Waves

The clunk of old feet up an attic staircase is heard throughout the house. Like all things that age, the delicate feet of a once graceful lady are reduced to heavy footsteps. As she ventures up the steps of the attic, and into the cold, drafty room, she surveys her surroundings. Boxes full of memories of Christmas ornaments, and photo albums, and clothes, and books, each home to thousands of moments. The sense of an ocean wave drowning her overtakes her mind. No more was she in the house she had lived in for 50 years. She was walking into her first day of kindergarten. She was at a high school dance, lonely as all her friends danced with their boyfriends. She heard her husband laugh, and the faint sound of knocking against a bedroom window. The ache of a long day, a hand squeeze, and brushing shoulders with someone she loved. All in a moment. All the moments she still remembers swirl through the whirlpool of her head. This was the wave, and it threatens to trap her beneath its power. Power in the form of nostalgia from memories, and all that they entail.

She blinks in the dark attic, everything suddenly quiet. Why was she here? She begins a slow walk around the room, a vain ploy to deny her diminishing memory. She pauses next to a trunk labeled “Summer of ‘65”. It is old, but as she lifts the top, she can almost imagine the scent of a girl’s perfume, wafting up, surrounding her, and summoning back all the pain of that year. Her throat feels thick; her eyes sting with tears. She chides herself; sixty years should be enough time to get over the confusing feelings of childhood. She thought she was. 

From the trunk, she pulls out a yellow button-up she wore relentlessly at 17. The light, airy fabric, is faded, but still retains the memories of times it was worn, moments interwoven into the very threads she now holds. The woman sits on a small stool and continues to unpack the trunk, keeping the yellow shirt in her lap. She withdraws miscellaneous items: a beaten up copy of The Waves by Virginia Wolfe, old magazines, and a red bathing suit. Then she sees it.

The box.

Her pulse starts racing.

The heart-shaped box.

Hands shaking, she carefully lifts it out of the trunk, and opens it. All that is in it is a locket. She carefully pries apart the sides of the necklace, and stares in numb fascination at the photo of two girls, arms wrapped around each other as they beam at the camera.

“Evelyn, darling, come downstairs, there is someone for you to meet.” I was looking in a magazine that Sheila had left at my house, a fashion one, with girls in provocative bathing suits. I couldn’t stop staring.

“Be right there, mom! I yell back to her. I quickly shove the magazine under my bed, slightly embarrassed about it. I run downstairs and find my mother sitting at the kitchen counter with our neighbor and a strange girl. She has big blue eyes and light brown hair. Her skin is fair, and her cheeks are rosy. She wears a patterned dress shorter than any friend of mine has ever worn. She is the kind of beautiful that would make Sheila hate her instantly. I am not Sheila. My stomach feels weird all of a sudden, like I have to throw up, but different.

“Evelyn, this is Marjorie, Ms. Cumming’s niece. She's staying with her all summer. Marjorie is from Manhattan, isn’t that interesting? Evelyn went to Manhattan for a school trip back in January.” 

“Y-y-yeah, I did. Umm…” I trail off, unable to form a coherent thought. The girl arches an eyebrow at me, and my stomach does that weird thing again. I take a deep breath, determined not to be distracted by her quizzical look. I square my shoulders. “Welcome to Long Island, summers here are the best.”

“You’ll have to convince Margy, she is here rather reluctantly.” Ms. Cummings says with a pointed look at ‘Margy’.

“Oh, I'm not here reluctantly at all, there is no place I’d rather be.” Her voice drips with sarcasm, and I see my mother’s eyes widen, and Ms. Cummings turn beet red. “I mean, who wouldn’t love to spend summer away from all their friends in a town as… charming as this one.” 

“I’m sure if you gave it a chance, you might find it as charming as yourself,” I respond, trying to match her arrogant tone. I know I succeed when she sucks in a breath. 

“Evelyn!” My mother harshly replies, but I barely hear her, as Marjorie stares at me with so much intensity that the kitchen falls away. 

The woman is back in the attic, heart pounding. She hasn’t thought about meeting Marjorie in so long. It brings back too many things she tried to bury. But the wave is crashing over her again, and there is nothing she can do.

“Psst” I hear later that night, as I stare at my ceiling, trying to fall asleep. Surprised, I look out my window and see Marjorie sitting on my balcony. I quickly climb out to join her.

“What are you doing!” I whisper, shocked.

“Come on, let’s go to the beach.”

“What?”

“Grab your suit, I want to go swimming.”

“It’s almost midnight!”

“Perfect; no one will be there.”

“Are you crazy?”

“Yes.” She responds quietly. She holds my gaze before looking away, almost embarrassed. I don’t know why, but all I want is to go with her, go wherever she wants.

“Ok,” I respond. She smiles. 

