The Wave

by Kristen Crusoe

Clair was awakened by the sounds of cutlery, metal against metal, plastics rustling, soft words in many languages. Eyes easing open, she saw daylight peeking in through the crack in her window shade. The flight attendants were passing out breakfast trays, hot towels, coffee, tea, water. Her head was twisted to the side, and she could feel her mouth wet where she had drooled while sleeping. The wine, food, warm cabin, studied ministrations by the attendants had lulled her fight, flight or freeze into submission, and allowed a deep relaxation response or perhaps just pure exhaustion to take over. Stiff but rested, she accepted the warm towel, running it gingerly over her face, then hands. It felt good. The flight path monitors on the screen in front of her showed they were eight hours out. They would be landing in Porto at noon, which meant it would be 4 a.m. for her biological clock. The deepest hour for circadian rhythms. The hour of sudden death, heart attacks, and stroke. Staring at her reflection in the glass, eyes bleary with sleep and disorientation, she felt a growing sense of exhilaration, and wonder at what she had done. Was doing right now.

  Her gaze returned to the screen in front of her. The tiny icon showing the space between her past and future expanding second by second. Between what had been and would be. How simple, she thought, to just sit here, allowing this to happen. All of her previous striving, gone, dissipating like rolling thunder after a lightning flash. Efforts to please her exacting mother, absorbing her daily carping and criticism. Futile attempts to connect in any way with her brilliant, distant father. She had excelled in her work, gaining recognition and acclaim, but it wasn’t until she became a mother that she began to believe she mattered. Devon, with his bright eyes and crooked smile, hair dancing with light, always a bit too long. He hated haircuts. She smiled to herself at the memory of her sneaking up on him while he was sleeping to snip away at the rampant curls. Clair felt her eyes sting with tears, unwanted and quickly wiped away with her now cool washcloth, remembering how she had carelessly tossed them into the trash, never imagining a time when she would have done anything to be able to hold one of those precious locks in her hands, feel the silkiness slide between her fingers again.

  It was Devon who had launched her on this path, she realized, watching the flight map. He used to play a game at the beach, digging a hole and calling out, ‘I’m going to dig a hole to the end of the earth.’ Once, when Devon had just turned three and all things were still possible, Clair had pointed out on his illuminated globe the peninsula jutting out into the western Atlantic. Finisterre, she had told him. This is where it was once believed the earth ended. Finis Terrae. He loved the sound of it and would recite it over and over, ‘Finisterre, the end of the world’. ‘We’ll go there one day,’ she had told him. And so, now, she was. And in the way of energy, neither created or destroyed, always changing, she knew Devon would be there also. In some form. And she would know him.

  Flight attendants were preparing for yet another meal. She needed exercise more than food so she asked the attendant to hold hers for a few minutes, while she walked around the cabin. Curious about where Michael might be sitting, she cautiously scanned the passengers. She was sure he hadn’t flown first class, and even if he had, she would have seen him when she walked through that cabin on her entrance. She didn’t find him anywhere. Maybe he was in the bathroom. She made a second round. No Michael. And no backpack with a scallop shell leaning up against a seat.

  An announcement directed passengers to return to seats and fasten their seat belts, they were expecting turbulence. Reluctantly, Clair did so, curling her legs up on the empty seat next to her. Twinges of tingling ran through her legs, both feet suddenly becoming numb from her ankles to her toes. The neuropathies that often accompanied chemotherapy, she realized, looking at her ankles, swollen and stiff. Gingerly, she stretched first one leg and then the other out towards the aisle, rotating each ankle, flexing and extending each foot. Shockwaves of feeling returned, heat and waves of ice. Good shoes will be the first thing to buy, Clair determined. With a slight moan, she promised herself that she would get back to the daily stretching and self-massage for the lymphatic system Naomi had shown her and the other members of the support group. This final quest mustn’t be undone by side effects. Only head-on actions now.

