The Wave

by Kristen Crusoe

  Feeling stronger with each decision, he walked over to the small table that held Devon’s precious boy objects. Feathers, rocks, bright colored pieces of plastic worn smooth by the river. Adam saw Devon’s hairbrush lying amongst the possessions, light brown strands of hair interwoven in the soft bristles. Hand shaking, Adam lifted the brush, gently pulling out a few strands, holding them to his nose. Inhaling the scent of his son, fresh as the day he was born. That first whiff of him, fresh from the womb, brought Adam to his knees. He folded, his head resting on his chest and breathed in his boy. He felt a sob rising up like lava from his gut but he pushed it back down. Enough of that, he said. I can be, I will be, stronger than that.

  Leaving the door open for fresh warm air to circulate through, he walked on down the hall to their bedroom. This entire passage seemed as though it had been going on for years when, in fact, it was just a little under nine months since Devon had died. Nine months, to lose a son, a wife, a life. Like a pregnancy in reverse, he realized. And they could, would start new, reclaim their life together, and create a love so strong it would preserve all the best of them both and hold Devon for ever in their hearts. He would live on in their love.

  Midday now. One shot of Scotch whisky for luck, another for courage. He was ready. A final look around, and then he walked out the door. He had showered again, dressed in his soft gray cords, a hand-knitted gray shawl-collared sweater over a black turtle-neck. Clair had made the sweater for him during her pregnancy. She had said she felt earthy and motherly and needed to do something with her hands. As in everything she touched, it came out perfect. His silver-blonde hair clean and softly falling over his forehead, he smiled, seeing her knitting while reading theoretical math dissertations on her computer, not even looking at the needles clicking in her skillful hands. Dabbing on a bit more of the cologne, he imagined how Clair would react, seeing him, feeling him. He would say he had come for his coat. Just that, so as not to rush her. They would sit together, calmly this time. That woman he saw, with the long red hair. She was new to him. And he would be new to her as well.

  The drive back to the cancer center took him just under thirty-five minutes. Not too long, he mused, for him to drive Clair back and forth for appointments. They could talk, listen to books on tape, music, or just savor the quiet time. Winter was approaching and soon the rains would come in earnest. Long nights, short days. He was on leave so he wouldn’t be teaching. No reason to go anywhere without Clair. He would cook for her, bring her tea. They used to read aloud to each other, taking turns with their book of the week selections. She usually chose mysteries; he biographies or plays. So many paths back to where they started.

  It was Friday afternoon, and judging from the parking lot, staff and patients took off early. A few cars were scattered around, glistening in the rain, which had just begun to fall. Lightly at first, then quickly gaining momentum. A good excuse for coming back for my coat, he relished the thought. I don’t have to make it up. Heart racing, he maneuvered his car into a spot in front of the residential unit. Lights were burning brightly inside, and someone had already begun placing Christmas decorations around the walkway and door. Taking a deep breath, he turned off the engine, opened the door and rushed up to the entrance, huddling under a small overhang. There was a doorbell, decorated with a Santa face. He smiled inwardly, imagining how they would spend the time together. Maybe they would drive up to the Crater Lake Lodge, bring in the holiday in a new way. Start a fresh tradition, for themselves. Not forgetting, no never, but bringing the best of the past with them into a preferred future.

  He pushed the bell; a series of ascending chimes rang out. The wind began sweeping rain against him. He leaned against the side of the building. Footsteps sounded inside. A tightness clenched his chest. He thought he might have a heart attack standing there. Expecting Clair to open the door, he stopped breathing when the face at the opening was not Clair’s but an older woman, wearing the tell-tale scarf wrapped around her head. The woman smiled, her eyes friendly but wary.

  ‘May I help you?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, thanks, ah, can I come in? I’m getting drenched out here. I’m looking for Clair Mercer. Is she in, do you know?’ Adam said, his words running together in his excitement.

  ‘Do come in. Sorry. Clair, ah, no, she’s not here. I saw her leave about an hour ago.’

  ‘Oh, did she say when she’d be coming back?’ he asked, his disappointment ringing in his words.

