chapter 19 | house no. 13 | cruise

Early May, 2009

I’ve never flown across the ocean. The space beneath me is so . . . big. And then there are just waves and waves, so small that they look like tiny wrinkles on a giant’s face. I should be sleeping like the strange couple beside me, snoring softly over the hiss of the over-processed air, but I can’t settle. Instead I press my face to the window and search for boats in the early morning light. I’m like a kid. I want to comment on everything, but John’s not here to talk to. It’s just me and a couple of heavy-breathing, sleep-masked strangers crammed in with several hundred other strangers. That, combined with the fact that I had to go to the bathroom an hour ago but haven’t gone because I don’t want to disturb the sleepers, makes me one wiggly woman.

I still can’t believe that the kids have done this for me. Well, I can because I’m here, but I can’t believe that they would take the initiative and make it happen. It’s likely that at least half the money came from my own bank account—John’s bank account—but I don’t care. I’m here, going there, and that’s what counts. I just wish John were here to share it with me.

There was a moment, as I was passing through security earlier today, that I thought I saw someone—someone who looked like him. He was far off in the distance, and when I looked again the man was gone. My brain does stuff like that when things are going well, just to remind me of my secrets—a little background nudge to stay on my guard. I can’t let myself enjoy something this frivolous, something solely for me. Mrs. Fielding at the travel agency did nothing to help my paranoia. And I’m sure Fielding is behind the wheel of the black car that haunts my street wherever I live. But crossing the Atlantic to stalk me, a forty-something widow, is a step that even hell-born Frank Fielding is unlikely to take. I haven’t actually interacted with the thug in years.

Other than that one time . . .

No. I don’t want to think about Fielding today. Fielding is in the past—in another time and place. I look out the window and wait for the land to appear out of the waves.

As we land in Venice, the lagoon and the island stretch to the left of the plane, looking solid and surreal. I gather my one suitcase, and follow the rest of the sheep through customs. There is a shuttle waiting to take me to the ship. I walk up to the short, fifty-something Italian fellow, and he takes my bag and gestures for me to hop on. It’s very hot, very noisy, and the air smells of exhaust. I can’t see the lagoon from my seat until we pull up to the port.

I follow, follow, follow, surrender my passport to the cruise check-in people, follow again along a gangway, and suddenly I’m in my room. It’s beautiful, all bright purples and reds with dark furniture. The sun shines brightly in from the balcony. A nice young man from the Philippines introduces himself as Joselito, my room attendant. He shows me the coffee maker, points out the lifejackets, explains the seating arrangements in the main dining hall, and asks me if I need anything. I say no, thank you, and he smiles.

“The ship will be departing in two hours, ma’am. The buffet is open, and there’s music on the pool deck if you’d care to join. Your bag should be delivered by the time we sail.” He points to the phone. “If you need assistance, just dial 3 and I’ll answer. Enjoy your trip, Mrs. Michaels,” he says, and then closes the door, leaving me in the hushed silence of my stateroom.

I stand in the middle of the room, shell-shocked.

I am in Venice. On a cruise ship. Alone.

I am going to see the Greek Islands.

John is not here.

I am alone.

I drop my purse on the floor and stand and stand and stand, until exhaustion takes over and tells me I need to sit. Then I grab the bottle of water from the counter and step over the small lip onto the balcony. I collapse on the deck chair, sipping water as my thoughts whirl and Venice watches me through the glass railing.

I am in Venice. John is not here. I am alone.

And it’s okay.

Venice is everything the tour guides said it would be, although I know I have yet to see its heart. It’s hot, smelly, damp, and beautiful. Ornate stone buildings rise over the ugly, flat buildings of the port. People, boats, and seagulls flow around and over. A dull roar of sounds, most of which I suspect comes from this boat, assaults my ears, but it’s okay. In fact it’s more than okay. It’s good. The sights, the sounds, even the light is different. New.

I don’t know a single soul on this ship. I don’t know anything about this place. I’m anonymous and alone. But in this crazy, different place, I can escape my past. Here on the Mediterranean, I can almost feel safe.

I doze, sitting there on my warm balcony, too tired to move to my bed, and too comfortable to care.

