That Birthday in Barbados

by Inglath Cooper

  Suddenly, I had no idea who I was, the threads of my life unraveling until the fabric was no longer recognizable. My knees buckled. I lay face down on the floor, arms outstretched, Louboutins slipping from my feet. They were now nothing more than proof that I had spent the past fifteen years of my life building a company that had taken all of my energy and focus. So much so that I had been blind to the fact that the two most important people in my life had gone on without me, forged something new and separate from me.

  And that left me . . . alone.

  I raised my head and allowed myself a slow take of the corner office signifying the pinnacle of my life’s work to date. And all of this for nothing.

  A sob rose up from deep inside me. I coughed it out as if my body were trying to reject some foreign bacteria it recognized as deadly.

  I started to cry, the tears streaming down my face with such force I was all but certain they would never stop.

  Chapter One

  “My soul can find no staircase to Heaven unless it be through Earth’s loveliness.”

  – Michelangelo

  Catherine

  Three years later

  THEY DO STOP. Eventually, I ran out of tears.

  I mull this fact, staring out the window of the first-class seat, studying the clouds below with an objectivity I never before had about flying. I used to feel real fear for getting on a plane, would dope myself up with Benadryl as soon as I took my seat so I could sleep through as much of the flight as possible.

  But I don’t feel fear anymore. And I don’t cry anymore. The tears I’d nearly drowned in the morning I’d come face to face with the end of my marriage are long gone. Once they finally stopped, they never started up again.

  Because I don’t feel much of anything these days.

  I’ve read plenty of books on grief in the past three years, and I’ve learned that people who experience tremendous loss sometimes turn off their ability to feel. I’ve wondered, more than once, if I’ve turned to stone. Like one of those poor souls who stared at Medusa and got zapped into rock, never to feel a single thing again.

  Maybe it’s for the best, anyway. It’s better not to feel. Feelings don’t stay static. What starts out as happiness, given it hangs around long enough, inevitably evolves into sadness. And if anyone knows that the first one isn’t worth the second one, it would be me.

  “Have you been to Barbados before?”

  The question startles me out of my cloud staring, and I turn to glance at the woman sitting next to me. She’s dressed in an off-white pantsuit with a vivid orange blouse showing at the edges of the lapels, a perfect match to her lipstick. Her makeup is perfect too, and she’s smiling as if happiness is her middle name. “Yes,” I say. “You?”

  “Oh, yes. It’s my favorite place anywhere in the world. I go as often as I can. Where are you staying, dear?”

  “The Sandy Lane,” I answer.

  “Spectacular. You’ve stayed there before?”

  “Once,” I say.

  “I’ve spent three honeymoons there. Each with a different husband. Outlived them all, I’m afraid.”

  “Oh,” I say, instantly regretting my inner grouch. “I’m really sorry.”

  The woman shrugs. “One of those inevitable facts of life, I’m afraid. I’m just grateful to have what I had with each of them.”

  “You’re going alone this time?”

  “I am,” the woman says. “Better alone than not at all. Are you meeting someone there?”

  I shake my head. “No. Birthday present from me to me.”

  “Nothing wrong with that.” She sticks out her hand. “Madeline Evers.”

  I extend my hand. “Catherine. Camilleri. Nice to meet you.”

  “You’re awfully young to be celebrating your birthday alone. When you get to be my age, you expect it. But you-”

  “I’m actually happy to be alone.”

  “Oh.” Madeline studies me for a string of seconds, as if she doesn’t know what to make of what I’ve just said. “You’re very sad, aren’t you, dear?” she finally says in a soft voice.

  I blink once, reach for the paperback I’d stuffed in the seat pocket in front of me, open the cover, keeping my gaze down. “Isn’t everyone in one way or another?” I reply on a half laugh.

  She reaches across to cover my hand with hers. “No, dear. Not as a way of life. Sure, this journey has its ups and downs. But happiness comes back. If we let it.”

