Rain in Duluth

The city – if you could call it that – looked rough around the edges in the daylight with a largely crumbling downtown and potholes that would break an axle, but boy, did it sparkle at night. I moved to Duluth, Minnesota a year ago and I still couldn’t get over the expansive view from my small, hilltop house. In the evenings, I liked to sit next to my second floor bedroom window and watch the ships anchored in the bay spin with the winds like little light-up toys. The vast expanse of Lake Superior offered a deep black backdrop to the ships’ lights. A minuscule crack in the center of the window would occasionally distort the reflection of a single light and break my focus for several seconds at a time as I recalled its existence. The realtor had told me it could become a bigger issue over time and that I should replace the window right away, but I chose to ignore it for now. It was so small, anyways. And just as quickly as I noticed it had the ship’s position shifted and the crack became invisible again.

The past year had been a whirlwind of learning to navigate a new city, make new friends, test out new hobbies, and start a new job. I purposefully filled my days with as many people and experiences as it took to keep the feeling of a looming depression at bay. For several years, I had been craving adventure and freedom. After the divorce, I moved to one of the last wild frontiers in the country and bought a small, 1000-square foot house overlooking the city. Gazing out at the largest Great Lake every day appeased the sense of freedom I had been searching for. Thousands of acres of protected wilderness and miles of trails were accessible from the end of my street. Waterfalls, cliffs, and fast-moving rivers peppered the city blocks. Occasionally a black bear would meander through my yard in search of berries. Adventure was what I sought, and I had found it in Duluth. But lately, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.

I started getting the pre-divorce flashbacks when I was on a canoeing trip with a group of friends. I remember the first time it hit me very vividly… I was reclined against an angled rock and had propped my feet on a log next to the fire. My tent-mate and fellow unmarried friend of the group, Hannah, sat outstretched on the same rock, spooning the last bits of her soup into her mouth. The sounds of animals and insects making use of the fading light ricocheted off the water surrounding our island campsite. Only the sounds of plastic cutlery scraping against plastic bowls and the occasional giggle from the couple to my right cut through nature’s evening melody. Andrew poked at the untouched onions sitting in Casey’s bowl and she gazed at him lovingly. I was no stranger to the feeling of physical loneliness when watching other couples display affection, but something struck me about their exchange, and I was taken back to a moment several years ago…

There was a man cooking over a steaming pan, containers of spices scattered around the counter. He was picking up one at a time, reading the label, and sending a dash or two into the pot while he hummed a favorite song. I sat at the kitchen table watching him, my foot tapping rapidly as I waited for the food to be edible. Irritation oozed from my pores as a deep hunger settled in the pit of my stomach. Dinner should have been ready hours ago, but Chris was adamant that playing his video game for an hour or two helped him ‘decompress’ after work. On the nights I was scheduled to cook, I made sure it was the first thing I did upon getting home from work. He picked up a jar of red powder, squinted at the label, and placed it back into the cupboard without adding any to the meal. He smiled at me. I know you don’t like spicy foods, so I’ll skip this one.

Snapping back to reality, I gazed into the fire and tried to understand the emotional shift I was experiencing. The memory was one of many frustrated nights that I reminded myself of often, but I hadn’t expected to feel something other than frustration when looking back on moments with Chris. What was I feeling right now? I chalked it up to the sips of red wine in my system and chose to ignore it. I hadn’t noticed the flurry of activity around me as dishes were washed, the food was stored, and people were making their way to their respective tents. Several minutes later, I lay nestled in my sleeping bag listening to Hannah’s soft rhythmic breathing next to me. Night fell around us and the cacophony of insects started to fade. Sleep evaded me most of the night as I adjusted positions and woke up often, until it finally hit me: the feeling was guilt.

I did my best to suppress the memory and associated emotions for the duration of the trip. I laughed at jokes, smiled, and paddled with the rest of the group, but the memory left an unsavory feeling in the back of my mind. When I finally arrived home, I spent the evening doing laundry and unpacking from the trip, keeping myself as busy as possible. The late evening sun cast a golden haze throughout the room. I bent down to pick up a misplaced sock and a bright glare caught the corner of my eye. A ray of light illuminated a large offshoot from the crack in the window, which now expanded an inch to the side. I traced my fingers along the crack and quickly jotted a note on the paper on my bedside table to research the cost of a new window when the dryer sang its finale.

I managed to go through the motions of every day life for the next several weeks and write off the guilty feeling as a fluke. That was until a second flashback presented itself one day while at work. I was sitting at my cubicle in the middle of the dimly lit room and focusing intently on the spreadsheet in front of me when my phone buzzed next to the keyboard. Thankful for the distraction, I opened the text message from Andrew with a link to a video he put together of the canoe trip. I plugged in my headphones and clicked the link. The video chronicled our adventure across several lakes and rivers, over rocky portages, and lounging around campsites. There were clips of us laughing, jumping into the lake, and carrying heavy packs that played against an upbeat musical track. The video showed Andrew and Casey effortlessly paddling their green canoe with a mound of bags in the middle. Casey sat in the stern and focused intently on steering them towards the far end of the lake where the next portage awaited us. Andrew occasionally spoke over his shoulder and laughed. I paused the video and rewound several seconds to watch their interaction. While their paddling appeared effortless at first, I noticed Casey was over-powering her paddles and the tip of the canoe would veer sharply to the left. Each time this happened, Andrew dipped his paddle into the water and made a tight figure eight with the slightest wrist movement. As he continued performing the subtle maneuver, the tip of the canoe would gradually rotate to point forward again. Andrew was subtly correcting for Casey’s mistakes without making her feel bad, and the sweetness of his actions sent warmth into my chest.