I awake to the ding-dong of the intercom. “Good afternoon, Ladies and Gentlemen, and welcome to Athenian Cruiseline’s Seastar,” says a deep voice with a slight accent. “This is your captain, Gregorio Vallante, speaking. We’ll be departing shortly for an evening at sea, and I’d like to now invite you to head to your stations for our mandatory life-boat drill. After that, you’re welcome to dine in any of our fine dining establishments, join us for our opening night show in the Seastar’s own Diamond theatre, or just relax in your room and enjoy the view. I’d like to thank you for choosing Athenian Cruiseline, and wish you a pleasant trip.”

I sigh, the warmth and the smells of the city holding me to my chair. I could stay here for the whole trip. No uncomfortable social situations, no too-energetic people pushing activities. But if this drill is mandatory, I should be a sheep and go. I drag my jet-lagged self back over the threshold and grab my ugly, orange life vest as the announcement drones in several vaguely recognizable languages, and then the alarm tone goes off, calling me to my life raft station—as if the ship alone could save me.

The ballroom is full of happy, loud strangers. I sign in at my station—6B—and have a seat beside a couple that personifies the Texan tourist to a ‘T.’ A tall, beefy, loud man with red cheeks, and an overly made-up, fake blond with too-tight jeans and too-high heels. They are louder than loud and are completely confused about how to do up the buckles of their life jackets. The poor twenty-something Croatian girl helping them, Vanna by her nametag, looks like she’s about to explode.

I look around and consider moving, but the place is so packed there’s nowhere to go. A sea of unknown faces and orange vests boils and changes in front of me. I’m positive they are all couples, and I am the lone single—the lone widow in the group. I haven’t been single since the eighties, before John. I’m too young to be a widow. How many women are widowed at forty-five? Most of the be-jacketed minions in the room are in their sixties or older, and I sincerely doubt that any of them are widowed. A few families, a few honeymooners, maybe a few couples my age, a group of forty-something men wearing business suits by the windows, and other than that, all oldies. I can’t wait to escape back to the comfort of my room because I just don’t fit here.

I sit, and realize that I’m being strangled by a life jacket that my husband didn’t have. A life jacket could have saved him, and maybe we’d be sitting here together, complaining about the heat like the Texans beside me. Why did we never travel together? And more importantly, where was his life jacket when he needed it? Where? Under his bloody seat, that’s where. I’ve seen the picture in my mind a thousand times. John, fighting to get out of his seatbelt. John, fighting to free himself. John, taking his last breath, alone . . .

When the “all clear” finally comes, I push past all the obnoxious tourists and little old ladies and flee to my room.

What were the children thinking? What was I thinking? I’m on a boat! A fucking boat! I tear the life jacket off and slam it on the floor in disgust. It seems harmless enough lying on the colorful floor, all orange, blocky, and uncomfortable, but that piece of orange might have saved my husband from death and me from this choking uncertainty. The excitement of newness has vanished. I don’t want to be here, surrounded by reminders of him. I don’t want to see the water, the love in the eyes of the elderly couples, the beauty of the ship. Even the overwhelming urge to joke at the expense of the florid Texan . . . all of these things bring memories of John to the surface of an already perilous façade.

This is crazy. A boat. Me. Not John.

I need to run. I need to get off. My suitcases are sitting in the room, beside the bed, and I think of them and the sprawled life vest and I know I could just grab them and go before the boat leaves.

But that would be giving up.

I don’t give up. I’ve shovelled vomit at 2 a.m. in a power outage. I’ve moved across the country while pregnant and lugging two kids.

I can’t give up.

I just got here. And if my kids had the gumption to buy these tickets, I should at least have the intestinal fortitude to see this through.

I give the life jacket a kick, just to show it I’m in control, and then step out on to the balcony. I see that I’ve been fighting with myself over nothing because we’re already on our way. The soft rusts and pinks of Venice are already sliding by; somehow we’ve left the dock without even a whisper. It’s beautiful out there, the architecture, the milling tourists, the black habits of the nuns. Like a fairy tale of history in sunlit miniature.

And then, once more, it hits me hard.

I wish John were here.

I wish John were here.

I. Wish. John. Were. Here.