  Watching the morning clouds lift to reveal a carpet of green, a wide ribbon of blue, and areas of cultivation that looked like ancient markings in the fields, Clair felt overwhelmed with gratitude for her life, this chance to regain, or perhaps discover, her true self. Yes, Devon may have launched her on this course but as she felt her body begin to awaken from the deadening grips of toxicity, her spirit also felt a kindling, a stirring of feelings she hadn’t experienced in a long time. The first time she had drawn bow across cello strings and felt the vibrations deep in her bones, wind in her veins. Making love to Adam, without self-consciousness, joy stirring in her belly with the first signs of life.

  Each step of this pilgrimage will be both a penance and a homage, to all that has gone and all that is to come. I will join that sea of humanity that has loved, becoming love itself.

  As the plane began its descent, she thought about Michael and what had happened before. Had she dreamed the whole thing? Did he exist or was the experience one of the hallucinations she had been cautioned about, another side effect of chemotherapy? But he seemed real, and his story? How could she have dreamt that up? She didn’t know anything about peyote or the mountains in New Mexico. But his story, it did speak to her. And his living each day, making penance, finding joy and comfort in whatever the present presents. Michael had talked to her about simplicity; waking each day, eating, walking, sleeping. Each step a prayer. That also made sense to her. What if he wasn’t real? She might never know, so she would keep his story in her heart. A remembrance of a time when a friend found her when she needed one. She looked at her hands, feeling his large, rough, but gentle hands enfolding hers. His touch remained on her skin. How could that be imagined?

  At the first vendor she passed after disembarking, she purchased a small day pack, toothbrush, toothpaste, phone charger with adapter, lip gloss, and hand cream. Michael had told her the Camino would provide whatever she needed. But she wasn’t sure about good walking shoes, a change of underwear, and a warm jacket. From her research on her phone during the flight, she knew the walk along the coast would be wet, cold. Shuffled through all of the checkpoints, she finally found the main doors opening up to brilliant sunshine. She waved down a taxi, to take her into the city center. Clair knew she needed to get properly outfitted. She also had to charge her phone. Reluctant to speak with anyone, she mentally drafted a message, telling Ben, Jodie, Adam and Jet that she was fine, would be out of touch for a while, and not to worry. She would reconnect once she felt more stable. For now, she needed time, to find a way to be in the world with this knowledge, that she only had a few months, maybe weeks, left. ‘I’m OK,’ she said to herself. Weak from the effects of chemotherapy, but so far, no pain. So, I’m going to walk.

  Clair felt, for the first time since hearing her diagnosis of terminal cancer, that she was living, not dying. She hadn’t done any of the right things one is supposed to do when facing certain, imminent death. Ladies from the support group had talked about the list, as they called it. The ‘to dos’ for those last days.

  Molly had described rushing all over town buying Christmas presents even though it was still before Thanksgiving. Vicki had said she refused to think about it or talk about it. She and her husband were going to Mexico for a month in their casita. ‘After the girls finish their volleyball season,’ she had said, ‘like always.’ Naomi had counseled them all that there wasn’t a right or wrong way to feel. Clair hadn’t paid much attention at the time, certain that she would not fall into the category of being one of them, the terminal ones.

  And now, thinking back to the previous twenty-four hours, her reaction was so unlike herself, that she felt uninhabited. As though some extraterrestrial being had taken over her mind an
d body. Normal Clair would have recorded a final lecture for her students. Would have signed off on her students’ theses, handing them off to another professor to continue on with. Before Clair needed to have all of her affairs in order, lists made, details checked off. This Clair, she smiled to herself, couldn’t give a damn. Let the world slip by. Like a thought, a wisp of daylight breaking through the early dawn, she felt insubstantial and porous. And it was OK.

  As the Porto scenery flashed past, the broad river running through the center, the vast ocean to the west, excitement began filling her senses, replacing the fear and dread she had felt earlier. Letting go of the anger and blame, in her dream or in reality with Michael, had lifted a heavy weight from her heart. Clair felt her phone vibrate, again. It had been almost non-stop since she took it off airplane mode at landing. Adam. Jet. Ben. Jodie. Even Naomi, the oncology social worker. They had all been calling. Mostly Adam. Later, she would text, let them know she was safe. For now, she wanted this time just to herself. She turned the phone off, watched the landscape take shape around her.

