s well, señora—well enough to go on her morning run, at least.”
“Oh? Then she must be feeling better. I see the address in her records is not too far from the water. I bet she likes to run on the docks. I know I would.” I’m fishing for information. We’ve spoken of the condo she shares with Truman—where it is. I just need to know if she runs nearby… or does she go to a gym, to an indoor track?
“Oh, yes, señora, she always drives to the point and runs on the docks. She says the water wakes her up, and her favorite coffee shop is there too. It’s called Deacon’s Place, I think.
“I’ll have to go there and try a cup. I’m a bit of a coffee snob.” I wait for her to respond, but the line is quiet for a moment. “I’ve kept you too long, Marianna. Thank you for your help. I’ll give Mr. Kent a call now.”
We say our goodbyes and she is in a hurry to hang up now, as if she’s realized she’s spoken out of turn by telling me private details of Lena’s routine—or perhaps she is not allowed to use the phones for longer than necessary.
I actually do not drink coffee; in fact it never settles well, always roiling in my stomach and sending me to the bathroom, so I’ve never had a reason to hunt down little cafés here in Savannah. Opening up an internet browser, I type in the coffee shop name Marianna has provided. It is not far; I can be there quickly.
“Amy, I’m going to run out for coffee. You want any? My treat.”
The young nurse looks surprised. Everyone here knows full well my dislike of coffee. “So, you’re coming to the dark side?” Amy pops another gum bubble and smirks.
“Cafés sell other beverages also, Amy. Do you want coffee or not? I want to hurry and get back.”
“You’ve worked her forever, Vera. I don’t think anyone’s going to get mad you made a coffee run.”
“Fine. No coffee. Got it.” I turn around curtly. I am old; I don’t have time for silly young girls and silly games.
“Vera! I was just kidding. A double espresso, two pumps sugar-free sweetener, and a bunch of skim milk poured over ice, please.”
That is why I do not drink coffee, I realize: it’s not just the gastrointestinal unrest—it is that I do not want to become one of the yuppie peons with the mile-long specialty orders. Half-calf, double-filtered, sugar-free latte, hold the whip, add sugar-free caramel sauce, please. At least my late husband, God rest Benjamin’s soul, took his black with sugar. Simple drink for a simple, honest man. None of that fancy crap.
“I’ll try and remember that.”
“Want me to write it down?” she quips, her voice girlish and placating.
I wonder if she is mocking me, the aging nurse and her aging memory. But I smile; I force kindness, because that is who I am. I am kind and I do not let the silliness of other people rob me of my identity. That is what Lena needs to learn. She needs to find her identity first, though.
“No, Amy. I was joking. I’m pretty sure I can remember that, as fancy as it is. I’ll be back soon.”
My pager beeps as I am getting into my car. It’s my daughter’s number. And I know why she is calling. This early—there’s only one thing it can be. I do not want to walk back into the hospital, because I worry I will get dragged into one thing or another, so I get in the car and drive to the payphone near the 7-Eleven. Moments later, I am huddled against the standing phone listening to it ring and trying to get a little shelter from the wind that is now blowing. I’ve always been cold-natured, and the thin scrubs do nothing to warm me.
“Hello?” It’s my daughter’s voice on the line.
“Hi, sweetheart. What’s up?”
“Anderson missed the bus again.”
“Ashleigh, how does he keep missing the bus? It’s your job to have him up and ready. Tyler and Maxx always make it on their bus just fine.” Anderson is my eldest grandson, and Tyler and Maxx are the five-year-old twins. I’m being unfair; their bus comes later, so they do not need to be ready so early.
“You know how he is in the morning, Mom. He hates to wake up.”
Ashleigh and her children have been living with me for three years now—ever since she moved out of her deadbeat boyfriend’s apartment. It is better for the children and for her, but it often tries my patience that she cannot be responsible about certain things.
“Mom?” I realize she’s spoken the word mom several times.
“Ashleigh, I can’t come get him this morning. You’re just going to have to drive him in after the twins are on their bus. He can be late for once.”
“Then I’ll be late for work, Mom. I can’t be late again.”
“You being late for work has nothing to do with me. You say Anderson can’t get ready on time. Maybe if you didn’t spend an hour on your makeup, you wouldn’t have so many tardy strikes against you at the store.”
