All that is Seen and Unseen

It had been three days since I’d showered.

I’d intended only to stay for the weekend and I was twenty-four hours past my sell-by date.

My father woke disoriented and set in motion a series of unexpected events that had only just paused in their unfolding. I’d left him sleeping, swapping places with my mother.

Day shift relieving night.

I’d passed her incoming car on an otherwise empty road and waved like she was a long-lost friend. Her one hand with its long, graceful nails wrapped around the steering wheel, the other around a cigarette.

I signaled, but she didn’t see me.

I drove straight to the water.

The five o’clock light made it all glow. The cobalt ocean, the dry, brittle seagrass, flecks of shell, the few dreidel shaped moorings, all dressed in golden honey.

The sun does its day job making the mundane magnificent despite what encroaches.

Over the course of a second, the light slips behind an unseen line — a cloud? The spotlight dims. The grass goes gray. The temperature drops.

I am suddenly cold. Suddenly hungry.

I drive to one of the two restaurants open in the off-season.

Using the car’s flipped down visor mirror, I affirm I look as bad as I smell and wink at myself for not caring.

There are lots of things to break your heart when you are forty-two and your dad is dying. Greasy hair is not one of them.

I knew something wasn’t right before I opened the door. Too bright lights, too many voices.

I stepped into what felt like a private party.

Dozens of people dressed in church clothes. Skirts, jackets and ties. No hiding in my three-day-old all black, leisurewear outfit. Clinking of forks. So much laughter. I locked eyes with the hostess and took a panicked step backward.

“We have room at the bar.” She cheerfully chirped.

I looked to the middle seat. Every other four top, two top, bar stool — taken.

I hesitated. A lot of proximity and I was rank. Hospital stank. Dried sweat of worry. Maybe some lingering death.

I let myself be swept to the room and tried to tuck myself in amongst the crowd. Hiding in plain sight.

I ordered my feelings — dark and stormy. Dark rum and ginger beer. The drink reminded me of my red-headed brother and a rainy day in Maine when we were the laughter.

Of course, the drink came fancy.

An ostentatious bottle accompanied by a carafe. The bartender quickly poured the two parts into a frosty copper mug, with enough left over to do the same again. Two drinks for the price of one.

The seat to my right opened up. The bartender quickly bussed the plates and wiped the wood to gleaming.

“So what the hell with all the people?” I asked.

The fries were over salted. Or perfectly salted. Either way, they were the first of a long list of foods I wouldn’t be eating in the months to come.

“It’s Mother’s Day.” Her voice was even. Unaffected.

Mother’s Day.

I craned my head and took in the diners anew.

Families. Each table celebrating a mom. Floral dresses, remnants of wrapping paper.

My mother at the hospital without me. My husband and kids in another state. Is it the day that makes the mother, or the mother that makes the day?

“What is that?” A voice from the newly occupied chair.

“Huh?”

“What drink is that?” I turned to familiar looking face. He was young, and clean, and wearing a cotton shirt with a collar like the boys I knew in prep school.

I locked eyes with the bartender. She raised an eyebrow and answered for me. “Dark and Stormy.”

He addressed me again. “Is it good? It looks amazing.”

I turned to meet his gaze. So familiar. Had a babysat him? Was he a friend of my little sister’s. He was a confusing amount of friendly.

“Do I know you?”

He smiled with all five thousand dollars of his perfect teeth.

“No, but a pretty girl, with an interesting drink…I came over the second I saw you. I thought I’d buy you another.

He thought he had seen me.

I barked out an angry laugh.

“How old are you?” My tone was accusatory, bordering on aggressive. I motioned to the bartender (who hadn’t moved from her security post of me) for a glass and poured out the rest of the drink.

“Umm…”

“Take it.” I held out the extra.

His eyes looked confused and maybe a little afraid.

“How old are you?” I asked again.

“I’m twenty-five.”

“Take the drink,” I said again, in my best mom voice and he complied.

“Well, I’m forty-two. I am not a pretty girl. I can be, but I am not right now. I haven’t showered in three days, my underwear isn’t clean. I’m away from my husband and my three kids and my mother is with my father who is in a hospital dying.”

He stood, gave me a weak, grimace like smile and walked away — taking the drink with him.

I blew out the breath I was holding and pushed my fries away. In the retelling of this story, I will make it funnier.

I made an air checkmark with my index finger thumb at the bartender/bouncer and let my mind go blank.

A hand over my hand. Gentle pressure. Roused from my reverie, alert, annoyed. Surely he wasn’t back.

I looked up into the eyes of the woman who had poured the drink I hadn’t drunk.

“I’m so sorry about your dad.” Her voice was soft. She kept her hand on top of mine.

Tears. In the face of kindness. Always tears at being seen.

I nodded and wiped my face with the paper drink square. I nodded a silent, “I’m okay.” And she stepped back into her work.

Minutes later I turned over the bill:

“I lost my mother at 12 years old. This one is on me.”

I still have her words in my wallet

For all the seen and unseen.

(And Elizabeth. I know you have bigger and better words coming at you today, but I wrote this one for you).