Going Back ...A New Beginning

Clocks slay time... time is dead as long as it is being clicked off
by little wheels; only when the clock stops does time come to life.
― William Faulkner

I remember thinking about Carrie and me—and the shortness of our tiny lives.

I concluded, in the end, we’d both inherit a stone, after life’s waves rolled over us—and hopefully she’d write upon it.

I didn’t think I’d write upon hers.

I buried her beneath a pine with a view of some hills. She liked the outdoors—and I knew she’d want that.

I had losses before, but nothing prepares you—the heart never breaks in the same pattern of pieces.

So now I lie awake nights, lost in the spaces between stars—adrift on bays and lakes between clouds, where I toss and turn looking for her, hoping the nightmare will end, but it never does.

The car accident that took her, injured me as well—head trauma—and now, months afterwards, still recovering– and fighting memory loss.

The neurosurgeon is doing his best, using CAT scans and MRI’s, but there are some anomalies and he’s contemplating surgery.

“So they’ll open you up, Daniel, and we’ll finally find out what makes you run.” Cat’s teasing laughter always cheers me up, even when I’m down—like now.

Kate Eaton, a.k.a. Cat, is married to my best friend, Tom. He and I owned a publishing house, once upon a time, but now he publishes my fabrications—yarns as I call them.

Cat disagrees with my self-estimate. She thinks my novels are haunting, but then again, she shares my passion for the Thirties, rainy days and sappy romances like The Ghost and Mrs. Muir.

“What if the surgeon opens me up and I don’t like what I see?”

She frowns. “If it helps with your memory, we’ll count it all joy. Besides, I’ve seen your writing and felt your soul—there’s only lovely things inside you, Daniel”

“She’s right, old friend,” Tom adds, “even the critics call you a heart whisperer. We all need you feeling better and back to your old self.”

I nod and turn away so they can’t see my pain. They want a return to normal, and I just want to die.

Later after Tom and Cat are gone, I light a fire against the April chill and pour a glass of Shiraz. I waste an hour flipping through a photo album from our last time at the cottage at Holmes Beach—our Ana Maria Island retreat on the green waters of the Gulf.

After I close up the album, I happen to notice Carrie’s journal and idly leaf through it as well.

Seeing her lovely handwriting brings tears to my eyes—especially the way the peacock blue ink shimmers in the lamplight as if it were just penned. I run my hand lovingly over the page and my touch releases the faint scent of her perfume.

Suddenly, a bright lightning flash blinds me, and the room dissolves.

I black out momentarily, and when I come to, I realize I’ve scrunched my eyes tightly shut, but from the sounds and smells around me, I’m aware I’m somewhere else. I want to look, but I’m afraid—that is, until I hear a familiar, comforting sound.

I let my eyelids flutter open and discover I’m lying on a beach with gulls veering overhead and waves crashing near my feet.

I’m looking up into an azure sky pebbled with white clouds and there’s a soft ocean breeze washing over me, raising goose bumps on my arms. I can smell Carrie’s Tropic suntan oil and feel her warm body pressed up against me, her breath thundering in my ear.

I turn over and stare into her huge brown eyes. She has a bright smile on her face.

“Aren’t you happy we’re here? See—the publishing business didn’t fall apart. Tom emailed me and said while you were gone, he even signed a new client.”

“That’s wonderful, Love—and yes, I’m happy. I really don’t want to be anywhere else.”

She leans in and kisses me. I taste the salt spray on her mouth. I comb my fingers through her wet tangled hair, feeling I’ve been among the sea-maids and drowned, but can stay dead for all I care.

I’m being carried along on some invisible current, following a script already determined.

We lie on the beach until the sun finally sets, and then walk back through a patch of sea oats to our cottage near the waves.

“Would you like a drink?” She asks, her hair still damp and burnished from the light of the lamps.

“I would,” I say, and lean in to kiss her for the umpteenth time, but my eyes snap shut and the room goes dark, and when I open them again I’m back in our empty front room.

© 2020, John J Geddes. All rights reserved

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