Oceanside Offering

I open my eyes, only to find the sea. It’s crashing, bubbly sounds envelop me. I lick my lips- they taste of salt and stale breath. I feel the ache of the rubbery chair that acted as my bed deep in my bones, and I come to the conclusion that I fell asleep out here last night. 

Since I lost her, these things happen more often than I’d like to admit.

I uncurl myself from the position I’ve been in for hours and stretch myself up towards the sun. It’s a golden day, the kind where the sun warms your skin so kindly, it feels like you’ve been born again. I still hear the waves behind me as I close the door to my room. 

I put on the coffee pot. The smell alone wakes me up a bit. 

My stomach growls, which reminds me of her. How hungry I was when I had her here with me. How annoying the hunger was, too. How I’d give anything to feel that hungry again. 

The room tilts and my ears ring. 

I pour myself a cup of coffee, hoping that it’ll suppress my hunger a little bit. At least enough to where I won’t feel it anymore. Coffee is a luxury that I can have, now that she’s gone. 

When I was pregnant with Angeline, I didn’t allow myself any caffeine. I didn’t allow myself anything that wasn’t “good” for her. I watched what I ate, what I drank, what I did. I was so concerned with her health because she was my miracle baby. I tried for years to get pregnant; after countless attempts, IVF, natural remedies, even some retreat where they burned herbs I’d never heard of and chanted spells to put a baby in me, I had almost given up. Then, one day, it happened. 

I can’t describe what that felt like. It was a joy I don’t think I’ll ever feel again. My wish had been granted. It felt like the universe had aligned just for me and my baby. My miracle. My Angeline. I made it four and a half months into my pregnancy before one day I woke up with blood covering my bed, my legs, and a pain in my stomach that I’ll never be able to forget. The rest of that day is a blur. 

The coffee did what I wanted it to do. My stomach isn’t growling anymore, but I know I still need to eat. I feel like I’m floating as I take the steps out of my motel room, down to the lobby where they have breakfast. I force myself to pick out a bagel and I spread on some butter, eventually taking a seat in the corner at a small table where I know no one will bother me- with their eyes or their words. 

I’m alone. After Angeline died, Max left. He always wanted a family. I’ll never forget the words he said: “Lauren, you aren’t broken. But you can’t give me what I need.”

He had to understand how broken I felt, though. It hurt me to know that I wasn’t able to give him a family. It hurt me worse to know that it was something he could stop loving me over. And after two heart shattering events in a row, I couldn’t look at the life I was living and feel anything but nauseated. The blood, the brokenness, was always sneaking up on me in the corners of our old apartment. 

I hopped in my car with the money I’d saved up for Angeline and the few other things I needed and drove as far as I could muster for the night. I eventually ended up in a little town on the border of California and Oregon, right on the coast of the Pacific Ocean. For the past three months, this is where I’ve stayed. I found a little motel right on the coast. My room opens up to a view of the sea, and although it’s a quiet place, the ocean is loud enough to drown out my thoughts sometimes. 

Here, I can be the only person who knows about broken Lauren. The only person who knows about the mythology of me. Anyone I meet only knows the things I choose to tell them. In this way, nothing sneaks up on me. No one reminds me that I carried death inside of me and that it rid itself on my bed sheets. 

When there’s nothing but crumbs on my plate, I get up to go for a walk to nowhere. 

For what seems like hours, I dodge around in the sand, feeling the water on my toes, hoping it does some healing. I feel the wind in my hair and imagine it whisking me away, plunging me into the ocean somewhere. 

I decide I’ve done enough wandering, and it’s time to go back. 

As I reach the motel, I pass the fire pits they have lined up. They overlook the ocean, and in my time here I’ve found that sitting by the fire is a nice way to end the day. There are a few people sitting near them now, even though it’s only afternoon. I pay them little mind and head towards my room. 

“Lauren?” 

Instantly, a lump forms in my throat. 

I turn around to see her. It’s Lily, my neighbor from when I was in early elementary school. I haven’t seen her in years. One of those sad situations where getting older drives you apart, even if you don’t want it to. We connected because we both had single mothers who were too busy with work or finding a new boyfriend to fill their void to make us feel seen. We used to roam around the woods together, naming the trees and giving them offerings in hopes that we’d receive some good fortune with the universe. It was our little ritual. We’d find perfect acorns, colorful leaves, and little berries from the bushes- really anything that we found in the woods that felt meaningful. Then, we’d line them up around the trunk of the tree and hold hands. Here, we’d silently wish for something good to happen. For the trees to whisk us away, or for them to bring us something- anything- to make us feel less powerless against the forces we were too young to understand. 

This memory snaps me out of my sadness. I swallow the lump. 

“Lily? Of all the places on earth…”

She smiles brightly, a slight glisten in her eye. She reaches out to give me a hug, and I accept. 

Half muffled by the hug, she says “I know! My husband and I are here on a vacation. Needed to get away. I’m so happy to see you!” 

“Me too. How have you been?” 

There is a slightly hollow look to her as I ask this question. She gives a sad smile. 

“Oh, fine, I guess. You know, I’ve actually been thinking about you a lot lately. I saw, on your mom’s Facebook, about Angeline…” 

Hearing the name physically stings. She sees me wince. 

“I’m sorry. I know. I… I’ve been thinking about you because we lost ours, too. It happened a few months ago. I was 5 months along. We were going to name him Sam.” 

She leaves it at that. I see the pain in the way she’s wringing her hands, the way she’s holding herself, her eyes half open. I’m sure she sees it in me, too. 

“I’m so sorry, Lily,” I whisper. I hope she knows how much I mean it. 

“Me too.” She subconsciously touches her stomach. “That’s why we came out here. We needed to get away. I guess you understand it.”

I open my mouth, but no words come out. 

There’s something between us now, something heavy, and damp, and sad. I want to ask her a million questions. Do you still feel him? Does he come to you at night, dripping in the corners of your dreams? Are you imagining him here with you now? Do you hear him laughing? Crying? Can you still feel him in your stomach sometimes? Where do you see him? Is he mixed up in the blue of the sea and the golden of the sun? Or is it different for you? Are you the same as you once were? Will we ever be the same?

I don’t say any of that, though. I look at her through tears, and I see that she has tears in her eyes, too. 

“Will you walk with me?” 

She nods. 

We walk past the motel, to a little spot beyond the beach where the trees begin to grow. The sun warms me. I feel it seeping through my shirt. I look at her and I can see in her eyes that she knows intuitively what I am asking her to do. As we approach the wooded area, we begin looking around for our offerings. 

I pick up a few leaves that speak to me, and I see her holding some, too. Eventually, we come across a little bird’s nest on the ground. There are eggs inside of it, and one of them is cracked, the guts spilled out on the side of the nest. The shell is covered in a salty residue. 

“Oh,” Lily chokes out. 

I pick up the egg. It is an offering that speaks to our pain and connects us to the pain of another mother, even if she is a bird. 

We walk around and find our tree. 

“This one,” says Lily. It is tall with a sturdy, round trunk. It’s branches reach far into the sky. It is old, and therefore has touched many people and knows many secrets. Or at least that’s what our younger selves would say. There is a part of them with us, still. 

We lay the leaves and flowers we collected around the base of it, and finally I place the egg in a little notch that has grown near the base of the tree. I open my hands and Lily takes them. We both close our eyes and do our age-old meditation. Eventually, we both open our eyes again. 

“To Sam,” I say. 

“To Angeline,” she says. 

She squeezes my hand. Behind me, I hear the waves crashing.