The Wave

by Kristen Crusoe

  ‘I’m going to Spain,’ she said. ‘Finisterre.’

  ‘Ah, a peregrina?’ he said. ‘Walking the Camino, to the End of the Earth?’

  Clair smiled, broadly. ‘Something like that,’ she said, laughing softly. ‘How did you know?’

  He shrugged, cocking his head to one side, a smile playing on his lips. ‘And what do you expect to find there?’ he asked, his eyes searching.

  Shocked by his frankness, she sat quietly for a few moments, as the plane began its descent. Announcements overhead cautioned passengers to secure their seatbelts, return trays to the upright position, and other safety compliance instructions. Clair looked out the window as the ground rose up to meet them, runway lights like signal fires in the near distance.

  Looking at the man, whose name she hadn’t bothered to ask, she smiled as he tightened his seatbelt. He seemed deep in thought, so she returned her gaze to the approaching tarmac. She didn’t know what she hoped to find. Wasn’t that the point of a journey? She had spent her life in a state of perpetual being; the perfect daughter, student, professor, wife, mother. Each of these roles had a set of rules, and she had been a rule follower. Set the formula, follow the equation to its end, and all will work out, had been her philosophy. Until Devon. Since his loss, Clair realized, feeling the plane bumping along, big engines pulling back, that now, she was in a state of becoming. And that like a chrysalis, her unfolding would come through her, not to her. She turned, laying her hand on his arm.

  ‘I don’t have any expectations,’ she said softly, as the plane touched down, causing her to grip the arm rest. Looking into his eyes, dancing now with curiosity. ‘I’m just taking things as they come, or trying to.’

  ‘I can tell you that whatever you think you might find, you will be wrong. And whatever you fear, you will be comforted. And whatever you need, the Camino will provide.’ He had lain his hand over hers. He gave a gentle squeeze, as people began standing and removing bags from overhead bins.

  ‘Buen Camino,’ he said as he began the shuffle towards the front of the plane.

  ‘Wait, I didn’t ask your name,’ Clair called out to his back.

  But he was several passengers ahead of her now. She had remained seated, wanting to be last off the plane. Taking time to gather her courage for the next or first, she didn’t know, steps toward her becoming.

  Perhaps it was like Jet had said, a process of cumulative trauma, this one last thing that tipped her balance. She realized she had been living in a sort of placebo effect, the treatments giving her false hope of survival. Thinking back to her first encounter with Dr Ellerby, she remembered him telling her that metastatic breast cancer could not be cured, but that they could hold it at bay for a while, possibly years. There were clinical trials, new treatments being developed every year. But this morning, reviewing her latest PET scans, and blood work, he said they had reached their limit. Her specific oncotype was not responsive to treatment. She had been so hopeful going into the appointment. Ellerby had said any further treatment would be like tweaking a jet plane as it was crashing. If she was going to crash, it would be on her own terms, in her own way. If she couldn’t be cured, then she would find a way to be healed.

  Chapter 26

  Clair

  Sounds and lights assaulted her as she made her way through the airport, following signage towards the international terminal. Thoughts of Devon, Adam, their home, flashed through her mind, like spikes of sunshine through a dense cloud, illuminating her situation. Clair remembered a photo she had seen in a travel magazine, somewhere in Spain, of a house, standing on its own, on top of a gentle hill. All around it was space and light. In the distance, a hammock of wind-shaped trees leaned into each other, offering solace, but the house stood alone. She felt like that house. Except that she was on the move. She would hold her trees, Adam, Devon, close to her and open space for knowing and remembering them, and how they were. As she moved further away from the physical place where they were last together, she experienced a feeling of joy, almost as resistance to the expectation of sorrow, loneliness, and grief. It felt good to be here, alone, but holding their images and energy in her heart. In a place where she could not lose them again. Safe now. Whole.

