Dear Eldon,
There are things going on I don’t understand. People trying to tear us apart and deny what we have. You must come back and claim me. You must see that this is no longer a time to hide and be careful, but to burst free and shout out what’s rightfully ours. You must see that. Wake up.
Martha
Martha stood on the scattered rocks at the edge of the sea. She’d given up trying to meditate, even trying to sit still. It was all she could do to stand here and not fling herself into the drink. She hadn’t slept since the middle of the night. The camp’s wake-up bell would ring any minute.
For the moment, no boats disturbed the stillness. Fog still clung to the flat glassy water turned orange by the rising sun, making the islands appear ghostly and insubstantial. A gull flew overhead, wind whirring under its wings. The air smelled of sea and the freshness of sunrise.
Last night she’d dreamed again of Eldon swimming, beckoning her to join him under the water. This time she’d been afraid to go. This time she shook her head and urged him out onto dry land instead. But once again he hadn’t chosen to be with her. He’d given her a look of longing and disappointment, then dived deeper until the green sea swallowed him up.
She’d woken up and known he was gone.
Later she’d ask to use Betsy’s computer and read the details of his death. Later. Right now she could only handle being in the tranquility of this beautiful morning, suspended between knowing what had happened and having it confirmed. Until she read the news in black and white, her dream would stay a dream. The pain would stay bearable, the fear manageable. Barely.
She’d tried to make him real, to make them real as a couple, but saying words out loud to show the world how strong and good they were together had convinced Betsy that she had a mental illness, which had been unsettling, to say the least, and made Cindy hurl those words back into Martha’s face. Even as she understood that Cindy’s anger stemmed from her situation with Kevin, Martha still got the same sick feeling she did when she read letters from fellow Other Women to Dear Abby. “He says he loves me, he says he’ll leave his wife, but he never does.” Then Abby’s answer, always the same, “Wake up, honey.”
Saying the words out loud couldn’t make them a real couple again. And now that he was dead, even time wouldn’t make them a real couple again. Bianca had won when she married Eldon, and now she’d won again, having lost him while they were still together.
If Bianca were like Cindy, if she and Eldon had married for love, real true love, Martha couldn’t have come between them. But then if Bianca were imperfect like Cindy, Eldon wouldn’t have chosen her. Martha had always considered Eldon’s marriage the betrayal, not their affair. Love gave her and Eldon the right to be together. Love was much more binding and went much deeper than a ceremony and a certificate. Society could think what it wanted. Society needed rules to feel comfortable. Rules could never be justified in every situation under their control.
Until death do us part.
Martha had to believe strongly in love to wait and wait and wait all those hours and days and weeks and years alone in her brown apartment. Precious chances to be together got canceled, e-mails were scarce, phone calls scarcer. Sometimes it seemed to her that weeks went by between the times she heard from Eldon. Then always with his greeting, “How’s my girl?”
She waited gladly because of the way they felt about each other, but today with Eldon gone, and with her beautiful forever-after future with him gone, it seemed their love for the past twenty years had been more about frustration and sacrifice than joy and sharing.
The morning bell summoned campers from sleep, the clanging sound rolling down to the sea and out over the water. Women would be getting up, dressing, going to breakfast. When Martha was missed, someone would be sent to find her. She needed to go to breakfast. She needed to go to classes. She needed to find some way to cope with the rest of her life, year after unending year without Eldon to wait for. Without Eldon to hope for. What else was there?
Once upon a time there was a good and remarkable man who loved and was loved by an unremarkable woman. Their bond began before they met, and strengthened each year, each season, each day, until dark death took the man away from this earth. When doctors performed an autopsy, they found in his chest two hearts, one his, one hers.
On television Bianca would beautifully grieve, their children would beautifully grieve. The state would grieve its lost senator, also beautifully, and move on. What would Martha do? She had nowhere to move on to.
A seal—she was sure it was the same one she’d seen from her kayak—poked his head above the silent still water and looked at her with soulful black eyes. She stared back through tears. The seal wavered, then became a small boy like Ricky, with a dirty face and black hair, floating, smiling, eyes enormous and still beckoning.
Come with me, he said. Come swim with me.
Martha couldn’t swim. She stood and watched the seal boy.
Come with me!
She took a step, walked toward the water, stood at its very edge. The tide was coming in. If she stayed here, in a few hours she’d drown.
Come with me! We’ll swim to him.
If she swam with the seal boy, she’d see Eldon again. She’d get her heart back. Or get half of his and leave half of hers so they’d be linked together forever. She took another step; the icy ocean licked and swallowed her toes.