That was the first night of many. We would meet at my house’s gate, and walk to the beach. As soon as we hit the sand, we would bolt into the water, throwing off our pajamas as we ran. We would swim for a while, and then lie on the shore. Our shoulders would brush, and my skin would feel like it was on fire. We would talk for hours. Her, about her family, who exiled her to her aunt after she practically failed 11th grade. I complained about the expectations my mother put on me. We related over our love of Bob Dylan and Virginia Wolfe. We talked of our dreams, our fears. We were together during the day, as I had introduced her into my friend-group with Sheila, Lacey, and Barbara. But at night, when it was just the two of us, it was the most real friendship I had ever experienced in my entire life.

One night, she asked me about love.

“What about it?”

“Have you ever been in love?”

I pause for a moment, thinking. I know Marjorie is more advanced than I am at things like this, but I am always honest with her. “No, I don't think so. Have you?” I ask, slightly terrified of her answer.

“I used to think so. Now I’m not sure.” 

“Why?”

“Have you ever kissed anyone?”

“Once. Bobby Fletcher.”

“I’ve kissed loads of guys; she quickly responds. I don’t know why that makes me sort of upset.

“Oh.”

“I didn’t like it very much.”

“Then why did you keep doing it?”

“Because I was hoping it might one day feel right.”

“Oh. Did it ever?”

“No.” She sits up and stares at me.

“What?” I said, propping myself up on one arm. It is dark, but her eyes meet mine. They trail down to my mouth. I bite my lip, scared of why she is looking at me like that. And more afraid of what it means. I feel myself lean towards her slightly. She leans towards me. Then her lips are on mine. I gasp in surprise, but lean into it. She breaks away.

“Evelyn…” I don’t know what came over me, but I grab her face and pull it back towards mine. After a couple of minutes, we stop, both breathing heavily.

“I think that’s how it’s supposed to feel,” she says quietly. 

That night I went to sleep calm, peaceful in a way I never had before. Every night following, we didn’t even bother with the beach. I would climb into her window, or she would climb into mine. We would kiss for hours. Then we would lie beside each other, her playing with my hair, me gently stroking her legs. We stopped hanging out with the other girls, enjoying our time with just each other. 

“I want you to have this,” Marjorie says to me one early morning. It is three a.m., and we have been together since six the night before, under the guise of a sleepover. She hands me a small box shaped like a heart. I open it and find a locket placed in the cushion. Inside is a picture of the two of us Lacey had taken after her mother bought her a new camera. “I hope you like it,” she says with a smile. I lean forward, pressing my lips against hers. I wrap my arms tightly around her, embracing her in a hug. I don’t know how to put what I’m feeling into words. But this just feels right.

The old woman gently strokes the locket. She remembers wearing it every single day after she received it. It rested comfortably against her chest, a little above her heart. She loved that necklace, and even though she took it off only a month later, it would always remain her favorite piece of jewelry she had ever owned.

On one memorable occasion when I am without Marjorie, Sheila comes to my house as I sit on the porch, reading. The end of August is approaching, and soon Marjorie will return to the city.

“Hi Sheil!” I say.

“Evelyn.” Her cold tone surprises me, and I put down my book.

“What’s wrong?”

“Evelyn, I’m concerned for you.”

“Why?”

“All the time you spend with Marjorie.”

“Oh Sheil, I’m sorry we haven’t been hanging out as much lately. I really am,” I respond, even though I’m not.

“The time you spend with Marjorie, you don’t just listen to music like we do, right? You don’t gossip like we do,” she says, and I can hear both nerves and slight accusation in her voice. 

“Is that a problem?”

“Ev, some people might have the wrong idea."

The wrong idea? Oh. I feel my stomach drop to my feet, and utter shame rises in me. I feel numb and dirty. I want to bury myself and hide. I want to erase that first night at the beach.

“Oh, darling Ev,” she murmurs, hugging me tightly. “It’ll be okay. I can help fix your problem, and no one will have to know.” 

Evelyn holds the box close to her chest, and starts to cry. She married Bobby Fletcher in 1967, and never spoke to Marjorie again. The more she tries to hold her tears in, the more powerful her sobs become. The cries are for the girl she never allowed herself to be, the girl she was afraid of. The girl who liked staring at her young and pretty 8th grade English teacher. She cries for the woman whose heart raced every time she locked eyes with her husband’s sister. She wails for the 17-year-old girl in love with Marjorie.

 She cries for the woman she could have been. One who didn’t hide who she was deep in the sand. Who didn’t live in constant fear that a wave would disrupt that sand. But the more she cries, the more determined she is not to stay buried anymore.

“Ev, hon, you okay up there?” Her husband calls from downstairs.

Evelyn slowly lifts the locket and clasps it around her neck.