by Debra Busman
“Listen to this,” she says, all excited. “They had a secret code word for their mother’s madness just like we did as kids. They called it the ‘Topaz Bird.’ This book is so beautiful. I’ve never read anything that catches the love and the loss so perfectly.” She reads another passage from Ghost Dance, the language indeed lovely, haunting, lyrical.
Pulled into the story, compelled, I also find it irritating as hell. I wonder who this person is beside me. A mutual friend set us up, but I wonder if I have what it takes to “date.” I wonder why I’m even going out with someone who pays her analyst more each year than many families live on. Still, here we are. Ahead, a young cottontail darts across the road, ducking into the chaparral. The hawk circles back out of sight.
“My mom was a writer,” Leah says, finally looking out the window. “So brilliant and so beautiful. She was always very sick. I remember her in such torment, the tragic one of our family, her pain leaking out in exquisite poems, us kids always trying to keep quiet, to make it okay. She killed herself seven years ago, a year after I moved out to California.”
I pull the truck off the road, shut off the engine, move my arm up to the back of her seat, lightly touching her shoulder. She answers my eyes.
“Drowned herself in the St. Charles. Left us all our own individual notes. Took a cab to the riverbank, hung her clothes neatly on a tree, parked her wheelchair, and crawled into the river. My father quietly followed the clues, gathered up her clothes, left her wheelchair, rode the patrol boat downriver, carried her body back for burial. The note she left me read, ‘I have always loved you, darling. Please forgive me.’” Leah begins to cry. “I loved her so much. I could forgive her anything but that. Why did she have to ask me for the one thing I cannot give her?”
I’m not sure what to say. I can see this is a story she has told many times. We sit for a while, quiet, watching the surf far below silently pound upon the shore.
“Come on,” she finally says. “Let’s go check out this beach. I want to be outside.” Leah jumps out of the truck, stretches out her arms, arches her back and takes a deep breath of ocean air. “It’s beautiful here,” she says.
“This is Garrapata Beach,” I tell her. “My old stomping grounds. I used to hitchhike up here when I was a kid.” Luna, a brown-black Labrador mutt with a kind and mischievous face, barks from the back of the truck, whining with relief and excitement as I open the tailgate for her. I smile in recognition, letting her off the leash. Hiking down the cliff to the beach below, I’m happy to see Leah has left Ghost Dance behind in the cab of the truck.
It is our third date. Leah tells me she can never get really “serious” about me because I’m not Jewish. Still, here we are. Hearts intrigued, bellies full of bagels, we walk along the white sand beach, stunned and excited as twenty-foot waves crash down upon one another two hundred yards out to sea, sending in frothy surges to beat upon the rocks, wrestle with the undertow, eventually lapping innocently up onto shore. Luna picks up a giant piece of kelp and dances it down the beach, galloping, tripping, ferociously shaking the seaweed, sending sprays of sand and water off in glistening arcs.
Leah asks me about my mother. “She was a union organizer,” I say. “Great liberator of the working masses. Worked for the farm workers in the fifties before it was cool. Hung out with Cesar Chavez, Dolores Huerta. Excellent politics on the outside. Very fucked up on the inside. She almost killed us both a hundred times. As far back as I can remember. Drinking. Rage. Grief. I gave up my body to keep her alive, to keep us alive. What else can a child do?” Leah seems stunned. Not knowing how to read her look, I quickly cover my tracks. “Don’t worry,” I laugh. “I got outta there young, before anyone got hurt too bad.”
I pick up a piece of mossy driftwood and throw it into the shallow surf. Luna bounds after it, trotting proudly with the stick in her mouth.
Waves crest a translucent silver green, then thunder down in a deafening roar. “Boy, the ocean sure is rowdy today,” I say, and we burst out laughing at the utter inadequacy of the word “rowdy” to describe the magnificent sea before us. I feel young-girl shy and courageous as I reach for the hand of this curious one by my side, wondering just who she is and exactly how she came to be walking beside me this day. The sun is warm and it feels good to laugh, even at myself.
