Swimming Lessons

She lifted her arm and returned the wave, feeling the connection. Then he turned and focused on the water ahead. She dropped her hand slowly, missing him as he disappeared from view, sensing how empty her life would be without him.

They’d been married for five years. Sometimes it seemed like five days, sometimes like five decades. In those five years they’d journeyed from the early days of naive and explosive passion to a deeper love derived from commitment, understanding and finally acceptance of each other’s best and worst qualities.

Theirs had been a tempestuous love affair. When people thought of them, they usually compared them to apples and oranges—or Scarlett and Rhett. No two people could be more opposite. She’d loved the city life, the pace of her job as an advertising executive, the quick decisions and the thrill of the deal. Brett was a lowcountry boy in love with the salt marsh, the winding creeks and all the wildlife treasures that were hidden there. His pace was leisurely and his temper slow to ignite. But once he dug his heels deep in the pluff mud, he wouldn’t budge an inch. This was in sharp contrast to Cara’s quick, mercurial mind.

She might say that she married Brett against her better judgment, except that every instinct in her body had screamed that he was the one. Brett Beauchamps was the only man who had ever stood up to her, who continually surprised her, challenged her—and yes, loved her. Love had never come easily for Cara.

She turned and walked slowly down the dock. She’d never envisioned her life the way it had turned out. When she was young, she’d dreamed of escaping the South forever, and all the expectations of her deeply rooted, South of Broad family. She grew up in an era learning the limits a woman could achieve outside the home and always desiring to surpass them. Everything she’d ever wanted was somewhere off, far from Charleston in cities where people moved fast, where the accent was harsh, and where a woman living alone was accepted as a norm, not viewed as someone to be pitied. Times had changed a lot since then, but back when she was a long limbed, skinny, dark eyed teen, all traffic traveled to points north.

Cara locked the door of the small wooden shed that housed the Eco-tour ticket office and walked past flashy, expensive fishing boats and across the open gravel parking lot to her car. The night was so quiet she heard only the gravel crunching beneath her feet, the dull thud of boats knocking against the dock, and the laughing cry of a gull.

She laughed back. What a hoot her life turned out to be. She had left her executive job in Chicago, her condo overlooking Lake Michigan, her beautiful wool suits and fine leather shoes to be the wife of a boat captain struggling to make ends meet on the Isle of Palms. Wouldn’t her mother have just loved the way things ended up?

She chuckled at the thought, then sighed, missing her mother terribly, wishing she had lived to see her daughter happy at last, wanting to drive over to the beach house for a spot of tea with her and a quick chat. She would have told her mother that the only ingredient missing in her romantic saga was a child. She knew how much Brett wanted a baby and she felt a deeply rooted guilt that she, somehow, had let him down.

“Please, God, let this baby come,” she whispered.

The car seat burned her thighs as she climbed into the compact sedan. The humidity and heat were so thick she could barely breathe. She quickly started the engine and rolled down the windows, welcoming the offshore breezes that whisked in. She didn’t wait for the air-conditioning to cool things down. It had been a hectic day and she wanted to feel the cool water of a shower down her back. She guided the car around ruts in the lot, turned onto Waterway Boulevard and headed home.

A short while later she pulled off at the small, pink stucco house on Hamlin Creek that she called home. A sporty, blue BMW convertible blocked her entry into the garage. She cut the engine and checked the plates. She didn’t recognize the sexy car but the license plate showed the orange peach of Georgia.

It could only be one person. She scrambled from the car and trotted along their winding front path, digging for her house keys. Just as she reached the door, however, it swung open. Standing before her was her best friend in all the world, Emmi Baker Peterson, arms wide and her flame colored hair a fiery wreath around her grinning face.

“Surprise!”

“Emmi!” she screamed, throwing her arms wide.

They squealed in unison like little girls as they threw arms around each other. Cara closed her eyes and instantly she was thirteen again and it was the beginning of summer and she and Emmi were arriving at Isle of Palms with their families for a whole, glorious season! Emmi’s beach house was only a few blocks up the road, but both families lived the rest of the year in homes on the mainland.

They’d discovered each other early one summer morning while collecting sea shells near Breach Inlet. They couldn’t have been more than seven or eight years old. Emmi was searching for an angel’s wings shell and Cara had one in her bucket. Cara coveted an especially bright orange whelk in Emmi’s bucket. That morning they’d traded shells—and they’d been trading secrets every since.

