The Wave

by Kristen Crusoe

  With a satisfied heart, she closed her door, and walked out into the crisp, cold air, the sunlight ebbing into streaks of purple and gray across the western sky. Lighter than she had felt in months, she lifted her chest, still feeling the tugs of severed flesh and muscle, but not pain. No more pain, she chanted to herself, pulling her shoulders back even more. Breathing deeply, catching the scent of curry from the food truck on the corner. She realized she was hungry. Maybe she and Adam could walk over to one of the campus food trucks and get a takeout. Her steps quickened as she thought about home, for the first time with joyful anticipation, not dread.

  * * *

  It had been such a small thing. Her hope. Fatigue was beginning to envelop her as it did without warning, and she was eager to find Adam and go home. When she opened the door to the theater arts building, as she climbed the fake marble stairs up to the third floor, having to stop on each landing to catch her breath, the feeling fluttered like a dragonfly hovering above a blossom, not wanting to break that perfect stillness, that transitory moment between before and after. Walking down the hall, looking at posters on the walls of past productions, many if not most featuring photos of Adam with a beautiful girl or woman. Really looking now, she saw that Claudia was also in many of the scenes, standing just behind Adam, sometimes off to his side. It didn’t mean anything, she reminded herself. Nothing at all. It was his work. Like her work, his students and colleagues were actors, playing parts. She was his real life.

  Voices rang out from his room at the end of the hall. She pushed through, eager and hesitant. Then an anger so strong, like a hurricane wind, tore through her. Never had she felt such emotion. She picked up the closest thing at hand, a framed award for Best Director Western Colleges and Universities, and heaved it across the room, where Adam and Claudia were embracing. It hit Adam between his shoulders, causing him to gasp, turn to see her standing there.

  ‘Clair, God Clair, it’s not what you think.’

  She was running down the hall, down the stairs, to the street. Past the Fusion Food Truck, dark now, lights off, owner hooking up to his van. Tears blinded her, thoughts unraveled. What to do? Devon, she knew, this one thing, this true thing. She had to get back to Devon. A deep intuitive knowing that his spirit waited for her somewhere in the world carried her forward.

  Chapter 19

  Clair

  The cab pulled up to the house. It was fully dark now, a new moon offering no light. Wishing she had left a light on, she dug in her bag for her phone, turning on the flashlight function. It illuminated the front door, which she saw had been left open, only the screen door keeping out the autumn winds and evening insects. Remembering how excited she had been to surprise Adam, to reclaim her office, and role as wife and teacher, rushing out, not bothering to close the door behind her. What a delusion, she chided herself.

  ‘Will you wait here?’ she asked the cab driver. ‘I’ll just be a few minutes, OK?’

  Rushing into their bedroom, she pulled open her closet, ripping shirts and pants off hangers. Drawers pulled open, underwear, sweaters, and night clothes were found, tossed into a large fabric tote. From the bathroom, a toothbrush, toothpaste, and body lotion. They’ll have everything else I need, she thought. This will do for now. One final look into Devon’s room, gratified to see that the cars were still arranged in their circle, she rushed back out into the cold, dark night, the only light coming from the taxi’s low beams. She opened the door, falling back against the seat, exhaustion leeching the last drops of energy from her.

  ‘Harbor hospital, cancer center housing,’ she said. ‘And please, hurry.’

  She had called ahead, letting the desk know she was coming. The housing for cancer patients was simple and provided small, studio-type apartments, with a central kitchen and community room. Tonight, only two of the five studios were inhabited, making it easy for her to get one at the last minute. They were set up for patients who had to drive long distances to receive their treatments. She had explained that she needed to stay because she didn’t have transportation and had to see Dr Ellerby first thing in the morning. The desk clerk didn’t argue.

  A woman was standing at the kitchen counter as she walked through the lobby of the housing center. Tall, but stooped, she moved slowly, as though every action required enormous energy. She leaned against the counter, both hands pressing against the edge. Clair didn’t want to startle her so she spoke softly.

  ‘Hello, I’m Clair, can I help?’

