by Annie Katz
"That was wonderful," she said, lifting her arms to the sky. "Fabulous!" She came over to see if I was all right. "That's why they're called sneaker waves. That giant came out of nowhere."
I didn't see what was so fabulous about being drenched in icy seawater and rolled in the sand like a jellyroll in powdered sugar. My coat weighed about twenty pounds, so I sloughed it off and starting wringing water out of it. Gritty water was trickling down my face and into my eyes, and when I wiped it away, the sand scratched my cheeks. Plus I was freezing.
"We better get home quick," Lila said, still laughing. "We'll turn into pillars of ice." She took off running ahead of me, nearly tripping on her soaked denim skirt. Her sweater was hanging down to her knees, and she squeezed water out of it as she ran.
"Wait for me, Grandma," I yelled, and when she glanced back without slowing down, I didn't have any choice but to run after her.
We still had little streams of ocean running off us when we stood panting at her front door. Lila took my jacket and dropped in on the porch and wrestled her sopped sweater over her head and dropped it there too. She opened the door and pushed me in the entryway ahead of her. "Undress here," she said, "and toss everything on the porch. We'll deal with it after we've showered. You first," she said.
When I came out after a quick shower, she handed me hot cocoa with marshmallows on top and went to take her turn in the bathroom. I sat on the couch wrapped in an afghan until my teeth stopped chattering and I could drink my cocoa. The warm, sweet chocolate was delicious, and I finally saw why Lila had laughed so hard. Mother Ocean sure knows how to get a person's attention. No lollygagging allowed.
I tried to remember if we'd passed anyone else on the beach before the wave got us, but I couldn't remember. I hoped everyone else survived the sea monster as well as we did.
That afternoon when my mom called I told her about the wave getting us.
"Are you sure you're okay, Sandy?"
"I'm fine, Mom. It was funny really. How are you?"
"Lila should be more careful," she said. "Are you safe there? Maybe you should come home. It's too quiet around here."
"I'm safe. Don't worry," I said. "How's Roger?"
"I'm not sure." She hesitated. "We haven't talked in a few days."
"Why? Are you drinking again?"
She didn't answer, and I could almost see her chewing on the cuticle of her right index finger. She nagged me about biting my nails, but she had long fake nails so she bit her poor cuticles bloody when she was upset.
"Mom," I said. "The truth."
"The truth is I'm not sure Roger is good for me. He's too rigid."
"You're drinking," I said, and I didn't feel like talking to her any more.
"Only wine, hardly anything else."
"Okay, Mom. I need to go now," I said. "We'll talk again tomorrow."
"Sandy?" she said.
"Love you, Mom. Bye." I hung up the phone and fell back onto the little bed. I stared at the rainbow colors of the quilt hanging on the wall in my room until the colors pulsed back and forth like an optical illusion.
I was so disappointed in my mother. I thought I wasn't letting myself get my hopes up about her changing, but deep down I really hoped she would stop drinking. I thought Roger might be able to help her imagine a better way to live. I didn't want her to continue in the bartender, expensive wine, seasonal boyfriend groove she'd worn for herself. I wanted something better for her. I wanted something better for me. I wanted sober.
My Father’s Sins
Over the next few days, I avoided my mom's phone calls, and after the second time, Lila said, "I need to talk to you about something, Cassandra."
I was washing dinner dishes, and she was drying them and putting them away. I was afraid she was going to make me be nice to my mom, or even worse, maybe she was going to send me home. I didn't say anything. I washed dishes until I couldn't find anything else in the kitchen that needed doing.
"Come sit by me," Lila said, and she took my hand, led me to the couch, and sat down beside me. "We need to talk about your father."
"No, Grandma. I'm not ready." I'd been so happy that I wanted to pretend this was my life. I didn't want to talk about my mom or dad or school starting in September. I wanted to be in a fantasy bubble where time stopped.
She sighed and sat back on the couch. The sun had gone down, and there were a few people down at the tide line on the beach below us. They had flashlights that made streaks of light zip back and forth on the dark sand.
