by Jennifer Predny
“Janet! The SuperShuttle is going to be here any minute. We gotta go, or they’ll leave without us.”
The words barely penetrate the fog that encompasses my brain. I know he said something. I know that the words have meaning. They mean something…something. I continue watching the birds as they fly above the other cabins and circle back around ours. I don’t know what kind of birds they are, but they look like a mass of little black dots that continually change shape and direction like the school of fish did in that movie with the little clown fish with the tiny fin. What was its name? God, I watched that movie over and over again with her; she loved it.
“Janet! Hey, I’m serious; we gotta get going. Do you hear me? Janet?” he called again.
I slowly turn my head towards him. Ben. His name’s Ben. He’s my husband and I love him.
“What did you say? I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you,” the words form slowly as my brain processes what he said.
“We need to go. If we’re going to make the SuperShuttle for the trip into town, we need to go,” Ben said.
“Right, okay.”
Snapping out of it as best I can, I grab my purse and new floppy, oversized, straw sun hat; the kind you only buy while on vacation at the beach, cause seriously, who wears these big things regularly? As we walk out of our cabin and head towards the front of the resort, Ben grabs my hand and twines his fingers with mine. It reminds me he probably needs the connection as much as I do.
We wind our way through the cabins and palm trees, around the pool and restaurant huts. The air is lighter today than it was yesterday; maybe it won’t rain this afternoon. A warm, gentle breeze grabs at my sundress and feels nice on my legs. Ben is looking straight ahead, his eyes pinched a little against the sun. He must have forgotten his sunglasses; odd, he never forgets his sunglasses.
“Where are your sunglasses?” I ask.
“What? Oh. I guess I forgot them,” he says absently as he shifts his gaze from me to the road that has come into view.
The SuperShuttle is parked at the front of the resort, a driver standing outside with a clipboard, looking around for possible passengers. We walk up and give him our names; he checks them off, and we climb into the shuttle van. A few other couples are already seated near the front, so we head towards the back. I really don’t feel like making small talk with people I don’t know, and I guess Ben feels the same way.
I sneak a look at Ben as he sits next to me, head turned away slightly, eyes still pinched, a slight frown showing on his lips. Maybe he’s not as okay as he says he is. I reach over and gently lay my hand on his leg.
“Hey,” I breathe with a half-smile on my lips.
He turns and looks at me. His typically cloudy gray-blue eyes shine bright blue and kind of shimmer. If it was any other time, I would think it was because of how tan he’d gotten while here, but I know better. He’s hurting, too. Why didn’t I see it earlier?
“Let’s not go to town. Let’s go back to the room, change into our swimsuits, and go lay on the beach,” I suggest.
“What? I thought you wanted to go sightseeing. Do a little shopping in the local markets?”
“Maybe another day, not today. Come on.”
We both stand up and make our way off the shuttle. I’m sure the other couples are giving us looks, but I don’t care. We tell the driver we changed our minds and head back to our room.
It doesn’t take us long to put our swimsuits on and grab the beach bag packed with towels, books, and sunblock. We walk hand-in-hand down to the beach and find a couple lounge chairs with an umbrella a little way away from everyone else. I settle back into my lounge chair and look out over the water. Deep breath in, deep breath out. Deep breath in, deep breath out. I look over at Ben and see a mirror image of myself: physically here, relaxing on a lounge chair, on the beach, watching the waves come in and go out—but emotionally? He’s just as broken as me. Why didn’t I see it earlier?
Three months ago, our lives were so very different. We wouldn’t be sitting on lounge chairs on a beach, just watching the waves. Instead, we would have been sitting in the sand, building a sandcastle, trying to keep the waves from destroying it. We would have been laughing, playing, listening to her giggles and screeches of delight as the waves got closer and closer to the sandcastle. Ben quickly scooping her up as the waves finally reached us, and we’d go running into them, splashing and laughing the whole way. We’d be taking afternoon naps together as a family, all sun-kissed and content back in the room, all cuddled up—her in the middle—on the king-sized bed. Ben and I’s eyes meeting over her head, shining with love, with promise, with all the possibilities of tomorrow.
I stand up, reach for Ben’s hand, and ask, “Want to help me build a sandcastle?” as the tears finally break through and slide down my cheeks.
He sits there, looking at me, his tears matching mine. Slowly, his hand meets mine. He squeezes it as if it’s his only lifeline keeping him here, and I realize with a sob it probably is.
“Yes. Yes, that sounds per-fect,” Ben says, his voice catching at the end.
Category: Featured, Short Story, SNHU Creative Writing, SNHU online creative writing, SNHU Student