Writings

The humid, salt air seeped into Tracy’s nose, waking up the portion of her brain that processed childhood memories — the part that she’d purposely let fall into a quiet slumber for the last month. She walked uncomfortably in her skin, the memories of her and Shauna as kids on this beach in South Jersey unraveling before her eyes. Standing on the boardwalk and grasping firmly to the rail, slick and chilled with morning dew, she allowed it to support her weight, as she viewed the ocean for the first time since Shauna died. Her baby kicked inside her and shook loose a tear.
***

I screamed as loudly as I could, but Tracy still couldn’t hear me. Michael was just as oblivious. This was the part I couldn’t get used to. I desperately needed to comfort her, as her pain was infusing me, like it was my own. How could I assure her that I was fine? I wanted her to know that death was like floating in a sea of peace. There had to be a secret trick to post-death communication, but where was the owner’s manual? Wasn’t I supposed to be given a helper angel when I reached the Pearly Gates? If only I could get the hang of this, then I could tell her how I now know that my death was not an accident, but an important piece of some kind of master plan. I was always meant to be Tracy’s baby’s Guardian Angel, not aunt.
***

Tracy noticed how the boardwalk separated the organization of man behind her —streets, houses, sidewalks, manicured lawns and hemmed-in gardens — from the windswept dunes anchoring the dancing, wispy grasses. She breathed easier just being on the ocean side. Ahead of her the pier drifted out of existence, like a fine artist’s study on perspective, melting into the thick, wet coastal air. Together she and Michael descended the rickety wooden steps, sun-bleached and faded, that led to the beach.
“Welcome home, honey.” Michael took Tracy’s hand and gave it a squeeze.
Tracy smiled for him and gave a subtle press in return.
***

I wished I could feel the sand the way Tracy could, and wondered if Tracy’s pregnancy caused her to experience the salt air with a new, more fabulous intensity. It’s what I missed the most – the smells, the tastes, but mostly I missed touch. I never properly treasured the pleasure I received from the grip of a steering wheel, sun soaked and warm on a cold winter day, or the squish of a soft sponge as I pressed my hand on it to clean a counter.

The actual death was seamless. In fact it was a relief; the pain was instantly gone. And after I’d gone to the other side I filled with new senses, such as the ability to feel other’s emotions as if they were my own, and the permeating wisdom that filled me, so that it was like I knew everything that ever was and there was no fear or anxiety, because there was nothing that could not be known.
***

“Where should we go?” Michael asked, all practical like the accountant he was, eyeing the beach for the perfect empty spot.
“Wherever,” Tracy shrugged. Her eyes were listless, and the top of her swimsuit buckled from her slouched shoulders.
While Michael pitched the obscenely bright rainbow umbrella into the sand, Tracy used her hand as a visor to look past the horizon – into her future and her past.
“Here babe,” Michael tapped Tracy on the calf. He had spread out the blanket they brought, and was holding open a Michael Crichton paperback in his right hand. It always amazed Tracy how Michael could shift into vacation mode so swiftly, like there was a work-self switch that could merely be flicked off and out popped shorts, paperbacks, and carefree smiles.

Tracy lay down beside her husband and watched a group of toddlers race past, sloshing their buckets of watery sand onto her feet and laughing carefree giggles of joy. The children ran back and forth, pushing sandy locks of matted hair from their eyes and triggering another Shauna memory of building castles out of dripping sand. Tracy allowed herself to remember for a bit longer than usual. Of all the beach activities, that was the sisters’ favorite.

The memory ushered in the usual guilt: why was she lying on the warm sand enjoying a beautiful summer morning with her husband, when her sister was dead? The seagulls cried above, though, and her belly pushed up and she knew that Shauna would want her to keep living. Tracy watched the approach of an elderly couple, struggling on the uneven terrain, their hands clutched together. She eyed her belly again as she reached for Michael’s hand. Squeezing his fingers tight, she lay back down and took in a deep breath. Now the question was how and when to say goodbye to Shauna.
***

I thought back to my time in hospice, how Tracy held vigil to the end, her baby growing in direct proportion to me dying, as if its life were slowly replacing mine. If I could, I would convey to her that I was here with our parents, and together we were looking down and loving and supporting her. She could never be alone.
***

Tracy’s doctor’s advice rang in her ears as she eased into the icy water, “It’d be best if you didn’t drive that far at this stage of your pregnancy. We have an ocean right here in Maine. Do you have to drive so far?” But Cape May was home, not the rocky shores of New England. When he asked again if the trip could wait, Tracy walked out of his office.

