Saving Gracie Part 16

What would Mom do, her new favorite go-to phrase, popped into mind. She glanced around then used her index finger to do a wand-like scan of the books, Harry Potter style. She felt ridiculous. Her eye twitched. Where's my invisibility cloak?

Her finger-wand stopped over a small sand-colored book with a seash.e.l.l on the cover. She flipped through the pages and found the book to be a short 142 pages with reasonably-sized print. She shrugged and added the book to the pile. So now she'd have three books to read at Port Aransas.

"Yeah, like that's gonna happen," #2 chimed in.

Get lost, Grace mentally screamed and walked to the register. Her eye twitch stopped.

Quinlan sat cross-legged on her bed, writing pad resting on her lap, and observed her work. Most of her notes had come from the book, Rules of Engagement, but now a much smaller publication held her interest. She picked up the thin paperback, How We Connect, and flipped to the chapter, Sending Signals. The how-to segment focused on sending one's sense of intention either through music, a memory, a dream, or a book. Pushing the literature and notepad aside, she a.s.sumed the lotus position. Breathing deeply, she closed her eyes, set her intent to Gracie, and concentrated on the beautiful channeled whelk sh.e.l.l on the cover of her most beloved all-time-favorite book, Gift From The Sea.

Without her mother's supervision, the length of Grace's packing list resembled a jumbo roll of Quilted Northern. She'd spent the past two weeks buying and packing, buying and packing. A totally unnecessary endeavor, since the Super Walmart in Corpus Christi could supply anything she'd forgotten. However, that would require going OTB, which translated into going "over the bridge," a more than misdemeanor offense to the locals.

She didn't completely understand the cultural phrase, but certainly knew of its existence. She remembered the local North Padre Island/Port A newspaper mentioning OTB as if points were deducted from your social score card for making the trip over the causeway.

Espresso-junky nervous trip planning had kept her up most of the night. Plus, the Cherry issue didn't help. Once on the island she hoped the schizo-adrenalin rush would taper off in a day or two. But she wasn't holding her breath. Relaxation-an unfamiliar state of Zen- always took its sweet-a.s.s time finding its way into her system.

Grace kept the Cherry situation away from her tired emotions as best she could in order to pack. She held her breath. Adam eyed the mountain of heavy-duty storage containers he'd somehow have to cram into the SUV. Lucky for her, he handled the situation like the Prince Charming she'd married, not the quiet, withdrawn, preoccupied man he'd morphed into lately.

"Anybody remember Clark Griswold? Vacation?" he signed.

Josh pointed to his chest. "I do."

"Me too," Jennifer followed.

Hannah nodded.

"Okay, who's going on top?" Adam raised his eyebrows. Hannah and Josh laughed, pointing fingers at each other. Jennifer's face drained until Hannah signed, "He's kidding."

After weeks of planning, the SUV packed to capacity, and no one strapped to the top, the family headed out Hwy. 59 South, out of Houston, ready or not.

"The house, as usual, will be unlocked." Mr. Weiger, owner of the beach house, had said. "But, the key's under the door mat in case you city folks get nervous."

Besides the gentle wear of time, the small beach house looked the same as always. Although it seemed out of place among the large, modern rentals that had sprouted up through the years, the house stood strong tucked away in its own little corner of time. Grace and Adam preferred Mr. Weiger's quaint beach rental. Much more cozy than a cold, contemporary timeshare.

After the "are we there yet" agonizing, four-hour drive Grace climbed the stairs to the unlocked house and retrieved the key-which yes, she would be using, being a city girl and all. She walked straight through and out onto the deck, breathing in salt air.

"Everything's just the same." She leaned her elbows on the railing. The words sent a sharp pang through her, knowing they weren't quite true. Mom, she thought. Grace dropped her eyes for a moment before returning inside to the gazillion storage containers being hauled up the stairs. Oh yea.

Early Sunday morning while everyone slept Grace slipped out onto the deck and nestled into a chaise lounge. Holding her first cup of vacation coffee, she felt the mental and physical downshift she'd hoped for.

"G.o.d, this feels good." Fresh air traveled easily through her lungs, something she hadn't experienced since...well, a d.a.m.n long time. "The rat race will have to survive with a few less rats this week." She smiled and mentally high-fived her effort to push life aside for a while.

"Not bad," #2 remarked.

Grace studied the sky portrait. Each pa.s.sing moment morphed purple cloud formations to peach, to lightened gold. She quietly acknowledged #2's off-handed compliment. "Thanks."

