by K. L Randis
I met his eyes, and for a moment I was staring into a black hole. Hypnotizing hues of green and brown swirled around pupils that held no reason or emotion. Both arms were now placed slightly behind him, elbows locked, perching his body upright on the bed. A cascade of mountains presented themselves where his arms and chest were. He was a rock, in every sense of the word, robust and cold but breathtakingly solid. Lowering his beard to his chest and breaking eye contact with me, I followed his gaze down the crevices of his chest.
“I can tell you see it, the darkness” he said, keeping his chin tilted downward. “No one can ever see past it.”
“No one can be dark all the time,” I said, taking advantage of the fact that he was looking away from me. Studying his jawline I imagined him sunbathing on one of the beaches littered down the North Carolina shore where we were. Other than the hospital gown sagging over one arm of the chair next to us, there was no indication be belonged in a mental health unit.
“I’m here because I’m trying to feel something, because I am the dark.”
“So let’s keep the sheet down for a while to bring in the light. No one deserves to be in the dark all the time.”
He sighed, bringing his elbows to rest on the tops of his knees. Staring at me he shook his head, and I couldn’t ignore the skip in my chest.
The way he exposed his emotions was the most gorgeous thing I had ever seen in a man. I cringed at the cliché. I was guarded against the facade of alluring men, courtesy of past relationships that crippled any future chances of falling for the superficial.
He was mesmerizing.
Comfortable enough in his own skin, he preferred to sit in dark rooms and punch at walls that happened to be too close to nurse’s faces. No one was at his bedside, and there were no flowers or cards in his room. He was truly alone in his fight, and the part of me that was telling my brain to stop wondering how soft his lips felt was the same part that inched my hand closer to his.
“Why not? What scares you about the light?” I asked.
He parted his lips, moving his face closer to mine and I could feel his breath cascade around me. “I can tell, just by looking at you, that you are the light. Someone like me would consume you.” He nodded toward the door. “So go, and don’t come back.”
Moments later I pulled the door behind me, leaving room two-thirty-three almost in tears. Lisa looked up at me from down the hall and raised an eyebrow when she saw my face, advancing toward me as I stood immobilized in front of the closed door.
“What happened?” Lisa asked, eyeing the door. “Is he a Firework or a Desperate? Moe thinks he’s a Firework but Helen on night shift said—”
“He’s a Sad,” I said, looking up at her.
“A what?”
“Jackson isn’t a Firework or a Desperate, he’s a Sad.”
Lisa’s eyes widened. “Jackson?”
“His name is Jackson,” I said. “And I can’t go back in there again.”
Chapter Two
The Inlet served half-off clams and dollar beers on Sunday afternoons. I would show up thirty minutes after opening and claim my favorite spot, a table for two, in the far right corner that overlooked the ocean. It was a quiet, lesser-known spot on the main strip where locals frequented. The bartender knew most of the orders, people, and gossip about anyone who walked through the door.
It was an unusually warm day in January and only a sweatshirt was needed as temperatures hovered around the mid-fifties. I tilted my chin toward the water, salt drifting off of the ocean and fusing to my skin, as I wondered if anyone working at The Inlet would recognize me. Faded umbrellas in ocean-hued colors that were scattered among the tables fluttered in the wind, lazily rising and falling with the bursts of air that escaped the tide.
One unexpected gust wrestled with my hair in such a way that I scrambled to find a ponytail within the confines of my clutch. I had looped the barrette twice around my hair when Susan appeared, a mouth full of gum and a betraying smudge of chocolate lingering on the corner of her lip. “Oh!” she exclaimed when she saw me, “You’re blonde now. What happened to the auburn?”
“Just wanted something different,” I said, taking the beer she handed me. “Not good?”
She cocked her head to the side, studying me. “I think it’s the best yet,” she said, mostly to herself. “Yeah, I like it. I think you found your color. Clams? Or are we waiting for Meg?”
I glanced at my watch. “Give her ten more minutes. I told her noon so she should be here around twelve thirty.”
She nodded, not bothering to write anything down. “We have some kind of new butter, you guys want to try it?”
“Depends. Did Ned make it?”
“Of course he did.”
“Then of course we’ll try it.”
She headed toward the kitchen and I directed my attention to the ocean, only to hear a lowered voice speak out again.
“Pippa?”
I turned my head across the deserted deck, locking eyes with Susan. “I heard you made it to Fifth Avenue with your new goal time,” she said. Her eyes glimmered at the idea that I could actually pull off qualifying for the Boston Marathon.
I nodded, sipping my water and smiling.
“Good for you, kid. I hope you get your letter soon,” she said, winking and then disappearing into the restaurant.
Meg was always late. We would decide on a time and I would usually arrive half an hour before we said we’d meet. It guaranteed me a solid hour to sit by myself before she got there and I could just let the gravity of the ocean’s presence consume me.
I hadn’t known Meg my entire life, but she was the kind of girlfriend who dropped compliments left and right on anything that made you feel self-conscious about yourself. I was the kind of friend who gave Meg the kind of honest transparency no one ever bothered to show her. I never understood the power of having girlfriends who lifted you up, until Meg.