Tracy lay on the sand, watching the ice cream man begin his daily pacing along the beach — “Ice cream, ice cream, get your ice cream!” Tracy could hear echoes of Shauna’s high-pitched hiccupy laughs through the spaces in his calls as though she were really there. A vision of twelve-year-old Shauna licking her favorite popsicle, grinning with a Windex-colored ring of brilliant blue around her mouth, filled Tracy. Memories continued to layer one over another, so that the picture of the beach became like a cake, dense and rich and full of all of her favorite childhood flavors.
***

Watching Tracy on the beach, I’m reminded of how she, my brave older sister, would hold my hand, walking with me into the foamy edge of the ocean where the baby waves would tickle my toes and chill my ankles. Holding her hand I’d feel safe enough to go a little further each time, eventually diving under the waves, just like she did, to avoid being tumbled about in the rough surf. I can see images of her holding her baby’s hand, the child taking its first steps into the water, beaming over the delight of the wild sea. Here in my after-life, time became a faceted diamond, with each story glinting from its own angle, filling it up and making it beam as if there were nothing new to experience, so life and death were really just about forever re-experiencing.
***

Tracy cupped seawater in her hands and poured it over her head in a christening motion. She was nearly alone in the water, the beach not yet taken over by the hordes of summer vacationers and loyal sun-worshipers who would arrive closer to noon. Lying on her back, she let the waves carry her heavy pregnant body, luxuriously buoyant in the salt water. She tipped back her head, so that her ears filled with water, blocking all sound and allowing her to merely feel the rhythm of the ocean as her body drifted to and fro. That was when it came to her.

“We’ll do it later today,” she told Michael as she approached the towels, pulling her long hair to one side and ringing it out over the sand as she’d done all of her life.
In the late afternoon, Tracy and Michael returned, this time with the urn. She was terrified that it would slip out of her hold, smash against the splintery boardwalk, and mix with the cigarette ashes and seagull droppings terrified her. Michael offered to hold the urn as they once again walked down the stairs that lead to the beach, but Tracy refused to let go. With an arm around Tracy’s lower back, Michael guided her to a desolate section of the beach, away from the lifeguard stands and body-surfing teens.
“Where’s the poem?” Michael asked.
“I didn’t bring it.”
“Do you want me to go back and get it?”
“I left it on purpose.”
“Okay,” Michael’s voice was hesitant, but Tracy didn’t have the will to explain.
“Please, just help me.”
Michael nodded.
Tracy walked to the water’s edge with Michael trailing behind her like a younger brother waiting for guidance. She removed the lid of the urn and allowed seawater to fill the remainder, creating a paste with Shauna’s ashes.

Michael’s face was pale as he joined her, mouthing the word “honey,” but Tracy motioned him over with the wave of a hand, and he obeyed without another pause. Next, Tracy scooped handfuls of sand into the urn, before setting the lid back on and shaking it vigorously. Michael disregarded the pressed trousers he was wearing and sat on the sand like a ten-year-old boy dressed up for church, but who immediately went out to play the second the service was finished. Tracy lifted off the top of the urn, and closed her eyes as she reached a shaking hand into the mix. Her hand resurfaced holding a dark grey glob of wet sand. Carefully, she let the sand drip from her fingers into the formation of the letter “L.” She dripped along the edge of the water, that thin strip of wet, hard sand, where the tide has already receded. She followed the “L” with an “O,” and then continued with a “V,” finally ending with an “E.” She spelled the word until the urn was empty. When she turned to face Michael, he was still standing dutifully behind her, but this time there were tears streaming down his face.
***

I soared as Tracy’s grief dissipated. Releasing my human body into the earth felt like unhinging me from hand and foot weights. I twirled and flew, sensing a weightless exhilaration that I’d never imagined possible. Love poured through me, recycling over and over as if I had become nothing but the word and was melting into the universe of bliss. I blew Tracy a kiss, trying my hardest to communicate gratitude as I felt myself moving further and further away from her, and the beach and into a melting pot of pure love.
***

When Tracy was through, she sat on the sand taking a final look at the ocean of her childhood. Her baby thrust a jab across her belly, and she thought she heard Shauna say “thank you,” as an outer layer of grief melted into the sea fog that was rolling in. Gripping her belly, she smiled confidently at Michael.
“We better get going. I think I just felt a contraction.”
Michael helped her to standing and together they walked hand in hand back to the new life that awaited them just beyond the boardwalk.

Tamara Palmer knew she was going to be a writer before she could even write. She would play elaborate dramas out with her Barbies for days, even weeks, on end. As she got older the stories made their way onto a typewriter and as the story goes… Tamara is actively seeking publishers for her two completed novels, Missing Tyler and Finding Lancelot. Her work has appeared in edifice WRECKED. She lives in Boulder, Colorado with her husband. You can read more of her work at www.tamarapalmer.com

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