Kindness. I need to be kind. But I can’t always be there to pick her up when she falls. She’s nearly thirty; she has two strong legs to stand on.
“I am sorry, sweeth
eart. You know I wouldn’t normally turn you down.”
She doesn’t say anything for a moment, but then she sighs heavily. “I know, Mom. I know. You’re always helping out. I think… I think I take it for granted a lot of times. I’ll get Anderson to school.”
“Okay.”
“Mom, can you please get a cell phone already?”
“I’ll think about it.”
“That’s what you always say.”
I think she’s about to hang up, so I say that I love her quickly and she says it back. We do love each other, even when we are frustrated with each other. Families should be beautiful and messy. That thought turns my mind back to Lena. She has a family, but I do not think it is beautiful or real or where she should be. I think it is mostly just messy.
Driving toward Deacon’s Place, I hope that I will find her, that I will see her running along the dock or sipping coffee in a corner booth. But if she is not there, I will keep trying. I will even use Truman’s work number and see if he will be kind—kinder than I believe he is.
Kindness is a funny thing, though. Those who are truly kind are greatly outnumbered in this world by those who are either truly unkind or generally apathetic.
Chapter 14
Seems Like Forever
Running is therapeutic. Not like the water; this is a different kind of therapy—one of work and sweat.
I only wish I lived near enough to the dock not to have to drive from the condo. I’m in shape, but my stint in the hospital has made eight-plus miles too hard for now. So my Buick is parked… near the coffee shop.
I have always parked there—in the same spot, if possible.
But today, I know I have parked there for other reasons. One reason, actually.
And that reason has chocolate eyes, espresso hair, and a knee-wobble-worthy smile. I still cannot believe that I have stood in Connor’s shop so many times and never really seen him.
My hair is pulled back in a long ponytail that swishes across my shoulders and back as I move. The pounding of my yellow and gray tennis shoes on the water-aged wood of the dock is repetitive and pleasing. I have always run here—even in high school, when I needed to race away from my life—but I find I am drawn more strongly to the sea than ever this morning. It pulls me and I can almost hear the repetitive chant: “Come home to us, Meri, Ocean Eyes, sea child. Come home to us. Come home to us, Meri, Ocean Eyes, sea child. Come home to us.”
Go away, voices in my head; just go away. You are not real. You are not some distant relative or faraway dream of another life. You’re nothing at all. Like me.
To banish the chorus fully, I focus on him.
Now that I have spoken with Connor, sat on that bench for hours and heard his story and his bursting-with-life laugh, I cannot rid him from my head. Even when he does not exist in my conscious mind, I can feel him still, playing about in the recesses of my subconscious, waiting for something to bring him to the forefront of my thoughts.
Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.
My sneakers against the ground make a hollow sound. I want music to accompany the drumbeat of my running, but my phone’s battery is low, so I have left it in the car, which means that I cannot listen to my normal playlist. I cannot pretend that I’m Cinderella speaking with Snow White, complaining how love has gotten so off course. The chords of the melody of my all-time favorite song begin to buzz through my head.
As much as I want to listen to music, though, not having my cell also means that Truman cannot call to check on me, which is nice. If he calls, I am sure that my not answering will anger him. But what’s another evening of shouting?
It’s windy today; salt water spray caresses my face as I take a left, leaving the length of dock that is beach-bound, and head out over the water toward the large gazebo—home to a few ancient vending machines and a contraption that flattens coins and stamps them with various ocean-themed images. For the cheap cost of a dollar. Plus the quarter you want to smash, of course.
Truman and I did it once, getting a pelican on one side and the Savannah city seal on the other. High school. That stupid thing has been there for that long.
I am in the gazebo now, hands on hips, staring out at the ocean. The waves are rough today, cresting high, and moving like independent freight trains toward shore. I see more than one surfer. They are determined, choosing their wave, and then they are smiling, reveling in the power of taming Poseidon.
A light drawstring bag is on my back—it holds my wallet and other sundries. Now that I am here in the shade, my gaze moves toward that ancient coin presser and I am interested. Will I get the pelican again? Or will I get something else?
It almost feels like fate pulls me to it, like some heavy weight rests on whether or not I will receive the same image I received so long ago with Truman. Stay or go. Go or stay. There is exactly a dollar and a quarter in the small zippered coin pocket of my wallet—more indication that I am about to know what to do… with my entire life.