"No problem."

"I thought you were in Sturgis." Grace took another sip, hot liquid burning the roof of her mouth. She watched the blazing ball of fire peek above the horizon, changing night into day, bringing more peace within her.

"What the h.e.l.l is Sturgis?" #2 asked.

"Never mind."

CHAPTER 20.

GRACE.

With a week of fun and relaxation ahead of them the family settled on decided agendas. The guys would surf-fish; the girls would hit the beach.

By mid-morning on their first full day Hannah and Jennifer had played three games of gin rummy waiting on Grace to gather her relaxation paraphernalia. Anxious to cling to her Zen mode, she crammed books, People magazine, sun screen, two adult-beverages disguised as water bottles, Fruit Roll-Ups, chips and regular bottled water into a beach bag.

"Ready?" she signed, heaving the bag to her shoulder.

Hannah rolled her eyes. "Finally!"

Grace waved the SPF spray can in front of the girls. "Anyone?"

"Probably worn off by now," Hannah signed. She jumped to her feet and pulled Jennifer out the door.

Beach access required crossing a narrow footbridge over protective sand dunes that helped shield the neighboring houses and condos from strong winds and damaging storm surges. Reaching the bridge's apex, Grace spotted a multi-colored umbrella, a mat and two beach chairs. She smiled and made a mental note to thank Mr. Weiger.

The girls, having surged ahead with boogie boards tucked under their arms, reached the designated place in the sun first. They kicked off flip-flops and took off for the water. Grace, reaching the umbrella area several paces behind, positioned a floppy wide-brimmed hat on her head, pushed over-sized Audrey Hepburn sungla.s.ses onto her nose, and added a thick layer of a higher SPF on her Iced White Cafe skin. Plopping into a beach chair, she pulled out People magazine and an "unflavored" water. She unscrewed the bottle top and took a long drink. "Mmmmm...I love the beach."

"Correction," #2 said. "You love the beach house. You hate the beach."

"I'll give you that one." Grace wrinkled her nose at the thought of gritty sand glued to everything in her beach bag, compliments of sticky salt water. Yuk. Not her favorite thing. She turned to her magazine, working to erase #2 and sand from her mind. Her wrinkled nose morphed into a full-blown snarl. "Doesn't she ever take a bad picture?" A flawless Jennifer Aniston glared up at her over a two-page spread. Flashes of recent frizz-crazed hair days popped up, causing her to pull her hat further down over her curls. She flipped through a few more pages, but her mind refused to settle.

With a sigh, she tossed the magazine aside and downed about half her water bottle. She spied Adam and Josh further down the beach, fishing poles extended outward. Hannah and Jennifer struggled to ride small waves on their boogie boards. Unwillingly, and uninvited, her thoughts turned to Cherry. What's her summer like? "I bet she's never even seen the ocean."

Growling, Grace sat up. "I can't do this all week." She whiffed salt air and winced at the crash of waves, suddenly finding the roar disturbing. Resting her arms on her raised knees, she gazed out over the water, unable to ignore the cackling racket of sea gulls. "Geez. Give. It. A. Rest." She tossed the water bottle in her bag, twisted off the cap of an adult beverage, and took a swig. Her thoughts shape-shifted like a Kodak photo gallery on slide show and moved Cherry to the background, rotating an image of her mom to front and center. At least this she could work with. After all, she was at the beach...her mom's favorite place.

The months after her mother's surgery replayed in her mind, blips and blurbs of that awful time; the rest...a total blank.

Shock; the first stage of grief, according to Elisabeth Kbler-Ross's book, On Death and Dying.

We cannot look at the sun all the time, We cannot face death all the time.

The book explained shock/denial like shock absorbers, cushioning the psyche from the intensity of unbearable truths. Janie had "conveniently" left a copy by her bed after her mother's diagnosis. Funny what the mind retains when not even trying. She'd only read snippets of the book before tossing it in the closet with Final Gifts. She remembered nothing at all from On Death and Dying except the part about denial.

Grace focused on the horizon, the invisible line where water meets sky. "I miss her so much." She'd punched *1 on the phone a hundred times over the last three months, needing something, or sometimes...nothing. Sighing with sadness, the horizon locked her gaze.

"I never let her talk about it." Her own stupid fear had robbed her of crucial moments. Moments she'd never get back. Moments her mother may have desperately needed to talk about...dying.