"I notice you're not talking to your mother," Lila said.
I was so relieved she didn't dump a whole load of impeccable truth about my father on me that I was willing to talk about my mother. "She's drinking again."
"Okay," Lila said. "Remember the communication rule? The solve problems wisely rule? When you avoid talking to people, their imaginations tend to scare them senseless."
"I'm mad at her. I want her to be sober. Rule number two," I said. I huffed and crossed my arms over my chest.
"Tell her that, Cassandra. Tell her the truth in the kindest way you can. Tell her what you feel, what you want."
"She always lies to me. Why should I talk to her at all?"
"People learn best by example, Cassandra. Be a good example to your mother. Give her a chance to learn from you."
"But I'm so mad, what if I start yelling at her?"
"Don't be afraid," she said. She put her arm around me and gave me a squeeze. "If you start yelling, you can stop and start over. Shouting never helps anyone hear the truth. Whispering is more effective. Let your heart talk to her heart. I know you love each other. Tell her how you feel. Tell her what you want. Try it."
"Okay. Tomorrow I will."
"Good. I'm proud of you."
We sat staring out at the sea. A neighbor down the way turned on outdoor spotlights that illuminated the crests of the waves. Pretty soon our breathing synchronized with the flowing pattern of sparkling white surf against the night.
When it was bedtime, Lila wished me sweet dreams and said, "Cassandra, we need to talk about your father before Mark and Jamie arrive. There won't be much privacy after that."
"Okay Grandma," I said. "Just not tonight." I'd had enough serious discussion for one evening.
"The sooner the better. This is important."
I should have chosen sooner. Important couldn't begin to describe the magnitude of this piece of the jigsaw puzzle of my life. I should have kept Lila up all night talking about my father. Instead I let another day go by, trying to prolong my fantasy bubble world.
The next morning, I spent our beach walk rehearsing how I would talk to my mom. I decided to keep it short and sweet.
Lila had Mondays and Tuesdays off, so it was the start of her weekend. She had business in town, and instead of going with her, I stayed home to call Janice.
Nervous about talking to her, I paced back and forth all over Lila's house, which annoyed Chloe and Zoe so much they slept on Lila's bed instead of their regular spot on the couch. Finally I went in my bedroom, closed the door, sat on the bed, and called Janice. It felt like a showdown, but I kept repeating Lila's advice to myself, whisper, heart to heart, whisper.
I knew my mom would be upset about me avoiding her calls, so I started right out by apologizing.
"Mom, it's Cassandra," I said. "I'm sorry for not calling sooner. I had to think about what I wanted to say."
"Sandy, I was so worried. Are you okay? The news said someone was hurt by a big wave up there."
"I'm fine. Please listen to me, okay?"
"No. You listen to me. Do you know what you put me though? I barely slept last night."
"I'm sorry Mother. I am." I waited for a while, breathing deeply thinking, whisper, whisper.
"Well, what is it then, Sandy. What's so important?"
"Mom, I'm sad that you started drinking again."
"How dare you," she squealed. "I'm a good mother. What's gotten into you? Has Lila filled your head with lies?
"
"No. I want you to be happy. I want us to be happy."
"I am happy," she said, raising her voice even further. "If you're not happy with me, that's your problem. You're as bad as Roger."
"I love you, Mom," I said, keeping my voice soft, "I love you." To my surprise, tears starting falling and I couldn't speak.
"Sandy? What's wrong, baby? Are you crying?"
I told her again I was fine, but my voice was teary and small.
"Let me talk to Lila," she said. "I want you home. You can catch the next bus. I'm tired of dealing with you over the phone. You're coming home."
"No," I said, way too loudly. I forced myself to calm down. "No, Mother, I'm really fine. I want to stay here for now. Please."
"Put your grandmother on the phone. Now."
"She's out. She can call as soon as she gets home."
"Who's there with you, Sandy? Let me talk to the sitter."
