Swimming Lessons (7 page)

“I was thinking I looked beautiful. Tom thought I did, anyway.” Her smile slipped but she caught herself and
shrugged. “At least he told me he did. That was probably a lie. Like all the other lies he told me.”

Cara sensed a dangerous turn in emotions. “He wasn’t lying,” she hurried to respond. “You did look beautiful. And you look beautiful now.”

Emmi lifted her chin and straightened, but the wine was beginning to affect her balance. “You bet I do. I look great. Tom was an idiot for letting me go.”

“A first class loser.”

“A cheating, lying, loser.”

Too much wine, too little to eat.
Cara went to the fridge to scrounge for cheese and crackers.

“Listen, sugar. Why don’t you help yourself to some of this cheese while I freshen up. I’ll be back in a flash.”

In the shower she tilted her head back and let the cool water sluice away the day of selling tour tickets, answering the phone, and hopping on jet skis to help stranded tourists who stalled in the waterway. She was utterly exhausted, slightly sunburned and parched. She relished the idea of cuddling up with her best friend for a long chat over a chilled glass of wine. She emerged in minutes wearing a white terry robe and a white towel wrapped around her hair. She found Emmi curled on the couch like a sleek tabby cat. Her eyes were a telltale red, as though she’d been crying. On the coffee table was a new bottle of wine, uncorked, with two glasses. When she spotted Cara coming into the room, she forced a smile and held out a goblet of wine for her.

“Emmi, how long have you been here?” she asked, concerned.

“An hour at least. Maybe two.”

Cara curled her legs under her as she sat beside Emmi on the sofa. Emmi was clearly one sheet to the wind. This
was another change in her friend. Emmi had never been much of a drinker. Tom used to tease her about being a “cheap date.”

“Did you eat any cheese?”

Emmi shook her head. “Not hungry, thanks.”

“If you don’t mind, I’m starving.” She reached for a chunk of Brie, put it on a cracker and hungrily devoured it.

“So tell me what’s going on with you,” Emmi asked. “How are things in the wild world of ecotourism? Anything new with the infertility tests?”

“Same old, same old,” she replied evasively.

“Which means…” Emmi prompted.

“Which means nothing much right now. We’re in a holding pattern till the doctors advise us what to do next.”

“Don’t stay in that holding pattern too long. Your biological clock is ticking.”

“Ticking? It’s positively unwound! A baby now would be a miracle.”

“Not with the miracles of modern science. Lots of women have babies late in life.”

Cara sighed, silently sending off a prayer that what Emmi said was true. She reached for another cracker, busying her hands with spreading the brie.

“You okay with this?” Emmi asked gently. “You still want a baby, don’t you?”

“More than ever. It’s just…”

“Just what?”

Cara couldn’t put on a false front any longer to her best friend. She set down the cheese, fighting back tears she was determined not to shed.

“I never figured how hard it was going to be for me emotionally, is all.”

“Cara…”

“It’s insidious. No matter how I prepare myself, no matter how cool I appear, every time I go through the hormone therapy I get my hopes up. Sure, the hormones put one’s emotions on a roller coaster, but it’s more. When I get pregnant, the joy is indescribable. A dream come true. I’m in heaven. And then I miscarry.” She released a plume of air to still her trembling lips. She felt tired, vulnerable. She didn’t want to break down. Taking a breath, her voice held the old bravado. “I’m a realist. Always have been. I try to look at the situation as I would any project. If you take my age, the cost of in vitro, the doctor’s advice…” Her shrug spoke volumes.

“What are your chances?”

“Not good. When I started trying at forty, I had a 15 to 20 percent chance. At forty-five, my chances dropped to 6 to 10 percent.”

“Do the risks go up, too?”

“I don’t think so, but with the hormone therapy there’s always the chance of being swollen, bloated, nausea and having to pee all the time.”

“That’s called being pregnant.” She raised her glass and took a sip.

