by Lois Cahall
I place my hand on hers and she looks out to the sea. “I can’t believe I was robbed of my baby and my grandchild. Both of them,” says Alice. “And my son-in-law…” Her voice softens. “What am I saying? I should remember how they lived.” Alice stops and wipes her eyes on her sleeve. “Besides, this is your moment and I’ve been meaning to say this to you, Marla. I never knew your mother, but I got to know you, and I can see how wonderful she must have been.”
The boat jostles us and we hang onto the railing for support as it rounds the buoy and begins to pick up speed, making its way toward Provincetown. Alice grasps the banister to steady herself as she studies the growing waves. I watch as she turns to take in the wake left behind the propellers, the wind whipping through her red tousled hair. “My Joy had such insight about life. How about Rosie? What was Rosie at her best?”
“She had so much charisma, a sense of humor and the biggest heart so full of compassion.”
“Joy took a real interest in others, and not just to be polite. She always knew what to ask somebody; ‘How’s your sick dog? Your uncle’s broken ankle? Your daughter’s Girl Scout cookie sales?’ My Joy remembered every detail.”
“So did my mom—with a curiosity about the world that was completely infectious.” My eyes follow Alice’s gaze out to the horizon. “I bet Joy was just wonderful.”
“I bet Rosie was wonderful too,” says Alice, the salt-spray misting our faces. It feels good to feel. To be alive.
“We have to remember that Joy lives in the ocean, the sky, the land, everywhere around us,” I say. “You taught me that, Alice. She’s there, right?”
All of a sudden thunder rumbles, a bolt of lightning strikes and the skies turn grey. Everyone on the boat jumps up startled, but we laugh out loud. “There’s Mom now!” I joke, slapping the banister.
“What are the chances?” says Alice, playfully, looking around to the other people who don’t seem as amused as us. They gather up their lunches and knapsacks and aim for shelter.
“Hey, it’s sprinkling,” I say, raising my palms to the sky and then grabbing her hand to scramble for cover. “C’mon!”
“You bring a slicker?”
“Right here,” I say, pulling a rumpled yellow raincoat from my backpack.
We all huddle under the awning, finding a space with the others braving the outer deck.
“Look, can’t see land anymore,” says Alice.
“We’re really out here now,” I say, “In the middle of the sea. And you aren’t sea sick!”
“Now that’s a miracle!” says Alice.
I struggle to put on my slicker as my body gets wetter by the moment, but I don’t mind. The rumble of thunder seems to complement my mood as the blue sky becomes completely grey. The waves turn first to dark opal and finally to black, a big open vortex that could suck the very life from me. I’m completely enthralled, and the darkness sends my mind wandering at the speed of light. What if Mom’s not there? What if she is? What if it’s true? Do I jump overboard? What if this is all a silly memory of childhood? What if she lied to me on the beach that day? Could she really be a whale? What if…?
“What kind of guy was Eddy?” whispers Alice.
“Huh?” I say, breaking my train of thought.
“Eddy? What kind of a guy was he?”
“Eddy was the kind of guy who would love me even if I ended up in a wheelchair.”
Alice seems surprised by my blinking certainty. “Okay, then, love him back. The past is a bucket of ashes.”
“I do love him, but…”
“Then go meet him at that Spanish place.”
“You mean the Alhambra?”
“Yes. That place—the Court of the Turtles.”
“Myrtles. Court of the Myrtles.”
“Turtles, Myrtles; potato, potahto. Go meet him, okay? You told me you picked the date just in case….”
“When do you suppose we’ll start seeing whales?” I ask, deliberately changing the subject.
“Probably when we round the tip of Provincetown.”
“I think we’re past Truro now,” I say, looking around for a lighthouse, another boat, or some marker to identify how far we’ve sailed. Instead I find the crowd’s mood changing. Kids are whining and people are huffing under their breath. The boat begins tossing back and forth in waves a little rougher than bargained for. Alice struggles to steady her balance.
