To the Sea (Follow your Bliss)

by Deirdre Riordan Hall

  “Kira, hello, this is Frank Brinkman. How are you doing?” he asked delicately.

  Clearing her throat she responded, “Fine, thank you for asking.”

  “I understand you’ve recently suffered a loss. We are very, very sorry.”

  “Yes, thank you,” Kira said. The words were stiff on her tongue.

  “Your presence at the office has been missed and we’re hoping we’ll be seeing you soon.” Kira knew this was his polite way of saying she’d better get back to her desk.

  “Yes, I was thinking I’d return fresh on Monday.” The words tumbled out of her mouth without her considering their implication. She had to pull it together by Monday. It was Thursday. The chasm between then and now seemed uncrossable.

  “I’m so pleased to hear that. Well, you take it easy then, enjoy the weekend, and we’ll see you first thing Monday morning.”

  After the call, she went downstairs to refresh her water and figure out what to do with the laptop. The urn resting on the mantel startled her. It looked out of place. Jeremy's urn belonged in a trophy case or on the stately stone mantel at his parent’s house, but not on theirs. He didn’t belong in their house like that. He would have wanted to be free. Maybe that was just the filter of Kira’s obscure desires, but her attention turned once more to the ocean. Yes, tomorrow she’d try again. She’d leave early and set his ashes free in the sea.

  Kira placed the laptop on the counter, retrieved her hair dryer, and set to work trying to dry it out. She pushed the laptop’s silver on button, but it failed to brighten. She had a lot of material for work stored on it. She stared at the screen vacantly thinking maybe it just needed to dry off, warm up, and it would miraculously turn on. Like her, maybe it just needed time. Then she remembered the file drive that she’d copied some of the reports to, though anything she did before that fateful night had begun to seem uncertain, like the fogginess of déjà vu. The phone rang again.

  “Lookin’ for Jeremy Annandale,” said a thick Boston accent. This wasn’t the first time she’d fielded calls on his behalf, each one wrenching the loss tighter in her chest. She willed her voice not to crack.

  “He’s not available.” Kira steadied her breath.

  “Well, uh, no one’s called back about Mr. Annandale’s car, and we haven’t received orders to fix it or scrap.” He went on to describe what would be required to repair it. Kira opted for the latter.

  “Fine. There are a few things he’ll need to pick up and some papers to sign.”

  She swallowed hard. “Unfortunately, I’ll have to come down.”

  The exchange reminded Kira she also needed to go to the hospital to pick up Jeremy’s possessions. Heavily, she decided she’d do this after her trip to the ocean in the morning. She also realized in the last few weeks nearly all her interactions with people had been over the phone, with the exception of Nicole’s visit and the funeral. Maybe going to the office and being around people would be helpful. However, with the prospect of collecting the things Jeremy had just before he died, the ensuing tears did little to convince her she was ready to reenter the world.

  ***

  Still awake at half past four in the morning, Kira got dressed. She hardly listened to the directions this time, though the voice on the GPS felt like company.

  Kira pulled into the lot. The dome of the sky appeared in a shade of grey that could either give way to sunshine or remain like a woven blanket shrouding the blue beyond. A few black clad figures sat distantly on the water, buoyed by their boards.

  A dark-haired surfer, presumably the same one from before, sat on the wall. Again, a seagull appeared, glass black eyes never leaving the waves.

  The surfer glanced in Kira’s direction when she turned off the engine. Once again, a wash of emotions flooded her, threatening to crush her heart, her lungs, and her very being. She closed her eyes as if by not being able to see the pounding ocean’s waves, the waves of grief and pain would also disappear, but she could still hear them washing to the shore.

  A light rap on the passenger’s side window startled her. The surfer smiled warmly. Kira fumbled to open the window, and as she did so, he pointed toward the roof. When the window came down, a mixture of salt air and the scent of coconut wafted into the Mercedes.

  “Hi, sorry to bother you,” he said kindly.

  She approximated what once may have been a smile in return, but her facial muscles felt stiff. She had the odd awareness the expression looked plastered on her face.