Come with me!
Another step, then another, up to her knees. The seal boy raised his head higher; his eyes glistening liquid glass.
That’s it, that’s it. Now you’re doing it. Good girl.
The water reached the tops of her thighs; already she’d started to shiver. Another step then another. “Eldon.”
Come with me…
Her chest hurt from the pressure of the cold. The boy became a seal again, tipped his nose up and disappeared.
“No.” She searched the water, shivering, panic rising, and anger. “Don’t leave. Don’t. Where will I go?”
Eldon had already left her once. Now again. She’d waited so long for him to come back. She’d waited so long for their time together. So many dozens of nights she’d sat home, hoping he’d call. So many dozens of days she’d barely left her computer, hoping he’d e-mail.
Martha turned and waded out of the water.
The seal resurfaced several yards away. Tell me a story.
Martha frowned at it. Boy or seal, she wished it would make up its mind. “No. Go away.”
Please, Martha. I need a story.
The large black eyes undid her. “I only have one story right now.”
Tell me.
She closed her eyes, reaching for the peace inside her, reaching for the beauty of what she and Eldon felt. “Once upon a time there was a man and woman who were best friends and lovers. The woman knew no one had ever loved her as much as he did, and the man knew the same about her.”
Aw, you’re not going to make this a kissy story, are you? Ricky Seal was disgusted.
She opened her eyes and scowled at him. “Okay, no kissing. One day the man was enchanted by a wicked witch who—”
What was his name? What was the girl’s name? Ricky Seal rose slightly out of the water and back down. What was the witch’s name?
“The boy’s name was…Elton. The girl’s name was…Marta. The witch’s name was…Politica. Politica enchanted Elton, then forced him to marry a horrible woman named…Binaca, who was always cold. Even in bed at night under fourteen comforters and fourteen blankets, she never warmed up, and she made Eldon cold as well. Marta was very sad, but she knew love would never die, and that underneath his enchantment, Elton still belonged to her.”
A suspicious look from Ricky Seal. Are you sure this isn’t going to be a kissy story?
“Yes.” Martha drew in breath, made herself calm down. “Marta hoped for a long time that Elton would find some way to break the enchantment. He visited her when he could, but he could never get free entirely. Eventually she stopped hoping and trusted instead. Twenty years went by.”
Twenty years? Ricky seal’s scorn made the water turn hot around him. He couldn’t get free in that long? He must not have tried.
Martha flinched. “He—”
Either that or he was a wimp.
“He was not a wimp, he was noble and strong.”
Then why couldn’t he get free? A hero would have been able to.
She took a step back and nearly unbalanced when a rock under her foot proved unsteady. “It…was a very strong spell.”
Oh come on. Why didn’t Marta do something to help him get free if she loved him?
The dull pain in Martha’s chest grew sharp. “She couldn’t fight the spell either.”
Why not? Ricky Seal made a wet sound of derision. Twenty years? She’s a wimp too. I like stories with heroes.
Martha stopped telling the story. She unwrapped her arms from around herself and took in a long breath.
“Boo!” she shouted as loudly as she dared.
A splash, then nothing but smooth water.
The seal was just a seal. She was wet and cold. And tired of everyone making it sound as if she’d wasted most of her life and happiness waiting for Eldon.
Dear Kevin,
I’m still at this camp that you and Patty picked out for me. It feels crappy, really, like you’ve shoved me into rehab when all I’m addicted to is trying to be happy. I don’t think you need to be institutionalized for that. Maybe I’m wrong. You seem to think I am.
Cindy
Baking class. Cindy walked into the camp kitchen feeling as if she were approaching a gallows. Or maybe an audition for American Idol, where humiliation would inevitably result. Except instead of Simon Cowell, she’d get Mistress Martha.
But…Hadn’t she resolved to dig out whatever fragments of internal strength she might manage to find? Yes, she had, and she would. That included trying to recapture her trust and faith in the positive, which would include trying to think better of Martha. Things would work out. She needed to stop measuring herself by other people’s standards. She needed to follow where her heart led her, as Patrick had told her that time they sat together and waited for hummingbirds.
She couldn’t help feeling wistful about Patrick, the way you felt when you had a really good exchange one day with the most popular boy in class and came away glowing, even knowing more than that was never meant to be.
Really, she was glad she’d spent those naughty hours with him. Kevin wasn’t the only one with secrets now. Maybe at some point when she and Kevin were at dinner, she could casually mention the hot night she’d spent with the sexy camp instructor. It would teach him to take her for granted.