  Sarcasm dances on the end of my tongue, but she’s too nice for me to indulge the temptation. I look up and smile at her instead, and she chuckles.

  “I can see you don’t believe me. But if I’ve learned anything from the losses in my life, it is that I get to decide when I’m willing to open a new door.”

  “But won’t the same thing end up being behind that one too?”

  She considers this for a moment. “It’s undeniable that we’re all leaving this world one day. But I don’t believe we’re meant to be lonely here.” She starts to add something else, then shakes her head a little. “He really hurt you, didn’t he?”

  I could deny it, brush off her insight as false, but what would be the point? “We spent our honeymoon at the Sandy Lane.”

  “Ah.”

  “Odd I would come back, isn’t it?”

  “Not at all, actually.”

  “You know it really isn’t like me to drown a stranger in my cynicism,” I say, a little sorry to put a damper on her mood.

  “It’s okay. Maybe that’s exactly what you need to do at this moment, and I’m sitting here because I’m the person you’re meant to be sharing it with.”

  I glance at her again, wish I had it in me to exhibit the type of kindness she is showing me. “You believe in fate?”

  “I believe that we meet certain people in our lives when we’re meant to.”

  I think of Connor and our first meeting and wonder what the purpose of that had been, other than the eventual destruction of my life.

  “I can see what you’re thinking,” Madeline says, wagging a finger in the air. “If I’m right, then why do we meet the people who bring us great pain?”

  I don’t deny it, letting my gaze voice my touché.

  “Because we have vital things to learn even from those people,” she declares.

  “Those are lessons I’d just as soon skip then.”

  “Wouldn’t we all?” she says on a soft laugh. “But when you get to where I am in life, you realize that we are who we end up being because of each and every experience we’ve had. To pull one would unravel the entire masterpiece.”

  I laugh a little, thinking of the declaration James had made in my office that morning three years ago. Dr. Dyer had been right. “I don’t think I’m going to end up being a masterpiece.”

  “Ah, but you can be. I try to imagine that the tsunami waves of life are smoothing out my sharp edges, making them round and accepting like beautiful sea glass.”

  “How old are you, Madeline?”

  She answers without hesitation. “Eighty-one.”

  “Really?” I ask, failing to hide my astonishment.

  She laughs. “Every minute of it.”

  “I would never have guessed that.”

  “Then I hope it is because I am wearing my life well instead of it wearing me.”

  I think about those words long after Madeline has settled in her seat and closed her eyes for a nap. I look out at the clouds below the plane and allow myself to remember that I used to be someone very different from who I am today. I wasn’t bitter. I was trusting. I wasn’t resigned. I was hopeful. I realize too that I do not like myself now. Not even a little bit.

  I think of my financial accomplishments, the very large sum of money sitting in my investment bank account. If I quit working today and lived a life far more extravagant than my current one, I would never spend all of it.

  That is what I have to show for my choices. That is who I am.

  I glance at Madeline, note the soft, peaceful
expression on her remarkably unlined face. I envy her contentment, her acceptance of what has been and what lies ahead. I envy her ability to seek out joy again, even when it is not guaranteed.

  I once had something of what Madeline has inside me. I know I did. Along with the other losses I’ve grieved in the past three years, I feel a deep pang of mourning for the death of the woman I used to be.

  Chapter Two

  “From the same window, you keep seeing the same view!”

  ― Mehmet Murat ildan

  Catherine

  AS IT TURNS out, Madeline and I are both greeted by a pretty young woman in pink as we enter the customs area. Her smile reminds me of the sun, bright and warm. She is holding up a Sandy Lane Hotel sign with our names on it and introduces herself as Elsa.

  “Welcome to Barbados,” she says with a lovely lilt to her voice. “Let’s get you through the paperwork stuff, and then we’ll get your luggage and head outside where we have a van waiting to take you to the hotel. No need to waste time here when you’re ready to enjoy your vacation.”