  “I noticed you pulled in the other day and have a new board on the roof. It looks like it might fall off, unless you’re going to head out today.”

  Kira, in her jeans and polar fleece, looked at him blankly. She didn’t fit the profile of a surfer. If anything, she imagined she appeared lost, unmoored. The urn rested between them, a stark symbol of how far she’d traveled away from her normal self, whoever that was.

  “Oh, I, um—”

  “If you aren’t going out, I’ll fasten it better,” he offered helpfully.

  She couldn’t begin to figure out how to explain. Intending to get the board down herself, she placed her hand on the door handle. It froze there. She couldn’t get out. Her plan, to usher Jeremy’s remains out to sea on his beloved board, was not to be. Not that day.

  Unmoving, she stared at him, at his warm brown eyes, his unshaven face, his broad and strong shoulders. She thought of Jeremy. Tears threatened.

  “I’m Ian, by the way,” he said extending his arm to shake her hand. Kira took his, awkwardly, as if she hadn’t participated in this ritual greeting before. She expected his hand to be cold on the blustery morning, like hers, like the urn. However, like his eyes and his smile, it warmed her through.

  “Kira,” she said softly.

  “Do you surf much?”

  She shook her head. “No, never.” She eyed the ocean warily. He cocked his head to the side, perhaps trying to connect the dots between her arrival at the beach with a surfboard on a morning, she presumed, only enjoyed by diehards.

  “If you ever want a lesson, I work at the Boardroom surf shop just up the road. In the meantime, I’ll tie this down better,” he said, helpfully pointing to the board she had haphazardly lashed to the roof.

  Kira managed to open the door and get out. The ties blew loosely like ribbons in the wind. He was right; the board probably would have fallen off on the highway. But she felt exposed, the ocean too close, and the stranger too unaware of her heartache.

  Chapter Four

  As the memory of the salty smell of the ocean faded, Kira remembered to stop at the hospital and auto body to collect Jeremy’s belongings. Using the GPS to navigate the labyrinthine streets of Boston proper was futile. Trying to navigate the streets without it was worse, so with a few landmarks she knew from her days on foot, along with the GPS,—in a tone that bordered on begging as it repeated, recalculating—Kira managed to arrive at “Sully’s Garage.” After waiting in the unattended office for ten minutes, she timidly poked her head into the garage itself.

  “Can I help you?” a mechanic called from beneath a Toyota.

  “I’m here to pick up Jeremy Annandale’s things.” Kira willed herself not to fall apart. The mechanic rolled out on a dolly and picked up an oil-stained box. Peering in, she saw Jeremy’s laptop, his iPod, and a few other incidentals. Back in the car, Kira let out a deep breath.

  In the daylight, the daunting ride to Mass General was surreal. The fluffy clouds looked like doodled cartoons and the people, as they passed going about their everyday lives, like caricatures.

  The familiar, yet aseptic scent of the hospital slapped Kira in the face as the automatic doors whooshed open. She faltered, but forced herself on.

  An older woman, her face lined with kindness, signed out the paper bag labeled Jeremy Annandale. Kira took it delicately in her hands. As she passed the nurses’ station, Nurse Laura caught her attention.

  “Mrs. Speranza-Annandale,” she called, her sneakers squeaking as she trotted down t
he hall. Her face looked carefully arranged as she handed Kira the familiar black leather wallet she’d given Jeremy for Christmas.

  “The woman who was brought in with him, well, it was with her things, must have been a mix-up. Realizing it didn’t belong to their daughter, the family just returned it this morning. Mix-up,” she said flustered.

  Kira suddenly felt lightheaded, the overhead fluorescents shone too bright, and the sound of an ambulance behind her dizzying. Laura pressed her lips together as if stopping them from saying more.

  “I don’t understand,” Kira said.

  “I’m sorry,” Laura said with a look of empathy on her face.

  “What do you mean the woman?” Kira asked carefully.

  “The passenger in the accident, her family was in the waiting room with you.”