I remembered going to The Inlet for her birthday that first year we met. It was going well, until two Long Islands and various birthday shots from other locals put her face deep in a toilet sometime before midnight. I had grabbed her phone to call her on-again-off-again boyfriend to come pick her up and put her to bed, but accidentally drunk dialed my ex instead.
It was the greatest mistake of my life.
Waiting outside of the woman’s bathroom, I watched him enter the bar twenty minutes later, his mouth twisting in a way that said he was angry but his eyes showing puddles of worry. I was drunk too, and I had long since forgotten what I had said on the phone that made him show up—he was not the chivalrous type—but there he was, my knight in shining armor.
“Is she in there?” he asked, eyeing me cautiously when he approached. I don’t think he was entirely sure that I would be able to hold a conversation.
“Who?”
“Meg. Is your friend Meg still in there or not?”
His eyes were a teal blue, and distracting to the point that I forgot the question he had asked. Instead I wondered if the smear of eyeliner I knew I had resting under both eyes from crying earlier in the night about who-knows-what was still visible.
“I’m Pippa, not Meg,” I said. I then immediately threw up all over his boots.
“You’re thinking about Dylan again, you moron,” Meg said, disrupting my trance as she sat down across from me.
“You’re half an hour late, as always.”
She placed her clutch on the table and cocked her head to one side, staring at me and half-blocking my view of the ocean. “You have a stupid smile and you’re doing that Oscar the Grouch thing.” She crinkled her nose and I watched her eyebrows cram together in an angry V in the middle of her face.
“You look ridiculous,” I said, looking away as my face flared from embarrassment.
“Exactly. So stop doing it, Oscar. You order me a beer?”
“No Long Islands for you today?” I teased.
“See, I knew you were thinking about him. Knock it off, or I’ll tat
tle on you to your mother.”
“Don’t go there,” I warned.
“Oh, stop, you would have laughed at that if you were in a better mood” she exclaimed, throwing her hands up in the air. Susan appeared, placing a beer in front of Meg and walking away before she heard much else.
“Tell me one more time about the last time you saw him,” I insisted.
“Pippa I don’t want to. He shows up to the bar once in a blue moon and it’s weird to feed you gossip about him,” Meg whined. She stared at my blank face for a moment before sighing. “Sometimes Susan needs an extra hand behind the bar. He will show up every once in a while and order a beer or two and stare out at the ocean. He pays in cash, never talks to anyone, and he still has the craziest blue eyes I’ve ever seen in my life, much like mine.” She batted them to drive home her point.
“So he’s obviously fine, right? I mean he hasn’t developed a personality disorder or run crying from the bar after a few drinks?”
“Well, not exactly.” Her face drooped and she chugged half of her beer in response.
“Meg?” I said in my best mom-voice. “What are you leaving out?”
“I saw the look on his face when someone ordered a Long Island,” she confessed, nodding. “I might have told him maybe he should call you.”
“Meg!
“I know, but realistically the guy looks so shut down. Listen, you do that Pippa-thing where you ask without really asking so I tell you, without really telling you. You want updates on Dylan because you want to know how he’s doing, I get it, but if you want to know so bad why don’t you just ask him yourself? It’s the same song and dance every time after almost a year of you guys splitting up and it’s exhausting. So if you’re not interested in doing your own detective work that’s fine, I just wanted to skip that part right now because I think we have better things to talk about, don’t you?”
Narrowing my eyes at her I nodded, watching a slow smile spread across her face. “Dude, hello!” she exclaimed. “You got to Fifth Avenue within your goal time and didn’t think to call your best friend? Why’d I have to hear it from Susan?”
“It’s not a big deal,” I responded.
“Of course it’s a big deal, you’ve spent the past year chugging along Main Street and now you’re finally breaking your best running times. You’re going to be a roadrunner in that marathon before you know it. Did you tell your mom?”
“What?” I asked, rubbing my right earlobe.
“I said did you tell your mom?”
“Huh?” I responded. I couldn’t help that the corners of my mouth were starting to climb upwards and Meg raised a hand in defeat.
“Don’t play that crap with me, Pippa Winters. I will hit the side of your head so hard I’ll make you deaf.”
“Sorry, what?” I teased, cupping my right ear toward her and ducking when she threw a playful punch in my direction.
We settled back against our chairs, beers in our hand, looking out onto the ocean. We both had our feet up on chairs to the sides of us, each sporting running sneakers and yoga pants. The winds were picking up and a few salt-and-pepper colored clouds lingered along the skyline.
“It has been a long time, Pippa,” Meg said finally. Rust-colored hair dangled at her face as she brushed a piece back behind her ear.
“Since I had something to look forward to?” I teased. My throat tightened when I said the words out loud and I was thankful Meg was on the receiving end of my emotions just then.
“Yes,” she said, putting her hand on top of mine and squeezing it.
I nodded.
“Oh, here comes Susan,” Meg whispered, eyeing the tray of food headed in our direction. She sat upright and smoothed her hair back, ready to play. Susan sat the tray down and flicked Meg’s hand when she tried to take her plate prematurely. “Oh come on Susan, don’t make me fight you,” Meg bantered.