Cara laughed. “Then sign me up.”

“Are you going to try again?” Emmi asked more seriously.

Cara hesitated, taking a sip of her wine. Emmi had enough of her own problems to deal with, she didn’t want to burden her. But also, Cara didn’t want to tell anyone—not even Emmi—about this last round of hormone treatments about to begin and the next in vitro implant. Not until she was sure it took. It was one thing
to deal with the pain of disappointment alone. She didn’t think she could stand all the condolences again.

“Who knows?” she replied briskly. “If I do, I’d do it for Brett.” She picked up the cracker and forced herself to eat it. “How’s your house?” she asked, angling for a new topic of conversation. “I looked in on it as often as I could while you were gone.”

“I don’t know. I haven’t been there yet.”

“You haven’t been to your house? Why not?”

“I came here first.”

“But I wasn’t even here. Why didn’t you just run over and unpack first?”

Emmi shrugged and took a long swallow from her glass.

“Your turn. What’s the matter?”

Emmi rose and went to the freezer and pulled out an ice tray. “I just couldn’t go in there.”

“Why ever not? You love that house.”

“That’s just it. I do love it.” She plopped one, then two cubes of ice into her white wine. “Did love it,” she amended, keeping her eyes downcast. Emmi’s brows gathered as her bravado slipped from her face.

Emmi had always loved her family’s beach house. She’d spent every summer there as a child and brought her children there after she was married. Her parents had left it to her when they retired to Florida. That small, white frame beach house with the tin roof had always been Emmi’s touchstone. Cara couldn’t imagine Emmi not hightailing it straight to her beach house to heal and regain her footing, especially now when she needed comfort the most.

She patted the sofa beside her. “Talk to Mama.”

Emmi came and flopped down beside her. She slunk deep into the cushions, resting her head back. When she spoke, it was like a confession.

“I drove up and just sat in the driveway. The engine was off but I couldn’t get out. I just kept staring at it. And while I did, a million memories came flooding back. Oh, Cara, so many memories. There’s no part of that house I can look at and not think of Tom. I got my first kiss from Tom under the porch. I used to watch from the kitchen window as he walked up the porch stairs to pick me up for a date, his hair slicked back and a corsage in his hand. We made out on the front swing, made love for the first time in my room, groping on my twin bed.” She choked back a tear. “We brought our babies there every summer, fried Thanksgiving turkeys out back, and hung lights on the palms at Christmas. Every happy memory I have there is with Tom…”

“Emmi…”

“I can’t go back there. It’s too hard. He even took that away from me.” Her voice was bitter, laced with pain. “Now I hate my beach house.”

Cara sighed heavily, fully realizing that it was going to be a long night. “Then you can stay here.”

“Maybe just for a day or two. Until I get used to the whole idea.”

“As long as you want or need.”

“I’m fine,” Emmi said forcefully. “Really I am.”

“Of course you are.”

Cara rose, gathered the two wine glasses and brought them to the sink. Then she went to the fridge to rummage for the makings of dinner. Brett had brought some local shrimp home from the market. She took these out and laid them on the counter. Taking a shrimp knife from the drawer, she began peeling. A minute later, Emmi was standing beside her at the counter, peeling shrimp.

They worked in the silence of old friends in a com
fortable setting. Cara didn’t have any answers for Emmi, nor, she suspected, did Emmi expect them. Or even want them. Sometimes, the best thing to offer was simply safe shelter.

Medical Log “Big Girl”

W
hen the telephone rang, the room was filled with the metallic gray light of early dawn. Toy groaned and rolled to her stomach, dragging the pillow over her head. Who could be calling at this hour? Didn’t whoever that rude person was know today was Sunday, the blessed day of rest?

Sleepily, she dragged her mind through possibilities. Favel said he would go to the Aquarium this morning to take care of Big Girl, and Irwin was covering the afternoon. She yawned lustily. She was so looking forward to sleeping late.