  To her surprise, the man from the plane was at the ticket counter for Iberia when she arrived at the terminal. She recognized his broad back, slightly hunched as though having spent a lifetime ducking under low ceilings. Taking her place in line for pre-flight check-in, she noticed a shell hanging from his backpack. When he turned away from the counter, he caught her eye, and smiled broadly, as though enjoying having played a trick on her.

  The waiting area was packed with travelers, many animated, excited to be on their way. Families with small children clustered around a play area. Clair joined them, sitting off to the side but close enough to be able to see and hear their laughter and delight, some tears and cries of fatigue and weariness.

  ‘To be happy as a child, for no reason other than being alive in this moment, that is a gift, yes?’

  Clair turned to see the man, she must learn his name, taking the seat beside her, that playful smile on his face, eyes shining with delight.

  ‘You,’ she said, shaking her head in surprise. ‘Are you on this flight to Porto as well?’

  ‘Yes, apparently I am. My original ticket was for Lisbon but seems I have been re-routed. Maybe it is kismet, or fate, that we travel together. You can tell me your story. We are bound together now for a few hours while we wait. Let’s enjoy our time.’

  Clair laughed at his eagerness to befriend her. She thought she must look a mess but he was so much older, she didn’t think he was coming on to her in a sexual way. He seemed genuine in his simple human desire for company.

  ‘First, tell me about the shell hanging from your backpack. Is it a clam shell?’

  ‘No,’ he smiled. ‘A scallop. The symbol for the Camino de Santiago. Pilgrims wear the shell to identify themselves when walking.’

  ‘Why?’ Clair asked, her head tilted to the side to better see the shell dangling from his pack, on the floor in front of him. There was a symbol of a stylized cross painted in red on its curved outside.

  ‘A long story and one you will learn as you go. It means different things to different people.’

  ‘So, are you going on to Spain too now, or are you getting off when we land in Porto?’ Clair asked, feeling like she was grilling him, as she did her doctoral students taking their oral exams. She didn’t care, she wanted to know. And he seemed unbothered, even eager for her questions.

  ‘I haven’t decided.’

  Clair looked at him with skepticism. ‘So, you just fly around the world, changing your destination en route?’

  ‘Sometimes, yes, that is what I do.’

  ‘I think there is a good story here, Mr. And what is your name?’ she asked, leaning forward in her seat.

  The play area had cleared out, parents shepherding children towards seats, food stalls, and gathering in corners with blankets and sleeping bags laid out for sleep.

  ‘My name is Michael Kraft and I am going to get a coffee. May I bring you one, Miss, Mrs?’ he asked in return.

  ‘Clair Mercer,’ she said simply. ‘And yes, I would love a coffee, black please. Thanks so much. I will tend your pack.’

  She watched him walk away, that slight hunch but head held high. He moved through the crowds easily, like a breeze passing through a field of wheat. People turned and shifted to make room, or looked up if he brushed them as he passed. Returning with the coffees, earnest in his purpose, his stride long and direct, she felt a tremble in her heart. Wondering if it was the chemotoxicity she had been warned about causing heart dysrhythmias. Maybe it was hunger, fatigue, all of these or an anticipation at hearing his story and spending time with this man. She took a deep breath and wrapped her arms around herself, settling in for a long n
ight’s passage.

  ‘What would you like to know?’ he asked, crossing one long leg over the other. She noticed his shoes, well-made leather, scuffed, and worn but with a good sole.

  ‘When did you walk your first Camino?’ she asked. ‘And why?’

  Michael squinted his eyes, looking into the distance, past the crowds, the overhead signs, the vendors, and shops.