  The woman turned, and Clair saw such pain on her face, she stepped back.

  ‘Oh, no, sorry, I was lost in thought for a moment. Hi, I’m Hope, what a ridiculous name, especially now. Oh, dear, sorry again. I must sound mad.’

  ‘No, really, Hope, it’s good to meet you. Can I do something? You look like you were going to be sick.’

  ‘Not me, no, I’m fine. It’s my husband, Mike, he’s sick. And we just learned he can’t have any more treatment. It’s futile, they said. So, we have to go home, back down to Redwood City. It’s right on the border with California, but inland, about a hundred miles. It is in California actually, what am I saying, I’m rambling. But we didn’t have a cancer center there and we would rather be up here. We love the coast. Always have. So, you’re just getting in?’

  The tall woman, visibly straining to hold herself together, stood straight, pulling her shoulders back. Clair realized she was standing there holding her large tote.

  ‘Yeah, I live here but I’m not driving right now, and my house is way up the river. It wouldn’t have been practical for me to try and make it every day, for treatment, you know.’

  ‘All by yourself then?’ Hope asked.

  ‘Pretty much,’ Clair said. ‘But here, let’s sit down. Can I make us some tea? I see a pot and packages on the counter there.’

  ‘Yes, please, that will be good. I can’t stay long. My husband is lying down. I came in to make us something for dinner and got distracted. I don’t know what we’ll do. He’s being sent home to die.’ Hope disintegrated into sobs, her back heaving.

  ‘Oh dear, here, let me help,’ Clair said, although she had no idea what to do to help. ‘I’ll find us some food, I’m starving too. Come, sit down. Here on the sofa.’

  She took the distressed woman by the hand, leading her to a circular sofa, old, battered, covered by several handmade Afghans. Pillows abounded, of every size and shape. Clair imagined how many tears of joy and frustration, anger and rage had soaked into them. Tonight, we will add some more, she thought.

  Clair dropped her bag on a chair and began rummaging through cupboards, opened the fridge and was able to put together some eggs, cheese, toast and what looked like homemade marionberry jam. There was also a can of tomato soup she heated up, believing the heat would sooth them both. The kettle whistled, tea was made, and Clair brought it all over to the couch and table.

  ‘Can Mike come join us?’ she asked, sipping the warm, rich tomato soup.

  ‘No, I’ll take him a tray later. I gave him one of his sedatives, he was so upset.’

  ‘Here, eat, drink. It will ease you. That’s first.’

  They sat quietly for several minutes, sipping soup, tea, then digging into cheesy eggs and toast. Clair marveled again at the immediate closeness that came with having cancer. Like the people in the support group, it was like all social filters evaporated, leaving only human care and concern for another.

  ‘So, tell me about you and Mike. Have you been married long?’ Clair asked.

  ‘Long, long. Going on fifty years. We were high school sweethearts, married after he came back from Vietnam. He learned how to fix helicopter engines, and from there any engine. We had a good life. I worked as a teacher, but mainly, I was a homemaker. Loved making a home for Mike and our three sons. Oh God, how am I going to tell them?’

  Hope began crying again, but not so intense this time, more lik
e the final rumblings of thunder as the storm moves out to sea. Clair sat quietly, letting her grieve. She thought about what the woman had said, about being told there was no more treatment. She didn’t think this could happen, but that as long as you had insurance to pay, you would get treatment.

  ‘What does this mean for Mike?’ Clair asked. ‘What will happen now?’

  ‘Hospice. We’ll go home, set up a hospital bed, commode, get ready for him to die. I want him to be able to die at home, not in the hospital. But he has such pain. It’s lung cancer, you know, very painful. And he can’t breathe. Morphine has to be given, every hour. And they gave him a Fentanyl patch today. They don’t do that unless it’s close to the end, everyone’s so goddamn afraid of giving patients pain medicine. It’s absurd. So, sure, there are addicts. Help them, treat them, but don’t punish us. People with real pain need their medicine. They said it will be quick, you know, his death. Once he gets his pain under control, he’ll pass pretty easily. Morpheus, God of dreams, I hope he takes my Mike somewhere beautiful. I’ll need to call the boys. They’ll want to be here. And the grands. Oh God, the babies. They love Grandpa Mike. This will be their first death.’