  “Don’t worry she’ll be okay.”

  Kira looked at her blankly.

  “I thought you knew each—”

  A speaker crackled, “Nurse Laura Ramirez ER Room 3B.” The nurse gently squeezed Kira’s arm and then hurried down the corridor.

  Kira felt like someone had picked her up, turned her upside down, shook her, and all the inside-matter wasn’t sure where to settle. A woman, a coworker, a friend or—? With Jeremy? She didn’t allow herself to progress to the next possibility, but instead staggered to her car, driving immediately home, the collection of Jeremy’s possessions arranged around the urn on the passenger seat.

  Kira set the black container, the cardboard box, and the paper bag on the counter next to Jeremy’s wallet. Tentatively, she opened the paper bag and found clothing, Jeremy’s watch stopped at six twelve—a.m. or p.m., she wondered. They must have had to remove it in the ER, along with his wedding band, his key fob, and his cell phone. It was dead, his car destroyed, he was no longer married, and time didn’t matter, she thought darkly.

  Following this, Kira dug through the box from the garage and aside from a map, his electronics, some gum, and sunglasses; everything depressingly reminded her that, like his cell phone, Jeremy was also dead. The word sounded so harsh. She tried to summon a synonym, but the four letters remained as if forever etched into her vocabulary.

  Just then, Kira’s cell rang, and the caller ID showed, Alice Schulz, her partner on the Foster-Davis account.

  “Alice, hi,” Kira said clearing her throat, still knocking off the rust from not having interacted with humanity for a while.

  “I’m so sorry,” she started, “how are you?”

  Although Kira could vaguely recall the appropriate response to this question, something along the lines of okay, fine, good, or great, for some reason she paused to assess how she truly felt. Crushed. Dazed. Crippled. Agonized. The smell of the grease from the cardboard box, the memories of the hospital in the paper bag, and the question of why Jeremy’s wallet had been with another family, clogged her mind.

  “Alice, I’m —” No words formed. Gutted. Depressed. Lost. Confused.

  Alice politely filled in. “I can’t imagine Kira, I really can’t. I’m so sorry.” There was nothing to fill the silence. “Listen, I’d tell you to take as much time as you need, so I’m sorry to ask you this; Brinkman is breathing down my neck. Or more accurately, the clients are breathing down his. He’s reasonable, really, but I need your data files. I can come pick them up,” Alice offered apologetically, but sounded tired from late nights doing the job of two people.

  “I’m sorry. Everything is here,” Kira said, hardly remembering the material. She looked at the file drive on the counter and realized she could open it and email it to Alice with Jeremy’s computer. “I told Frank I’d be in on Monday. In the meantime, I’ll email you everything.”

  “Thanks,” Alice said sounding relieved. “Monday, if you’re ready.”

  “See you then.”

  Once off the phone, Kira turned to Jeremy’s computer, but the battery had drained. She went upstairs to look for the cable in his home office.

  She stumbled upon several unpacked boxes, from their move, crammed under his desk. Written in black Sharpie on the side and top of each box was Jeremy’s name. When they’d moved, Kira designated black for him, red for her, purple for bathroom items, green for the kitchen, and so on. Like a schoolgirl, she traced the letters, started to open the one nearest her, but behind the box, she spied the cable, one end plugged into the wall outlet, and the other tucked under a glass paperweight on his desk.

  Kira dutifully returned to the task with the computer, and as she waited for it to boot up, she clutched Jeremy’s wallet in her hands. She wondered what she ought to do with it. She considered putting it upstairs with his other boxes. Then decided she’d offer these things to his parents.

  She’d imagined, perhaps a bit unfairly, that she’d be the first one to go, never thinking about what people did with a lifetime’s worth of possessions. When her father died, the communal household absorbed everything except his eyeglasses, which she kept, and a few keepsakes her sister rescued.