  We both thank her, and she leads us around the throng of passengers to a booth where our passports are screened, and we are quickly checked through. We wait a few minutes at the luggage carousel while Madeline and Elsa make small talk about the weather in New York and how wonderful it is to escape the December cold.

  I think about checking my phone, but find myself unwilling to turn it on because I’ll have to answer questions about where I’ve gone, when I’ll be back, and I don’t want to. For the first time in longer than I can remember, I’m glad to be disconnected from the city and the life I’ve left behind.

  My suitcase appears on the conveyor, and I step forward to get it, but at Elsa’s direction, a young man picks it up and loads it on a cart. Madeline’s luggage arrives within a couple of minutes. Elsa leads us through one more checkpoint before we head to the van. As we step outside the airport doors, I remember the freezing air as I’d climbed out of the Uber car early this morning and feel a wash of relief for the humidity and warmth here. I can practically feel my skin sigh with appreciation. Elsa speaks to the driver and wishes us both a wonderful stay at the Sandy Lane.

  The driver holds the door for us. We climb in, and he walks around and gets inside, offering us bottles of cold Evian water. “Buckle up if you don’t mind,” he says, smiling at us in the rearview. “It’s required here.”

  We both snap our belts, and I gratefully sip from my water as we head away from the airport and into Barbados.

  I can see the ocean in the distance. The area near the airport is suprisingly rural. Homes are scattered here and there, cows tied in surprising places, grazing small patches of brownish green grass. This part of the island feels like a place where people live instead of vacation. Within a few minutes, we pass a grocery store and a strip mall with store names I don’t recognize. A truck parked on the side of the road is loaded with coconuts. A man stands at the tailgate. Using the end of a pickaxe, he slams the coconut against the tip until the hard outer shell cracks. He then passes it to a woman who sticks a straw in the center and takes a sip.

  Madeline remarks that little has changed since she was here last, and I have to agree with her. I try to remember what it felt like to make this drive from the airport to the hotel with Connor, but my mind cannot seem to clarify the recollection. Is it gone, or was I still too hung over from our wedding reception for my brain to permanently store those moments? That, or I’ve just refused to let myself remember a time when I had been so happy, or at least believed I was.

  I put my focus back on the road ahead of us, glad when I begin to recognize the landscape near the hotel. The driver hits the blinker, and we are turning into the gate entrance of the Sandy Lane. A guard waves us in, and the familiar building is suddenly there in front of us. My heart kicks against my chest, and I feel both elated to be here and as if I am going to burst into tears. Madeline glances at me, reaches over and squeezes my hand. “I have a feeling this will be a special trip for you, my dear. Just give it a chance, okay?”

  I nod once, biting my lower lip. “I hope it’s wonderful for you,” I say.

  “I don’t plan to let it be anything other than that,” she says, smiling at me.

  I half expect to blink and find Madeline gone in a poof, as if she is a figment of my imagination. Her bulletproof optimism seems too perfect to be real, but despite my cynicism, I can’t deny being glad to see that it still exists in the world, even if I can’t imagine myself ever feeling it again.

  The driver stops the van at the main entrance, and two young men in hotel attire step out to open the back and remove our luggage. The driver opens the sliding door and offers a hand to help us out.

  Pink is the hotel’s signature color, splashed about on chair cushions and table umbrellas, on the accent pillows propped against white chairs. It’s not the pink of cotton candy and ballerina slippers, but a deep vibrant fuchsia that brings to mind Florida bougainvillea and the dragon fruit of Central America.

  The main entrance offers us a view clear to the Atlantic Ocean. It is breathtaking. I have not forgotten this. I have a sudden yearning to run straight in, swim to the platform bobbing peacefully on the aqua water and lie there face up with the sun blazing down on me. Maybe it would finally chase the coldness from my bones, thaw the frozen stone where my heart used to be.

  A beautiful young woman greets us at the entrance, bringing me back to reality. She is dressed in pink and carries a tray with icy glasses of an equally pink, fruity drink. She hands us each one, and waves us to the reception desk where two attendants begin to check our reservations.