Leah speaks of the power, sensuality, and erotic intensity of the sea and I smile. Unwilling now to talk in words, I let the animal part of me growl in response, a soft, low, throaty call with lots of r’s and no real g’s at all. I watch the sun rest on her hair as she watches it dance on the water and I wonder what it would be like to make love with her. Ocean-charged air surrounds us. The sun is warm on my back, the whole front of my body aches to hold her close against me and I am extraordinarily happy to be in this very moment of time and place.
I am on the shore and she is with me.
We come to a rock jutting out from the bluff and debate about going on around it. There is a good chance our feet will get wet if we race the waves to the other side, and neither one of us seems too inclined to move very fast. I climb up on the rock to see what’s beyond and to determine if it’s worth the energy to scramble around or over.
I look down from my perch, grinning like a cougar at the ease with which I leapt up onto the rock, happy that two and a half years of college haven’t completely taken all of my body strength and knowing away. The cliff feels warm, rough against my shoulder; the rock strong, solid beneath my feet. I think about taking off my old Nikes so my toes can grip rock, touch sand. I smile down at Luna and Leah. The joy I feel at the sight of this lovely, silky girl and her silky dog standing on the beach below is so palpable, as rich and dense as island air, that I find myself trying to inhale it, to take it deep inside my chest and let it just hang out with my heart for a while.
I am on the shore and she is with me.
A wave comes up a little farther than the rest and I see her laugh up at me as her purple hi-top sneakers get wet after all. The sun is warm, her feet are wet, my eyes are locked in delight with hers and I am laughing too.
Then I am completely under water.
I think, I can’t be underwater, I’m fifteen feet in the air, the sun is warm, the sand is dry…but I’m moving up against the cliff in slow motion, half crawling, half swimming, my hands grabbing onto rocks. Salt pushes its way into my eyes and nostrils. I feel my glasses slide off my face. Someone is untying my Levi jacket from around my waist and I wonder who and why. I think of Leah and Luna on the beach below and my scream comes out a gurgling echo, stifled by the roar around me and the water snaking down my throat.
I am drenched against the cliff, clinging. The water has receded, my glasses are caught between the rocks and the V of my shirt collar. I slowly make my way back down to the rock, scared to let go of the cliff. I know better but I look down anyway at the place where Leah and Luna had just stood and I am stunned by their absence. Everything looks just the same except that they are gone, I can no longer feel the sun, and the sand is spitting bubbles. I spin around to the ocean and see two small dark dots flying out to sea. My mind screams “No!” and I hear Leah scream back, “Tay-lor, help me!”
I am on the shore and she is gone.
She is easily a hundred yards out to sea. The waves crashing behind her are making three-foot-high swells of turbulent froth, coming in from four different directions, churning against the force of the riptides pulling her back, pulling her under. The two dark dots are getting thrown around, tossed like twigs. She calls out again: “Tay-lor.”
I am on the shore and she is in the sea.
She is calling me and my heart is breaking and I pray for the strength to not go in. For it is an impossible sea. I can immediately tell there is no such thing as “rescue.” It is not that I am afraid of dying, just that there is no way I could possibly even get to her, much less be able to do anything if I did. She is a much stronger swimmer than I am and I can see that there is no swimming going on out there. Panicke
d, I look toward the road—a fifteen-minute hike and then what? Maybe a flagged-down motorist, maybe a cell phone, probably no signal anyway. It is useless. There is no help. The beach is empty. I think, This is how people die. I think, She is probably going to die. And I don’t even know her father.
I see the picture she showed me this morning—her father, East Coast intellectual, tall, lanky, his dark, thick hair unruly, glasses sliding down his nose, standing in front of a well-kept brownstone, looking awkward, shy, leaning slightly away from the pale, curly headed girl holding tightly on to his L.L. Bean corduroy trousers.
I think about Leah’s dear friend Susan who introduced us and then stood smugly back to watch what happened. How can I tell Susan? I think about the silence of rescue squads coming too late. I think about bodies washed up on shore. Time expands and in my mind’s eye I watch dry, fully clothed firemen zip Leah’s pale, limp body up into a shiny black bag and carry her up the cliff. I think about funerals, hillside burials. I see her father, stooped with grief, unable to bear this loss as his favorite daughter follows her mother into the ground seven long years later, the two great loves of his life stolen by water, drowned, this bright, lovely one leaving no tormenting notes of explanation behind.
