When I’m Twenty-Six
When I’m Twenty-Six
Ayear after the most devastating loss imaginable, I fly Patrick and his best friend from high school, RobBob, out to Boston, and we drive almost wordlessly to Cape Cod and to the house I’ve rented.
The house is so cute and quintessential Cape Cod, all white with its gray shingles, gabled roof, and shuttered windows.
It’s such a cozy home. This East Coast place has got to be healing.
He didn’t ask for us, but Patrick needs his best friends.
“We’re in seafood territory, I think, yes?” RobBob raises his hand and cheers. “And that means a good dinner, right? Mussels and lobster from the docks? I think Patrick has stopped with his fabricated allergies, yes? But we’ll have a steak in case he sticks to his claim.”
We unload, but Patrick only gives a half-hearted smile when he walks his bags to his room. My best friend is so not himself. So despondent.
“Do you want to drive back to town with him to get the rest of what we need?” I ask RobBob. I can tell he is uncomfortable, being around our friend who is not the person he’s used to seeing. “I’ll see what I can do while you’re gone.”
“Sure.” He grabs the car keys and starts to the front door, but turns back. “I feel so useless,” he says as he runs a frustrated hand through his thick hair. “It’s impossible to help him. There’s nothing to do. There’s nothing to say.”
I nod. “No. There’s not.”
We stand there in the hallway, both filled with guilt, and frustration, and devastation. Neither of knows how to react when Patrick shows up, all pretending to be happy to go out. Everything feels fake. But RobBob takes him out like it’s just a normal trip to the market.
After I grab the shovel I left out before my guests’ arrival, I make my way down to the water, roll up my pants, and strip off my shoes and socks.
I walk the shore and dig for a bit, excitedly finding some clams. Those little bubbles that pop up through the sand when you’ve hit the right spot are pretty fun.
When they get back, RobBob yells from the deck, “Piles of seafood secured! ”
“Patrick! Get down here!” I demand.
Patrick walks slowly down to the beach to meet me.
“What, Diana?” He is annoyed
I march out of the water and grab him by his shoulders. “We’re clamming! I got us licenses to dig for clams, so we get to stomp around and find clams.”
“I don’t know what that means, but okay.” He’s confused when I hand him a shovel. “What? I don’t know what to do.”
I know he means this in more ways than one.
But I make him half undress and then wave him into the wet sand. “Plod around by the shore and look for bubbles. Then dig just ahead and scoop up clams.” I show him the bucket with my findings. “Dig and scoop, okay? We’re clamming.”
“Okay. We’re clamming.”
So, he and I trudge through sand and dig and scoop. At first, he just swears when there’s nothing, but then he yelps, “I got one!” After that, every few minutes, I hear, “Woo-hoo, another one!”
It’s like listening to a kid finding Easter eggs.
“Isn’t this the best?” I yell out over the sound of the waves.
Patrick’s smile is the greatest. “It really is.”
We are smelly, and wet, and sandy beyond reason, and we both laugh when we emerge from the sea.
“You have to post about this,” he demands while breathless and all smiles. “People need to clam.”
I’ve taken video because this was all so sweet, but it’s new for him to ask me to post, so I raise my phone again.
He actually makes a show of waving at the camera and hollering about how fun clamming is.
There’s no doubt that my followers will love this content because Patrick is more than endearing, and maybe we’ll encourage more people to try foods they think they wouldn’t like.
After we wash off ourselves and the clams in the outdoor shower and change into dry clothes, I start dinner. A New England boil—complete with potatoes, corn, and a whole pile of fresh herbs and garlic—is always good for the soul.
We all devour the pots of food I boiled up, and we fill up a garbage bag with shells.
“That fresh bread you found in town was made for dunking,” I say.
RobBob nods. “I am always good for finding a good dunk. And with that? I am off to bed!”
Patrick snags us a few beers from the fridge. “Sit outside? Maybe on the dock?”
“Sure.”
We take the short boardwalk over the sand and cozy up with our feet dangling over the water.
“That was nice,” he says. “Today. Tonight. I needed it.”
“Good.” I take a swig from the bottle. “How are you? How is Katrina?”
“Shitty. And shitty,” he says with a mild, sad laugh. “I don’t know that we’ll survive this. Most relationships don’t.”
He’s not wrong. Losing a child is often not survivable, even for those with the strongest relationship.
I wish I had a closer connection to Katrina because maybe I could help.
But I really don’t know her that well. I only know and adore her mostly through Patrick’s love for her.
The way he’s touted her kindness, her gentle soul.
Quiet and never outspoken. Modest and introverted.
She’s the opposite of him in so many ways and the ideal complement to him.
“It was fucking awful,” he says. “I couldn’t have imagined anything more painful. Watching her have to go through labor, push, deliver? Seeing someone you love in that kind of anguish isn’t something I’d wish on anyone. And I was helpless because there was nothing I could do to make it any easier.”
“But you were there. You stayed through it with her. And it was a goddamn nightmare for you too.”
“I’m not sure we’ll ever recover.”
When I awake the next morning to the smell of coffee, it’s all sorts of heaven, as RobBob has clearly been up for a while, and not only has he brewed good coffee, but he has chopped veggies, cheeses, and meats.
“I’m your omelet king!” He’s got two omelet pans at the ready.
“You are! I’m down for a Western with sausage.”
I scoop sugar into my coffee, add some creamer, and stir.
“This is all very nice, but you’re as worried as I am, right?”
“Maybe.” He fusses over the veggies, which are cut precisely. “Oh, I can add in your beloved pepperoncini, yes?”
“Of course.” I touch my hand to his. “Thank you.”
“Always.” He nods.
I know his heart is breaking, as is mine, but he’s just not one to talk about it. He does, however, lift up a packet of Knorr hollandaise. “Look, I’m not going to make it from scratch, but hollandaise on omelets is yummy as fuck, right?”