  ‘My first official Camino de Santiago began in 1972, when I was twenty years old, but I guess you could say my real journey began the year before. When I first learned about and experienced the mysteries of mescaline. I was a seeker and in the practice of sacred peyote, found a way to explore my inner consciousness. I found too much, too soon, and was not able to contain the power, to make the alchemical shift from base corporal elements to gold, or pure transmutation. I imagined I was transcending reality but in truth, I was distorting it. And it distorted me. That wouldn’t have been so bad except I took another with me. My girlfriend, a slight girl, easily deceived. She believed she could fly off the top of a rock cliff in the City of Rocks, near Santa Fe. We had been camping there for a month, eating little, holding our ceremonies, a few others joining us from time to time. One morning, Suzanne woke early, before me or any others. She took a button, climbed the rock, and just as I opened the flap on my tent, welcoming the new day’s dazzling sunlight, I caught her shadow lengthening along the dry earth before me. I looked up in time to see her face as she fell to land, and heard a sound that still echoes in my ears, and I feel it again and again. The impact of the sound. The sheer terror on her face.’

  He hadn’t moved once through this telling. Neither had Clair. Based on his age at the time, she now knew he was in his late sixties. She could see it in the furrows along his broad forehead, and his hands, weathered from time outdoors. But his voice, his carriage, his presence were those of a much younger or ageless person. She thought again about being and becoming. How when we tell our stories, we become new, through each telling. Seeing ourselves through the eyes of another, recreates us.

  Michael sipped from his coffee. Clair sat still, not wanting to disrupt his memory or influence how the rest of the story unfolded.

  ‘My family hid me away in a private rehabilitation facility in upper New York state, as far away from New Mexico and peyote as possible. Lawyers settled. Newspapers were paid off. Promises for generous donations to worthy causes stilled rumors and scandals. You see, the Kraft family was old money. Very old, and very rich. There were appearances to keep. Funds were distributed and I was enrolled in an ivy league college. But instead, as soon as I was released from the facility, I began walking. And have been walking ever since. I would stop and work, earn enough for the next few months, and carry on. The sound of Suzanne’s landfall always in my head. Like a siren sound, warning me off any sort of relationship with another, or any happiness in life. I donated most of the money my parents sent me. And I still do. I keep just enough of my inheritance to stay in motion and contribute where I find need. I was not found to be legally culpable but in every other way, I am guilty. I do penance with each step.’

  Clair looked down where her hands entwined in her lap. His story, his feelings of guilt, remorse, and the need to pay, someone for something, resonated with her. He was treading close to her own heart’s intent.

  ‘Where have you walked?’ Clair asked, wanting to keep the conversation away from the pain. For now.

  ‘This is my fifth Camino. I have also walked others, the Muslim and Jewish pilgrimages. Hadrian’s Way in England, the Missions Trail in California. Across Germany, through Scandinavia. So many. The only formal long-distance hike I haven’t and won’t do is the Pacific Crest Trail because I have a near phobic fear of bears, and I know my fear will bring one to me.’

  She saw his face break into a grin at this confession and laughed with him.

  ‘I would be too,’ she said. ‘So, the Camino, why do you keep coming back?’

  ‘That question you will answer for yourself. It is different for everyone. Walking helps me keep my head in place. Spain is a beautiful country; the people are kind and generous. The food, wine, ah. That is enough for me, now. And you? What brings you to the Camino?’

  Clair felt her breath catch in her chest. What to say? How to frame her story so that it made sense to another when it hadn’t, it didn’t, make sense to her. When did her journey start? When Devon went missing? When she tried to kill Adam and herself? Earlier today, after learning she was imminently dying? Or now, just now, as she shifted from becoming a person unfinished, to being here, in this moment, as she told her story, making it real. She could tell any story, she realized. And so, she did.

  ‘I’m meeting my family here for a reunion of sorts. My brother and sister-in-law are both physicians for Doctors Without Borders, and we have rented a house on the coast of Galicia, A Coruña. My husband and son will be joining us next week. After they visit with his family in…’ Clair hesitated here, blocking on a place or reason that made sense. ‘Um, they’re meeting his family in San Francisco first. So, they flew south. I flew north.’ Realizing she was rambling she stopped, removed the lid from her coffee, blew gently across the top. Taking a tentative sip and then another, she began to live her story.