Martha was already standing at the counter, waiting for class to begin, looking sadder than even her usual. She quickly looked away when she met Cindy’s eyes, which Cindy expected. Cindy would have to take the lead. She doubted Martha had ever taken the lead in anything. Even in ruining someone else’s marriage—her boyfriend had doubtless gotten her into it.
“Good morning.” She took her place next to Martha, determined not to be kept away by the conflict. “What are we baking today?”
She braced herself for Martha’s monosyllable reply. The class could, after all, in spite of her recommitment to thinking positively, turn out to be completely unbearable.
“I’m not sure.” Her voice was leaden but firm. “I did see boxes of baking cups, so I guess either muffins…or cupcakes.”
“Oh.” Cindy had not expected Martha to be so friendly. But now that she had been, Cindy needed to be that way too. “Well. I didn’t do very well last time, but this week I am going to kick some cupcake butt.”
Martha actually smiled, even though it was a sad smile, and Cindy felt even better. See what happened when you spread good and positive feelings around? People responded. She’d gotten trapped in negativity for far too long. This was her power, and it was back. Everything she needed to know she’d learned from her dog.
The instructor arrived, and yes, they were going to bake cupcakes, but first—oh no—more bread. Cindy started getting a headache, and it wasn’t until she realized that she was clenching her jaw as hard as she could that she was able to get it to ease at all. Flour, oats, a touch of whole wheat, sesame seeds, wheat germ, that much she could do. That far into the class she managed to keep her cheer and confidence going. It wasn’t until the dreaded moment when the yeast was to be proofed in sugar water that had to be exactly the right temperature that the veneer of her new attitude cracked. She immediately felt like crying. Just telling herself she was confident was not going to make it happen. Who was she kidding? Measuring water was enough to make her break down.
“I can’t do this.”
“Yes you can.” Martha’s gentle, steady voice made Cindy turn her head.
“I’ve never been able to do it, what makes you think this time could be any different?”
“You’re fighting yourself. You’re panicking. You must concentrate and become the yeast.”
Cindy’s sighed. For a moment she had actually dared to hope that Martha could help her. Unfortunately, when it wasn’t even in her power to mix ingredients the right way, transforming herself into a hungry, gassy little organism was even less probable. Maybe Martha was way off the deep end. Maybe her life and her true love cheater were figments of a schizophrenic mind. “I’m sorry?”
“Try becoming the yeast. Imagine yourself about to be mixed into water.” She got that weird dreamy look in her eyes and gestured as if she were tracing the horizon. “What is the best temperature for you to thrive in?”
“Uh…”
“I know it sounds crazy, but give it a try.” Martha seemed to come out of her trance. She blinked her permanently lowered lashes solemnly. “I think you’ll be surprised.”
Cindy narrowed her eyes. “Something is different about you. You’re talking more. You’re helping me, and you should be furious for the way I screamed at you.”
“Cindy.” Martha took one of her funny endless breaths. “We’ve all been tested here. We’ve all had to look our tragedies straight on, and we’ve all discovered things we didn’t expect to see. In short—all of us are ready to crack up.”
“You’re always so calm.”
“Calm is a state of mind you can choose, the same way hysteria is.”
“Not me.” Cindy laughed. “Calm and I are strangers.”
“If you are at peace inside yourself, then you can be calm.”
“Oh.” Cindy half expected her to say grasshopper at the end of every sentence. “Do you know if your friend is feeling better?”
“He died. Last night.”
Cindy felt a jolt of adrenaline and dismay. She stared at Martha, waiting for the tears, the regrets, the outpourings of devotion. But no. Only sad resignation, which tore at Cindy’s insides more than if Martha had been hysterical. “I’m so sorry. How did you hear?”
“I haven’t heard yet.”
Okay, now Cindy was getting really freaked out. Was this odd woman all there? Was she about to go nuts and shoot up the room and/or herself? “Then how do you know?”
“I felt it.” She tested her water with her little finger, stirred in her sugar and yeast.
Cindy was pretty much convinced now that Martha was a lunatic. Cindy had been with Kevin for twenty years, but was pretty sure he could drop dead and she wouldn’t have the slightest clue until she heard from the police. Or Patty. “Well, wow, you seem pretty…”
She was not enamored with the word calm anymore.
“Chances were pretty good he had brain damage from a stroke. Even if he had woken up, he might not have been the man I knew.” She frowned at her measuring cup, yeast already frothing and bubbling happily on top.
