Here I am, bare feet sinking and scrunching into wet sand. I know I look good. I mean, who wouldn’t after working out two hours a day? My gypsy top skims toned abs, itty-bitty denim shorts make my tanned legs look even longer.
Here you are, walking ahead. My partner of twenty years. I pretend not to see your puffy eyes. I laugh too hard at your attempts to lighten the sombre mood. I still love you as much as we did back when we met as college students. But I have a gnawing feeling that your affection for me has taken a hit since everything happened.
You wander off across the rocks to round up Chevy, our mongrel who looks like a whippet crossed with a wolfhound. He’s in the water, paddling out towards a flotilla of gulls. Since he was a puppy he’s always been drawn to birds. Used to be a cute habit but now his once-hilarious prey drive means it can take half an hour to round him up after a trip to the beach.
Drowned out by the song of the surf, I watch you raise your fingers to whistle again. Retrieving our naughty boy to go home, well, now it will be your job completely. Yay for me.
An invisible lead cloak lands upon my shoulders, and even though I routinely deadlift my own bodyweight at the gym, I’m suddenly arse-first in the sand and not sure how I got here. I bring my gritty hands to my face and let out a strangled sigh. On impulse, I rub my face over and over again till the scraping sensation becomes heat and then I feel nothing.
After some time, you appear before me. I wonder where Chevy is but don’t have the energy to look. Your mouth is moving. I blink to reset. “Jen, did you fall? Your face is bleeding.” You brush your thumb over my chin and show me. A smear of crimson. My stomach jolts.
“I’m okay.” My voice sounds calmer than I feel.
We lock eyes for a time. We’ve been together for so long that a look conveys everything without the distortion of meaning by proxy words. You sink down beside me. Unusual for you, normally so fastidious about your clothes. But of course, this is not a usual day. Our fingers weave into each others and we become part of the ocean landscape.
Cameras will show what they want to show for tomorrow evening’s TV special on “Pink Collar Crime”. A couple attempting to make happy memories in their last evening together, through a filter of washed-out tones, a soundtrack that jags and drags on the heartstrings. Or maybe they’ll show me for what I really am – a conniving, manipulative accountant who embezzled her company of three million dollars to support her brother’s escalating gambling addiction. Not bad work for a middle-aged mother of two. For that part, they’ll provide edgy black-and-white shots, framing my round, snotty face after the guilty verdict was handed down four long years ago. I was twenty kilos heavier back then, before I used exercise as a way of numbing out from reality. I imagine this will be interpreted as “classic crocodile tears” by a sneering Gen Y reporter. As soon as the court case ended, my brother fled to Thailand. Haven’t heard from him since and doubt he has anything I want to hear anyway.
“Ignore them,” you say, after I am compelled to turn my head to the film crew straggling along the foreshore.
“I can’t.” I touch my chin which stings in the salty breeze, and wince. “They’re gonna throw me to the lions, Dave.”
“You can’t do anything about that now. You made a mistake, that’s all. It doesn’t matter what the public thinks.”
I lean into you and and we hug fiercely. I can’t speak now for fear of sobbing, something I’ve done far too much of. And what’s the point anyway? I’ve said everything I’ve wanted to say. I love you. Take care of the twins. We’ll start over when I’m back. And since I’ve used every synonym for sorry, countless times, even apologies have lost their significance. Words turned back into just sounds.
My mind replays the defence lawyer. You’re probably looking at three years but be positive. We’ll get a good deal because of the kids. A new ache throbs in my gut.
There’s a warm drizzle on my forehead and I feel your body gently shudder. Your arm loosens and drops away. “Don’t be sad,” I manage, not sure how sound bypassed my choked up throat. Without looking at you, I dab away the drop and slide it onto my tongue, tasting your sorrow. Salt tears, salt sea. I wish I could drink up all your tears. As for the twins, they’ll be crying too after I get sentenced tomorrow, but after a few months I’ll be all but forgotten. Best they forget, right? Ha ha. What I’m really scared about is by the time I return to the fold they won’t even know me. I probably won’t know myself either. Is there even a hope that we’ll all be able to pick up where we left off? I daren’t think those thoughts yet, so I summon every shred of strength to rise to my feet.
