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

‘But it isn’t mine to own. It’s no one’s. And I am someone. I need to own my real story. That’s why I’m here. To find out who I am and what my true story is. I will try again, see if I can get it closer to the truth this time.’

‘Then, let’s begin. And continue,’ he said, offering her his arm. Together, they walked down the concourse, slowly, easily as though they had been sharing time and space for years, their steps rhyming in rhythm and pace. She felt her heart slowing, her breath calming. Swallowing, she looked up at him, and then as they passed a women’s restroom, she said, ‘Wait here. I’ll be right back.’

Hurrying in, she went to the counter, looked in the mirror, removed the wig. The feeling of cold air on her bald head was exhilarating. She rubbed her stubble, causing small tufts of feathery white hair to stand on end. Wetting her hands in the water from the faucet, she patted her head down, rubbed her cheeks vigorously, trying to bring color into her pale complexion. Satisfied it was as good as it was going to get, she exited, waiting for his expression to show shock or repulsion. What she saw was surprise, yes, but also, admiration.

‘Thank you for sharing yourself with me,’ he said, taking her arm and tucking it under his.

As they walked, she talked, about her life as a professor, her music, her brother and his wife, their work in the world. She talked about everything she could think of except Devon, Adam, and her cancer. When she had run out of words, he nodded his head.

‘And you have set off on this Camino, because your life at home was so perfect?’ he asked, stopping in front of an Elliot Bay Book Company.

‘You didn’t mention Devon or Adam, from your first story. Do they exist?’

‘Yes,’ Clair said, her eyes tearing as she saw a display of children’s books in the store window.

‘Adam is back at home in Harbor, Oregon and Devon, my son, he is in the world. Somewhere I think, maybe Finisterre. He was taken, by a wave. And I know that he is there, not in his physical form, of course, I know that isn’t possible. But his energy, his atoms, his enduring self, exists and is pulling me to him. Like coagulation, our cells are being drawn together, to complete us, again. I know this. And yes, I am dying, or so I have been told. I am dissolving. So, I have more clarity about these types of things, don’t you see? I’m not burdened by heavy desires and fears. I have forgiven others and most importantly, myself, and let go of all my attachments. I am free.’

Clair had stepped in front of Michael, taking hold of both of his arms.

‘And I just realized this as I said it,’ she said, almost bouncing on her feet, the epiphany lifting her up like a cloud of joy.

Michael took hold of her hands, pressing them between his larger ones. ‘I am happy for you, Clair, to have found this release. May it sustain you along your Camino.’

Overhead they heard their flight being called. Looking into each other’s eyes, they knew they might not see each other again, but in this short time, this passing time together, they had reached a level of deep friendship. Clair would remember him. This kind stranger who had opened her eyes and heart to seeing and telling her truth. Now her challenge was to follow it.

‘Buen Camino, Clair Mercer,’ he said as he turned to leave. ‘Perhaps we will cross paths again someday, on the road to Santiago.’

‘And to you, Michael Kraft, Buen Camino. Thank you for the moments.’

Chapter 27

Clair

Clair was awakened by the sounds of cutlery, metal against metal, plastics rustling, soft words in many languages. Eyes easing open, she saw daylight peeking in through the crack in her window shade. The flight attendants were passing out breakfast trays, hot towels, coffee, tea, water. Her head was twisted to the side, and she could feel her mouth wet where she had drooled while sleeping. The wine, food, warm cabin, studied ministrations by the attendants had lulled her fight, flight or freeze into submission, and allowed a deep relaxation response or perhaps just pure exhaustion to take over. Stiff but rested, she accepted the warm towel, running it gingerly over her face, then hands. It felt good. The flight path monitors on the screen in front of her showed they were eight hours out. They would be landing in Porto at noon, which meant it would be 4 a.m. for her biological clock. The deepest hour for circadian rhythms. The hour of sudden death, heart attacks, and stroke. Staring at her reflection in the glass, eyes bleary with sleep and disorientation, she felt a growing sense of exhilaration, and wonder at what she had done. Was doing right now.

Her gaze returned to the screen in front of her. The tiny icon showing the space between her past and future expanding second by second. Between what had been and would be. How simple, she thought, to just sit here, allowing this to happen. All of her previous striving, gone, dissipating like rolling thunder after a lightning flash. Efforts to please her exacting mother, absorbing her daily carping and criticism. Futile attempts to connect in any way with her brilliant, distant father. She had excelled in her work, gaining recognition and acclaim, but it wasn’t until she became a mother that she began to believe she mattered. Devon, with his bright eyes and crooked smile, hair dancing with light, always a bit too long. He hated haircuts. She smiled to herself at the memory of her sneaking up on him while he was sleeping to snip away at the rampant curls. Clair felt her eyes sting with tears, unwanted and quickly wiped away with her now cool washcloth, remembering how she had carelessly tossed them