Cara leaned back, her hands still holding tight to her best friend.

“Emmi, there’s nothing left of you to hug!” she exclaimed, blinking as she took in the dramatic changes. Emmi’s body was long and lean and wrapped in tight, bleached jeans and a pink, form-fitting T-shirt. When she’d left Isle of Palms two summers ago, Emmi had been broad in the beam, all plump curves and full breasts. Looking at her, Cara guessed she’d lost over fifty pounds. And that wasn’t all. Her short red hair was now as long as it had been in college, cut in layers that fell past her shoulders and highlighted with bold streaks of gold.

“You look incredible,” Cara said, eyes popping. “So…sexy. Girlfriend, just how much weight did you lose?”

With a saucy shake of her head, Emmi placed her pink tipped fingers on her hips. “Sixty-three pounds,” she announced. Then, her wide mouth stretched across her tanned face. “Can you believe it?”

Cara’s mouth dropped open in a silent gasp. “Sixty-three pounds… Unbelievable.”

“Ain’t it, though.” Emmi laughed in a way that indicated she was damned pleased with herself. “Divorce turned out to be the wonder weight loss program. Who knew? When you think about it, I really lost about two hundred and fifty pounds of dead weight. What a relief.”

Cara shook her head. “I’m all amazement. And extremely jealous. In fact, I’ve decided to cast off our friendship of years and to hate you instead. It’s just too inconsiderate of you to come home looking so good. You make the rest of us—meaning me—look like old crones.” She skewered her eyes. “You look like you lost about ten years, too.”

Her smiled hardened. “I lost twenty-five years.” Then just as quickly her face lit up again. “And I aim to make up for lost time.” She winked and clicked her fingers. “There isn’t a single man safe in the South today!”

It was a sassy gesture, even feisty, and though Emmi smiled her signature wide grin, Cara noted that the smile was not reflected in her eyes.

“Well, before you get too crazy,” she said, “I’m desperate for a cool shower and a glass of white chilled wine. You pour while I shower. Then you can bring me up to speed.”

Cara entered the tiled foyer of her compact house and dumped her purse on the small wooden table and her keys in a small sweetgrass basket. Over the years she’d carted out of the house Brett’s old, battered furniture and sporting goods and decorated their home in the cool, pale blue tones she loved. Each piece of furniture was carefully chosen and the dark wood and glass were polished. She noticed a glass vase filled with white roses on the table and cast a glance of thanks to her friend. “Thank you, darling, I love them.”

“No biggie.” Emmi lifted a wine glass. It was nearly empty. “I hope you don’t mind. I already helped myself. It was a long drive from Atlanta with my car packed to the brim. It’s stuffed with every whatnot in this world I hold dear, including a goldfish.”

She laughed, then coughed as wine went down the wrong way. “I’m fine,” she rasped, waving Cara away. “I choked just remembering that trip. Thank the Lord I survived. On the highway I was fine, but every time I had to stop, the water in the damn fish tank went splish splashing all over the backseat. It’s a miracle that fish made it here alive!” She pointed to a three gallon Aquarium now sitting on Cara’s kitchen counter. “Meet Nemo.”

Cara saw a fairly large goldfish with beautiful fins doing a dead man’s float at the top of the tank. “Good God, Emmi, I think it’s dead!”

Emmi went to the tank and tapped it. The fish jolted to life and swam madly in circles. “Nemo, it’s not nice to scare the guests,” she said. Then to Cara, “Can he stay here for a couple of days? I think he really will die if he has to go back into that car.”

“Sure, why not? Speaking of cars, that’s a sporty one in the driveway.”

“Like it?”

“What’s not to like?”

“Exactly.” Her green eyes glittered over the rim of her glass. “I traded my clunky old SUV in for a convertible. I’m done with station wagons, SUVs, big cars in general. No more schlepping kids and garden supplies around. This is the new me.” She tossed her hair back again, a new gesture she’d picked up.

“Is it?” Cara looked at her friend through narrowed eyes. Emmi was slender and sexy, yes. But there was something off-putting about her aggressive youthfulness that she couldn’t put her finger on.

“You’re looking at me funny,” Emmi said. “Sort of like the way you looked at me when I got my hair done for the prom. Remember?”

