The Wave by Kristen Crusoe (smallest ebook reader txt) 📕

to see the 1.55 p.m. Alaska Flight to Seattle banking north. It wouldn’t have taken Clair long to get through security given it was such a small airport, and the flights were as regular as clockwork.

Part Three

Chapter 25

‘Walker, there is no path. You make the path as you walk.’

Antonio Machado

Clair

The roaring of the jet engine spooling up, vibrations rattling the inner panels next to her seat, cast Clair back into that subterranean depth, when the wave captured her, ripping awareness and memory open. Clair was there, in that deep, cold watery place, rich and murky, all light lost to seeing eyes. And yet, she had seen. The whirring and thumping of the plane’s landing gear lifting, the intense sinking feeling during lift-off, triggered flashbacks. Like the Moken children of Thailand who, like seals and dolphins, are able to adapt their pupils and lens shape in order to see clearly in the blurry underwater, Clair recalled vividly everything she had seen during her near drowning. As the plane shot through space and time, she relived her tumble through the roiling surf, being pulled down, a reversal through the birth canal, the sense of soaring through canyons of rock and forests of kelp. Giant tentacled moon jellyfish hovered over her. An octopus, latent and quiescent, had studied her with indifference. A voice, tinny and glib, announced that they had reached cruising altitude and passengers could now move about the cabin and resume electronic device activities. Resisting abandoning the reliving, wanting desperately to see Devon again, as she had seen him during her descent, she held on, clutching the seat arms, eyes tightly closed, willing the memory or dream or whatever it had been to return. She had been so close. Clair tentatively opened her eyes. It was gone. He was gone. And she was here. Now. That was that.

As her gaze settled, like white water clearing to calm, Clair’s reflection in the window emerged. Her breath steamed the glass so that she appeared as in a cloud. Is this me? This gaunt woman, strange wig slightly askew, eyes darkened and dim. She watched her breath on the glass widen then turn to condensation. Such a simple thing, breathing, she mused, watching the oval of mist wax and wane. A baby cried, the man in the seat next to her coughed. She could feel pressure of his arm against her own. She subtly shifted her weight to lean heavily against the side of the plane, head resting against the window glass. Dark had fallen fast. As lights below dissipated, Clair considered the haste in which she had rushed out of the residence, into the cab. She hadn’t even packed a bag. Just this tote, with a change of underwear, toothbrush, and jacket. And Devon’s shiny red truck.

Thinking back, so much had changed since morning. She remembered waking with something other than dread at the fact she was alive. A spark of something, not quite hope, but a willingness to feel, her heart not clenching, a moment even of wonder at the bold blue sky after a night of storm. As the plane banked south then righted itself, flying north-west along the coastline, she recalled dressing. First, a flowing top that concealed her flat chest under folds of silky fabric. A skirt, not jeans, this morning. She wanted to feel alive, feminine, a woman. She had even put on a small amount of make-up. Her eyelashes were gone, but she added eyeshadow, liner, and a faint blush to conceal her pallor.

She had planned her day the night before, as she readied for bed. First, she would join the breast cancer support group, then coffee with Jet, then she would see Ellerby. He wanted to go over her most recent PET scan. She felt good. No pain. Her fatigue had lifted. The swimming helped, as did the talks with the other patients and families. Nothing like another’s suffering to put our own in perspective, she often mused now. And she looked forward to seeing the women in the support group. This surprised her, always being such a private person. Naomi was kind, the women gracious, and welcoming, but for her, talking about such personal things had always been abhorrent. Unlike Rosemary, she smiled, remembering, who described her phantom pleasure when she made love with her husband. ‘My breasts might be gone’, she had exclaimed, ‘and they were double Ds, naturally, but the sensations remain,’ she had told them, laughing at herself. Thinking back, Clair realized she was envious, that this woman still had a sexual relationship with her husband. Then, she remembered the time with Adam, when they had first come home from the hospital, her drains, the shower. His visit, just yesterday. He had seemed open, genuine. Caring. I can’t think about that, she chanted to herself. No doubts now. I can’t think about Adam. I’ll lose my direction. Think about today. Think about how you got here; where you’re going. Find a trajectory.

The flight attendant came through with offers of water, beer, wine. Clair chose wine, a white burgundy. Drink, eat, she thought. Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. She had catapulted to the top. Self-actualization. So, wine first, water and food second.

Sipping the wine, cold and sharp, savoring the ease with which it slid down her throat, she closed her eyes, recalling the earlier events of the day. Group had been energizing. There had been upbeat chatter, laughter, talk of the coming holidays. The room was decorated with fall leaves, wreaths, scented with apple and cinnamon pot-pourri. As they went around the circle, checking in with themselves and each other, Clair had felt a unity uncommon to her. Their one man had graduated as they called it, once treatments ended. He told them he felt like he was ready to let go of this whole experience and move on with his life. They had all shared hugs and tears, best wishes, and a ‘hope I never see you again’ farewell. Noticing she wasn’t the