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.