I glanced up at my computer screen and my mind faded to another memory several years earlier… I was waiting by the living room window gazing out at the empty driveway where my car should have been parked. My suitcase and computer bag sat by the door. I glanced at my phone – I was already 30 minutes late. Chris knew how anxious I got about travel and how important it was for me to be on time, so why was he so late getting home with my car? I sent off another text message demanding he return quickly. He had inconveniently asked to borrow my car to go grocery shopping right before I needed to drive several hours away for a work conference. When a familiar tan Toyota finally rolled into the driveway, I grabbed my bags and bolted outside. Pushing past Chris, I tossed my luggage in the back before he could grab his groceries. I snatched the keys from his outstretched hand and drove off leaving him standing in the driveway. An hour into the drive, I was still fuming about being late and tried to make up for lost time by speeding. Driving much too fast for the upcoming curve in the road, I leaned into the bend when a folded receipt tumbled out onto the passenger seat. I noticed the auto body logo at the top and the services listed included an oil change. It was dated today and the last four digits of the charged credit card were not mine. Clearly, Chris had the oil changed on his car and had tossed his receipt in my car. His disorganization aggravated me further and I crumpled the receipt, threw it into the back seat, and pushed on the accelerator.

The emotion I felt on that drive years ago came back to me as I sat at my desk. I found myself staring at the keyboard, the seed of a thought forming in my mind. I grabbed my keys, ran out the front door and down the street to my trusty Toyota. I rarely cleaned it out, so perhaps the evidence was still in there. The back seat was covered in layers of clothes I had shed during various adventures over the past year. Granola bar wrappers, water bottles, and a Frisbee covered the floor. I rooted through the piles until I found the wad of paper grown soft from the weight of the clothes. I unfolded the receipt just enough to see the last four digits of Chris’s credit card next to my car’s license plate number and gasped. Why didn’t he say anything? Another realization hit me as I tried to recall if I had ever taken my own car in for an oil change during those 4 years of marriage. Had he really taken care of it for me every time and kept it a secret? My vision swarmed with water and a hard lump formed in my throat. No. I swallowed. This wasn’t how I wanted to remember things. I pushed the feeling deep down and strengthened my resolve. After a few shaky breaths, I walked back to the office with my chin held high. I will forget about this.

Back at the office, people spoke anxiously about the big storm expected this evening. The wind was supposed to be the biggest factor, with the potential for hail and heavy rains. Unable to focus, I decided to slip out early under the pretext that I needed to beat the storm. Once at home, I filled the bath with steaming water and sprinkled in lavender-scented Epsom salts. I poured a glass of wine and dimmed the lights, pulling out all the necessary stops for a night of serious self-care. My mind kept wandering back to Chris and all the ways I may have misunderstood our relationship. What else had I gotten wrong? Was I at fault for its demise? Was our relationship truly as problematic as I had been telling myself, or did I make it that way? I knew this was a dangerous line of thinking and that I was nearing the edge of a breakdown, but the wine pushed me further into my memory bank.

A distant rumbling brought me back to the present where I found myself in cold bath water with an empty wine bottle knocked on its side and an achy head. I dragged myself out of the tub and down the hallway, haphazardly patting myself dry and collapsing onto the bed. I pulled the sheets up to my nose and allowed the sounds of the storm to drown out the desperate voice in my head. I don’t know how I could have gotten things so wrong. Maybe running away under the guise of adventure wasn’t what I actually needed. Maybe I needed perspective. Treetops swayed in the wind and plastic deck furniture shuffled across the back deck. A crack of thunder shook the house and I suddenly remembered the crack in the window. I hoped, like me, that it could weather this storm. A gust of wind barreled into the side of the house so fiercely, I let out a soft moan, whether for the house’s sake or my own, I’m not sure. Fat, wet raindrops pounded the roof. Hot tears fell freely from my eyes and pooled on the pillowcase. The rain ceased and an eerie calm took its place. The air around me felt charged, as if waiting for an opportune moment to unleash its pent-up energy. I sat up and stared out the window. I heard the first hailstone strike somewhere in the middle of the roof with a loud thump. Several hailstones began pelting the window and I watched in horror as the crack grew with each blow. I stumbled out of bed and knocked over my side table. A small square of paper floated to the floor and I noticed the words ‘Fix window!’ written in large black ink. I retreated just in time as the window received a final blow that shattered the glass into thousands of shards. Rain and wind poured in through the open frame and I sank to my knees. What have I done?