“I’m sorry.” She was surprised to find that she was sorry, and wondered whether the man’s wife couldn’t help a small feeling of relief mixed into her grief, that she’d finally gotten rid of a snake like that.
Martha turned her sad bulgy eyes on Cindy. “You don’t think I deserve to lose him?”
“I’m not sure I believe that’s the way the world works. I didn’t deserve what Kevin did to me.” The words rolled bitterly out of her mouth, and she stopped in absolute astonishment, having no idea she’d been about to say them.
“Has everyone’s yeast proofed yet?” Francine, the baking instructor, held up her hand and swept the room with her eyes. Everybody nodded except Cindy. She picked up her measuring cup and went over to the faucet, ran the water with her finger underneath it. How the hell was she supposed to know how this worked?
She thought about what Martha had said. What temperature would feel good to her if she were a piece of yeast, ready to dive in? What temperature did she like when she was tired and cold and needed a hot bath to bring her back to life?
The water turned slightly hotter, warm on her finger with only the tiniest bite. Exactly how Cindy liked her bathwater. She filled her measuring cup to the proper line and brought it back to the table, added sugar, cut open her yeast packet and dumped it in, waited a few minutes, couldn’t stand it when nothing happened, and turned away to think about Martha.
What would a woman like Martha do after losing her unhealthy fraction of a relationship that she called true love? “Where do you go from here?”
“I don’t know.”
“Maybe you should get a job telling stories. To children, or old people at libraries, or hospitals.”
Martha gave her a look as if she thought Cindy was crazy, which Cindy couldn’t help feeling was the reverse of how it should be. Though she couldn’t really blame Martha. The idea was pretty stupid.
Except then Martha’s eyes turned thoughtful. “I’ll think about it. Thank you.”
Cindy blinked. Had she just given someone good advice?
“Look.” Martha nudged her and pointed to Cindy’s measuring cup. On top of the warm water, the yeast was bubbling, frothing, fornicating furiously. “That will make a wonderful batch of rolls.”
Cindy put her hand to her cheeks, which had flushed hot. “Oh my gosh. Oh my gosh. Look at that!”
Martha helped her stir the precious fluid into the flour mixture, and though Cindy’s kneading stroke was still clumsy, the dough felt warm and alive under her fingers this time. While it rose, she attacked cupcakes, letting Martha guide her, urging her to cream the butter and sugar together more thoroughly, keeping her from beating too long after the dry ingredients were added to the wet. And while the results wouldn’t win any prizes, she was pretty sure they would be among the cakes served to the campers for dessert at night. She might not even be able to tell which were hers.
Everything got better. Her dough had risen as high as anyone else’s. She had trouble getting all her rolls the same size, but they even rose a second time, and baked to a brown crusty finish.
Cindy was quite sure the world had never looked, smelled, or been such a wonderful place. Even Martha, who could just as easily have hated her, seemed proud, and only betrayed a slight horror when Cindy gave her a hug of gratitude and sympathy.
She even asked the instructor if she could take one of the rolls back to her cabin to show Dinah and Ann, and was given permission. Cindy practically danced down the path from the kitchen to their cabin, and only stumbled once. She flew up the steps, yanked open the screen door and held a piece of bread up triumphantly. “Look! Look what I did!”
She laughed, knowing that she was being completely ridiculous getting this excited over something so simple. Something most women probably learned to do when they were ten.
Dinah had been sitting in the common room reading People magazine, but she got up and gamely celebrated. Even Ann emerged from her bedroom and grinned at Cindy’s achievement as if she’d just announced a major publishing contract or a lottery win. Ann didn’t even pull away all that much either when Cindy hugged her.
Martha joined them, back from baking class a little more slowly than Cindy’s jubilant pace, and they split the roll in the common room of their cabin, exclaiming as if they were dining in a restaurant in Paris.
Tears filled Cindy’s eyes. She could not be more grateful for these women and their nutty excitement over her bread.
A knock at the door. Four shouted “Come ins,” then odd and immediate silence when Patrick walked into their sanctum. His eyes picked Cindy’s out immediately, and for the first time since they’d been together, she saw the warmth in them, and felt herself flushing and feeling even giddier.
“Cindy.” He glanced around the room, and brought those beautiful gray eyes back to hers. “You have a visitor.”
Cindy had so much adrenaline going that she would not have thought any more was possible, but it was. At the same time, paradoxically, a huge stillness settled over her and apparently the rest of the room.
“Who…is it?”
Patrick’s smile held a hint of sadness. “It’s Kevin. He wants to see you.”