Cara burst out a laugh. Only Emmi could stir up memories that deeply stored. “How can I forget it? It was two feet of copper curls held together with a hundred bobby pins and two cans of hairspray.”

Emmi threw back her head and laughed. “It was that high! I thought I was going to fall over with the weight of it. At five feet seven inches, plus heels and hair, I towered over Tom.”

“My God, what were we thinking?”

“I was thinking I looked beautiful. Tom thought I did, anyway.” Her smile slipped but she caught herself and shrugged. “At least he told me he did. That was probably a lie. Like all the other lies he told me.”

Cara sensed a dangerous turn in emotions. “He wasn’t lying,” she hurried to respond. “You did look beautiful. And you look beautiful now.”

Emmi lifted her chin and straightened, but the wine was beginning to affect her balance. “You bet I do. I look great. Tom was an idiot for letting me go.”

“A first class loser.”

“A cheating, lying, loser.”

Too much wine, too little to eat. Cara went to the fridge to scrounge for cheese and crackers.

“Listen, sugar. Why don’t you help yourself to some of this cheese while I freshen up. I’ll be back in a flash.”

In the shower she tilted her head back and let the cool water sluice away the day of selling tour tickets, answering the phone, and hopping on jet skis to help stranded tourists who stalled in the waterway. She was utterly exhausted, slightly sunburned and parched. She relished the idea of cuddling up with her best friend for a long chat over a chilled glass of wine. She emerged in minutes wearing a white terry robe and a white towel wrapped around her hair. She found Emmi curled on the couch like a sleek tabby cat. Her eyes were a telltale red, as though she’d been crying. On the coffee table was a new bottle of wine, uncorked, with two glasses. When she spotted Cara coming into the room, she forced a smile and held out a goblet of wine for her.

“Emmi, how long have you been here?” she asked, concerned.

“An hour at least. Maybe two.”

Cara curled her legs under her as she sat beside Emmi on the sofa. Emmi was clearly one sheet to the wind. This was another change in her friend. Emmi had never been much of a drinker. Tom used to tease her about being a “cheap date.”

“Did you eat any cheese?”

Emmi shook her head. “Not hungry, thanks.”

“If you don’t mind, I’m starving.” She reached for a chunk of Brie, put it on a cracker and hungrily devoured it.

“So tell me what’s going on with you,” Emmi asked. “How are things in the wild world of ecotourism? Anything new with the infertility tests?”

“Same old, same old,” she replied evasively.

“Which means…” Emmi prompted.

“Which means nothing much right now. We’re in a holding pattern till the doctors advise us what to do next.”

“Don’t stay in that holding pattern too long. Your biological clock is ticking.”

“Ticking? It’s positively unwound! A baby now would be a miracle.”

“Not with the miracles of modern science. Lots of women have babies late in life.”

Cara sighed, silently sending off a prayer that what Emmi said was true. She reached for another cracker, busying her hands with spreading the brie.

“You okay with this?” Emmi asked gently. “You still want a baby, don’t you?”

“More than ever. It’s just…”

“Just what?”

Cara couldn’t put on a false front any longer to her best friend. She set down the cheese, fighting back tears she was determined not to shed.

“I never figured how hard it was going to be for me emotionally, is all.”

“Cara…”

“It’s insidious. No matter how I prepare myself, no matter how cool I appear, every time I go through the hormone therapy I get my hopes up. Sure, the hormones put one’s emotions on a roller coaster, but it’s more. When I get pregnant, the joy is indescribable. A dream come true. I’m in heaven. And then I miscarry.” She released a plume of air to still her trembling lips. She felt tired, vulnerable. She didn’t want to break down. Taking a breath, her voice held the old bravado. “I’m a realist. Always have been. I try to look at the situation as I would any project. If you take my age, the cost of in vitro, the doctor’s advice…” Her shrug spoke volumes.

“What are your chances?”

“Not good. When I started trying at forty, I had a 15 to 20 percent chance. At forty-five, my chances dropped to 6 to 10 percent.”

“Do the risks go up, too?”

“I don’t think so, but with the hormone therapy there’s always the chance of being swollen, bloated, nausea and having to pee all the time.”

“That’s called being pregnant.” She raised her glass and took a sip.

Cara laughed. “Then sign me up.”

“Are you going to try again?” Emmi asked more seriously.