I knew better than to hang up the phone, but I couldn't think of an honest way out of this mess, so I said nothing.
"Don't hang up on me," she said.
"Mom, listen, we're both upset right now. When is a good time for me to call you back?"
"Don't put me off again, Sandy. I'm warning you."
"Mother, please. I love you. I want to talk to you when we are both calm. We need to talk heart to heart."
Several seconds passed, and the silence was heavy and full.
"I have to get ready for work," she said. "Okay. Call me at ten in the morning."
"Thank you. I'll call you. Have a good time at work."
"Baby, I love you. I'm sorry I yelled. I still want you to come home."
"Goodbye, Mother," I said, taking a deep breath, feeling I'd run a long race and was right at the finish line.
"Sandy?" she said. "Is this about your brothers?"
Her words had sound but no meaning. It was as if she'd spoken a foreign language. Several seconds went by while I tried to understand what she had said. "Mom?" I finally asked, stunned.
"Tomorrow," she said, too brightly. "Love you."
After she hung up the phone, I sat on the bed holding the receiver until a buzzer alarm signal started bleeping in my ear. My arm put the phone down, but my brain was still stuck on that impossible word.
When I came out of shock, Lila's house was too small to contain my rage. I wanted to destroy something. Anything. I had to get outside before I exploded.
On the front porch the basket of shells and rocks offended me. My new understanding of the world would not allow that basket to sit peacefully through sunshine and rain and wind. I grabbed handfuls of shells and clear stones and threw them over the cliff, but even though some were heavy and serrated, they seemed as insubstantial as cotton balls.
Finally I hurled the whole basket down the stairs and stumbled downstairs after it, kicking stones out of my way with my bare feet. Near the bottom of the stairway, the basket lay overturned in spiny beach grass. I grabbed the basket and bashed it into the seawall over and over until the thick woven reeds separated, tore, and sprang apart, leaving nothing but brittle debris.
Finding nothing else at hand to bash, I turned and ran as hard as I could into the ocean, slamming through the surf until a wave knocked me over.
The icy water did nothing to cool the fire burning in me, but being slapped down by the wave made me feel small and vulnerable and weak, as well as angry. I was powerless, slapped down by lies and secrets and betrayals.
I hated those feelings worse than I hated the rage, so I slogged back to the beach and ran north, into a wind that stung my eyes.
I wanted to scream and cry and curse, but everything was tangled up inside me so much that nothing came out my mouth. The only way I could express myself was through my bare feet on the wet sand, pounding pounding pounding. My arms pumped at my sides and the sound of air rushing in and out of my body matched the throbbing of blood through my veins at my temples and throat. Every cell of my body was flooded with poison.
Near the base of the cliff at the end of the beach, I fell over gasping. Never had I run so hard or so far, and there was a stabbing pain under my ribs on my left side every time I inhaled.
After a few minutes, the stabbing went away, and I became aware that my wet sandy jeans had rubbed raw places on my legs. The skin between my knees and above my ankles burned so badly I imagined blood instead of salty water wetting my legs.
Pain brought me back to myself, and I felt ashamed and pitiful. I curled into a ball and cried, but instead of the tears making me feel better, they made me feel worse. I wanted to die, and I begged God to let me die, please, let me die, right here and now. Get it over with. Death sounded like the answer to all my problems. I was ready. I wanted my life to end right there in the wet sand.
"Oh dear," said a woman bending over me. "Miss?" she said. "Are you hurt?"
When I didn't answer, the gray woman leaned closer to me and touched my arm. "Young lady," she said. "Should I call Rescue? Is anything broken? Can you talk?"
"No," I said, pushing her away. "Leave me alone. Please." I flushed hot with shame and did my best to stand up and appear whole.
"You're hurt," she said, "and you're soaked to the skin. Can you walk?"
"Yes. I'm fine." I started back down the beach, trying to run, but not being able to manage more than a limping jog. My raw skin hurt so much when I moved my legs that I couldn't suppress my tears.