I hold the banister firmly, my posture strong, my eyes fixed on the horizon like a sailor’s wife on a widow’s walk hoping to see her captain’s ship.
“And I paid money for this,” shouts out some loud guy in a Cape Cod sweatshirt.
The Japanese tour group read their translated brochures as though it will give them direction on how to survive rain and wind when out on a choppy sea.
“Takes a really good friend to do this with you, Marla,” jokes Alice.
I don’t respond. Suddenly it’s gotten serious. My entire life seems to rest on this one moment where the past and the future should culminate. But not one person on this boat has any idea just how important this whale watch is to me.
“It’s just a shower,” says Alice, calming her own panic. “I’m sure of it. It’ll clear up soon.”
“The whale isn’t there,” I say, looking out across the sea.
“Pretend it is,” says Alice.
“But it’s not,” I say, pulling back.
“What kind of whale was it supposed to be?”
“I don’t know, Alice. My mom wasn’t specific.”
“Humpback? Minke? Right Whale? Finback?”
I look at her in total disbelief. “Since when do you know so much about whales?”
“National Geographic.”
I give a snide huff under my breath. She’s made me smile again. She always manages to do that. The crowd grows more impatient with the weather. Everyone begins clamoring for space inside the cabin. Those who forgot raincoats are using shopping bags or their morning newspapers for protection. The loud guy yells out again, “We gonna turn this thing around or what?” Everybody nods their heads in agreement. They want the ferry to go back.
Except me. I can’t imagine going back to shore now. This is exactly as my mom said it would be. What are the chances I’d be on a whale watch with downpours that could stop and then turn into a rainbow just as she promised? She did say a rainbow, right? Rainbow and then the whale shows up? Am I remembering right?
Zombie-like I walk to the railing, no longer feeling the rain, refusing to leave the side of the boat, refusing to admit that this was all a farce.
Thoughts of death creep through my thoughts of hope. Thoughts of what my mom went through when she was murdered. Did it hurt? Was it quick? Were her last thoughts of me?
“Don’t hope for another life, Marla, just enjoy this one,” whispers Alice, coming up alongside me in the rain that neither of us seem to feel. “This is your life. Not your mother’s. ‘You are here,’ like those signs say, remember? You are here. Right now.” I ignore her, but she continues, her tone suddenly changing to something I’ve never heard before. “Don’t give up, kid. Trust me. Our time is so short here compared to eternity.”
It’s as though my own mother is standing beside me, gently reprimanding me, expecting me to look at her when she speaks to me. I turn straight to Alice now, looking so deeply into her eyes that I can see right through to her broken heart.
And then my stare is broken by the sound of clapping in the crowds. “It’s stopped!” yells out a woman, her palms held up to the sky.
“Just a passing shower,” says another lady moving from out beneath the awning and removing her ball cap.
I look overhead and see the clouds moving swiftly to the east, carrying the rain with them. The sky cracks open to deliver a shaft of sun that casts shadows on the deck. The waters brighten, lifting the color of the sea in one sweeping orchestra from black to deep blue then turquoise, then aqua and finally peaks of whitecaps floating atop each individual wave.
And then…
“Look, over there!” yells out the loud guy in the crowd. “It’s huge!” Everybody’s eyes shift toward the Stellwagen Bank of the boat. “Look—three of them. Three! Did you see them?”
The crowd makes their way across the deck to the other side of the vessel. One of the Japanese men yells out, “Grab your camera!” as he pushes past a woman and her husband in order to position himself for the best shot.
As the crowd moves forward, I fall behind to a complete standstill. My feet won’t carry my legs and my legs won’t carry my weight. My body is utterly glued to this spot.
But my eyes can move, and they follow the crowd’s line of vision, until I see it jump from the water, right there in front of me. A big glorious whale with its slick back glistening. She cuts through the waves spraying a massive force of water at our boat, before her tail curves through the white caps, plunging beneath the sea and then emerging again. Everybody claps.