  ‘Well, I don’t think she’s coming back. She had a large tote bag with her. And I heard her call a cab to take her to the airport.’

  Adam, feeling like he was plunging down twenty floors in an out of control elevator, his heart detaching from the rest of his body, too stunned to speak, heard a soft burring noise and looked up to see the 1.55 p.m. Alaska Flight to Seattle banking north. It wouldn’t have taken Clair long to get through security given it was such a small airport, and the flights were as regular as clockwork.

  Part Three

  Chapter 25

  ‘Walker, there is no path. You make the path as you walk.’

  Antonio Machado

  Clair

  The roaring of the jet engine spooling up, vibrations rattling the inner panels next to her seat, cast Clair back into that subterranean depth, when the wave captured her, ripping awareness and memory open. Clair was there, in that deep, cold watery place, rich and murky, all light lost to seeing eyes. And yet, she had seen. The whirring and thumping of the plane’s landing gear lifting, the intense sinking feeling during lift-off, triggered flashbacks. Like the Moken children of Thailand who, like seals and dolphins, are able to adapt their pupils and lens shape in order to see clearly in the blurry underwater, Clair recalled vividly everything she had seen during her near drowning. As the plane shot through space and time, she relived her tumble through the roiling surf, being pulled down, a reversal through the birth canal, the sense of soaring through canyons of rock and forests of kelp. Giant tentacled moon jellyfish hovered over her. An octopus, latent and quiescent, had studied her with indifference. A voice, tinny and glib, announced that they had reached cruising altitude and passengers could now move about the cabin and resume electronic device activities. Resisting abandoning the reliving, wanting desperately to see Devon again, as she had seen him during her descent, she held on, clutching the seat arms, eyes tightly closed, willing the memory or dream or whatever it had been to return. She had been so close. Clair tentatively opened her eyes. It was gone. He was gone. And she was here. Now. That was that.

  As her gaze settled, like white water clearing to calm, Clair’s reflection in the window emerged. Her breath steamed the glass so that she appeared as in a cloud. Is this me? This gaunt woman, strange wig slightly askew, eyes darkened and dim. She watched her breath on the glass widen then turn to condensation. Such a simple thing, breathing, she mused, watching the oval of mist wax and wane. A baby cried, the man in the seat next to her coughed. She could feel pressure of his arm against her own. She subtly shifted her weight to lean heavily against the side of the plane, head resting against the window glass. Dark had fallen fast. As lights below dissipated, Clair considered the haste in which she had rushed out of the residence, into the cab. She hadn’t even packed a bag. Just this tote, with a change of underwear, toothbrush, and jacket. And Devon’s shiny red truck.

  Thinking back, so much had changed since morning. She remembered waking with something other than dread at the fact she was alive. A spark of something, not quite hope, but a willingness to feel, her heart not clenching, a moment even of wonder at the bold blue sky after a night of storm. As the plane banked south then righted itself, flying north-west along the coastline, she recalled dressing. First, a flowing top that concealed her flat chest under folds of silky fabric. A skirt, not jeans, this morning. She wanted to feel alive, feminine, a woman. She had even put on a small amount of make-up. Her eyelashes were gone, but she added eyes
hadow, liner, and a faint blush to conceal her pallor.

  She had planned her day the night before, as she readied for bed. First, she would join the breast cancer support group, then coffee with Jet, then she would see Ellerby. He wanted to go over her most recent PET scan. She felt good. No pain. Her fatigue had lifted. The swimming helped, as did the talks with the other patients and families. Nothing like another’s suffering to put our own in perspective, she often mused now. And she looked forward to seeing the women in the support group. This surprised her, always being such a private person. Naomi was kind, the women gracious, and welcoming, but for her, talking about such personal things had always been abhorrent. Unlike Rosemary, she smiled, remembering, who described her phantom pleasure when she made love with her husband. ‘My breasts might be gone’, she had exclaimed, ‘and they were double Ds, naturally, but the sensations remain,’ she had told them, laughing at herself. Thinking back, Clair realized she was envious, that this woman still had a sexual relationship with her husband. Then, she remembered the time with Adam, when they had first come home from the hospital, her drains, the shower. His visit, just yesterday. He had seemed open, genuine. Caring. I can’t think about that, she chanted to herself. No doubts now. I can’t think about Adam. I’ll lose my direction. Think about today. Think about how you got here; where you’re going. Find a trajectory.

