Grace
1 Year Earlier
“Clear!”
“Nothing.”
“Sir, we need you to step out of the room.”
“DAMNIT, TELL ME WHAT IS GOING ON!” “SHE IS MY WIFE!” “KAT!”
“Sir, we need you outside. You HAVE to step out outside.”
“Clear!”
………………………………
…………………………
“Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep…”
Present
Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep…
The National Weather Service has issued a severe thunderstorm watch for the greater listening area until 10 p.m. this evening.
It’s Friday and the highway to the harbor is busier than most weekends. We love this stretch of road. Even though it takes us eight miles in the wrong direction, we always arrive at harbor. We love the harbor. There’s one moment that I will always remember. It was a scorcher of an evening three Labor Day’s ago. You had just asked me to get you an ice cream from Spencer’s, which conveniently happened to be at the end of the pier. How could I ever say no to you? Gazing over the pier I noticed you had made your way down to the beach. There was a moment where the sun was piercing the water; it was piercing you, as you gazed across the sea. It was you, the sun, and the sea. There was nothing and everything in that moment. I never wanted to leave that stretch of pier. You were so far away; an outlined shadow that would be forever casted over me. It was you, the sun, and the sea. You would have sat in that moment forever, as would I, but you would never let anything keep you from your ice cream.
You have always loved our drives; that I always make an effort to take my time on our road, especially on days like this. The breeze is breaking against the car, and whistling through our hair. You laugh, even in the wake of an approaching storm. Black clouds. It takes its time. It is in no hurry. It will arrive precisely when it means to.
As the skies darken, the road clears. The road is the figurative calm before the storm. My automotive companions have made their way to the exits. The curtains are closing. It’s half past six o’clock. We’re making good time. We always do.
“Grace is our family,” You would always tell me. I remember the day we bought her. It was a Wednesday afternoon, and your mother had just passed away. Returning from your bridge game, I watched you stroll through the kitchen and out the back door. You love bridge. You needed your space after your mother passed, and I respected that. I love you for it. You were in the garden staring at your roses. I always wondered what you were thinking in those moments. Were you looking for a sign? A message? I never knew if those moments were filled with bliss or doubt. I saw it in your face. I wanted to be there with you. You were so far away, but then in the blink of an eye, as if you had never left, you came back to me. You always do.
“Joe!”
“Honey? Honey, what’s wrong?”
“Joe, I want to buy a boat.”
“Of course honey. You love the ocean.”
How could I ever say no to you? We bought Grace that day. You always saw light at the end of any dark corridor, even if the light was no where to be found. Where is that light now? Where are you now?
Turning off the car the harbor, much like the road, is suspiciously calm. The sun is glimmering on the water at a blinding rate. It is the heartbeat of the harbor. The gulls are becoming uneasy as they feel the sun slowly being shrouded by the approaching malady. Staring out at the lighthouse, I feel each and every sporadic gust of wind it casts out. As they crash against me, I feel the motive and drive behind them.
Scotch in hand, I spot Grace. She is by no means the largest sailboat docked in the harbor, but she is ours. After a year, algae has stained her blonde planks. We never meant for this to happen. Your railings are no longer beaming and majestic. Gull droppings have caused you to no longer mirror the sun.
Climbing aboard, I am impacted by a stronger gust of wind. I nearly falter, but you would never let me. To escape the wind, I enter the cabin. Our initials are still carved into the wooden door leading in. The initials have left me with a feeling that this boat is all we have left. It is all we have left. The carvings feel fresh against my fingertips. I feel you inside them. Pushing the door open, the bedspread is disheveled just like we left it. Your scent is still heavy. It’s paralyzing. Dust is blanketed about the room like a fresh snow. The radio I bought you when we first met rests upon the night-stand. Turning it on, a familiar sound floods my ears.
“Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep”
The National Weather Service has issued a severe thunderstorm warning for the greater listening area until 9:30 p.m. this evening.
This cabin has always been our sanctuary, however it feels different now; an empty shell of what once was. It’s musty and riddled with a year of corruption. The decay has set in. Pouring a glass of scotch, I allow it to infect me. The putrid air is strangely liberating. I breathe you in. With every sip of my scotch, and every gasp of noxious air, I feel as though I am closer to you.
“Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee-“
Smashing the radio against the floor, I hear the sound fizzle out. It’s gone for now.
“I’m sorry.”
I exhume myself from the cabin. The disease stricken cabin is to my rear; your mark on the door still deceivingly fresh. It taunts me. It is a memory of what was, and and a promise of what is to come. For a moment, as I untie Grace from the harbor, I feel myself wanting to look back, to turn away from you. How could I ever turn away? My light, forever guiding me away from the corrupt darkness that continues to tug at my ankles.
Pushing off the dock I hear the auxiliary engine purr. You never particularly liked that I bought an auxiliary for Grace. You loved that she harnessed the wholesomeness of the wind, and that she was unmarred by engines and gasoline. On this evening, the wind does not feel wholesome. It’s malicious. It is the product of a menacing entity approaching from the south, and with it comes the distinct intention of reshaping the very core of Grace and I’s existence.
The dock is farther away now and the trip out of the harbor is an all too familiar site. We have made this journey more times than I can count, but today’s journey is different. The beam of light that fires out of the old lighthouse spins in infinite fashion. The lighthouse is waiting and watching. It is waiting for me to decide. What it does not know is that I already have. The eye within the forever erected structure that has veered us away from rocks and shallow water sees me. We see each other. Without doubt, it accepts my decision.
I hear myself let out a faint whisper as I turn my attention away from the lighthouse and towards the darkness.
“Ok.”
The view of the lighthouse has escaped me. Adjusting the jib, I see and feel the skies split. To the north the path to the heavens is transparently clear, while the southwest darkens at an infectious rate. As I feel my joints begin to strain, I pour another glass of the single malt scotch. It’s smooth. More so now than my initial gulps at the harbor.
I feel as though I am outside of my body. My feet rest upon Grace’s railings. The boat is concussed. The wind is quickening. The weight of the scotch is overbearing. It’s getting dark. Too dark to see.
“Rare forms of asphyxiation like this do occur. The reaction was too severe. Unfortunately there is nothing more we can do.”
“She was fine…”
“She will not wake up. Her brain was deprived of oxygen for too long. Irreparable damage has been done. Unfortunately, a decision has to be made. I’m sorry.”
“She was fine…”
The hull is cracked. Lying face down, my cheek is cold against Grace’s floor. Like the pendulum, my empty bottle of whiskey rolls from port to starboard. In my left peripheral I see the mast has been dismembered. The howling Zephyr will not allow me to regain my footing. It is as if he has acknowledged my decision. With his acknowledgement comes his gift. The rogue wave is the final fray. The rip tide has commenced. As Grace and I are pulled closer, it is felicity that engulfs me. I know now where you were in the garden, gazing at your roses.
“Kat.”
“How could I ever say no to you?”
The Life and Times of JJG. A Collective Perspective. 