  Clair let Hope talk, working out her plans for how she would get Mike home. But inside, she felt a cold wave of fear. What in God’s name would she do, if this were her, if she were told all care was futile? Just a few months ago, she wanted only to die, to join Devon. She still felt certain that he was there, waiting for her, but she wasn’t so ready to die anymore. Life had become worth living again. Even with this new despair about Adam, still, she was more than just his wife, more than a teacher. She was discovering for the first time in her life, that she was a person of substance, with heft. She felt her bones, her skin, felt the blood flowing through her arteries and veins. Lifting her hands to her face, she traced the bones, thinking about Ben, and how they had the same high, strong cheekbones. She might have lost her breasts, but she had found her heart, and it was strong enough for this.

  Hope rose, taking her plate and mug to the kitchen.

  ‘Hope, I’ll clean up. You go to Mike. I’ll see you in the morning, OK?’

  Clair stood and walked over to where Hope leaned against the counter. Opening her arms, she hugged the woman, trying to share some of her own strength.

  ‘Morning, yes, it will come. Whether we’re ready for it or not.’

  Clair watched her walk across the central floor, around the couch, and into the hallway, leading down the side of the building. Clair looked towards the opposite end, seeing another hallway. She walked down towards a light at the end. A small window opened onto the parking lot, LED lights casting a sulfurous glow against the dark backdrop of dense firs. Looking out, she saw a deer, and then another. She remembered once, long ago, she had an animal spirit card reading. It was a rare party she had attended, a sort of sorority initiation. She had gone along because her mother insisted. As the leader of the reading passed out cards, and then interpreted their meaning, Clair was surprised to learn that a deer was her totem animal. She had hoped it would be something more dramatic like a bear or a wolf. She had forgotten about it until now. A deer was quiet, contained. She kept to herself, was fleet of foot, and would flee at the first threat. She was also a fighter when threatened, especially to defend her offspring.

  As she watched the two deer walk slowly cross the tarmac, stepping carefully, alert for sounds of danger, ears moving like satellite dishes, she felt a kinship. Like the deer, each step must be deliberate, without haste. Clair knew she would have to navigate her uncertain future with nothing but her own wits. Watching the two deer disappear into the forested area behind the cancer center, Clair said to herself, I am OK, I think.

  Chapter 20

  Clair

  The halls and studios were dark as Clair walked toward the women’s locker room in the community fitness center. Waking stiff, sore, and needing heat and movement, Clair had decided to avail herself of the swimming pool, a close walk from her housing. A sudden remembering of why she was in this new place, so similar to her room on the psych unit but yet, so different in ways that mattered, brought her a moment of panic followed by deep regret, and then, calm. I am awake, alive, and I feel OK, she affirmed, slipping quietly out the door of the shared living space. The morning air was fresh, cool. Early morning joggers, dog walkers, and transients heading towards the daytime shelter for a hot meal were her only company. The parking lot at the community center was empty except for one older model Honda. The smell of sweat and chlorine hit her as soon as she walked in the door. The club receptionist, a young woman with her head down over her phone, ear buds inserted, checked her in. She knew she would be alone. Or should be alone. Whose voice was coming from the locker room, Clair wondered, hesitating outside the door, listening.

  ‘There is no peaceful war. There is no friendly fire. He killed his three-year-old brother when he was sixteen. He tried to tell them but they didn’t believe him. They said it was his Asperger’s. Asperger’s my ass. I’m talking to my invisible friends because I don’t have any real ones. Now he is one of you too, one of us.’