  The flight attendant came through with offers of water, beer, wine. Clair chose wine, a white burgundy. Drink, eat, she thought. Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. She had catapulted to the top. Self-actualization. So, wine first, water and food second.

  Sipping the wine, cold and sharp, savoring the ease with which it slid down her throat, she closed her eyes, recalling the earlier events of the day. Group had been energizing. There had been upbeat chatter, laughter, talk of the coming holidays. The room was decorated with fall leaves, wreaths, scented with apple and cinnamon pot-pourri. As they went around the circle, checking in with themselves and each other, Clair had felt a unity uncommon to her. Their one man had graduated as they called it, once treatments ended. He told them he felt like he was ready to let go of this whole experience and move on with his life. They had all shared hugs and tears, best wishes, and a ‘hope I never see you again’ farewell. Noticing she wasn’t the only one who had dressed up for the meeting, she smiled and sat up straighter in her chair.

  A few of the women had left their heads bare, revealing newborn-like tufts of hair covering their bald crowns. Several had scarves, intricately wound around their heads, jewelry and make-up on. Clair felt overcome with love for these women, whom she had come to know intimately. She knew about their hopes, and fears, their anger, heartbreaks and self-doubts. Their pain, physical and emotional, was her pain. The ones whose husbands no longer touched them, who sat curled up, hiding their flat chests, made her want to reach out and hold them, tell them that they were more than their husband’s, or anyone’s desire. Some had turned to religion, alcohol, or drugs to see them through. Retail therapy had caused more than one to max out several credit cards. Jenny had given up on life, the lymphedema in her arms disabling, sinking her into a deep depression. She came to group, sitting quietly, arms at her sides, covered in the tight ace wraps to palliate the swelling. Margaret was in that terrifying period of frequent follow-up tests and scans, when active treatment ended and she was waiting to see if it would come back, hoping and praying for remission. Deborah, like Clair, was stage IV, metastatic, and remission was not an option for her. She had a new grandbaby and was determined to see her grow to her first birthday.

  Their stories changed each week as their self-identities reconfigured. Bits and pieces of biographies morphed into brighter, more capable, happier selves. Or if unable to assimilate their realities into new visions of themselves, they dissembled, as Jenny had done, preferring the rapid slide into merciful oblivion through psychoactive drugs, fragments of her former self drifting away like tufts from a dandelion seed pod. As they sat in a circle, sharing their newly emerging selves, each like a chrysalis, Clair recognized in them a little of herself.

  Naomi had started the sharing circle with a parable about how monkeys were trapped in China, by cutting a hole in a coconut, and putting rice into the hole. It was just large enough for the monkey to push his fist in, grab a handful of rice, but he would then be unable to pull out his fist. The only way to free himself was to let go of the rice.

  ‘What is your rice?’ she asked. ‘And what is stopping you from letting go?’

  After group, Jet had met her at the hospital coffee shop. Upbeat, feeling like she might actually be able to manage all of this: cancer, treatment, being in a chronic state of treatment. That was what it was for women like her, with metastasis. They learned to live with their cancer, gathering the best moments of each day and holding them front and center in every waking moment. When panic hit like a taser, shattering any sense of safety, causing heart to race, veins and arteries turn to ice, affirmations, prayer, alcohol, or drugs were grasped.

  ‘Everyone’s dying,’ Ellerby had told her that first time they had talked. ‘The train is coming for each of us. The difference with people like you is that you can see its light shining through the dark tunnel. Most of us can deny our ultimate death, live as though we have for ever. We waste what we have. You see the train; you can time its arrival. You have a chance to live a purposeful life.’

