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

‘I understand,’ he said. ‘I do, but still, please, even to let me know she’s OK?’

‘Yes, I can do that.’

Adam turned to walk out the door, glancing back at Jet, and around her office.

‘You know, we learned a lot here with you, about ourselves, each other, and how we fit in the world. It wasn’t all bad. Could have been worse. I thank you for that.’

‘It’s my job,’ Jet replied.

‘Oh, your connection with Clair, and through her, me, goes far beyond your job description,’ Adam said. ‘I think you really care.’ He walked through the door, pulling it shut quietly behind him.

Walking back to his car felt like an eternity. Hospitals were tiny microcosms of the world, in life, death, and all that lay in-between. Codes were called overhead, people rushing to the bedsides of others dying. New mothers, their laps piled high with balloons, flowers and gifts, a nurse carrying the newborn, nervous dad rushing behind, holding the car seat, looking like he had just been catapulted into a new solar system.

Adam remembered he and Clair bringing Devon home. He had felt like these dads looked. So in love and terrified of making a mistake. This tiny, helpless human being. His responsibility. And he had failed so monumentally. Both his boy, and now his wife. Good God! How had he missed this basic building block of the human system? Being a man, a father, a husband, someone others can depend upon.

Determined to find Clair, he rushed back to the housing residence. The rain had abated, small rainbows dancing in the motor oil surfaced puddles. The air was cool to his face, and he compelled himself to gather his energy, feeling the freshness on his face, then feeling the descending darkness, November in the north-west. His anxiety grew as he increased his knocking to a pounding rhythm. The door opened. An elderly man stood at the door, his expression open and friendly.

‘Good evening,’ the man said, holding the door open. ‘Come in.’

Adam was taken back by this man’s uninhibited fearlessness, opening the door to a stranger. Part of him wanted to say, ‘Wait a minute. You don’t know me.’ But instead, he did walk in. The older man stood aside, making room for Adam to pass through, a smile on his face. Adam wondered if maybe he had dementia.

‘Robert Hall, how can I help you?’ the man said, holding out his hand.

‘Robert, Adam Gage,’ Adam replied, taking Robert’s hand. ‘I’m looking for my wife, Clair. She was a resident here. I heard she took a taxi from here and I want, need, to talk to the woman who saw her leave. I don’t know the woman’s name. But she had gray hair, worn in a bun at her neck, and was wearing a shawl, made of soft pink wool I think.’

‘Ah yes, that would be Audrey. My wife. I’ll get her for you. Please sit down. We were just getting ready to have a cocktail. Would you like one? There’s sherry, martinis, whisky, wine and, of course, our own Seven Devil’s craft beer?’

‘No, but thanks, so much. Just Audrey please, if she’s available.’

‘Yes, she had her last treatment today. She’s celebrating but tired too. That chemo builds up, you know. Toxic.’

Adam had an image of Clair, weak, sick, wandering somewhere, without roots or destination. His heart hammered in his chest.’

‘Sit,’ Robert said, more like ordered.

Adam did, and felt a momentary relief as his muscles, fatigued from all that had gone before, relaxed the moment he removed gravity from their grasp. He almost wept with relief. Sinking back into the deep, shabby, worn sofa, he felt the energy of all the bodies and souls who had sat or lain there, an island in the constant stream of treatment induced semi-consciousness. Unlike drug induced states that seemed to generate feelings of bliss, or hysteria, the state induced by treatment was different, terrifying in its magnitude, implications for failure, and yet, somehow, the taste of it, the feel of it coursing through your veins, in your skin, brought solace. Fighting the cancer. A war in your small, vulnerable body.

Adam felt this, from all of the bodies that had sunk into the depths of this sofa, its fabric thin where hips had turned from side to side, seeking comfort. Pillows where heads had rested, holding back nausea, sipping on ginger ale and crunching saltine crackers. Clair had been here. He leaned back, closed his eyes momentarily, sensing her being, smelling her hair, her body, mixed with all others.

‘Hello, Adam is it?’ Adam heard the melodious voice, standing before him. He opened his eyes. Yes, it was the same woman. Sitting bolt upright, he shook, as though repelling images of others from his vision. Only Clair now.

‘Yes, hi, I’m sorry to barge in,’ Adam stood, embarrassed to be sitting. ‘I’m looking for Clair. You told me she left in a taxi for the airport. Do you know where she was going? Did she give any indication at all?’

They stood, facing each other, Audrey’s hand resting on the sofa. The older woman looked so frail; Adam felt terrible for having disturbed her rest. Then Robert brought her a drink, a martini. She took a sip, smiled up at him, and their eyes locked. Adam thought this was a ritual that had probably been reoccurring for many years.

‘No, not really. I’m sorry. But she turned and looked at me and said, “Buen Camino”.’

‘Buen Camino?’ Adam repeated, his expression confused. ‘What does that mean?’

‘Well, I have a great niece, Becca, who went on a long walk. It was called the Camino de Santiago. And her photos all had a yellow arrow pointing one way or the other, and the words Buen Camino written on stones, walls, store fronts. It was in Spain; I do remember that.’

‘Spain? Clair has gone to Spain? Why on earth would she do that?’

‘People do strange things when they’re dying,’ Audrey said, casting a loving look at Robert. ‘I just married this fool,