I force my lips into something resembling a smile. “Just getting my feet wet. Coming?”
You shake your head, mirror back my fake smile.
Purposefully stride into the lapping water, still warm from the dregs of summer. Quash the ever-present nagging voice that wants to rub my face in it, that this is the last time for a long time where I’m free. Water splashes and surges around my calves and for a few blissful minutes I almost forget that I am Jen Grey, aged 41, mother of twins and partner to Dave. Embezzler, criminal.
I am merely one of billions of people, my life worth no more or less than any of theirs. With every step out into the water, I become only a body for the water and the wind to slipstream around. With every breath, my energies merge and diverge from the elements. I stretch my arms skywards. Tell me what I should do. I’m not sure if I actually speak or if I’m transmitting schizophrenically.
I continue to walk over the sandbar and stumble, now waist-deep and with the waves trying their best to topple me like a skittle. I have played this game for as long as I remember. My mother maintains I swam before I walked. The deeper I go, the higher the odds I will be swept off my feet. The game – to beat fate.
As the sun disappears behind a wisp of cloud, a huge crest heaves towards and over me. No time to snatch breath, my legs are ripped from beneath me. For a few giddying moments, there is no up or down, no sound, barely light. Somehow I locate the seafloor and use instinct to push myself above the water and gulp in precious air. I laugh. And find I cannot stop. Not just endorphins, but a realisation.
Do what you’ve always done and just try to keep standing.
I feel like I’ve just woken up.
Back on shore, I stumble-run to you, nearly tripping over Chevy, and grab your outstretched hands. Words rush out. “I love you so much. We’re gonna be all right, I promise. I know what I need to do.”
You shake your head, meeting my enthusiasm with a puzzled smile. “You sure, baby?”
I don’t know where all this confidence has come from. But I’m not going to let it go now. Not for anything.
Here you are, walking ahead. My partner of twenty years. I pretend not to see your puffy eyes. I laugh too hard at your attempts to lighten the sombre mood. I still love you as much as we did back when we met as college students. But I have a gnawing feeling that your affection for me has taken a hit since everything happened.
You wander off across the rocks to round up Chevy, our mongrel who looks like a whippet crossed with a wolfhound. He’s in the water, paddling out towards a flotilla of gulls. Since he was a puppy he’s always been drawn to birds. Used to be a cute habit but now his once-hilarious prey drive means it can take half an hour to round him up after a trip to the beach.
Drowned out by the song of the surf, I watch you raise your fingers to whistle again. Retrieving our naughty boy to go home, well, now it will be your job completely. Yay for me.
An invisible lead cloak lands upon my shoulders, and even though I routinely deadlift my own bodyweight at the gym, I’m suddenly arse-first in the sand and not sure how I got here. I bring my gritty hands to my face and let out a strangled sigh. On impulse, I rub my face over and over again till the scraping sensation becomes heat and then I feel nothing.
After some time, you appear before me. I wonder where Chevy is but don’t have the energy to look. Your mouth is moving. I blink to reset. “Jen, did you fall? Your face is bleeding.” You brush your thumb over my chin and show me. A smear of crimson. My stomach jolts.
“I’m okay.” My voice sounds calmer than I feel.
We lock eyes for a time. We’ve been together for so long that a look conveys everything without the distortion of meaning by proxy words. You sink down beside me. Unusual for you, normally so fastidious about your clothes. But of course, this is not a usual day. Our fingers weave into each others and we become part of the ocean landscape.