  She had thought that a strange thing for a doctor to say, but it made sense. She thought she had more time then. She had fretted about how best to spend it. Now, that time was gone.

  This last visit, the news had been bad. Curiously, she thought back now, she hadn’t been expecting that. She had deceived herself into believing that she would be able to continue on indefinitely. The clinic staff were always so positive. Offering this clinical trial, a new drug, hope for a future that wasn’t hers. She knew they did this out of some sort of misdirected kindness, not deceit, but it would have been kinder to not let her have false hope.

  ‘Clair, I’m so sorry,’ Ellerby had said, his gracious expression conveying such compassion she felt she needed to comfort him.

  ‘You’re not responding to the treatment, the tumors are proliferating, in your liver, and lungs now. I’ve consulted with our treatment team, and we have nothing else to offer you. I think it’s time to gather your loved ones around you and say your goodbyes. I can make a hospice referral for you, if you like.’

  Jet had been with her, asking all the right questions. How long? What if they went up to Portland? Seattle? Alternative treatments?

  ‘Thank you, Dr Ellerby,’ Clair had said, reaching her hand out to grasp his. You have been very kind.’

  Up until that moment, Clair hadn’t been uncertain what she was going to do. His mention of hospice, dying, lying in some bed somewhere, helpless. Having her basic needs met and by whom, Adam? Ben and Jodie giving up their work, their mission to come take care of her? A stranger? Paid caregiver? That wasn’t going to happen, she decided, certain now. Standing, she hugged Jet.

  ‘You have been a good friend, even though I resisted you in the beginning. If I never see you again, know that you have helped me, and I am grateful.’

  ‘Clair, wait, what do you mean? What are you going to do?’ Jet asked.

  ‘I’m not going to wait for death. I’m going to make death find me.’ Clair said, walking out the door, into the shimmering golden light of noon.

  The plane was circling the airport now, waiting for clearance to land. It had been a short flight to Seattle. A switch from Alaska to Iberia, the overnight to Porto. From there, she would begin walking. She was thinking about having to shop somewhere. She couldn’t walk to Finisterre in these few clothes, without even a toothbrush. That was no way to start a new life, the rest of her life. The end of her life. Gazing out the window, a field of sparkling lights covering the horizon, she watched as wisps of horsetail clouds caught in the landing lights
created fantastical creatures in the sky. I’m a dead woman walking, like these formless shapes, she said silently to the face in the window. Coming and going, identity shifting. Things that used to matter, disappearing with the miles.

  Clair thought about the simple story of letting go of the rice, of attachment and greed, of holding on so strongly that your very being was taken. Was her rice Adam? Devon? Life itself? Certainly, her hope, some would say, delusion, of finding Devon, or reconnecting with Devon, somewhere in the universe, might be a futile way of clinging to the impossible. Her rice. Had Adam been misplaced remorse, a target that was safe, risk-free? She couldn’t let him go, and wouldn’t allow him in. What kind of person does that? And now, it was over for her. Time had run out. Feelings of deep remorse and shame at her past behaviors caused her to moan out loud. The man next to her leaned towards her.

  ‘Are you OK?’ he asked, in a soft, quiet voice.

  Night was thick, the lights of the city below spanning across hundreds of miles, into the valley and along the coastline. People were shuffling around the plane, preparing for their landing, next directions, new experiences.

  ‘Sorry,’ Clair said, glancing at him. ‘I must have been dreaming.’

  ‘I always fall asleep on planes too,’ he said. She noticed his eyes were deep brown, almost black, with specks of amber light flitting about in irises, opaque and clear.

  ‘Where are you off to? Or, is Seattle your home?’

  A simple question, Clair thought. I could lie and tell him some story about going to visit a family member, or a conference, or a million other ways to create a life in the moment that would make sense. But something about him, his kind eyes, his gentle face, not young, with smile lines at the corners of his mouth and eyes. He looked so eager to hear what she had to say. His hands gave his age away. Spotted and wrinkled, as though having spent a long time in the sun. They rested quietly on his upper thighs, covered in soft, gray corduroy.