What would she have said? Was she scared? "Why can't I talk about the painful s.h.i.t?" She reflected not only on her mom, but also on the stuff-a-cheeseburger-down-the-throat reflex when Hannah told Adam about the "Cherry incident."

"Want my opinion?" #2 piped in.

Grace pushed her fashionable shades back up on her nose. "Not really, but it's never stopped you before."

"Whoa...back up. Was that a smart-a.s.s remark?" #2 sounded impressed.

"Look, the wimp's not here today, so take a hike."

"Hey, chill," #2 said, taken back. "I'm here to help."

"Yeah, right." Grace took another draw from her so-not-water water bottle.

"No, really. I come in peace."

Grace swallowed the liquid gold. "Swear?"

"Swear."

Grace remained silent, clouds of doubt swirled overhead.

"Okay, the question is-"

"I know what the question is," Grace pointed out. "I just said it."

"Do me the courtesy of hearing me out," #2 said.

A brief pause before Grace and #2 spoke in unison. "The Goodbye Girl."

"Need I remind you how lame it is we even know about that movie?" Not the first time #2 had harped on the subject.

Grace shrugged. "I like old movies."

"Ya think?"

"Sarcasm," Grace said, slamming down the remainder of her Jose Cuervo...not such a good move in retrospect.

"I said I come in peace, not in nice." #2 only half lied. True, she was on a peace mission. Nice? A long shot, but she'd give it a try. "As I was saying, the question is...why the painful s.h.i.t is hard for you to talk about. Correct?"

"Correct."

Silence from the obnoxious alter ego.

"Well?" Grace tossed the empty bottle in her bag.

"I'm thinking." #2, temporarily stumped. "You know, sarcasm is much easier."

Grace reached for a bag of chips and glanced at her watch, thinking the girls must be starved. She noticed Adam down the beach, standing away from Josh, his cell phone to his ear. What's that about? "Take your time."

"No 'woe is me, I thought you were going to help me' c.r.a.p?"

"Nope. Not today." Fortunately, she was able to squelch her anxious Adam thoughts. She tore open the chip bag.

"d.a.m.n." #2 needed to regroup.

Grace checked on the girls again, then noticed Adam was standing next to Josh again, helping him cast. She turned her gaze back to the horizon. "I just wish I hadn't been such a coward. There's so much I wish I'd said." Grace paused. "Or, let her say."

"You know what the problem is?" #2's attempt at sincerity.

"This ought to be good." Grace chuckled despite the subject.

"Knock it off," #2 barked. "I'm trying to be serious."

"Go ahead."

"Okay. Mom made every decision for you your whole life. So you freak out when you think you have to do something on your own." #2 paused for effect. "You're scared s.h.i.tless you'll screw up."

"Hmm." Grace's eyes narrowed beneath her sungla.s.ses, contemplating #2's words, her attention caught.

"Listen, you think Mom went through life without making mistakes?" #2 asked. "Everyone makes'em, you know. That's how you learn."

She shrugged. "What's this got to do with Mom dying?"

#2 continued without hesitation. "If you never have to make decisions, you forget how to think for yourself. The fear of being wrong becomes humongous. That's why you couldn't talk to her about dying. You were too scared you'd say something wrong."

Grace rubbed the tip of her nose. "I never looked at it that way."

"It's not that you can't think for yourself, you just haven't had to," #2 said. "Mom made you helpless. Good news is you don't have to stay that way. You just need a little help. A little kick in the a.s.s to get you jump started." #2 paused. "Until, you know...that thing Janie said...about wobbly legs or something."

Grace spotted the girls running toward her.

"And one last thing. That White Iced Cafe look you've got going on is in serious need of more SPF." #2 resisted as long as she could. "p.r.o.nto!"

Grace shook her head and smiled, realizing #2's window of sarcasm-resistance had slammed shut. She tossed towels to the girls, waited for them to dry off then handed each a Fruit Roll-Up.

Inhaling the snack, Hannah dug through the beach bag for more food, pulling out Grace's stash of books. She picked one up, her eyebrows drawn together.

"What's wrong?" Grace asked.

Hannah pointed to the book. "I know this." She tapped the cover with her index finger. "Can't remember why." She shrugged and pushed the book toward Grace. "30 more minutes?"

Grace glanced at her watch and nodded. "30 minutes." The girls took off and she picked up the book beside her. Gift From The Sea, by Anne Morrow Lindbergh. The well-worn copy had yellowed, frayed pages. The publication year was 1955. The aged book had her beat by almost a decade. Thumbing through, she stopped on page twenty-three.