Cara hesitated, taking a sip of her wine. Emmi had enough of her own problems to deal with, she didn’t want to burden her. But also, Cara didn’t want to tell anyone—not even Emmi—about this last round of hormone treatments about to begin and the next in vitro implant. Not until she was sure it took. It was one thing to deal with the pain of disappointment alone. She didn’t think she could stand all the condolences again.

“Who knows?” she replied briskly. “If I do, I’d do it for Brett.” She picked up the cracker and forced herself to eat it. “How’s your house?” she asked, angling for a new topic of conversation. “I looked in on it as often as I could while you were gone.”

“I don’t know. I haven’t been there yet.”

“You haven’t been to your house? Why not?”

“I came here first.”

“But I wasn’t even here. Why didn’t you just run over and unpack first?”

Emmi shrugged and took a long swallow from her glass.

“Your turn. What’s the matter?”

Emmi rose and went to the freezer and pulled out an ice tray. “I just couldn’t go in there.”

“Why ever not? You love that house.”

“That’s just it. I do love it.” She plopped one, then two cubes of ice into her white wine. “Did love it,” she amended, keeping her eyes downcast. Emmi’s brows gathered as her bravado slipped from her face.

Emmi had always loved her family’s beach house. She’d spent every summer there as a child and brought her children there after she was married. Her parents had left it to her when they retired to Florida. That small, white frame beach house with the tin roof had always been Emmi’s touchstone. Cara couldn’t imagine Emmi not hightailing it straight to her beach house to heal and regain her footing, especially now when she needed comfort the most.

She patted the sofa beside her. “Talk to Mama.”

Emmi came and flopped down beside her. She slunk deep into the cushions, resting her head back. When she spoke, it was like a confession.

“I drove up and just sat in the driveway. The engine was off but I couldn’t get out. I just kept staring at it. And while I did, a million memories came flooding back. Oh, Cara, so many memories. There’s no part of that house I can look at and not think of Tom. I got my first kiss from Tom under the porch. I used to watch from the kitchen window as he walked up the porch stairs to pick me up for a date, his hair slicked back and a corsage in his hand. We made out on the front swing, made love for the first time in my room, groping on my twin bed.” She choked back a tear. “We brought our babies there every summer, fried Thanksgiving turkeys out back, and hung lights on the palms at Christmas. Every happy memory I have there is with Tom…”

“Emmi…”

“I can’t go back there. It’s too hard. He even took that away from me.” Her voice was bitter, laced with pain. “Now I hate my beach house.”

Cara sighed heavily, fully realizing that it was going to be a long night. “Then you can stay here.”

“Maybe just for a day or two. Until I get used to the whole idea.”

“As long as you want or need.”

“I’m fine,” Emmi said forcefully. “Really I am.”

“Of course you are.”

Cara rose, gathered the two wine glasses and brought them to the sink. Then she went to the fridge to rummage for the makings of dinner. Brett had brought some local shrimp home from the market. She took these out and laid them on the counter. Taking a shrimp knife from the drawer, she began peeling. A minute later, Emmi was standing beside her at the counter, peeling shrimp.

They worked in the silence of old friends in a comfortable setting. Cara didn’t have any answers for Emmi, nor, she suspected, did Emmi expect them. Or even want them. Sometimes, the best thing to offer was simply safe shelter.

Medical Log “Big Girl”

May 28

This turtle has major buoyancy problems. She’s so full of gas her tail end floats high, making it hard for her to dive to eat. Endoscopy scheduled. We continue to debride, scrape and scrub. After days in a freshwater bath, the barnacles all came off but left pockmarked scarring. The outer scutes are so heavily dotted it looks like Big Girl is wearing a crochet sweater. Turtle is so emaciated there is a big void where fat flesh should be.

Even though she is underweight and dehydrated, she is the biggest rehab turtle I’ve ever worked with. Don’t worry, Big Girl. Those scars will heal! TS

6

When the telephone rang, the room was filled with the metallic gray light of early dawn. Toy groaned and rolled to her stomach, dragging the pillow over her head. Who could be calling at this hour? Didn’t whoever that rude person was know today was Sunday, the blessed day of rest?

Sleepily, she dragged her mind through possibilities. Favel said he would go to the Aquarium this morning to take care of Big Girl, and Irwin was covering the afternoon. She yawned lustily. She was so looking forward to sleeping late.

