To the Sea (Follow your Bliss) (3 page)

“Widow,”
Kira said, gazing at the ceiling. The word stuck in her throat as she caught
sight of the photo of Jeremy she kept on her dresser. It drew Kira into a daze.
The light through the transom windows grew bright as the sun tried to find an
opening in the cloud cover.

Eventually,
Kira plodded downstairs to the list Nicole had made for her. Among the items
written in Nicole’s slanted script was a reminder to return to the hospital for
Jeremy’s effects and a series of difficult phone calls to make such funeral
arrangements, tax matters, and his will.

Uninterested
in doing any of those things or anything that resembled activity at all, Kira
showered again. She let the routine act of soaping, brushing, and dressing
provide distance from her grief. Order, cleanliness, and a semblance of
normalcy chorused in her mind like a refrain. Realizing she’d left her car at
the hospital, she called a cab.

When
Kira approached the sliding doors at Mass General, they whooshed open, and the
antiseptic smell unique to hospitals bit her nose. Paralyzed, she couldn’t make
herself go in. Imagining reliving the footsteps she took in the early hours
Saturday agonized her. She backed away, gave the valet the ticket to her
Mercedes, and sped home.

Still
on autopilot, she arranged Jeremy’s funeral for the coming weekend near the
Annandale family home on the Cape. She pressed talk on her phone, reluctantly
making the call to his mother.

“After
the funeral we’ll have a gathering at our home,” Mrs. Annandale said crisply.
“I will inform the guests of these arrangements.”

Kira
tried to interject, but Jeremy’s mother steamrolled on. “He elected for
cremation. As the widow, you’ll receive the ashes.”

“I—”
Kira wanted to offer condolence. She longed to hear comforting words. To have a
mother tell her everything was going to be okay, to promise her that she’d pull
out of this.

“We
had a lifetime of memories with our son, and because you intended to create a
lifetime of memories together, let’s consider it a kindness for you to keep
them.” The older woman finally paused for a breath allowing Kira to consider
how this was both crushing and comforting.

It
was yet another indication that her fairy tale dreams had ended. Jeremy was
gone.

Mrs.
Annandale concluded the call with several more details that Kira hardly
retained; her thoughts were awash in turbid waters between longing and misery.

***

The
week blurred by, Kira alternatingly sleeping at odd hours, tending to
widow-related matters, and endlessly organizing her house. She shuffled and
sorted closets and drawers, scrubbed and polished everything with a surface,
reorganized the books by category, then alphabetically, and then by color. The
domestic creativity did nothing to brighten her spirits as it ordinarily did.
Even the garage was not immune to her voracious and meticulous hands.

All
too soon, on a drizzly, cloud-smeared day, Kira found herself seated in the
front row at the funeral home with her in-laws, Jeremy’s three brothers, and
their wives. For a bizarre instant, she felt as if she were only in the room in
body, and her mind had ventured elsewhere, somewhere happy, free of pain and
sadness. She felt disconnected from the gentle hugs, pats on the arm, and
condolences, yet the gravitas of the day pressed on her from the inside where
no one could see.

Kira
returned to the empty house on Lilac Court with the remains of Jeremy in a
burnished black metallic urn. She ventured from the kitchen to the
wine-cabinet, and then upstairs, leaving the urn on the mantel.

Once
back in bed, although exhausted, Kira tossed and turned, Jeremy’s ashes
downstairs leaving her unsettled. She didn’t receive specific instructions
about what to do with them; ultimately, it was up to her. She wondered why she
and Jeremy had never talked about death or anything having to do with the
future. Then again, they were young, healthy, and had their best years ahead of
them. Kira supposed he could remain on the mantel indefinitely, but that didn’t
feel right, either. Maybe it was her earthy-crunchy-hippy heritage, but
remaining in that black container for all eternity didn’t seem right.

She
crept out of Jeremy’s side of the bed and went downstairs. Kira quietly
whispered, “Where would you like to rest?”

The
dim moonlight made the dark urn look almost sinister. She rubbed goose bumps
off her arms.

Next
thing, Kira heard a crash and rushed to the hall closet, where the umbrella
she’d used earlier appeared to have opened and fallen. As she picked it up to
refasten the snap, the shiny white and buff surfboard Jeremy had used all
summer stood like a beacon leaning on the wall in the closet.

