“I can’t decide if I prefer the north or the south.” she announced as she watched me change another blowout.
“Does that happen a lot?” she asked, keeping her distance.
I nodded. “Enough to make you want to end it all.”
She mirrored my nod and tickled Maddie’s toes.
“My little namesake. Cool that you named her after me.”
“How could I name her after you? You’re always changing your name.”
She swatted the air. I wasn’t sure if that was a sign I was being silly or it really stunk in that small room.
“It’s worth it though, right? Motherhood. Very rewarding and all.” She asked.
I again nodded. I couldn’t give her any words because I feared whatever I said would make me sound like a terrible human being. Plus, there’s no reason to dishearten members of the non-parent club. But if I had been truthful with her I would’ve told her that at that moment I wanted to leave the baby in the dog’s cage and go out anywhere there wasn’t a baby who wanted to eat every hour and a half.
M looked at me, with a slight smile, and held it for longer than it took for Maddie to fall asleep. Then she closed the distance between us and took my face in her hands. I looked away from her feeling the tears welling up.
“My dear, dear friend. Go take a nap. I’ll be here.”
I couldn’t even thank her for that precious gift. The not in my throat wouldn’t allow it. As I was leaving the room and before my head fell down on that luscious place where I hadn’t gotten to spend nearly enough time since Maddie made her entrance, M whispered, “One thing you can do for me though.”
“Anything.” I said hoping she wasn’t going to ask me for directions to my liquor cabinet.
“Don’t ever pretend to me that things are okay. When they’re bad, you tell me.”
The dam of tears burst and I stood in the doorway ugly crying. I was well aware of what I must’ve looked like to her. I couldn’t remember when I last showered. I smelled mildly of sour milk. My clothes looked like that of a bag lady as I couldn’t yet fit into pre-pregnancy clothes and to wear maternity clothes was comfortable and shabby as they were used to accomodating a much more rounded belly.
But that day my best friend gave me the kind of advice that makes you want to write a self-help book. She said, “Don’t ever waste time crying when you could be sleeping.” And so I didn’t.
And every time I see the ocean you're there. ~Paula Cole
He took the plastic baggie from my hand and his finger lingered on mine. Walsey shoved the baggie, imprinted hearts now worn and unrecognizable, into the pocket of his cargo pants without a word. And I didn’t ruin it with questions.
Later I saw him nonchalantly place it in the trash at the trailhead. No big production. No mention of it. No request for permission. And I didn’t ruin his gesture with objections.
I knew in that moment he was doing one of the kindest things he could. He was making the messiness of life go away. Because when you set your friend free into the wind and the cool beauty of the Pacific, you rarely think about the fact that some of her sticks to the inside of the baggie. Nor do you consider what you will do with the baggie after you practically have a conniption trying to rinse the remnants of her in the surf. There’s nothing romantic about the rinse.
Walsey masked the true messiness of the grand gesture of launching my friend onto her next horizon. He knew without saying a word that finding the baggie shoved into the bottom of my bag later would be just as hurtful as the call I got on that fateful Tuesday. He understood he had to be the one to dispose of the baggie because he wouldn’t have the dilemma of doing so. If I found the baggie, stashed deep within my things weeks from now, I’d be left with a decision of what to do with it. And I had yet to take her name off of my cell phone and email contacts. He understood this about me at least that's how I'm choosing to see it.
But before he threw the last dusty remains of Millicent Anne Larkin away, we sat on the rocks and looked out over the majestic Pacific Ocean. I wondered how many people sat there before us. How many loved ones had been cast into its vastness? The lives celebrated for what they were, not what they could’ve become.
M might have become an accomplished fashion designer, loved by her grandchildren, and unwilling to conform to traditional expectations of motherhood. Or she may have lovingly met her child at the bus stop every day, volunteered as a homeroom mom, made brownies on rainy days, and quieted him by singing silly sorority songs to lull him to sleep during nights of bad storms. Maybe in some other dimension or time period "Marin" was doing just that. I want to believe she is.
I turned to Walsey, his dog between us, his arm draped around her, his finger grazing my hand. He gave me only his profile and a slight smile aimed at the ocean. I could see his squad tattoo peeking out from under this shirt sleeve. While Walsey’s pain was less evident than mine, his ink was a daily reminder of the people and places he’d never forget.
I wondered as I looked at Walsey so intent in his gaze on what was ahead on the horizon, if that Mona Lisa smile at the edge of his lips meant he was just enjoying the moment. There is something beautiful in death, even when it’s unexpected. Like a long-awaited rest.
I knew as we sat on that jagged precipice with the waves pounding just a few feet beneath our soggy shoes and the cold, salty spray splashing our faces when we least expected it, that he would probably never be a permanent part of my life. Like each wave that hit, perfect in its majesty. But they were fleeting and to try to hold onto them was a fool’s mission. One couldn’t say one was more wet than another, or more beautiful than the one before. And you couldn’t be angry that it showed you its magnificence and then retreated. To fully embrace its beauty, you had to recognize its impermanence and the one that followed, while it may have appeared to be the same wave, it was complete in its own splendor.
I knew Walsey and I were just one couple among billions who flirted and fought, lied and worried, loved and lost. But right then, we were none of those things. Maybe we never would be any of them.
At that moment, he was there alongside me and that was all that mattered.
* * *
About The Author
Christina Metcalf
lives in Tarpon Springs, Florida with her husband, twin boys, and dogs, Scoobie and Colt.
She is also the author of Getting Jinxed due out fall of 2020.
Visit her at christinametcalf.com, at Facebook.com/westofyou or on Instagram at instagram.com/christinametcalfauthor.
West of You Page 26
