The Dog

The Morning

              Lila leaned into the biting storm blowing in from the Atlantic, trudging step-by-difficult step against the wind along the beach of the narrow island. Waves, powered by the wind, crashed closer than normal of a morning, her cheeks, hunkered inside the hooded coat Randy and Carol had left hanging by the door for just such mornings as this, burned from the biting wind, the pellets of spray that managed to hit her burning their way into her skin.

              Still, she walked.

              When Randy and Carol left her to winter alone after spending their pre-Christmas with her here, caring for her in her sadness, determined she would not spend total holidays alone, angry for her, angry with her, giving up time with their own children inland, then, sensing she had recovered enough to heal on her own, giving her their lovely beach house for a place and a time to grieve and work on her thesis in peace, Lila determined not to disappoint them. Though the pain still pierced her unexpectedly and sharply, robbing her of breath, she now could accept she was not the first woman to be left by a man soon before the alter. She could even understand the benefit of being left before the wedding rather than after.

              Intellect didn’t stop anguish, though; grief unexpectedly robbed her of breath at most inconvenient times, and her tears fell freely even when she wished them dried. Robert had sought her out, after all, had pursued her, even as she doubted the truth of his intentions. “I love you,” he stated emphatically and simply mere weeks after their meeting in graduate school at the North Carolina university that had colleges known to turn out scholars in both their chosen fields, he in some science thing she never understood, she working on advanced education studies, wanting to teach and write educational materials for students, maybe at some point have a company for that work, help other teachers publish the material they wrote daily for students and for which they received nothing beyond yeoman’s wages.  

              “I doubt it,” she had answered. A smalltown girl, she saw in him the boy from the classic “other side of town,” and believed herself a novelty, one he would wake up one day and realize a mistake.

              But as he continued his chasing of her, never did his resolve seem to falter. “You’re wrong,” he would say. “I love you, and I want to spend my life with you.”

              “We’ll see,” she wavered, enamored with rare brown eyes under dark blond curls, a deep Delta accent from his home Southern state.

              Certainly, his mind shone. He talked of the stars, of amazing distances, of math things that had to do with space. He seemed just as interested in her study of student methodology—which, Lila believed, took about one-third the intelligence of his work. She didn’t doubt the creativity she possessed, and she was smart enough for what she needed; but for sheer brains, Robert just measured above the crowd.

              He finished classwork for a Ph.D. in two years, wrote a dissertation six months after that. By then, Lila herself had progressed to writing a thesis. Randy, her mentor and faculty advisor, and his wife Carol, pretty much adopted her as her family lived in the middle of the country. Though proud of her academic ability, delighted in the scholarships and grants that had brought her to the prestigious school, the sacrifice was not seeing their daughter, and she missed many holidays at home. Randy and Carol—Dr. Randall and Mrs. Carol Bennett--brought her into their own large family, sharing the festival times she could not get back home, and letting her fall in love with the coast in all seasons of the year.

              This shoreline house, in fact, was to have been the setting of the wedding Robert finally talked her into believing he wanted, proposing to her the day he completed his dissertation, on his way to a prestigious career, a still-young man sure in love and career.

              And, then, in an interview, as his bride-to-be worked half-heartedly on her own thesis, he met Lynnette, she of the long blonde hair and the comparable science degree, she of the similar social standing. They corresponded weekly after that meeting, then more often, and as his wedding got closer and closer, scheduled to be over the coming Christmas break, his new job to start in the new year, he and Lynnette learned that she, too, had landed a job at the same research facility far away from the east coast, and, as Lila had feared at those first days’ fantasies, he cancelled the wedding the Friday after Thanksgiving, breaking her heart as badly, or worse, than she had believed possible, run off the next week with Lynnette and married her in a courthouse in Asheville, North Carolina, then moved on west, never to speak to Lila again, beyond a note with an address for sending the ring he felt certain she would want to return.

              Randy stopped her from actually sending it, took her (and the ring) to the only pawn shop in town, and got her probably a fourth of what Robert had paid for it, telling her to never even tell him (Robert) what she had done. Eventually, she was even glad about that small act of reprisal.

              What is it, she wondered again, slogging into the cold, wet morning, with men and long blond hair on women?

              Her parents asked her to come home; but, she couldn’t bear to return to her small hometown, where childhood friends knew of the wedding now cancelled and the advanced degree not yet complete. The refuge it once was now turned to an embarrassment, and those friends, mostly married with children, would have poured out pity beyond tolerance.  And, Christmas? Who could bear Christmas in a childhood home after such a heartbreak.

