Telling Stories - Stories about Crisis

Written by Tammie Byram Fowles, PhD, LISW-CP

Page 3 of 15

The North Atlantic is frigid, unlike the gentle waters of the South, and within moments her feet ache painfully. She's grateful for the distraction. The spasms in her feet allow her to concentrate for the time being on something other than the torment in her soul. She shifts her weight from one foot to the other; they throb in protest, and then eventually grow numb. Why is it that the relentless ache in her heart refuses to deaden too? She stands still, closes her eyes, and allows the tide to gently sway her. She imagines herself lying down, arms spread wide, floating out and away, and then under. Above her head, a lone seagull swoops down toward the earth and then back up again, heaven bound.

She hobbles slowly out of the water and towards the rocks. The sand begins to warm her frozen feet. She climbs the rocks and settles into a crevice. Just as she can't escape her anguish, she's also captured by the beauty before her. The great, wide, blue-green ocean lies beyond - moving, always moving, away from and then towards. In the distance stand the Mountains, sleeping giants that rest solid and still. The seagulls call out but the mountains remain unmoved. As she gazes at the water, some small part of her begins to stir, whispering so quietly and so tentatively that she doesn't hear. Perhaps her ignorance of the small voice is for the best, for she'd surely silence it...

Two weeks later, she's hiding in her crevice again, hypnotized by sun and surf. She hears a child singing. She automatically seeks out the singer, and spies a skinny little girl in a red and white checkered bikini. The little girl carries a pail and shovel, her hair is tied back in a ponytail, and she skips, and then runs, and then skips again along the beach. Up ahead a woman is walking, her head bent as if she were studying her feet. The little girl calls out to her, and runs quickly forward. "Wait Mommy! Wait and see what I found Mommio, Mommio, Mommy!" She yells and sings at the same time. The woman turns away and keeps walking. The little girl runs in earnest now, no longer skipping or singing. She reaches out for her mother as she runs, and stumbles over a small sand dune. She falls flat on her back, shells tumbling out of her orange plastic pail. The child begins to cry loudly, the way that small children do, belting out her pain and grief. The mother looks back, impatiently walks toward the fallen child, yanks her up by the arm, and pulls her along. The little girl struggles to stoop down to retrieve her shells. She's desperate to collect her treasures, but her mother's in a hurry. The woman easily overpowers the child, and the sea gifts get left behind. Echo's of the child's grief reaches out to her.

Virginia feels the all too familiar rage burning inside of her. She's trembling as she watches the ignorant bitch haul the vulnerable little girl down the beach. Heart racing, face hot, fists clenched, she wants to chase them. She wants to rip the girl from the monster's cruel hands, pound her face, and kick her in the stomach. She wants to gouge out her eyes and shove her fist down her throat. She doesn't deserve to be a mother God damned it! It's not fair! Virginia wants to destroy her.

She's still shaking as she makes her way down the rocks and towards the abandoned shells. She stoops to pick them up, and then pauses to watch the image of mother and child moving quickly up the path and away from the beach. Her vision is blurred and she realizes she's crying. She kneels, and begins to sob over the broken shells - for the little girl, for Cara, for Mark, and for all of the ugliness in this deceptively beautiful world. She wails, and moans, and begs God to bring her baby back. She cries until her shirt is drenched with her tears, and then she collapses, exhausted.

It's 11:00 am and the damned woman is knocking again. Virginia, still in yesterday's clothing, with warmed over coffee in hand, hides behind the door. "Why does the old bag keep coming back?" she mutters. She peeks through a crack in the pale blue curtains. A solidly built woman dressed in blue jeans and a short sleeved, plaid shirt is standing at her door. Over her right arm rests a basket. Her left hand is poised to knock again. Virginia grudgingly decides to give in and open the door. "Well hello there! I've finally caught you," the old woman says, smiling warmly. She steps into the room uninvited, and Virginia reluctantly moves back to let her pass. The woman appears to be in her late fifties. She has short graying hair, pale blue eyes, and appears rumpled and dowdy. Virginia, recently awakened, unwashed and fuzzy headed, retreats behind an air of superiority. "Can I help you with something?" Virginia asks, her voice cold, polite, and tinged with disdain.

"My name's Mavis. I've been meaning to meet you, but I've been so busy, and when I've gotten around to coming by, you haven't been home. I brought you a wild strawberry pie and my apologies for taking so long to welcome you." Mavis walks over to the table and sets the basket down.

"Why thank-you Mavis. How sweet of you." Virginia pushes back her hair, "Please excuse my appearance, I was up reading late and I'm afraid I've over-slept. Can I get you a cup of coffee?" Virginia asks, without a hint of warmth, praying that Mavis decline her unenthusiastic offer.

"I'd love a cup, two sugars and a bit of cream," Mavis instructs sitting down and settling in.

Mavis chats about the weather, the residents, and the church pot luck dinner. Virginia hears nothing, just gazes out the window, hoping that Mavis will get the message. She's not welcome here. She watches an old lobsterman and his young assistant struggling with their nets. The sun shines on the young man's hair, and his arm muscles ripple as he lifts a heavy piece of equipment. She can barely see his face from this distance, but she can't help noting what a compelling sight he makes. His movements are efficient and graceful, he smiles widely, and appears to be enjoying himself. Virginia scowls, disgusted that she's allowed herself to be captivated even for a minute by him.

"That's Joe's nephew, Chris." Mavis offers, leaning forward to get a better view. Virginia's cheeks flush, she feels invaded and embarrassed. "He's a sweet boy. He's spending the summer with Joe, all the way from San Francisco. He worries so much about that old man. Always has. I remember when he was just a tadpole, Joe would be scrambling around, and there'd be Chris - stumbling behind him, his little face all scrunched up, trying to help him. Bless Joe, he never once let on that the little guy was getting in his way."