I am on the shore and she is in the sea and there is no help.
And she is calling for me. “Taylor! Help me.” Her cries tear through my body. I can’t tell if she is calling my heart back into or out of my body, but I feel it breaking and I know I must respond yet I know I cannot go in or we both will die. I hear echoes of other voices that have called to me. I hear the faint childhood cries of David, the crippled neighbor boy I saved time and time again from crazed beatings until once, three a.m. on a hot L.A. night, Santa Ana winds blowing, I heard the familiar metallic sound of his head hitting the back of the wheelchair, tried frantically to think of something I could innocently go next door to borrow—sugar, cigarettes, whiskey, anything—but when I tried to get up, my skinny, ten-year-old legs went numb, dead, glued to the bed, useless as David’s, and I lay there till the metal sounds stopped and then I lay there till the dawn sky broke and I heard the ambulance rush up and then drive slowly off, carrying his body away.
I am on the shore and there is no help.
She screams out, “Taylor! Help!” I think, She is going to have to save her own life, and then I am flooded with the understanding of how incredibly strong she is. I think, No one else would even be alive right now and she is still hollering for me. And in those cries for help that had moments ago tormented my very soul, I now hear the incredible breath and power they contain and I am deeply moved by her courage and will to survive. I think, As long as she can call so strong, she is okay, she is getting air and she is fighting. Now her cries make me happy. I feel love fill my chest, feel strangely proud of her. Hope surges through me oblivious to reason and odds and I call back to her, “Leah! I hear you. Leah, come here!” I know it is a ludicrous thing to say and that she can’t hear me anyway, much less “come here,” but somehow the calling back to her forms this cord of energy that I can almost see as vibrant gold-white strands of light and heat. I feel her strength and courage surge through the cord and I send back love, faith, dark earthy hope.
I am on the shore and she is in the sea
and I am calling back to her, sending her strength, pouring love and admiration down through the gold shimmering cords, telling her that I know she knows she must first save her own life and that I am making myself strong and grounded for her, that I am preparing to be as courageous as she and I will do whatever I can when it is my time. I feel the cord as a lifeline to her, yet through it I am gaining courage from her strength. The energy is awesome and I am feeling increasingly grounded, rooted and hopeful, amazed at the connection, the lack of fear. The gold-white cord is as clear to me as the blue sky, the black rocks, the white foam, the two dark dots. It pulses with the exchange of vibrant love, courage, life. I think, How strange, in the midst of this terror such a sweet miracle can occupy the same precise moment of time.
Then in horror I watch as the two dark dots are picked up by a huge white wave and hurtled toward a craggy, glistening rock fifty yards out to sea. She screams and I am again helpless and
she is in the sea
and I can’t find either of the two dark dots and I am scouring the area around the rock, searching for sight of her. To the left I see something with dark hair floating underwater about twenty yards offshore and I dive in, swimming impossibly toward her body. Gasping air I go under to grab hold of her and then my hands clasp down and I am holding onto Luna. I open my eyes underwater and stare at the limp silky dog that looks like a furry seal. I am happy to be holding something but shocked that it is not Leah. Then I think, Well, if she lives, she will be really happy that I saved her dog, and I start back for shore, arm tucked under Luna’s chest, swimming effortlessly with a wave which carries us both in. The dog is fine, standing on her own, sucking air, puking salty froth, shaking sprays of water and sand and
I am on the shore and she is in the sea
and I can’t find her. I remind myself to breathe now that I can. I try to calm down, will myself to be able to see her. Finally I spot her far to the right of the rock. Somehow I know that she is still alive but she is not calling to me anymore and now I curse the lack of cries for I know this means she is weakening. She is closer in, but still way too far out for me to get to her. My eyes fix on her body, straining to re-establish the shimmering cord, searching for her breath. I think, Can I really just stand here and watch someone die?