I push the coins into the machine; once they are inserted fully, my fingers grip the cool metal handle firmly. I turn the wheel connected to that handle slowly, hesitantly; it causes the internal gears to rotate. Almost as if my body is fighting with my mind and my heart, because I am unsure of what is coming, I stop and start and stop and start in my turning of the wheel. I am unsure if I want my tomorrow to rest in the hands of a decrepit, rusting machine.
Plunk. And then it is too late. It is over.
The flattened coin has dropped into the narrow retrieval bin. I stand there like an idiot, frozen and nervous. I know what I want. I want it to be something different. A dolphin. A shark. A mermaid. A… a flounder. My heart feels light, because I know that this is the case. I know that it is not a pelican on the coin. It can’t be. My fate is not Truman and a life of Peggy and the “usual” crowd.
Smiling as I reach into the little bin.
Smiling as I hold the coin between my middle and pointer finger.
My entire body feels weightless and euphoric as I bring the oval of thin metal toward my face to see my future.
A pelican.
It is a pelican. And fate is a cruel bitch.
My heart is heavy again, a boulder in my chest. I throw the damn smashed coin into the sea. It disappears beneath the waves. I decide what tomorrow brings, not you. It is a fresh-squeezed lemon in my mind, sour and unpleasant, admonishing the cruelty of signs from the universe, admonishing the foolishness of a woman silly enough to put stock in those imagined signs from said universe.
***
I am running again, trying to take my mind off of that stupid pelican. It is not enough, though.
Giving up, I slow to a walk, thread my fingers together, and stretch my hands above my head. Then I shake my arms spastically, roll my shoulders, and let out a sigh that’s a mile long.
“Ocean Eyes, is that you?”
The sound of the nickname hangs in the air behind me. It is beautiful there, waiting for me to turn around and embrace it.
“Vera?” I pose the question, even though it is unnecessary. It has to be Vera. The nickname floats to me and kisses my face sweetly as I turn around.
“I almost didn’t recognize you, Lena. You definitely look different in running clothes instead of a hospital gown or fancy dress.” She walks closer to me. Her smile lights up the skies, which are now ominously dark—clouds are moving rapidly overhead. I’ve been so oblivious to the news, the weather reports. A hurricane could be offshore and I would be blissfully ignorant.
My body shifts forward; it wants to hug her. I want to cling to her tightly, my body full against hers so I can feel the realness of her, but I know that would be too much—that intimate embrace reserved for friends and family.
Not knowing what to do, I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. “You weren’t at work yesterday. I came in so I could talk to you, but you weren’t there.” And the petulant child returns. I’ve done this to her before—treated her like she should be at my beck and call. “Go
d, I’m sorry, Vera. I’m being so ridiculous.”
The woman doesn’t skip a beat; her smile doesn’t falter. “Maybe a little ridiculous, but I wouldn’t say so ridiculous.”
“How did you find me?”
“The number we had on file was your house line and Marianna answered.”
“Oh…”
“Now it’s my turn to be sorry.” Vera is still smiling, but I can tell from the tightening of the skin around her eyes that she is worried that she’s overstepped.
“It’s fine, really. It’s just that Truman is so strict with Marianna. I’m afraid if she tells him that she talked about me with someone that he’ll fire her. She’s so sweet.”
“I tried to be sneaky about it. I’ll feel awful if that happens.” The smile is gone, the sunshine that was brightening the ever-darkening day. I hate that it is gone.
“It’ll be fine. I know it will be. Please don’t worry.” I reassure her quickly, my words tumbling over one another so that they are barely coherent.
The smile is back, but it is a hesitant thing that looks like it could wither away at any moment. “Are you done with your run?”
“Ugh,” I groan. “Yes. I don’t want to run another step. It’s not helping today at all.”
“Time for a coffee?”
“You hate coffee.”
“I never told you that.”
“Please!” My laugh is loud and uninhibited. “You never once had coffee with me in the hospital, and every time you brought me a cup your nostrils would flare like you’d just smelled skunk spray.”
We laugh together now, not exactly in harmony, so it is a bit odd-sounding to my ears. “I guess I’m pretty transparent. Benji used to say I couldn’t lie my way out of a paper bag. Whatever that means.”
“You know, the café around the corner serves tea too.”
“Earl Grey, here I come.”
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