She
ran her fingers over its smooth surface, imagined him paddling out, and riding
a wave. She’d never actually seen him surf; he knew she didn’t like the beach
and its unkempt landscape. She preferred pools to fresh or salt water, and even
that stretched her far beyond her comfort zone. Kira preferred the certainty of
dry land. She imagined Jeremy’s tousled, wet hair and sly grin as he rode a
wave triumphantly to shore.

He
took up the sport last summer, gone for long weekends. Like so often, his
repeated absence irked her, but now she would give nearly anything to get those
moments back. Loss chewed her up, spit her out, and then trampled her heart.

Nevertheless,
in that moment, Kira knew the ocean was the place to bring Jeremy’s ashes. It
wasn’t a place they’d shared in common, but given how much he went over the
summer and the glow he had when he returned, she knew it must have been special
to him. He grew up by the beach on the Cape and paddled the Charles with crew;
he belonged back in the water.

Resolved,
Kira leaned the surfboard on the wall by the door. Taking a deep breath, a
single tear fell. She let it run down her face, and plop onto her shirt.
Another followed, and another, until she could taste the salt in her mouth.

Chapter Three

Another
sleepless night haunted Kira with memories. Like pages in a scrapbook, images
of the past flooded her mind, including Jeremy and his fraternity brothers
teasing and jesting, nights studying side by side, frat parties, and a trip to
the stacks on the fourth floor of the library, where he convinced her to have
sex. Then the feeling of pride that Jeremy picked
her
over countless
girls who were crazy for him, along with sleepy breakfasts, café lunches, and
dinners.

She
recalled a ski trip to Vermont, where she matched him on the slopes in ability.
Kira watched in slow-motion the graduation party, walking down the aisle to
Jeremy’s side, their night in Nantucket. Then there were hours spent touring
houses and sending him photos from her phone, finally signing the deed, trips
to home goods stores with his credit card encouraging her to buy the entire
line of Martha Stewart innovative organizational products, followed by
unpacking and decorating. All the while, ceaseless pain snaked its way into
each image.

The
memories marched on as the tears ran relentlessly down Kira’s face, and then
the deluge abruptly stopped. She realized there weren’t any more memories
unless she counted pale mornings waking up beside Jeremy, dashing off to work,
and waiting for him to come home, but falling asleep before he returned. Her
curtailed marriage forced further sobs to sweep through her.

She
went to the shower. Like a stream converging with a river, tears ran into the
warm water as it rained down from overhead. This time the tears weren’t about
the past, they were about the lost future.

Kira
returned to the edge of the bed, wrapped in a robe, and stared out into the
predawn darkness. An early bird chirped outside, signaling a moratorium on
Kira’s doleful thoughts, and a plan formed in her mind. 

Cradling
the black urn in the crook of one arm, Kira took the sleek surfboard in the
other. As she exited, she caught a breath of crisp night air on her way to the
black Mercedes.

The
surfboard didn’t fit into the back of the SUV without blocking her rearview.
She found ties in the garage, and managed to get the thing on the roof. How
someone navigated the slippery, awkward thing in the water, never mind on land,
was beyond her.

As
the sibilant GPS guided her to the ocean, a subdued ginger glow peeked above
the horizon where a blaze of sun should have been.

Kira
pulled into the parking lot adjacent to a broadly spanning beach at high tide.
Far off, a black figure stretched and then dashed into the water with a
surfboard.

The
water rhythmically ebbed and flowed. Her lip quivered. Tears welled and poured
from her eyes as if they were attracted to the salty water of the ocean beyond.

The
sun tried to present itself up over the horizon, but the misty clouds and fog
muted its light. More figures in sleek, black wetsuits scaled the short wall
dividing the parking lot from the beach. She imagined Jeremy joining their
ranks.

Kira
sat in the parking lot, the urn resting beside her like a passenger. The stiff
wind aggravated the waves as they fought their way to shore. She sat frozen,
unable to get out of the car and proceed with part two of her plan. Part one
was to get herself to the ocean, a place she’d avoided because of the itchy
sand, the hair-ruffling breeze, and its wild unpredictability. Part two was to
walk toward the sea, and part three—she hadn’t yet penned the thought in her
mind. She knew what she had to do, but becoming a widow came with its
particular challenges, like meeting reality on a daily basis, never mind
getting out of bed. So part three was more of an abstract theory. Letting go.
How could she let go?