"Wait," she said. "My house is right here. Come with me. I'll give you a ride. You need to get out of those wet things. Come."
"No. Please. I'm almost home." I ran then, not caring how much it hurt.
"Take care of yourself, child," she called after me. "A warm bath. You'll catch your death."
I wish I could catch my death, I thought to myself, furious at the old woman for trying to help me.
The wind pushed me home, and when I got to the bottom of the stairs, Lila was waiting for me. She wrapped me in the quilt from her bed and pushed me up the stairs ahead of her.
Inside the house, Lila didn't scold me or demand explanations or say anything at all. She looked sad, kind, and old. She helped me out of the wet clothes, and she groaned when she saw the raw places I'd rubbed at my knees and ankles. I stood there like a baby and let her help me. I felt drained and empty inside, like a brittle shell.
When I came out of the shower, dressed in my nightgown and robe, Lila handed me two wet tea bags. "Hold these over the burns on your legs, Cassandra. The tannic acid discourages infection and helps skin heal."
I did as she said, lying face up on a towel on the floor in the living room so the black tea drips wouldn't stain the couch. Lila tucked a pillow under my head and fluffed afghans all around me. I was a baby bird in a feathered nest.
I kept waiting for Lila to lecture me, and I was all ready to accuse her of lying when she did, but she didn't say anything. Her silence made my shame and self-pity even worse. I'd broken nearly all Lila's rules in one afternoon. I was afraid she'd never forgive me, afraid she'd tell my mom, but mostly afraid she'd send me away forever.
Instead of punishing me, Lila brought me a tray with cool water and warm honeyed tea and a dish of lemon drop cookies, my favorite from The Bakery Boys.
Without a word, she returned to the kitchen where I could hear her preparing dinner. Chloe and Zoe were in there helping her, and she carried on a cheerful conversation with them about the adventures of their day. I drifted in and out of sleep, willing to believe the afternoon hadn't happened.
I eased the tea poultices off my legs and studied my wounds. The ones on the inside of my knees were bad, but they weren't nearly as bad as I had imaged. The black tea left my pale skin slightly stained, so it seemed I had two square birthmarks over the burns. The ankle burns were only thumbnail size, and they barely hurt at all. I would live after all.
I sat up, put the tea bags on the tray, and sipped water. After a while, Lila called me to dinner, so I carefully folded all the afghans and put them away, took
the towel I'd been lying on to the laundry basket, and carried the tea tray to the kitchen.
I didn't say anything during dinner, and neither did Lila. We ate pork chops with gravy, steamed green beans, and fresh bread. The food was warm and comforting. We washed and dried dishes in silence, and when we were through, Lila went to her piano and played some classical music I'd never heard before.
I knew she was letting me choose the time and place to open the communication door, but no matter how many ways I approached it in my head, I couldn't find a way in. I'm sorry was wrong. Why didn't you tell me? sounded bratty. Don't send me away was too needy, even though it kept coming back as my top priority.
How do you open a door to a lifetime of secrets, really big secrets that could break your heart all over again? Wasn't it better to keep that door closed forever?
After the classical music, Lila played "Amazing Grace," singing all the verses I'd heard before and some new ones I think she made up as she went along. "Was blind but now I see." It was obvious she was helping me every way she could, so after she pulled the cover down over her piano keys, I said, "Grandma. Please tell me about David."
She nodded and led me to the couch. "Where do you want me to start, Cassandra?"
"I need to know everything."
She nodded again. "Should I begin before he was born? Before I was born? Our stories stretch back to the dawn of time."
"I need to ask you a question first," I said, "and then I know where to begin."
She waited.
"How many children do you have?"
"David was our only child."
I took a deep breath and dove in. "Start when David's first child was born."
Nodding, she looked into my eyes, took my hand, and held it in both of hers. "That's a good place to start.
"David married his high school sweetheart, Terry, right after high school graduation. She was pregnant."