Cameras will show what they want to show for tomorrow evening’s TV special on “Pink Collar Crime”. A couple attempting to make happy memories in their last evening together, through a filter of washed-out tones, a soundtrack that jags and drags on the heartstrings. Or maybe they’ll show me for what I really am – a conniving, manipulative accountant who embezzled her company of three million dollars to support her brother’s escalating gambling addiction. Not bad work for a middle-aged mother of two. For that part, they’ll provide edgy black-and-white shots, framing my round, snotty face after the guilty verdict was handed down four long years ago. I was twenty kilos heavier back then, before I used exercise as a way of numbing out from reality. I imagine this will be interpreted as “classic crocodile tears” by a sneering Gen Y reporter. As soon as the court case ended, my brother fled to Thailand. Haven’t heard from him since and doubt he has anything I want to hear anyway.
“Ignore them,” you say, after I am compelled to turn my head to the film crew straggling along the foreshore.
“I can’t.” I touch my chin which stings in the salty breeze, and wince. “They’re gonna throw me to the lions, Dave.”
“You can’t do anything about that now. You made a mistake, that’s all. It doesn’t matter what the public thinks.”
I lean into you and and we hug fiercely. I can’t speak now for fear of sobbing, something I’ve done far too much of. And what’s the point anyway? I’ve said everything I’ve wanted to say. I love you. Take care of the twins. We’ll start over when I’m back. And since I’ve used every synonym for sorry, countless times, even apologies have lost their significance. Words turned back into just sounds.
My mind replays the defence lawyer. You’re probably looking at three years but be positive. We’ll get a good deal because of the kids. A new ache throbs in my gut.
There’s a warm drizzle on my forehead and I feel your body gently shudder. Your arm loosens and drops away. “Don’t be sad,” I manage, not sure how sound bypassed my choked up throat. Without looking at you, I dab away the drop and slide it onto my tongue, tasting your sorrow. Salt tears, salt sea. I wish I could drink up all your tears. As for the twins, they’ll be crying too after I get sentenced tomorrow, but after a few months I’ll be all but forgotten. Best they forget, right? Ha ha. What I’m really scared about is by the time I return to the fold they won’t even know me. I probably won’t know myself either. Is there even a hope that we’ll all be able to pick up where we left off? I daren’t think those thoughts yet, so I summon every shred of strength to rise to my feet.
I force my lips into something resembling a smile. “Just getting my feet wet. Coming?”
You shake your head, mirror back my fake smile.
Purposefully stride into the lapping water, still warm from the dregs of summer. Quash the ever-present nagging voice that wants to rub my face in it, that this is the last time for a long time where I’m free. Water splashes and surges around my calves and for a few blissful minutes I almost forget that I am Jen Grey, aged 41, mother of twins and partner to Dave. Embezzler, criminal.
I am merely one of billions of people, my life worth no more or less than any of theirs. With every step out into the water, I become only a body for the water and the wind to slipstream around. With every breath, my energies merge and diverge from the elements. I stretch my arms skywards. Tell me what I should do. I’m not sure if I actually speak or if I’m transmitting schizophrenically.
I continue to walk over the sandbar and stumble, now waist-deep and with the waves trying their best to topple me like a skittle. I have played this game for as long as I remember. My mother maintains I swam before I walked. The deeper I go, the higher the odds I will be swept off my feet. The game – to beat fate.
As the sun disappears behind a wisp of cloud, a huge crest heaves towards and over me. No time to snatch breath, my legs are ripped from beneath me. For a few giddying moments, there is no up or down, no sound, barely light. Somehow I locate the seafloor and use instinct to push myself above the water and gulp in precious air. I laugh. And find I cannot stop. Not just endorphins, but a realisation.
Do what you’ve always done and just try to keep standing.
I feel like I’ve just woken up.
Back on shore, I stumble-run to you, nearly tripping over Chevy, and grab your outstretched hands. Words rush out. “I love you so much. We’re gonna be all right, I promise. I know what I need to do.”
You shake your head, meeting my enthusiasm with a puzzled smile. “You sure, baby?”
I don’t know where all this confidence has come from. But I’m not going to let it go now. Not for anything.