When the answering machine clicked on, she tugged the pillow from her head to listen. She heard Flo’s strident voice on the machine.

“Hey! We’ve got a nest! And it’s right smack in front of our houses. Toy! Are you there? Pick up. Pick up!”

Toy threw the pillow aside as she lurched for the phone.

“Hello? Flo? Hello?”

But Flo had already hung up, no doubt to call Cara. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, Toy sat up and scratched her head while adrenaline cleared her thoughts. A nest… In front of the beach house…

They’re here!
A smile dawned on her face. She hurried
down the hall barefoot, tugging up the bottoms of her baggy cotton pajamas.

“Wake up, sleepyhead!”

“Go away,” Lovie whined, turning her back on Toy and burrowing under the covers. Kiwi, the calico cat sleeping beside her, raised her head. Her yellow eyes regarded Toy with disdain at being disturbed.

Toy knew bringing Little Lovie to the beach would slow her down, but she wanted her daughter to share this, to be part of something that was important to her, as it had been to her namesake.

“Lovie, there’s a turtle nest—right in front of
our
house!” She shook the lump under the blankets. “Come on, girl!”

Lovie pulled back the blankets, sending Kiwi leaping from the bed. “The nest is
here?
” When Toy nodded, Lovie scrambled from under her blankets as fast as a ghost crab from its hole in the sand. Toy went to her drawer and pulled out shorts.

“I can dress myself!” Lovie snapped.

Little Lovie pitched a fit when Toy tried to pick clothes out for her so rather than deal with a tantrum, Toy just called out, “Meet you in a few!” and trotted down the hall. Excitement bubbled in her veins. She grabbed her running shorts, sniffed the green Turtle Team T-shirt and deeming it acceptable, slipped it over her head. She then pulled her unbrushed hair back into a ponytail. Over this, she slipped on the Turtle Team cap. They met at the screen door where they both slipped on sand crusted sandals. Little Lovie had her pink T-shirt on backward and her golden hair tumbled in a mass down her shoulders. Toy held back a smile but wisely said nothing. Miss Lovie once told her to “choose your battles.”

After a good push she got the wobbly screen door open. She’d have to fix that some day, she thought as she hurried to the old wicker basket on the porch. She found her long, thin, yellow metal probe stick and backpack. Just a week before, in anticipation of the season, she and Little Lovie had sat at the kitchen table and cleaned out the dusty green backpack of last season’s sand and grit and put new batteries in the flashlight.

She’d watched as Little Lovie carefully placed back all the turtle team tools: a red flashlight, a tape measure for measuring the tracks, orange tape, wooden shish kebob sticks for counting eggs, brochures for tourists, a magic marker and the lovely half shell that once was Olivia Rutledge’s and now was her prize possession. Miss Lovie’s probe stick and red bucket had gone to Cara, but Toy had purchased a red bucket of her own. In it were several thick wooden stakes and the bright orange federal signs that marked all nests.

“I think that’s it,” she said to Little Lovie, then had a sudden thought. “Wait one more minute.” She ran inside to the kitchen junk drawer and grabbed a cheap instamatic camera. She tossed it into her backpack and hoisted it on her shoulders. Then going back out, she took Little Lovie’s hand. “Let’s go!”

They followed the narrow beach path like hound dogs on the scent. The tangy, salty morning air led them around white dunes that had shifted and grown tall during the winter storms. Now the dunes were dotted with yellow primrose and beach grass, and pocked by the small holes of ghost crabs. Toy looked over her shoulder to see their footprints in the sand—hers large, Lovie’s small—side by side. Reaching the top of the dune, Toy paused, mouth open, her breath stolen by the sight.

The breadth of sand was aflame with the pink, orange and yellow light of dawn. Beyond, the vast blue ocean was glistening in the light, a rolling, breathing beast stretching out to meld with the horizon. She turned to look at her daughter. Little Lovie stood motionless, her blue eyes staring at the sunrise.