  As she stepped from the taxi in front of a city park, Clair had no idea what to do next. She had asked the taxi driver to take her to the Albergue de Peregrinos Porto, a place she had learned about from a pilgrimage app she had downloaded onto her phone. There, she could rest, eat, and receive guidance on the Camino.

  He had pulled over and pointed her into the maze of old buildings, cafés with gardens flowing out onto the sidewalks. Feeling a sense of overwhelming disorientation and dizziness, she leaned against a wall, feeling the cool, ancient stone beneath her palm. Standing still, pressing her back up against the wall, she watched as groups and singles walked purposefully down the street. They seemed to know where they were going, so she joined them, following the human compass through the narrow, twisting, cobbled streets, learning to be at home in this journey, trusting others and herself to find the way to wherever she needed to go. Sensing a presence to her side, she looked, but saw only shadows. Ahead, a man’s shoulders, a turn of head. Michael? Her heart quickened.

  A pair of large wooden doors opened into a small office, staffed by a single woman, her age unknowable. Clair filed in behind a line of people. Pilgrims, like herself, she concluded, feeling a connection. Uncertain what was going to happen when she reached the destination, but as in elementary school, knowing the best thing was just to keep her place in line, a few inches distant from the body in front of her. It was a large male body, the backpack reaching over the man’s head. Looking around, she noticed everyone carried some sort of pack, many with tightly rolled up sleeping mats tied beneath.

  Realizing how completely unprepared she was, she decided her first action in the morning would be to get outfitted. When she arrived at the counter, she answered a few questions, was given a Pilgrim Passport, and invited to select a shell from the tray of scallops next to the counter. They were all similar in size and shape, some slightly more battered and scarred. She found one that had marks where tiny sea creatures had made their homes in the shell, feeling close to it, close to its watery life, both in and out of the sea. Her eyes filled with gratitude at this kindness. It was as though she had stepped through an opening into another universe, where being human fulfilled the original meaning of the word, humanitas, and to be civilized meant to be kind.

  A group of five women, traveling together from Wisconsin she learned, adopted Clair, shepherded her through the hostel to a dormitory type room with six bunks, metal frames, thin mattresses. The women chattered all at once, their voices like starlings circling the sky at the end of a long day. Clair relaxed into the sounds, feeling at home, like an orchestra tuning up before a concert. She was content to listen, not trying to discern any specific voice or story. Just simply being. Once settled in, the women rummaged through their collective bags and offered her an assortment of warm clothes, including socks and underwear. Shoes, they had told her, would have to be purchased first thing in the morning. They were most important because a blister could cause infection and rot. A rainproof parka would also be a requirement, one of the women, Maggie, read from her guide-book.

  After dinner, served family-style in the albergue’s dining room, they all settled in for the night, friendly jostling, games of rock paper scissors to see who claimed the top bunks. Clair was content to be on a bottom bunk, her belly filled with hot soup, wine, and bread, her heart warm with friendship. She turned her body away from the group to slip into a soft T-shirt for sleep. Her body would shock and horrify anyone, she felt, scarred, the infusion port poking out of her upper right chest.

  When she turned around, she was met with the women, standing together, tops off and breast-less bodies displayed. Two were missing one breast, the other three both, like Clair. Each had a unique tattoo covering their old scars. Maggie, the tallest of the group had a vine stretching across her chest; Andrea, a rose over her left breast; Celia’s bilateral scars were covered in Celtic swirls, with the tree of life in the center of her chest. Sandy, the oldest member of the group, had written across her chest, ‘Do Not Resuscitate’. And Robin, the newest and youngest member of this elite club, as they called themselves, had a butterfly on one side, a dragonfly on the other.

  ‘To transport me to the other side when it’s time,’ she said, as Clair admired the artwork.

  Sandy told Clair they had all met and become friends in a breast cancer support group in Madison. This pilgrimage had been their goal for a few years. When Robin joined them, they decided it was time. She was getting married in four months. They had their tattoos done a month before, Sandy told Clair.