A
dark-haired surfer settled on the partition wall in Kira’s line of sight as the
waves rolled in and out. He set his board across his lap, applied what looked
like a bar of soap, and then leaned the board on the wall in the sand in front
of him. He lifted his chin and watched the waves. A seagull landed a few feet
to his left and gazed in the same direction. The three of them watched the
foggy and foamy ocean intently, each for their own purposes.

As
the waves crashed relentlessly into the sand, Kira felt as if they came down
upon her in the form of sadness, loneliness, loss, fear, and longing, each in
turn. She couldn’t bear life without Jeremy, which made getting out of the car
and releasing his ashes impossible. 

Seconds
after she turned the key in the ignition, the seagull took flight, and the
surfer on the wall watched it dip and glide for a few moments. Then he glanced
over his shoulder as Kira started to back out of the parking spot, the urn
resting safely beside her. She couldn’t let go. She couldn’t do it. Not yet.

Upon
returning to Lilac Court, Kira retreated to her room, drew the shades, and lay
down. Behind her closed eyes, as if burned into her retinas, the pulsation of
the waves flashed and sprayed. Sleep eluded her, and the scent of Jeremy on the
pillow had dissipated. She craved both with a feeble yearning.

Kira
pulled up on the screen of her Mac and looked at her email. Condolences, ads,
spam, and a confirmation reminder from the hotel in Paris were stacked
chronologically. She knew she should cancel the hotel reservation, but couldn’t
bring her finger to the keypad. Acknowledging it was another way to make losing
Jeremy final.

She
closed her eyes, trying to remember his voice when he said goodnight that last
time. The sound and smell of him, the way he moved, and his laugh, faded in her
mind. Sobbing, she tried to wish it all back. 

Through
her tears, the glow on the computer screen blurred. Kira reached for the glass
of water on her nightstand. Her fingers, weak from clenching them tightly to
her chest, lost her grasp on the glass. It poured, almost in slow motion, onto
the laptop keyboard.

With
helpless frustration, she managed more tears as she set the computer, in a
soupy mess, on the floor, and went to fetch a towel.

Later
that afternoon, her phone jingled. The caller was Frank Brinkman, the senior
account executive at Henniker, who oversaw the Foster-Davis project that Kira
had been working on prior to her bereavement leave. She considered not
answering it. She’d extended her leave and then arranged to telecommute, though
for the first time in her adult life, she had no interest in work or fulfilling
her responsibilities. Then she thought of Alice, kind and hardworking, her
project partner, managing it alone. She pressed answer.

“Kira,
hello, this is Frank Brinkman. How are you doing?” he asked delicately.

Clearing
her throat she responded, “Fine, thank you for asking.”

 “I
understand you’ve recently suffered a loss. We are very, very sorry.” 

“Yes,
thank you,” Kira said. The words were stiff on her tongue.

“Your
presence at the office has been missed and we’re hoping we’ll be seeing you
soon.” Kira knew this was his polite way of saying she’d better get back to her
desk.

“Yes,
I was thinking I’d return fresh on Monday.” The words tumbled out of her mouth
without her considering their implication. She had to pull it together by
Monday. It was Thursday. The chasm between then and now seemed uncrossable.

“I’m
so pleased to hear that. Well, you take it easy then, enjoy the weekend, and
we’ll see you first thing Monday morning.”

After
the call, she went downstairs to refresh her water and figure out what to do
with the laptop. The urn resting on the mantel startled her. It looked out of
place. Jeremy's urn belonged in a trophy case or on the stately stone mantel at
his parent’s house, but not on theirs. He didn’t belong in their house like
that
.
He would have wanted to be free. Maybe that was just the filter of Kira’s
obscure desires, but her attention turned once more to the ocean. Yes, tomorrow
she’d try again. She’d leave early and set his ashes free in the sea.

Kira
placed the laptop on the counter, retrieved her hair dryer, and set to work
trying to dry it out. She pushed the laptop’s silver on button, but it failed
to brighten. She had a lot of material for work stored on it. She stared at the
screen vacantly thinking maybe it just needed to dry off, warm up, and it would
miraculously turn on. Like her, maybe it just needed time. Then she remembered
the file drive that she’d copied some of the reports to, though anything she
did before that fateful night had begun to seem uncertain, like the fogginess
of déjà vu. The phone rang again.

