Mary Alice Monroe - Swimming Lessons

“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.