  Madeline finishes first, and another pretty young lady in a pink dress steps forward to walk her to her room. “I am sure we will see each other,” Madeline says, giving me a quick hug. “Enjoy, my dear.”

  I watch her walk away, feeling a little sorry to see her go. Or maybe it’s that I fear all the positive energy she has doused me with will go with her. The attendant continues typing something into her keyboard, assuring me it will only be another minute.

  Steps sound on the marble floor behind me. I glance around, my gaze colliding with a pair of beautiful eyes. I hang there for a moment, thinking how similar they are to the sea I felt so tempted to throw myself in. Realizing I’m staring, I drop my own eyes, and then there’s a voice.

  “Welcome to the Sandy Lane. Spin class tomorrow at eight o’clock. Hope to see you there.”

  I look at him fully, and wilt a little beneath the smile accompanying the words. “Oh. I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “It’s a great way to justify the indulging,” he says, his voice low under an American accent.

  I try to place the region and come up with a somewhat neutralized New York.

  “Which I assume you’re planning to take advantage of?” he adds.

  “Yes. I imagine I will.”

  He’s standing right in front of me now, sticks out his hand. “Anders Walker.”

  “Catherine Camilleri.”

  “Nice to meet you,” he says and then tips his head, a question crossing his face. “Wait. Camilleri. You started ActivGirl?”

  For a moment, I’m too surprised to answer. “I-yes. How did you-”

  “I remember when you filed to go public a few years ago. I used to work on Wall Street.”

  “Oh.”

  He hears the question in my voice, smiles, and says, “And now I’m teaching a spin class in Barbados. Yep, there is a story attached. You come to my class tomorrow, and I might tell you sometime.”

  I smile at his teasing, surprising myself with, “You’ve piqued my curiosity. How can I not show up now?”

  “Right. Because you definitely won’t get away with saying you don’t have anything to wear.”

  I laugh a light laugh, the sound strange to my own ears. How long has it been since I laughed unexpectedly? I no longer think of myself as someone who laughs. I think of myself as someone for whom that is a thing of the p
ast. I sober, as if he might pick up on this, find the laughter false. “Ah, okay. I’ll try to set my alarm to get up in time.”

  “And I’ll look forward to seeing you there,” he says, backing up and then with a wave, heads out the front entrance and jogs toward the spa that sits just across the paved road.

  The young lady who greeted us with drinks walks up and says, “Ms. Camilleri, your room is ready. I’ll be happy to walk you there.”

  “Thank you,” I say, picking up my purse and laptop bag and following her across the off-white marble floor.

  “You’ll notice the wet floor signs,” she points out as we head for the hallway leading to the stairs. “We have quick showers that come and go and can make the marble quite slick.”

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “You’re on the third floor with a wonderful view of the beach,” she says.

  I follow her up the stairs where she uses a card to open the door. I step inside behind her, relieved to be here. The room is luxurious, a view of the ocean visible through the open curtains that lead to a private porch.

  “Your luggage will be here shortly,” she says. “Shall I have someone unpack for you?”

  “Thank you, but I’m all good, thanks.”

  “The refrigerator is stocked with drinks. And there’s ice in the bucket just there. I hope you have a wonderful stay at the Sandy Lane, Ms. Camilleri. If there’s anything we can do for you at any time, just call the front desk.”

  “Thank you so much,” I say.

  She leaves the room then, closing the door quietly behind her. I fall back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling as a wave of sudden fatigue hits me. I compare the room to the one Connor and I had on our honeymoon. This one is much nicer. We weren’t on the oceanfront then. Extra money had gone back into the business, and we felt fortunate to be at the hotel at all, our honeymoon a definite splurge.

  I close my eyes, and a memory comes floating up. A very nice attendant had escorted us to our room then as well. No sooner had he closed the door than Connor said, “Finally.”