The Ocean Pulls

           The black pavement and white dashed lines fly under and out the back of the car as I hold my head out the window, tasting the dry air and letting my hand ride the fast wind. Stolen Dance comes on the radio and my two friends scream, “Turn it up! This is my jam!” We are on our way to Tybee Island for Spring Break in my friend’s jeep. I haven’t been outside in months. I take my classes online. I let my hair roll into knots and live on top of my head. I don’t paint my nails.

            We’re driving and I focus on my hair whipping behind me and my chapped lips. The beach will be perfect -- warm, happy, and an escape. I smile, I love this song. 

            Four hours later we arrive at the condo and immediately head down to the water for a late afternoon bask. My three friends run ahead of me as I walk and focus too hard on the emotion of happiness and how to feel it. I can’t remember how it should fill my body and elate me. I can’t remember it flooding my veins, taking over, making me a marionette. I try to remember the feeling of internal sunshine, but I can’t: so I let my skin warm by the external source and hope that it will find itself inside.

            Then I see a glimpse of her: chocolate curls cut short, a body I remember curling into and arms that enveloped me. I see lips that kissed my forehead and told me I love you.

            I see her.

            The sand starts to falls away, grain by grain, and the water drains. The sun sets, quickly, as if afraid of my oncoming despair. I see her, lying there, pale and shaking. I hold her hand. I kiss her forehead, whisper, I love you.

“Annie.”

A hand made of silk rests on my shoulder and I open my eyes to the ocean once more. Her eyebrows curve and I know she’s worried, but I offer a smile in place of tears.

“I’m fine.”

She takes my hand and we start walking back to the group as the waves lick at our heels. I want to close my eyes and think about the memories that fill my mind, but I’m also trying this new thing called being present and I really want it to work.

“Annie, look at this starfish!” Rachel calls out and laughs, holding up a king of aquatics: a fat, pink-stained, squirming starfish. I feel the edges of my mouth curl and my tongue finds its way between my teeth and I remember how a smile should feel. It doesn’t feel as painful as it usually does.

We stay on the beach for a few hours until the sun begins to set instead of just in my mind. Everyone starts packing up the towels and the bags until it’s just me staring at the ocean, looking for the end or the beginning or something in between.

“Annie, are you coming?”

I don’t know who asked, but I shake my head. I’m looking for something. I think I may find it tonight, but I don’t want any distractions. The girls eventually leave me to my thoughts and I finally can sit down on the cool sand and relax. I lean back and let my arms stretch out beside me and my legs reach as far as they can go.

I close my eyes, whisper, “I am a starfish.” I wonder if people will ever hold me up and say, look at her.

She’s lying in the hospital bed and it’s been too long since the diagnosis, but not enough time. I ask her if she needs anything, anything to make her feel comfortable. She just smiles and shakes her head. I sit there, holding her hand, and I think about the old willow tree across the street that she loved. When we moved houses, my dad tried to plant our own in the backyard and, every year, it would try to grow tall and strong, but every winter it slowly decayed until it looked like nothing even tried to live there.

I open my eyes, pull myself up on my elbows, rock my legs back and forth, and stare at the sky.

The waves remind me of her heartbeats, soft and quiet. She gently squeezes my hand and whispers, “Tell me about the ocean.”

            I speak softly, rubbing her hand until I feel the warmth leave it. I stare out at the ocean, feeling the sand beneath me, imagining her hand in mine.

            The ocean stares back, as do the waves, breaking and closing like eyelids.