Sea  Change

     I don’t remember the car accident. Not really. I remember the impact, the sound of grating metal and the explosion of shattered glass. But I barely remember the mind numbing cold of the ocean or the darkness as it poured around me. And I don’t remember my escape from its icy clutches. But I do remember the fight I had with Melissa just an hour before, the spiteful words I had thrown at her like poisoned daggers, each piercing her heart with deliberate accuracy.

     Oh! And I remember I was drinking. Again.

     Why does it always come back to that? Why am I so weak? And in God’s name, why do I always hurt Melissa? Well…enough is enough. I’m through with drinking. I have hurt Melissa too many times. That’s why I have to apologize. I have to set things right. That’s why I’m heading home.

     I’m not sure how long I take, but time, like the endless miles of two-lane before me, stretch on without measure. Not one car passes me.

     It’s suppertime by the time I make it home. The sun is just beginning to slip beneath the horizon, easy in its descent, as if reluctant to test the coastal waters of Saco Bay. But during this time of year, there’s already a chill in the air and a bite to its dark depths.

     I expect Melissa to be in the kitchen, humming a little singsong as she prepares our dinner. Something savory, something colorful and inviting. Even though we’ve had a fight, Melissa loves to cook, and she often uses it to bridge the distance between us—to extend an olive branch—so we can make amends. But today, the kitchen, like the rest of the house, is empty. Quiet.

     It isn’t until I look out the back window I spot her. Alone on the beach, her legs curled beneath her, as she looks out over the rolling surf. Hues of red and orange are smeared amongst the few rain clouds dappled across the evening sky.

     I approach her easily, without preamble, as I’ve come to ask for forgiveness. I was wrong. I know this, so there is little point to beating around the bush.

     I crouch beside her, humble, my eyes focusing on the ground, the seashells, the chalky sand—anywhere but her distant gaze. “I’m sorry.” 

     At first, she says nothing, her only reply a deep, cleansing breath. But then she gathers herself and speaks absently, as if merely speaking to the wind. “Why?”

     I look up at her, tilting my head, and see that she refuses to look at me. Her eyes continue to comb the horizon. “Why did you do it, Jake?” she repeats.

    I pause, unsure of myself. “I…I don’t know, baby. I get to drinking and I…I just can’t help myself. I didn’t mean those things I said. I was angry, drunk. Just plain stupid, I guess. But I won’t do it again. I’m going to stop drinking. I swear! It will be different this time.”

    “You always were such the fool, Jake. Always so proud, too stubborn to admit weakness. Your desire to be right always outweighed my needs—my needs to be loved. Why? We could have had the perfect life together.”

    I swallow, trying to wet my parched throat. “I know…I know! I’ve hurt you. But I swear! It will never happen again. I’ll get help this time. Things will be different. You’ll see!”

     The faraway look in Melissa’s eyes, the way she refuses to look at me, cuts as deep as any knife ever could. At first, she doesn’t say anything and the silence smothers the moment. When she finally speaks, her words are choked, carried on stilted breath. “I guess it’s I who was always the fool. Always thinking things would be different. Always thinking you could change your ways. But you never could. I should have known. And it makes me so damn mad! God forgive me, but I’m still angry at you!”

    My eyes dart back to hers, an icy chill pouring through my body. I had never heard her talk this way before—not with such finality.

    “Oh! Please, baby! I’m sorry. Give me a second chance.” I slide on over, fall to my knees, and try to occupy her view. She looks right through me.

    “I’m so angry that I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to forgive you, Jake. But I do miss you. I always will.” With that said, tears spill from her eyes and race down her cheeks, falling and succumbing to the slaking thirst of the sand below. She groans and pushes herself up to stand. It is only then I see she has brought something with her to the beach. It’s a cremation urn, simple, practical. She clutches the cold pewter to her bosom as a mother would a nursing child.

    I lurch to my feet, abrupt memories flashing through the storm clouds of my mind like distant heat lightning. I see the night of our argument, the drinking, me jumping into the car and driving off at breakneck speeds. The dark and rainy night, the screech of tires—oh God! No! It can’t be!

    I reach out to grab hold of Melissa, to make her face me…to make her see me. But she doesn’t. Though I’m standing right in front of her, my face before hers, our eyes never meet. Instead, she walks straight through me, her very essence passing through me like a warm tropical breeze, the delicate aroma of her perfume left to swirl in its wake. But then it’s gone. All of it: the warmth, the fragrance of flowers, and even Melissa, for she has moved on to say her goodbyes.

    Nothing remains but the dark roiling waters of the bay, and the hushed plaintive calls of distant seagulls. And I am cold.

    Ashes to ashes, dust to dust…