“I’m glad you brought me,” Lovie said softly.

Toy squeezed Lovie’s hand. In those few words, she knew her daughter’s young spirit had fully awakened in the beauty of this dawn.

Scanning the beach, her heart quickened when she spotted the clearly defined turtle tracks that scarred the smooth sand from the high tide line up to the dune.

“Mama, look!” Lovie called out, pointing. Her voice was high with wonder. “The turtle walked
around
our sandcastle! Wasn’t she nice?” Little Lovie clapped her hands and took off like a shot.

Toy laughed lightly, her amazement stirring her own childlike wonder. “You good ol’ turtle,” she muttered. The turtle tracks did, indeed, travel up to, then around, the sand castle seemingly not wishing to disturb it. Her gaze followed the turtle tracks up to a small circular mound on the dunes that was the turtle nest. Already a small cluster of people gathered around it. She recognized Flo’s shock of bright white hair and Cara’s glossy brown, Glenn’s sun helmet, Grace’s short dark curls, and…who was that lean, leggy redhead? She called out with a wave and began walking toward them.

“The turtles are here!” Flo exclaimed, raising her arms high in triumphant welcome. Her voice bubbled with the excitement they all felt. The joy was visceral. This nest signaled a beginning of their summer’s vocation. Hopes were flying high that it would be a good season.

Cara turned and waved in welcome from her spot farther down the beach near the castle where she was measuring the tracks. Little Lovie came crashing into her legs, wrapping her arms around Cara. Grace and Glenn offered Toy hugs while accepting her congratulations for being the ones to find the season’s first nest.

Turtle volunteers were a dedicated and loyal bunch. Toy knew all of the eighty people who took turns walking the beaches early in the morning to search for turtle tracks. Yet of all these, Grace and Glenn were special. In their late eighties, they put the young’uns to shame. They rose earlier, walked farther, and never missed a day. Toy thought it was divine justice that they found the season’s first nest.

The redhead walked toward her. “Hey, no kiss for me?”

Toy looked at the tall woman again, and recognition clicked. “
Emmi?
Is that you?”

“In the flesh.”

“Whoa, you look….” She sputtered, trying to find words other than
so much better
.”

“Don’t go on about it,” Flo said. “We’ve been paying her compliments all morning and it’ll go to her head.”

“You and the first nest, here on the same day!” Toy said.

“All’s right with the world,” Emmi replied.

Toy hugged her and felt the truth in that statement.

“If you’re done chatting, can we get started here?” Flo called out. She was eager to find the eggs. She lifted her hands to cup her mouth and called, “Caretta!”

“Coming,” Cara replied, tucking her notebook in her backpack. She brought Little Lovie up to the dune with her. “The tracks measured twenty-seven inches. That’s a pretty good sized turtle. And the nest is high up on the
dune. I think this mama picked out a very nice spot for her eggs.”

“Yep, she done good,” Flo confirmed, nodding with satisfaction. “We can leave this one right where it is. Now, let’s find those eggs.”

On cue, the four women brandished their probe sticks like swords. Toy felt the air tingle as they gathered at the turtle’s nest. The hunt was on!

Toy used to believe finding the eggs was a matter of chance, but as the seasons passed and she gained experience, she came to realize there were field signs that pointed the way. The female loggerhead aggressively camouflaged her nest by throwing sand. But if Toy followed the inbound tracks, she could figure out in which direction the turtle lay when she dropped her eggs. The group studied the tracks as Flo put her probe to the sand and carved a circle around the large body pit.

Flo offered Toy the chance to take the first turn at probing for eggs. She chose a likely spot then carefully, oh, so gingerly, pressed her probe stick into the sand. She bent her knees, leveled her feet and took a breath. Steady now, she told herself as the probe slid into the soft sand. The first probe of the season was always like the first time she’d probed a nest. She remembered Miss Lovie guiding her through it.