When the answering machine clicked on, she tugged the pillow from her head to listen. She heard Flo’s strident voice on the machine.

“Hey! We’ve got a nest! And it’s right smack in front of our houses. Toy! Are you there? Pick up. Pick up!”

Toy threw the pillow aside as she lurched for the phone.

“Hello? Flo? Hello?”

But Flo had already hung up, no doubt to call Cara. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, Toy sat up and scratched her head while adrenaline cleared her thoughts. A nest… In front of the beach house…

They’re here! A smile dawned on her face. She hurried down the hall barefoot, tugging up the bottoms of her baggy cotton pajamas.

“Wake up, sleepyhead!”

“Go away,” Lovie whined, turning her back on Toy and burrowing under the covers. Kiwi, the calico cat sleeping beside her, raised her head. Her yellow eyes regarded Toy with disdain at being disturbed.

Toy knew bringing Little Lovie to the beach would slow her down, but she wanted her daughter to share this, to be part of something that was important to her, as it had been to her namesake.

“Lovie, there’s a turtle nest—right in front of our house!” She shook the lump under the blankets. “Come on, girl!”

Lovie pulled back the blankets, sending Kiwi leaping from the bed. “The nest is here?” When Toy nodded, Lovie scrambled from under her blankets as fast as a ghost crab from its hole in the sand. Toy went to her drawer and pulled out shorts.

“I can dress myself!” Lovie snapped.

Little Lovie pitched a fit when Toy tried to pick clothes out for her so rather than deal with a tantrum, Toy just called out, “Meet you in a few!” and trotted down the hall. Excitement bubbled in her veins. She grabbed her running shorts, sniffed the green Turtle Team T-shirt and deeming it acceptable, slipped it over her head. She then pulled her unbrushed hair back into a ponytail. Over this, she slipped on the Turtle Team cap. They met at the screen door where they both slipped on sand crusted sandals. Little Lovie had her pink T-shirt on backward and her golden hair tumbled in a mass down her shoulders. Toy held back a smile but wisely said nothing. Miss Lovie once told her to “choose your battles.”

After a good push she got the wobbly screen door open. She’d have to fix that some day, she thought as she hurried to the old wicker basket on the porch. She found her long, thin, yellow metal probe stick and backpack. Just a week before, in anticipation of the season, she and Little Lovie had sat at the kitchen table and cleaned out the dusty green backpack of last season’s sand and grit and put new batteries in the flashlight.

She’d watched as Little Lovie carefully placed back all the turtle team tools: a red flashlight, a tape measure for measuring the tracks, orange tape, wooden shish kebob sticks for counting eggs, brochures for tourists, a magic marker and the lovely half shell that once was Olivia Rutledge’s and now was her prize possession. Miss Lovie’s probe stick and red bucket had gone to Cara, but Toy had purchased a red bucket of her own. In it were several thick wooden stakes and the bright orange federal signs that marked all nests.

“I think that’s it,” she said to Little Lovie, then had a sudden thought. “Wait one more minute.” She ran inside to the kitchen junk drawer and grabbed a cheap instamatic camera. She tossed it into her backpack and hoisted it on her shoulders. Then going back out, she took Little Lovie’s hand. “Let’s go!”

They followed the narrow beach path like hound dogs on the scent. The tangy, salty morning air led them around white dunes that had shifted and grown tall during the winter storms. Now the dunes were dotted with yellow primrose and beach grass, and pocked by the small holes of ghost crabs. Toy looked over her shoulder to see their footprints in the sand—hers large, Lovie’s small—side by side. Reaching the top of the dune, Toy paused, mouth open, her breath stolen by the sight.

The breadth of sand was aflame with the pink, orange and yellow light of dawn. Beyond, the vast blue ocean was glistening in the light, a rolling, breathing beast stretching out to meld with the horizon. She turned to look at her daughter. Little Lovie stood motionless, her blue eyes staring at the sunrise.

“I’m glad you brought me,” Lovie said softly.

Toy squeezed Lovie’s hand. In those few words, she knew her daughter’s young spirit had fully awakened in the beauty of this dawn.

Scanning the beach, her heart quickened when she spotted the clearly defined turtle tracks that scarred the smooth sand from the high tide line up to the dune.