I laugh. “It is yummy as fuck.”
Moments later, Patrick lumbers into the kitchen. He looks so tired and drained.
“And for you, Sir Patrick? Omelet-wise?” RobBob asks as he does a ceremonious and fun bow. “I’m guessing all the meats and cheeses? No veggies?”
Patrick nods and smiles weakly. “Sure. That sounds nice. Thank you.”
“Stuff in a bunch of veggies,” I order in a whisper. “With cheese? He’ll never know.”
RobBob frowns and whispers, “I’m not sure what we have.”
“Find something,” I whisper-shout. “There’s a ton of stuff in the fridge. You guys just don’t like to see healthy things.”
Even though we move only feet away to the living room, the wild sounds from the kitchen are a lot. Banging and such.
Our mutual friend is an omelet genius because I see diced zucchini, wilted spinach, asparagus, and tomatoes mixed in with Patrick’s meaty omelet.
My boy needs protein and nutrients of any kind, whether he likes it or not.
Dousing any meal in hollandaise, homemade or not, always makes it easy to swallow, and I’m pleased to see Patrick eating another full meal.
He takes off with his coffee to settle on the deck.
I watch as the wind blows his hair back while he casts his gaze over the ocean.
I know he’s trying to forget, but also not wanting to forget.
There’s got to be a torturous struggle, in which you hold on to a child and yet also need to let them go.
Not forever, just let them go for now maybe?
Hope like hell that you’ll see them later?
Fuck, I don’t know.
RobBob shakes his head. “He’s not okay. I get it, but I don’t know what to do. I’ve known him since we were ten years old, and it’s a nightmare to see him like this. I’ve tried to talk to him. I know nothing about losing a child. A baby. Especially not in the horrific way they did.”
He suddenly hurls the omelet pan into the sink, shattering the few dishes in there, and I startle at the unexpected noise, taken aback, as RobBob is always so composed.
After we both stand still for a time, gathering our bearings, I tap his arm. “I think we simply have to be okay with sitting with him in his pain. And our pain, as his friends. Our hurt doesn’t compare, but we get to feel really sad too.”
“I guess there’s no other alternative.” RobBob grabs a dish towel.
“No. There’s not,” I agree.
We use dish gloves, paper towels, trash bags, and patience, and we clean up the mess, trying to make it like nothing ever happened.
“Can you not break anything again?” I ask. “This is a nightmare to clean up.”
“Everything is a nightmare right now,” he replies as he hauls a trash bag toward the garage. “Can you just go check on Patrick? He’s so fucked up.”
“Like more fucked up than the both of us are because of him being fucked up?” I ask.
He half laughs. “Of course.”
“I heard him on the deck stairs, so he’s probably on the beach.”
I traipse to the shoreline. Patrick is all chilling with a blanket in one of the chairs I set out, and I join him in the luxurious lounger.
“This view is crazy beautiful,” he says, and I agree.
We take in the sky, the ocean, the beach, the sounds. It’s so corny, but listening to waves crash and gulls cry is a timeless soother.
“Thank you for this trip. I needed to be in a different place for a bit.”
I roll into him and lift his arm around me. “Anytime. I love you, my friend. Always and forever.”
“And I love you too.”
Patrick suddenly sets his hand on the back of my neck and turns my mouth to his.
He pulls me in and kisses me, and I have no idea what to do, how to react, because it’s so insane.
It’s a kiss that is beyond unexpected, and it’s one that makes me immediately feel a thousand things.
And nothing positive. Devastated. Betrayed. Physically sick.
We’ve hugged and held each other so sweetly and innocently thousands of times. But this is someone who has always been just a friend. A brother. From the moment I met him. Not someone with whom I’ve shared even a second of sexual tension. Not once.
And now he’s doing this? Is he ruining everything? But do I even get to feel shaken, given his current state?
Firmly, I push against him. And I’m shaking. “No, Patrick. No, what is—”
He scrambles from the lounge chair and backs away slowly, almost tripping over his own feet, until he looks at me with a devastated mix of alarm, sadness, and pain. He’s had enough goddamn pain to last a lifetime.
My body is shaking, every part of me unnerved.
Those few seconds just changed everything. And we both know it.
“Fuck, Diana. I’m so sorry. Oh God, what have I done?” He immediately runs through the sand to put as much distance as he can between us.
My head is spinning. This kind of intimacy was never an issue. Nor one that we’d even been secretly harboring, which makes this moment even worse, and more confusing, and also leaves us both at a loss for how to react.
Patrick is navigating trauma territory that I can only imagine, so even in my stunned state, I know I will forgive this horrible mistake. It will take some time—and I’ll have to stop shaking first—but I’ll get over it pretty quickly. At least, that’s my hope.
Patrick, however, may not. And I can’t let that happen.
It takes me a minute to focus, but then I tear after him through the wet, sandy beach until I reach him.
“It’s okay. We’ll be okay,” I say. “It’s nothing.”
My words may be true, but they can’t erase that moment. How, without meaning to, he irrevocably changed everything.
Dammit.
Patrick loops his arms around my back and looks me in the eye. Then he just shakes his head. He’s so clearly furious and disgusted with himself, and I’m too stupefied to move. To stop our mutual panic. Then he hugs me tightly before he turns away.
His silhouette is all that is left as he runs.
It feels like ages before I compose myself to finally fly after him and cry out, trying to give him mercy, “It was a mistake! Just a stupid mistake.”
But he doesn’t stop leaving me. Us.
I dig my heels into the wet sand and scream, “A fucking mistake! Just stop, okay? Just fucking stop! Come back to me.”
But I’ve lost sight of him.
I have no idea that he will be out of my life for years.