“Lookin’
for Jeremy Annandale,” said a thick Boston accent. This wasn’t the first time
she’d fielded calls on his behalf, each one wrenching the loss tighter in her
chest. She willed her voice not to crack.

“He’s
not available.” Kira steadied her breath. 

“Well,
uh, no one’s called back about Mr. Annandale’s car, and we haven’t received
orders to fix it or scrap.” He went on to describe what would be required to
repair it. Kira opted for the latter.

“Fine.
There are a few things he’ll need to pick up and some papers to sign.”

She
swallowed hard. “Unfortunately, I’ll have to come down.”

The
exchange reminded Kira she also needed to go to the hospital to pick up
Jeremy’s possessions. Heavily, she decided she’d do this after her trip to the
ocean in the morning. She also realized in the last few weeks nearly all her
interactions with people had been over the phone, with the exception of
Nicole’s visit and the funeral. Maybe going to the office and being around
people would be helpful. However, with the prospect of collecting the things
Jeremy had just before he died, the ensuing tears did little to convince her
she was ready to reenter the world.

                                                             
***

Still
awake at half past four in the morning, Kira got dressed. She hardly listened
to the directions this time, though the voice on the GPS felt like company.

Kira
pulled into the lot. The dome of the sky appeared in a shade of grey that could
either give way to sunshine or remain like a woven blanket shrouding the blue
beyond. A few black clad figures sat distantly on the water, buoyed by their
boards.

A
dark-haired surfer, presumably the same one from before, sat on the wall.
Again, a seagull appeared, glass black eyes never leaving the waves.

The
surfer glanced in Kira’s direction when she turned off the engine. Once again,
a wash of emotions flooded her, threatening to crush her heart, her lungs, and
her very being. She closed her eyes as if by not being able to see the pounding
ocean’s waves, the waves of grief and pain would also disappear, but she could
still hear them washing to the shore.

A
light rap on the passenger’s side window startled her. The surfer smiled
warmly. Kira fumbled to open the window, and as she did so, he pointed toward
the roof. When the window came down, a mixture of salt air and the scent of
coconut wafted into the Mercedes.

“Hi,
sorry to bother you,” he said kindly.

She
approximated what once may have been a smile in return, but her facial muscles
felt stiff. She had the odd awareness the expression looked plastered on her
face.

“I
noticed you pulled in the other day and have a new board on the roof. It looks
like it might fall off, unless you’re going to head out today.”

Kira,
in her jeans and polar fleece, looked at him blankly. She didn’t fit the
profile of a surfer. If anything, she imagined she appeared lost, unmoored. The
urn rested between them, a stark symbol of how far she’d traveled away from her
normal self, whoever that was.

“Oh,
I, um—”

“If
you aren’t going out, I’ll fasten it better,” he offered helpfully.

She
couldn’t begin to figure out how to explain. Intending to get the board down
herself, she placed her hand on the door handle. It froze there. She couldn’t
get out. Her plan, to usher Jeremy’s remains out to sea on his beloved board,
was not to be. Not that day.

Unmoving,
she stared at him, at his warm brown eyes, his unshaven face, his broad and
strong shoulders. She thought of Jeremy. Tears threatened.

“I’m
Ian, by the way,” he said extending his arm to shake her hand. Kira took his,
awkwardly, as if she hadn’t participated in this ritual greeting before. She
expected his hand to be cold on the blustery morning, like hers, like the urn.
However, like his eyes and his smile, it warmed her through.

“Kira,”
she said softly.

“Do
you surf much?”

She
shook her head. “No, never.” She eyed the ocean warily. He cocked his head to
the side, perhaps trying to connect the dots between her arrival at the beach
with a surfboard on a morning, she presumed, only enjoyed by diehards.

“If
you ever want a lesson, I work at the Boardroom surf shop just up the road. In
the meantime, I’ll tie this down better,” he said, helpfully pointing to the
board she had haphazardly lashed to the roof.

Kira
managed to open the door and get out. The ties blew loosely like ribbons in the
wind. He was right; the board probably would have fallen off on the highway.
But she felt exposed, the ocean too close, and the stranger too unaware of her
heartache.