              Randy and Carol, whose own children flocked home to the college town from their own lives around the state, showed up at her apartment the first week of December, when the college semester ended, bundled her up, and headed to their beautiful beach house. “We’re getting ready for Christmas here,” they declared. “You’re coming with us.” Their kids would get it all ready at their house inland, and they would drive there Christmas morning. She could come or not….. but, here at the coast, with the comfort of the ocean, cold, endless tides, the sky leading towards Europe, the birds forever fussing or begging, and, on this small island, longer than wide, where on the second-floor steps you could look left and see the ocean, look right and see the inland waterway, here, she could, if not heal, then restart that thesis, spend the weeks needed for that, and, have the time to start to heal.

              No one doubted her pain.

              Randy and Carol made sure the merchants still open knew Lila lived in the house for a bit; the sheriff wouldn’t come bursting in to arrest her at least. Before they left, Carol stocked the pantry and freezer with food enough for “Patton’s Third Army,” much of it already cooked, just needing heating. She baked banana bread, cookies, pound cake, anything she could freeze. “You’re not eating enough,” she scolded Lila.

              “Better than too much,” Lila responded.

              “Not true.” And Carol poured homemade soup in Tupperware containers and plopped it in the freezer.

              By Christmas morning, Lila realized that, though no tree decorated the house, a lot of the wrapped presents had her name on them, and she felt shame at her total lack of ability to think of others.

              “Hush,” Carol said. “We’ll let you host us when you feel better.” Then the older woman peered carefully at the younger. “You are feeling better, no?”

              To her surprise, Lila smiled a small smile and nodded. “A bit.”

              “He really isn’t worth you, you know,” Carol stated. “Randy was ready to run over him with the truck. It’s good he ran away like he did.”

              To her surprise, Lila laughed—the first in a long time. And as tears filled her eyes, she said, “Thank you both so much.”

              They hugged her, piled the presents at her feet, “Open them throughout the day so you don’t forget it’s Christmas. Oh, by the way, Pastor Hillsboro will come by probably,” which meant he’d show up about fifteen minutes after they left.

              And they hung Randy’s big, warm hooded coat by the door. She had promised to walk the beach each morning, letting the tides work their healing magic. “Even if it’s not a long walk, even if the weather is bad, get on the beach. It’s why we bought beach front…. Don’t forget!”

              And they got into their truck, leaving their small car for her, even this thought for her, and headed inland to their ‘real’ family, and left.

              So, she did.

              To her surprise, the walks did help. Some mornings the sun shone and, even in this winter season, the water calmed her spirit. Others, like this, the surf pounded, the spray slapped her face, and grateful for Randy’s warm coat, she forced her feet, dry in the rubber shoes she had unwrapped in one of those boxes that Christmas morning, to move forward one step at a time. She knew when she arrived back home, entering the small mud room, removing her wet, muddy clothes, she would first find the couch, cover, and nap. But, still, she walked.

              At least she would be in better shape than before her non-wedding.

              On she trudged. At least a mile up the coast, that was her goal each morning, no matter the weather. If the day shone and gleamed, she went further; but, days like this, cold, blowy, a mile was really further, even if the distance wasn’t. One step, then the next. The wind pushed, the spray pelted. A gray sky, clouds pushing down the weather, forced her spirits to push back.

              I WILL go a mile.  She knew exactly the house where she could turn, a small, yellow house, slate green roof, the thing looking like cotton candy, especially on a moody day like this. Step, step, step. What a day. On days like this, she could push away thoughts of Robert and his blond… survival mattered more.

              Ah…. There it stood, that small yellow house. A hundred more feet and she would be there, able to turn around. The wind, though mainly sideways, would not be quite as in her face when she turned. The walk home would not be so strident, not so harsh….. fifty feet. Maybe she could count her steps. Later, after her nap, after hot tea, she would work on the middle of her thesis. Surprisingly, she had made real progress. In this new year, this last week of January, she could feel that she actually would finish writing it….. twenty-five feet. One step, two, . . . . fifteen . . .. twenty…. There, THERE was the house.

              And, just as she reached the steps leading up to the little yellow house (with the slate green roof), just as she pushed down her foot to turn around, at that exact second, just then she looked up…..

…… and just then, she saw the dog.