“Did you see him? Did you see him?” yells the guy.
Did you see “her,” I think to myself. Did you see her?
Heaven has just broken over me and I feel the arms of my mother. I feel her everywhere. I feel warmth. I feel life.
People begin to bustle about me in excited conversation, removing their rain gear and wiping the water from their deck seats, but my eyes remain fixed on the ocean where two seagulls have joined in the show, dipping down to the sea, playing tag with one of the whales as the gull’s wings flutter, his webbed feet touching the tops of the waves. He pick up speed and races the whale out to the wild blue yonder. The sun pounds down and frames them.
I can hear my mother’s voice: “Remember those whale watches? Maybe I’ll come back as a whale…”
But before the last of the three whales goes, one turns around for a last plunge in my direction. Everybody snaps photos. And then, she’s gone.
Then I remember Alice, the only person capable of sharing what I’m feeling. Darting my eyes around the deck I finally see her at the back of the boat watching me. I let loose a big grin, throw my arms up straight overhead like a victory salute in the Tour de France, the tears coming down hard, the truth coming down even harder.
Alice gives me a midair punch back before making her way toward me. “I told ya!” says Alice. “Which one do you suppose she was? The smaller whale? Or that deep grey big one?”
“The prettiest one,” I say trembling. We stand for a long time staring at the sea, mother and daughter, daughter and mother, the two of us, completely immersed in this moment.
“You got your wish, Marla.”
“Yes, I know,” I say, as though life has momentarily shifted back to normal.
“Now do something for me.”
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Learn from my mistakes.”
“What mistakes?” I snap. But she doesn’t answer. “What mistakes?” I repeat, but she plunges into more advice.
“Don’t stop living. Enjoy Every. Single. Moment. Of. It. Stop and smell the roses, my dear, and smell the garbage, too.”
“Okay, I will,” I said, turning back to see the whales one more time in the distance, making their way out to the horizon. “I miss you, Mom,” I whisper.
We travel the way back in silence and satisfaction. I can see the harbor again, and it’s Alice who finally talks first, as the engine cuts its speed and we round the buoy.
“Treat every moment like it’s your last because someday it will be,” says Alice. “Take in everything around you. Remember to look up and look down, left and right. Look sideways like a rainbow. Most of all: control your own destiny.”
“Okay, I said I will,” I say again, like a kid not interested in the kind of advice dispensed by parents watching you on a diving board at the deep end of the pool when you just want to take the big plunge.
The ferry whistle goes off and Alice looks at her watch. “I ran out of time and I ran out of dreams—but you go find yours.”
I ignore Alice, wondering why she’s still sounding so weird, slightly annoyed at her ability to always chatter just at the wrong moment.
And with that, the anchor hits seas bottom and we’re back on dry land.
Chapter Fourteen
Alice was right. I didn’t have to die before my time. Whether it was six minutes before six or six minutes after six, in accordance to a clock-maker’s granddaughter, my mom would certainly be there when it was time.
I can’t be sure now if it was Alice or my mom who once said, “Life is what you make it, and what you make it is up to you.” And so with those words reverberating in my head, I began going less to the cemetery, and then even less to my part-time job because I was busy studying full-time. With Mom’s insurance money, the house that Grandma left me, and a small chunk of savings, I was surviving just fine.
Autumn kicked in practically overnight and so did my classes at the local community college. It’s been awhile since I pulled my runaway bride stunt. Over the Columbus Day break, I skipped a Thursday night plane and followed Alice’s advice all the way to Spain, to find my Eddy, at the Alhambra, just as I promised, at the Court of the Myrtles. Stepping off the shuttle bus that brought me to the top of the hill, the Alhambra was as magnificent as I remembered. I began to think about how much life had changed, how much I had changed since the last time I’d stepped on these worn stones. The sky was brilliant blue and the morning sunshine told me it was going to be a perfect day, the kind with a crisp autumn breeze and rich Cezanne colors.
I looked around and smiled.