  Kira opened the wallet and found a couple hundred-dollar bills, Jeremy’s license, along with credit cards, memberships, and business cards. A folded gas station receipt fluttered to the floor. The address indicated the same street where they found his Beemer. The time printed read nine-forty-seven p.m., just after they’d spoken. She imagined him, shielding his hair from the rain, pumping gas, innocently unaware that it would be his last time. Not allowing herself to define the leaden heaviness in her stomach, she wondered who the passenger was.

  Tears pricked the sides of Kira’s eyes. As she set this aside, the laptop chirped to life. The home screen displayed a bird’s-eye-view photo of Jeremy’s Harvard crew team on the Charles. Kira plugged the file drive into the USB port, but before she could open it, a speech bubble popped up with the words:

  Waiting for you…

  Kira hovered the little arrow of the touch pad hesitantly, and then she clicked the bubble. A site called Ivy League Singles filled the screen.

  “What the?” she said aloud. It loaded and then on the top left hand corner, a photo of Jeremy with a series of stats appeared.

  Height: 5’ 9’’

  Weight: 165

  Hair: Brown

  Eye Color: Brown

  Listed below this was Jeremy’s University and graduating year, his career, and a little blurb that said, Looking to meet smart girls who know how to have fun.

  Kira stared unblinking in the screen’s glare. She clicked around the page a little more, found a list of potential dates, and then went to the account page. She tried to come up with an explanation, but the nervousness in the pit of her stomach, transformed into something like the truth, sitting squarely on her chest. His account page indicated he’d been a member since August of the previous year. There, she found his credit card information that she checked against the cards in his wallet to be sure. Kira gasped for breath.

  “How could—? Jeremy, why?” she said. Kira closed the laptop. She cried, clutching her arms around her chest. She paced as her tears slowed, thinking back to August. Jeremy had just helped win a big case and received a promotion. He’d celebrated with the guys from the office. The following day they decided to postpone the honeymoon in Paris until the spring because they were so busy. They married the next month, September. That was also when he’d started working longer hours. She didn’t want to feel what this meant. However, she had to know the facts.

  Kira opened the laptop again, and a new speech bubble appeared.

  Still waiting…

  She clicked on it, found a history feature, and scrolled through messages Jeremy had exchanged with several women. Disgust mixed with hurt and nausea channeled from her head to her chest and down to her stomach. She followed thread after thread of conversations between him and women who had profiles on the site, feeling sicker with each one.

  After reading an exchange about favorite sexual positions, Kira navigated away from the Ivy League Singles page and opened up Jeremy’s email account.

  After
some fooling with the password, she figured out it was, The Hammer, the nickname Jeremy’s rowing buddies and frat brothers called him. There were three-hundred-forty-eight unopened emails, and she started at the top. Kira systematically deleted advertisements and work-related emails. With ninety-eight left, she determined about half were from friends and associates. The remaining were from women whose names she recognized from the dating site.

  After reviewing enough to confirm her suspicions, Kira clicked to the sent folder and found countless emails to these same women, and others, about meeting up, dates, restaurant reservations, and one to his best friend Blain that read,

  She has no clue. Such a hippie, you were so right about her. Pathetic, really. She plays the good wife. Makes me dinner. Cleans. Obsessively neat. She thinks everything is just perfect, all sunshine and rainbows. She practically has unicorns jumping out of her ass, though I wouldn’t know, she’s such a prude. I can’t even remember the last time we slept together. She’s more clueless than the blonde lawyer in that movie we had to watch during rush. She has her house to decorate; won the hot husband who brings home the g’s while I get to go out and still have my fun. Win, Win Annandale. So meet me tonight at Ashe and don’t be late. I need my wingman. –J

  A thick lump rose in Kira’s throat and she turned to the kitchen sink, throwing up. As she lifted her head and wiped her mouth, she looked out the window. Darkness had fallen. Reading the emails was torturous. Like a cat watching a ball go back and forth, her mind switched from not wanting to believe what she read, mixed with a deeper sadness than she had yet felt, to a rage so raw and primal, it threatened to erupt from her veins.

  Chapter Five

  Kira’s cell phone vibrated. Nicole. She answered without letting it ring again.