and I cannot. I can’t just stand there and watch as she dies. And I do not want to die. I do not want to fucking die. I think of all the large and small survivals, the beatings, the rapes, the johns, the pimps, the cops, the car crashes, the gay bashes, the falls, the fights, the flights, the fear. And the funny thing is, before I didn’t care but now I do and I do not want to die. I do not want to fucking die. I rage and my throat fills with grief but I am at peace with my answer. I tell myself that soon it will be time and I will go in
I am feeling utterly calm. I take off my soggy tennis shoes and socks, lay them carefully on the rock, fold and gently place my glasses on top. I think of those who will find our bodies, trying to make sense of the situation, friends coming back to the beach to search for clues. Looking at my little pile, I think, Perhaps this will tell them of my intentionality. Maybe that will help. My toes curl into the sand, gripping a small, gritty rock. I feel my throat constrict and swallow. Soft wind touches my cheek. I start to take off my heavy jeans so I can move less encumbered in the sea, but when I look up to check on Leah, I see that she is suddenly floating face down in the water and I run into the surf, screaming, “Leah, no!” At the same time I am sending silent apologies to those whose love has kept me so far in this world. And I am leaping, tripping, diving into this white frothy hell.
A wave slams me down and I see my mom running crookedly onto the Santa Monica Freeway. My mom’s boyfriend stands stupid under the streetlights, holding her car keys, confused, thinking he had finally won a battle. I dutifully race up the onramp, tackling my mom before she makes it into oncoming traffic, grieving the asphalt I know is tearing into her face and I guess my arms. I roll us over and over until we are off the shoulder and into the dirt, rolling until the cyclone fence pushes into my back. My arms clench around her chest, pinning hers, refusing to release. I wait for the boyfriend or the sirens, whichever comes first. I don’t really care. Sobs rack my mother’s body, pushing into my chest. “Just let me die. Please, God, just let me die,” she cries over and over, though she makes no effort to break free.
The wave pulls me under and I fight my way back up, gasping for air, searching for Leah, cursing this ocean, swimming impossibly toward the dark, bobbing head. Somehow I reach her and grab the back of her hair and yank her head out of the water, screaming for her to breathe. Her hair is like seaweed. She is blue cold like stone with popping veins etched across her brow. For a
moment I see David’s pale face in the open casket, dead, waxy as if someone painted it with crayons, and then I am yelling, “Leah, I’ve got you. I’ve got you now. I’m not gonna let you go!” and I am swimming with more than all my strength toward shore, fighting to keep her head above water, feeling her limp legs bump, bump into my violent kicking ones just like David’s used to do at the city pool. But we are both going backward, pulled further out to sea.
I am in the sea
and cursing the ocean and screaming and swallowing water, somehow imagining I can ride my fury back to shore and save us both but instead I am thrown backward, helpless as a twig and I’m worried that Leah can’t breathe and I’m not sure which way is up but I know I’m not gonna let her go and I am so angry at this ocean for making me feel my weakness. My mind makes one last grab for the rational. We’re caught in a riptide, I think. “When caught in a riptide,” I hear a robotic voice say, sounding like an airline stewardess giving oxygen mask instructions, “do not fight the current. Simply swim parallel to the shore until you are out of the riptide and then swim safely in.”
“Fuck you,” I scream as we get dragged under again, spinning around, somersaulting backward desperately up for air. “There is no fucking parallel out here!” I feel my right shoulder tear as we get twisted around and I struggle to hold on to Leah, wondering if I could shift her body over to my stronger left side. But I need that side to swim and I don’t dare risk such a maneuver. Mentally I make sutures in every tear the ocean rips through my muscles. At first they are stitched in golden pink filament, then twine, then rope, duct tape, baling wire, anything I can find as I feel my body break apart. I see Jo-Jo and her pink little nursing kit and whiskey, sewing us all back together. I see Mike standing under the tree in North Hollywood Park, ready to break my fall as I plummet from the sky, hollering at me to grab on to that last goddamn branch. Soon my thoughts reduce to: Hold on. Air. Up. Breathe. Shore. God?