“Do you fight better before or after you visit the porcelain throne? Just wondering how many more beers it’ll take to get you out of my restaurant.”
“I’m never leaving,” Meg cooed, handing over her empty beer bottle and puckering her lips, blowing air-kisses in her direction.
Susan put both plates in front of us and sighed. “Good,” she said, smiling as she walked away with the empty tray.
“Such a love-hate relationship,” I said, rolling my eyes.
“Mostly love. She’s just mad I’ve been drinking at this bar since I was eighteen and no one was the wiser.”
“What’s this?” I asked, eyeing a glass cylinder the size of a penny strategically placed amongst my food. “Some kind of new spice?”
Meg outstretched a hand and I gave it to her, watching her study it. “Looks like a vial of…sand?” she guessed, handing it back.
“A vial of sand? Why? ‘Cause there isn’t enough sand everywhere else that we need it on our lunch plates?”
“Maybe Susan figured since you’re too busy to get to the beach yourself lately, she’d bring the beach to you.”
“Maybe I hate you,” I offered.
“Negative, you love me. And you’re going to share some of those wings with me, too.”
“Nope,” I responded. “Go swim in the ocean with the sharks, I’m over you.”
We ate in silence for a few minutes, glancing between the ocean, the odd vial of sand on my plate, and our disturbingly similar outfits.
“We’re damaged, aren’t we?” I said finally.
“Oh, most definitely,” Meg agreed, stealing a chicken wing off of my plate.
I would have slapped her hand away but my phone rang, so I wiped my fingers across a napkin before pulling my phone from my clutch.
“Work?” Meg questioned, reading my face as a name flashed across the screen.
“The nursing home,” I replied, pushing my plate away and standing up. I didn’t need to explain anything.
Meg waved me away, not looking up as she slid my plate in front of her. “Your loss, my gain. Go, I got the check,” she said.
I nodded, pressing the phone to my ear as I made my way to my car.
Chapter Three
An hour-long car ride to a nursing home can do one of two things when you’re worried. It can steamroll every thought and emotion into worst-case scenarios or it can block them out entirely as you autopilot to your location.
I traveled on autopilot most times.
It was a heartless thing to admit to, but when someone’s health deteriorates as quickly as I had witnessed, you tend to stop believing that any part of them is still the person you once knew.
My heart was dismembered structurally, slowly, and over time with each visit—I was preparing myself. I was hoping when the loss finally happened, it would soften the blow so my world didn’t crumble to my feet all at once.
At least that’s what I told myself.
When moments of lucidity happened—unexplained flickers of the person I once knew shined through—it was all the convincing I needed to remember just how hard it would be to let go.
“She’s lucid,” the nurse at the front desk gushed. “We wanted to be sure before we called you but she’s asking for you.”
I set my keys on the counter, listening to the metal scrape against the wood, the wide-eyed nurse bursting with questions.
“A year ago,” I said finally.
“Excuse me, Ma’m?”
“The last time she was lucid was over a year ago. You’re new here and you wouldn’t know that but your eyes are begging to know when last time this happened.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I can’t imagine…”
I nodded. “Can I see my mom now?”
“Of course!” the nurse exclaimed, waving me away from the sign-in sheet. “Do this later, go see her while she…” Trailing off, her face turned into a crimson canvas and I smiled to ease her embarrassment.
“Go see her while she still remembers me,” I said. “I know. Thank you.”
My hand hovered above the doorknob to her room as I stood ou
t in the hallway. Trying to remember our last conversation was like trying to recite the exact wording of what I told a patient’s family every time I had to explain a permanent mental health diagnosis.
Impossible.
I didn’t know it would be our last conversation when it was happening, so I didn’t soak up the words to save for a memory. It wouldn’t be until later that I wished I could recall exactly what was said, suffocating at the idea that I made her feel anything less than what she truly meant to me.
Cloudiness cycled over and over again in my brain, meshing ‘not knowing’ with other happier moments I would never forget. It allowed for a balanced spectrum of memories.
I imagined my mom’s memories were a paralyzed moment of time that had no counterbalance—if memories existed at all. For that reason alone, I hoped she remembered me on a loop of happier times and not moments like when I sat in the doctor’s office holding her hand when she was first diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer’s. I wanted her memories to never repeat the day I had her admitted to a nursing home when her dementia became more than I could handle.
“Pip?”
I turned my head to see Dylan walking down the hall, one hand shoved in his pocket, something he did since they trembled when he was nervous. “What happened, everything okay?”
“What are you—” I started, suddenly shaking my head. “Oh, they call everyone on the emergency list when something like this happens. I forgot to remove you, I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay, they never took me off since we...?” He shook his head to dismiss the idea of talking about our break up and kissed my forehead once he reached me instead. “Have you gone inside yet? They said she was lucid, I didn’t think that was possible anymore.”
I turned my gaze back to the doorknob, sighing. “Not yet.”
He put his hand over mine, both of us standing motionless, resting against the cold knob. “When you jump, I jump,” he whispered. “If you want me here at all.”
I nodded, needing him more than I wanted to at that exact moment. My heart raced as I pushed the door open.
