1
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Where One Begins and One Ends
What once was a soft, white sandy beach, a sea of smiling faces lounging under umbrellas now sits a ravaged waste land. The ground is an odd gray, black crystallized grit that will slice the bottoms of our feet if we don’t wear shoes. The color of the sky blends in with the ground, so we can’t tell where one begins, and one ends.
I had spent summer vacations here. There were rows of high-rise condos along the beach. We picked a new one every other year. It was the only time I recall feeling truly unburdened. My father didn’t answer his phone. My mother went without styling her hair or putting on makeup the entire time. The days were never planned. Meals were sporadic and often consisted of just ice cream or deep-fried grouper from one of the local huts. I would lay back onto my towel, listening to the waves crashing on the beach and the chatter of children building sandcastles. My eyes closed and tiny, round flashes of light danced behind my eyelids. When I was younger, I thought they were the magic inside my mind sparking to life. I spent hours creating an elaborate sand village and imagining what characters lived there. Firefighters who raced into their trucks to save families trapped in burning buildings. A round, jolly baker filling his shelves with cupcakes and fresh bread. A young, brave girl who secretly protected the people and battled supervillains. This was the place where I had all my best ideas.
Today, the silence is swallowing me whole. If I breathe, the sound of my saliva moving up and down my throat will be too loud. The typical buzzing of people on their phones, the internet, vehicles in the background racing here and there is all gone. In its place, a deafening, dim void.
My father was always known as a gentle giant. He stood six feet five inches tall, but he wouldn’t harm a fly. He was always so patient with me and my childhood friends who frequented our house. Every so often, we would reach that edge of his ability. We stormed through the house, romping and roaring around, nearly destroying any breakable knick-knack of my mother’s in our path. One of us would inevitably break something or someone would get hurt. All the roaring fun would halt into silence. When he snapped, we all knew we had gone too far, and felt more guilt than our little child psyches knew how to apologize for. He was the one parent we all truly felt bad about disappointing. I remember hoping if I froze in that moment it would erase what happened, or maybe it would lessen the transgression.
Today, the ocean is eerily still, like a lake at the crack of dawn. The still air is so thick and stale, as if all the elements know. We went too far. Father is mad. No one make a sound.
2
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Whiskey and Donuts
Hollis was by far my number one choice for a roommate, but days like today make me question that decision. He tends to turn what should be a 20-minute task into a day-long quest.
“Why can’t we just settle on the coffee table in the front of the store?” I asked.
“It’s padded. Then we have to buy some nonsense tray to set our drinks on. It has to be solid and the right height,” he replied.
Finally, a salesperson approaches. She shamelessly tosses her hair and bats her eyes at Hollis as she shows us every single solid coffee table in the showroom. He naively follows her around as if she really doesn’t understand the description of the table we are looking for. Idiot.
I intervene before she convinces him to buy a hideous bachelor pad room set. They line up a delivery date, and we hit the road. It took two hours, but at least he hasn’t mentioned it being my birthday. I don’t mind turning thirty. Actually, I look forward to feeling more respected. It’s not easy earning respect as a twenty-something female. Now, I’m a thirty-something proud owner of a new coffee table. Take that, world.
Usually I am the one behind the wheel, but Hollis insists on driving. We pass the old strip mall shops lined with palm tree landscaping. Every building has a pastel shade and the same stucco textured siding. The streets are so tight I hold my breath every time someone cuts over into our lane. Florida is a state that doesn’t really have one set of driving rules. Sure, everyone who grows up here takes the same driving exam, but our state is packed with people from all over. That’s the funny part about growing up in a vacation town. Everyone moves here for a life of paradise, but really there isn’t just one culture here. It’s a melting pot. That must be why I’m such a well-rounded individual.
By the time we pull into the parking garage, it’s near dark. Our neighborhood used to be lined with vacation rentals that snowbirds would flock to every winter. Now, it’s mostly rows of run-down rental condos that could use a fresh coat of paint or two. Maybe one day a developer will swoop in and clean this mess up. It doesn’t hurt that there are some local businesses in walking distance, so I don’t always have to brave the scary melting pot streets. Hollis looks down at his phone and lets out a horrendous breath.
“She’s canceling our plans again,” he says.
“Your mother?” I ask.
“The one and only. I know it’s been a long grueling day of coffee table shopping, but would you join me for a drink on the roof? I could use some fresh air.”
He knows I’ll amuse him. We are like family, Hollis and I, and his mother is a constant disappointment. She doesn’t deserve him. The only praise she will get from me is for giving birth to him. We grab a couple premixed margaritas and trudge up to the roof. As we bust open the door, “SURPRISE!!!!!”
Of course, he remembered.
There are colorful lanterns hanging between airy curtains in the theme of a bohemian oasis. It takes my breath away. Upon the right side of the table sits my favorite bottle of scotch. The Macallan 18-year-old sherry oak single malt scotch whisky. It’s a blend of spice, orange and cloves straight from Scotland. The left side of the table is adorned with pitchers filled with sangria, vodka lemonade cocktails, strawberry prosecco punch; basically, all the fufu drinks most people enjoy. In place of the typical birthday cake, sits a three-tiered tower of my favorite Krispy Kreme glazed donuts. They’ve set up a projector aimed at a large white sheet upon the stucco wall. Chris Pratt dances around the galaxy to that old song, “Come and get Your Love.” Great, now they will all know about my infatuation with Marvel movies. I don’t remember how old I was when my obsession with them began. There is something comforting in the idea of people with extraordinary abilities defending those who can’t defend themselves. I look down at the hideous—but typical—leggings and tank top I’m wearing. It’s moments like this that having a female best friend would come in handy. She would have suggested I change into something more appealing. My parents tackle me with hugs and affection.
“We couldn’t let you sit out your thirtieth, you old lady!” they laugh.
“If this makes me old, what does that make you two?” I retort.
My mother lives for these major life events. Her blonde hair is perfectly wrapped up in a sleek French twist, and her dress is a vibrant fuchsia that compliments her fair skin. She is always the life of the party, and I’m certain she was in charge of designing this rooftop oasis. She has a way of taking any ordinary, plain space and making it beautiful. My father, on the other hand, takes his rightful place in the back of the crowd where he is content. His shirt matches my mother’s dress of course, and he is perfectly satisfied being the back seat to her shining presence. They are a living Barbie and Ken doll set. I have a theory that every second he is not cutting someone open, he is letting his brain cells recharge until the next surgery. My college dorm mate, Nina, pushes past them.