39. Caleb #2
We made a detour stop along the way at the greenhouse to fashion two small bouquets of freshly cut forget-me-nots, a flower we could set adrift to compost or become food for a sea creature.
I text Marnie to check in and let her know that I might be out later than expected, and she replies minutes later.
Arnie
No problem. Take your time.
Three dots pop up, then disappear. I hold my breath waiting for her message.
Arnie
Wanna stay over at my place tonight?
Me
If I ever say no to that question, I want you to smack the sense back into me
*Arnie laughed at your message*
Arnie
I’ll grab Berry and pack you an overnight bag
Me
Thank you. I’ll be there as soon as I can
There’s something for you on the counter. See you tonight
Arnie
<3
Now my father and I are sitting across from each other at the bow in emotional silence, the only sounds around us are the waves lapping against the sides of the boat and the seagulls overhead.
There’s a tension and heaviness in my father’s shoulders that I haven’t seen in a long time, like the culmination of stress has finally caught up with him. Despite all the bombshells he’s dropped on me today that were previously off-limits to discuss, I’m holding it together surprisingly well.
Which is a good thing, because my father is not.
His expression conveys his remorse—a pain so deep that the next gust of wind could rip the mask away and reveal the broken, devastated man beneath.
It tugs at my heartstrings, because I’ve spent so long being angry with him that I failed to consider that we both lost someone.
He reaches into the bag beside him and gently pulls out my mother’s urn. Under the glow of the sun, the glaze coating shines brightly, illuminating the hand-painted flowers even more against the soft white background.
My father sets the urn on the cushion between us and opens the lid with a shaky hand.
“There will never be a perfect time to do this. Time doesn’t always heal all wounds. There’s not enough time in the universe to heal the hole she left.” He looks up at me with teary eyes. “But love can. Family can.”
My composed fa?ade threatens to slip at his words, and I blink back a fresh wave of tears now on the verge of falling. “I’m ready,” I confirm.
We take turns scattering handfuls of ashes into the water, letting the soft breeze gather up what lingers on the surface and spread it out into an array of unique ripples. I thought it might feel like I was mourning my mother again by letting go of the last physical piece of her.
Instead, it feels cathartic. Cleansing.
Because it’s not the last piece of her. Every time I visit the lighthouse or take the boat out or walk in the waters of the island, she will be there with me. Even more so than before, and that knowledge gives me comfort.
When the last of the ashes blend enough with the waves that only blue-green water remains, we reach for our small bouquets, exchanging silent words.
I place mine down first and give it a gentle nudge toward the open ocean.
I turn back to face my father, still holding his bouquet with tears cascading down his cheeks.
“I love you, Celine,” he whispers, placing a gentle kiss to the top of the flowers before leaning over the side of the boat and laying them down in the waters below. “I miss you every day.”
We sit there watching the flowers float away in pursuit of the horizon for what feels like forever before I catch him looking at me, studying me. His expression is earnest. “I promise to do better by you, Caleb.”
My father is a very proud man. He’s never been one to ask for help or admit that he even needed help. The fact that he is voicing this to me and being so vulnerable is already a step in the right direction. It’s refreshing to see that he is working so hard to better himself.
“One other thing,” he begins.
I raise an eyebrow, beckoning him to continue.
“I know you don’t want to talk about coming to work for the family business.” His voice is stern. Blunt. “But now I want to talk about it.”
Alarm bells go off in my head. After all the progress we made today, he wants to undo all of it?
His hardened features ease as he continues. “That small business you started—tell me about it.”
I proceed cautiously, unsure which direction this conversation will take. “It started out as a hobby,” I admit, not missing the way he flinches at my words, “as a way to feel closer to Mom. She taught me everything I know, and it felt like I was keeping her memory alive.”
His eyes fall, as if he’s just recalled the memory of what he said to me at our dinner last month. “I had no idea.” The realization is written across his face. Like he might finally understand the gravity of his words.
I push forward. “I’ve been operating a small business for the last eight years. Pretty much since I graduated from high school. It kind of took off one summer through word of mouth.”
“And you’re . . . happy? Doing that?”
“It brings me a lot of joy, yes, but I never treated it as anything other than a side business.”
“Would you pursue it long-term if you could?”
“Yes,” I confess. “I’ve been researching schools that offer landscape contracting courses, and I found a two-year program through UMass Amherst. They have an online curriculum where I can take classes as live lectures in the evenings after work or through prerecorded videos to fit it around my work schedule. ”
My chest feels lighter with the admission.
“Landscape contracting.” He sits back, mulling it over in his head. “That could be a great alternative to the expansion I’m working on. And a great way to honor your mother, too.”
Truthfully, it’s something I never considered. I thought in order to pursue my own dreams and passions, I had to make a clean break from my father and the family business. Perhaps this offers a solution. A compromise.
“Let me think about it, okay?”
This certainly isn’t something I want to rush into given how strained our relationship was mere hours ago.
He puts his hand back on my shoulder. “Take all the time you need. I love you, Caleb.”
I haven’t heard those words in so long. I know that deep down my father has always loved me but thinking it and hearing him say it aloud are two completely different things.
I’m not prepared for the wave of emotion that crashes over me, and I find myself responding with the same words that I haven’t spoken in equally as long.
“I love you, too, Dad.” I offer a small, tentative smile. “Maybe we could try a do-over of that dinner sometime?”
He gives my shoulder a light squeeze. “I’d like that.”
Marnie is sitting on the couch with Berry when I get to her cottage. She’s cozied up under a large fleece blanket, propped up against a pillow, book in hand, Berry’s head on her lap.
A cool breeze drifts through the window, pushing the vanilla scent of her candle throughout the room.
She notices me as soon as I am through the door, closing her book and turning to face me. Her eyes hold a thousand questions, but thankfully she doesn’t start firing them off at me the way I know she wants to.
Instead, she pulls the blanket aside and holds her arms open. I immediately move towards her and lay face down, settling between her legs. My arms snake around her waist and I rest my head on her stomach.
She swings the blanket to cover both of us and leaves enough room for Berry to wedge herself beside our legs.
Berry sinks into the cushion and takes a long inhale, releasing an even longer exhale with an accompanying groan, as if she shared a fraction of the weight from our days. She does this often, like she’s trying to be there for me in solidarity. If I have a bad day, she has a bad day.
Warm, delicate hands find their way into my hair and massage gentle circles on my scalp, and I melt beneath Marnie’s touch. She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t have to. This is enough.
I give her body a small squeeze as I sink into her, savoring the comfort, and silently thanking her for not asking. For letting me decompress before I unpack my emotionally draining day.
Her hands alternate between my scalp and my back, and my eyelids become heavier as I fall into a blissful slumber.