I was here.
I was back.
I was older.
But so was Granada.
As I approached one of the ticket booths I placed the Peter Rabbit tin on the counter. The gold and magenta leaves whirled at my ankles as a woman counted my euros. It was still night-time back in America. People would be waking up to the Columbus Day Parade, or apple picking, or foliage drives. Maybe a year from now I too, would have a long weekend with the man of my dreams in New England. He’d be my partner, my future, my husband. My Eddy.
After thanking the woman at the counter, the one with the warm ruby red-lipped smile, I turned toward the grand entrance, fantasizing that when Eddy arrives, we’ll hug and laugh and walk and kiss. Not necessarily in that order. And then, after showing him the Alhambra, we’d head off, arm in arm, and celebrate in a little tapas bar over plates of Spanish olives and red bell peppers stuffed with tuna and eggs drowning in olive oil. We’d drink sangria—lots of it—and reminisce about the past. Then we’d stroll through the windy hills of Granada, find a cozy hotel and spend a long night in each other’s arms.
I wondered if Eddy had changed much, changed jobs, lost some hair, gained some weight—it had, after all, been a year since we last set eyes on each other.
Glancing at my watch—you know me by now—I had a little time to kill, so I made my way over to the Court of Lindaraja, remembering when I took a photo of that special fountain. The picture still hangs on my bathroom wall at home so that I can admire this glorious place every time I soak in the tub.
Taking in its tranquil, lush green beauty, I inhale and exhale gently to match the fountain’s flow. I exhaled one last time to clear the jitters.
It was twelve noon when I arrived at the Court of the Myrtles, where I hoped Eddy would be waiting.
But he wasn’t.
I looked up one end of the courtyard across the water’s reflection and then walked to the other side. Just as Alice told me. Look left and look right.
The same reflection in reverse.
No Eddy. No problem.
I’d just sit and wait.
So I did, placing the tin can to my side, its ribbon untied and retied several times in a fearful debate whether or not to finally ope
n it all the way. I hadn’t been ready until now. But with Eddy by my side, whatever my mom wanted to tell me left in that tin can would finally be revealed.
This was the perfect place, a place where a knight would rescue his princess, since on the north side where I sit, is the tallest of the complex, the Comares Tower.
So romantic, but so nerve-racking! And this was insane, wasn’t it?
I needed to pace. So I did.
But after an hour of pacing back and forth in front of the rescue tower, under the porticoes with the fretwork design, this poor princess was pooped. That’s when it occurred to me that, knowing Eddy, he might be at the wrong courtyard, just like I had joked with Alice. So I slumped onto the bench and began sipping my water bottle, asking the occasional visitor if they’d seen a man who might be Eddy. Somebody suggested that a guy that fitted Eddy’s description was sitting right over at the Tower of the Seventh Floors, but in the end, I chose to stay put on my bench. You can’t confuse a Tower with a Court. Can you?
Midday turned into afternoon as the camera-clicking tour groups came and went. A field trip of children with backpacks passed by, giggling, playing tag, threatening to push each other into the water, far from interested in the history of the Alhambra. I waved to each one of them before watching a sexy couple strolling by lazily, their eyes for nothing else but each other. They too had more on their minds than the beauty of this landmark. It reminded me of what might be with Eddy, if only Eddy would get here… I began tapping my feet.
I remained glued to that bench just outside the tower all afternoon, staring into the pond. A stray black cat appeared, lapping up water from the fountain and creating a ripple. Taking out my little camera I snapped his photo. It was as though he posed just for me. But I wasn’t here for a cat.
Only once did I pop my head inside the big vast space of the Comares Tower, with its glazed tiles and complex stucco design, each like some open book decorated, adorned with hundreds of religious phrases. My willpower and nerve were fading, yet I couldn’t help remembering something else I had learned in college. There was a phrase—a running theme—constant in all these rooms. Red was the symbol of power, green of paradise, and blue, was the hope of attaining paradise.