“Easy now, child,” Miss Lovie had said in her melodic voice. “Don’t be in such a hurry. The eggs aren’t going anywhere. Let the stick slide into the sand nice and slow. Bend your knees. If you feel the sand break away beneath you, stop! You can’t be bumping into an egg!”

That was every turtle lady’s greatest fear—to be in such a hurry that she poked through an egg. It rarely ever happened. For her, not one egg out of the thousands she’d
found in five years. Nonetheless, breaking even one made a person feel hang dog contrite and it spooked you for the whole season. And, of course there was the not-so-gentle ribbing that came from the turtle team.

Toy felt the sand grow hard under her probe, a sign that the eggs were not there. She moved to another spot only an inch away. Then to another. Then another, seeking the soft spot. After her turn, Emmi began the same process. Then Cara, taking turns at probing. Ten minutes later, the mound of sand was dotted with small holes. The sun was rising and a tourist taking a morning’s walk on the beach wandered over to see what the commotion was about, only to coo with excitement at her luck. Just when Toy thought this was going to be one of those tricky nests that kept them probing for hours, Cara’s probe dipped sharply into the sand.

Collectively they gasped and leaned forward to watch as Cara went on hands and knees to dig with her fingers. Once the soft sand was found, probes were abandoned. Cara dug away the sand from the spot, going deeper and deeper, letting the soft sand sift through her fingers. Little Lovie leaned against Toy’s legs, looking far into the hole, hoping to see eggs. Sometimes it was a false alarm and they all went back to probing. But they could smell the musky scent of eggs and were hopeful.

Cara’s arm was in so deep her shoulder was almost touching the sand. Her face was turned slightly upward and her dark brown eyes were shining in anticipation as her hand followed the trail of softer sand.

Toy watched, envying Cara a little for her natural elegance, even in such an awkward position. Miss Lovie had always said that Cara looked more like her father, a tall, raven haired, chiseled man. But Toy thought that the
older Cara got, the more she resembled her mother. Not that Cara would ever be the petite and blonde belle that Miss Lovie was. The resemblance was more in the softness of expression one moment, the elegant lift of the chin at another, the air of confidence, and the constant gracefulness that came, Toy believed, from generations of breeding.

Toy sighed, flashing back to her own mother’s words. They’d been shopping on King Street and her mother had spotted a fancy-dressed woman walking down the street with an air of elegance.

“Can’t learn that in no school,” Toy’s mother had told her. She’d clucked her tongue and pointed. “Look at her. Women like that, they’re Thoroughbreds. It’s in their blood.” Her mother’s husky voice had rumbled with belligerent admiration. It still hurt that she’d called Toy a “good work horse.” Toy felt the same stab of shame she’d felt then and shook her head to expel her mother’s voice. Why’d she always have to be so mean-spirited? Instead, she replayed Miss Lovie’s words of encouragement in her mind.

“We’ve got eggs!” Cara exclaimed, retrieving a perfectly round, white egg out from the nest. Little Lovie was on it faster than a tick on a dog, begging for a closer look before Cara gingerly put the egg back into the nest and covered it back up with sand. It never failed to amaze Toy how a turtle egg looked exactly like a ping pong ball. Glenn and Grace moved forward to put their names on the stake, claiming the nest as “their own.” The hunt was over.

As Flo bent to put the markers on the nest, Toy stepped back and pulled her instamatic camera out from her backpack. First she took a photograph of the turtle tracks circling around Lovie’s sandcastle. Then she went down on one knee and brought the little cardboard box to her
eye. Through the narrow lens, she focused on the cluster around the nest, three adults and one child, shoulder to shoulder, laughing. It was a nice, standard group shot.

Zooming in, however, she discovered magic in the details—the wind tousled hair, bits of sand on the faces, and in all the eyes a childlike wonder and infinite hope for this, the first nest of the season.