  It was a female voice. Clair relaxed. One of the many homeless, she thought, who pitched tents around the outside of the gym, taking advantage of the large old oak trees standing on the edges of the parking lot. For the most part, they were harmless, people struggling with mental illness, poor decisions, and social isolation. But there was always the risk that methamphetamine addiction and withdrawal caused people to act in crazy ways. She listened a while longer then walked inside, putting her towel bag on a bench just inside the door. A row of lockers lined the wall. To the left, around a slight corner was a hot tub. Not wanting to startle the woman, who was sitting in the hot tub, the water still, without the bubbling jets, Clair quietly opened the door to a locker. The woman turned, looked at Clair, standing in a pool of light shining down from the fluorescent tubes crisscrossing the ceiling. The early morning mist had left droplets of water on her blue hooded fleece. She was wearing a pale green woolen scarf wrapped around her shaven head.

  ‘Oh, there you are. I was waiting for you,’ the woman said, keeping her gaze on Clair.

  ‘Ah, good morning,’ Clair answered, without saying more.

  She had been around enough mentally ill patients on the psychiatric unit to know that engaging a person with delusions or psychosis was a one-way conversation that could lead to outbursts of frustration.

  ‘You, you are one of the ones. You crossed over. You made it back. Is he with you?’

  ‘Is who with me?’ Clair asked, feeling uncomfortable now, wondering if she should go get the receptionist.

  ‘That boy, standing beside you. Is he with you or is he with me?’

  Clair sat down on the bench, in front of the row of lockers. She stared at the woman. The woman smiled, a broad, bright smile. She stood up, her naked torso bright pink from being in the hot water. Her hair, long and dark blonde, cascaded down her shoulders, like sea kelp. Wide set eyes, skin the color of burnished copper, she looked as though she had stepped out of a solution of paint, still dripping, shiny and metallic.

  ‘We’re the selkies now,’ she said, beginning to walk up the steps, out of the tub.

  Clair felt an electric pulse race through her, causing her heart to beat fast. She took in a quick breath.

  ‘He’s gone now, but he was there. Right there. With you. Is he yours? Don’t be afraid. You have the sign too. The spirits are using you. Don’t be afraid.’

  The woman walked up the steps, out of the tub, and across the tiled floor to the showers. Clair’s heart was pounding. Looking around the locker space, she could see no signs of another person. There were no gym bags, towels, clothes either neatly folded on the benches or hanging from the hooks along the walls.

  The room was quiet, no shower running, toilet flushing. Nothing but the sound of the radio softly playing nine
ties music through the overhead speakers. She recognized Stevie Nicks’s ‘Wild Heart’ and smiled, remembering for just a moment how she had loved that song. How she had yearned to act wildly, just once. But she had been too reticent, too fearful of the reprimands that would follow. The shame piled on from her mother; the cold icy stares from her father, or worse, complete disdain and dismissal.

  She sat still, waiting for what, she wasn’t sure. She thought about her walk in this morning. Her new life, with its unfamiliar routines. Suddenly, like a traffic jam opening up on a multi-lane interstate highway, women began flooding into the space. Chattering like early birds, eager for the new day, they stripped off sweat suits and jeans, pulling on bathing suits. One woman, walking by towards the toilets, noticed Clair.

  ‘Oh hey, are you new to class?’

  Jolted out of her reverie, Clair self-consciously touched her right upper chest where the infusion portal sat under her skin, saying, ‘No, not really. I was going to swim laps but it looks like you’re all getting ready for a class.’ No sign of the wet woman, anywhere. Had she imagined her?

  ‘Come join us,’ the woman said. ‘I’m Pat. You’ll love it. Great workout.’

  She had been skeptical at first, not believing for a minute that she would achieve anything like her runner’s high bobbing up and down in water. Mary, the teacher, drove them hard, and Clair was surprised. She enjoyed it. The youngest member of the group, she nonetheless found a deep companionship with these people, mostly women, many of whom had been coming for years. Mary was the reason. Perpetually cheerful, she sang tunes from musicals, while, even at seventy-five, she set the pace for the entire class. She learned they had parties for any reason: a birthday, anniversary, new house, and sometimes, a memorial for one of their group who died. Standing around in their Speedos, looking like a group of friends from for ever, who had wandered into a parallel universe where time stood still. Other than the gray hair and wrinkled skin, they were fit and engaged in life. Claire loved them.