  ‘It’s a must do,’ she said. ‘It will transform your perception of your body. Decorate yourself instead of being scarred up.’

  As she fell into sleep, images of her shell, nestled into a grassy floor, fish swimming above, its mouth opening and shutting to let in tiny creatures for substance. A swirl of filament, iridescent and inviting, called her to follow. Wrapping her arms around her body, she allowed herself to be carried along, until voices, footfalls, and doors opening and closing released her from the current, tossing her back onto the ground of her reality. She clasped the scallop shell in her hand, tucking it deep inside the pocket of her jacket, feeling its heat. You’re here with me, I know, she said to the shell, to the world around her. We are all here together.

  Chapter 28

  Adam

  Adam grasped the phone in his hand, holding it like it was his lifeline, salvation.

  ‘Where is she?’ he shouted into Jet’s voicemail, his grip on the thing causing tiny bleeps to interrupt his message.

  He was walking as he talked, the wind stirring up leaves. Small birds, drinking from puddles forming on the parking lot, skittered out of his way. He looked up to the third floor of the main hospital building, across the lot. He imagined Clair there, in Jet’s office. They would be talking about him. He hoped that was where she was. The idea of her anywhere else, on a plane to God knows where, was unfathomable.

  As he strode up the wheelchair access ramp, through the automatic double doors, he noticed people stopping to look at him. He clicked off the phone, shoving it into his coat pocket. Smoothing his hair back with his hands, he forced an expression of calm demeanor.

  Once past the elevator stand, he bolted up the stairs, causing staff to turn sideways to avoid being jostled by him. Many were holding their lunch trays, eating as they climbed. No one commented. It was a hospital and strong emotional responses were familiar.

  Adam called behind him, ‘Sorry, in a rush.’

  Once through the door onto the third floor, home of the psychiatric unit, a quiet permeated the hallway. Adam knew this place well, and yet it still seemed like a strange land, alien and separate from humanity. A place apart, where broken minds, hearts, and spirits were medicated into compliance, counseled into normality. A momentary sense of outrage infused him, turning his face hot, his hands cold. Oh Cl
air, he moaned inwardly, what happened to us? How, why did I allow this to happen?

  Jet’s door was closed. He knocked quietly at first, then strongly when there was no response. A voice from an intercom asked him, ‘Sir, how can we help you?’ The voice came from the door to the locked unit, where staff monitored the hallway and entrance twenty-four-seven.

  ‘I’m here to see Dr Taylor,’ he said. ‘Please, it’s an emergency.’

  ‘Dr Taylor’s with a patient right now. If you have a seat there in the waiting area, I’ll let her know you’re here. It’s Dr Gage, right?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said into the intercom. Recognizing the voice of Belinda, the day shift unit secretary he immediately felt better, grateful not to have to engage in verbal judo. ‘It’s Adam Gage. Thank you.’

  A row of stiff, wooden framed chairs lined the hallway to his right. He sat, the chair uninviting and institutional, upholstered in a geometric patterned vinyl made to withstand body fluid assaults. As he waited, he watched people coming and going through the double locked doors, the clicks and clacks causing him to twinge inside each time someone passed in or out.

  He stopped glancing up each time he heard the lock from inside the unit click, hoping to see Jet. Instead, he stared at the door, willing her tall, slender shape to appear. After what seemed to him like hours, she did. Walking quickly, she glided past him, motioning with her hand for him to follow her. She held an electronic tablet in one hand, opening the door to her office with the other. He noticed her normally straight, almost haughty posture was softened today, even slumped.

  Adam followed Jet into her office. It was familiar to him, having spent countless hours there in family counseling with Clair. Jet knew all their innermost feelings, fears, doubts, hopes, dreams. What had brought them together and torn them apart. He felt like an adolescent in her presence, one that never quite reached that grown up bar, couldn’t make it over the hurdle into adulthood. Her white hair gave her the look of an old crone, even though her face and body were those of a much younger woman. He was both drawn and repelled by her. Afraid of her, if he was honest, and her ability to see him. Know him without judging or wanting to change him.