  ‘My son is just five, you see, and the long flight is very hard for him. Adam, that’s my husband, will break it up for him. they’ll stop in New York, and also, stay a few days in Amsterdam, cycling and exploring the waterways. Devon, my son, loves water and boats. They might take a boat ride. They’ll meet us in A Coruña.’

  ‘Ah, sounds wonderful, for all of you,’ Michael said, looking up at the flight monitor on the wall opposite.

  ‘Our flight is on time, and we should begin boarding soon. I think I’ll stretch my legs.’

  Clair could sense a disappointment in him. She felt that he knew she was making it all up. He had shared his truth with her, a complete stranger, and she had not.

  ‘Wait,’ she called to him, as he began walking away. ‘I lied. That isn’t my story. May I walk with you?’

  He smiled at her, adjusting the straps on his pack.

  ‘I thought so,’ he said. ‘And I’m sure you have your reasons. I don’t mind, really. It was a good story. If that is what you need to get through this day, then it’s yours to own.’

  ‘But it isn’t mine to own. It’s no one’s. And I am someone. I need to own my real story. That’s why I’m here. To find out who I am and what my true story is. I will try again, see if I can get it closer to the truth this time.’

  ‘Then, let’s begin. And continue,’ he said, offering her his arm. Together, they walked down the concourse, slowly, easily as though they had been sharing time and space for years, their steps rhyming in rhythm and pace. She felt her heart slowing, her breath calming. Swallowing, she looked up at him, and then as they passed a women’s restroom, she said, ‘Wait here. I’ll be right back.’

  Hurrying in, she went to the counter, looked in the mirror, removed the wig. The feeling of cold air on her bald head was exhilarating. She rubbed her stubble, causing small tufts of feathery white hair to stand on end. Wetting her hands in the water from the faucet, she patted her head down, rubbed her cheeks vigorously, trying to bring color into her pale complexion. Satisfied it was as good as it was going to get, she exited, waiting for his expression to show shock or repulsion. What she saw was surprise, yes, but also, admiration.

  ‘Thank you for sharing yourself with me,’ he said, taking her arm and tucking it under his.

  As they walked, she talked, about her life as a professor, her music, her brother and his wife, their work in the world. She talked about everything she could think of except Devon, Adam, and her cancer. When she had run out of words, he nodded his head.

  ‘And you have set off on this Camino, because your life at home was so perfect?’ he asked, stopping in front of an Elliot Bay Book Compa
ny.

  ‘You didn’t mention Devon or Adam, from your first story. Do they exist?’

  ‘Yes,’ Clair said, her eyes tearing as she saw a display of children’s books in the store window.

  ‘Adam is back at home in Harbor, Oregon and Devon, my son, he is in the world. Somewhere I think, maybe Finisterre. He was taken, by a wave. And I know that he is there, not in his physical form, of course, I know that isn’t possible. But his energy, his atoms, his enduring self, exists and is pulling me to him. Like coagulation, our cells are being drawn together, to complete us, again. I know this. And yes, I am dying, or so I have been told. I am dissolving. So, I have more clarity about these types of things, don’t you see? I’m not burdened by heavy desires and fears. I have forgiven others and most importantly, myself, and let go of all my attachments. I am free.’

  Clair had stepped in front of Michael, taking hold of both of his arms.

  ‘And I just realized this as I said it,’ she said, almost bouncing on her feet, the epiphany lifting her up like a cloud of joy.

  Michael took hold of her hands, pressing them between his larger ones. ‘I am happy for you, Clair, to have found this release. May it sustain you along your Camino.’

  Overhead they heard their flight being called. Looking into each other’s eyes, they knew they might not see each other again, but in this short time, this passing time together, they had reached a level of deep friendship. Clair would remember him. This kind stranger who had opened her eyes and heart to seeing and telling her truth. Now her challenge was to follow it.

  ‘Buen Camino, Clair Mercer,’ he said as he turned to leave. ‘Perhaps we will cross paths again someday, on the road to Santiago.’

  ‘And to you, Michael Kraft, Buen Camino. Thank you for the moments.’

  Chapter 27

  Clair