5. Natalie
Natalie
I’m falling through the dark, my mouth wide open, eliciting a silent scream.
I can’t see where I am in the faded blackness and I’m unable to grab hold of anything to stop my fall.
Unfortunately, falling is something I’m accustomed to.
Darkness visits me when I’m spiraling, and the view I see now is one I’ve gotten used to.
There’s no way to fully see where I am or where I’m going, but somehow I know in my sleepy mind that I am shooting toward the future while also aiming for the past. Fear grips me. I can’t stop the dream, can’t awaken myself, and even in my nightmare I wish I had Luke to hold me.
He always held me when I dreamed.
The sound of people talking nearby leads me to search for the source, but every wall I turn around is an empty corner in an old broken house. The walls lean in like they’ll collapse any minute, and as the voices continue, I find my feet and start to run, desperate to find who they belong to.
Suddenly, the scene changes. I’m outside on a mountain.
The forest spreads up into the black sky, dark clouds pouring rain into my eyes and open mouth.
I lie on the wet, dead leaves, unable to move but desperately trying.
The black fog slithers across the ground and creeps over my body, slowly pulling me into the dark until I’m completely covered and I can no longer see beyond the blackness.
Then the crying starts. I used to think it was mine, but after the same dream has haunted me for years, I’ve come to find I’ll never learn the source of the baby’s cries. Because no matter how hard I fight to release myself and chase it, I’m stuck.
After falling some more through a hole for hours after the fog pressed me deep into the ground, I wake drenched in sweat. I pull at my damp T-shirt, swinging my legs to the floor and sitting on the side of the bed, breathing heavily.
I despise this dream.
Like waiting for rain clouds to drop bountiful rain in a desert, attempting to sleep again would be pointless.
So I dig through my suitcase in hopes of passing a little time at the bar until I’m sleepy enough to try going back to bed.
It’s close to midnight; hopefully I’ll be tired enough soon. I still have to drive in the morning.
I dress in khaki shorts and a flowing pink button-down shirt, leaving the collar and top two buttons undone.
My fingers work quickly to braid my damp hair over one shoulder, then I slip on a pair of gold sandals with a little heel.
I turn toward the floor-length mirror where I find my ensemble to be slightly wrinkled but put together enough to be cute.
I like to wear colorful clothes; it’s my way of living contrary to how I feel on the inside. My way of counteracting the darkness.
And maybe, if I’m being honest with myself, it’s also my way of hiding behind a facade of happiness and bliss.
No one at the country club would expect me, a bubbly blonde girl wearing neon pink and shiny accessories, to be battling for her life.
I might look calm and collected on the surface, but underneath I’m thrashing my feet in the water, just waiting for the moment I’ll lose all my strength and sink.
In the mirror now, I see myself the way I’ve always seen me: as someone who hides her true self. Behind all the fun colors and expensive outfits, I’m just a girl struggling in every part of her life.
I blink at my reflection. And, as I learned in therapy a very long time ago, I wave the back of my hand at the mirror to shoo away the negative thoughts.
It doesn’t work.
I grab my key card and head toward the lobby. In only a few steps, I’m at the bar. Country music plays on the speakers, and the hum of conversation pulsates from every corner.
It’s not easy to hear the ocean waves with the music echoing through the room, but I see them in the light of the moon.
The white glow hits the water, making it sparkle and undulate beneath a dark sky.
I’ve always loved the ocean. But I’ll soon be switching back to the mountain views I grew up with.
I spot an empty stool at the end of the counter, near an open door that leads to the patio outside and the beach beyond that. With shaking hands, I take a seat.
The bartender, a young guy with stylishly messy dark hair, nods at me as I sit. I rest my elbows on the countertop and stare out at the water.
“What can I get you?” His voice interrupts my thoughts, and I turn toward his boyish grin.
“Um …” I could ask for a fruity beach drink from the menu or a sophisticated glass of wine, which would be simple. But today’s events have put me on edge. And besides, I’ll be sleeping it off after this.
I look up at him and smile weakly. The order rolls off my tongue with the ease of someone who’s spent her fair share of nights at a bar. “Jack on the rocks.”
“You got it. You want to close out or start a tab?”
This gives me pause, a niggling in my chest telling me to not leave my tab open.
“Let’s start a tab. Just in case.” I hand him my driver’s license.
He takes it, and as soon as he does I feel a stirring in my gut like my world is built on shifting tectonic plates. I shouldn’t drink to cope with my mess, but the promised numbing sensation I know it will bring pulls at me.
Mentally, I shoo away the unease.
As the bartender turns away to make my drink, I notice a woman at the other end of the bar wearing a pool cover-up. It looks to be made of a thin charmeuse fabric, but the quality of the material isn’t what catches my eye. It’s the print.
Small white flowers in the shape of bells cover the loose-fitting garment.
Green stems and leaves fill the gaps between the beautiful little flowers.
It reminds me of a time in my childhood when I used to pick flowers with my sister.
Lilies of the valley, they’re called. They used to grow all over our backyard and down the side of our house, usually just a little past the tree line.
They’re also the flower that inspired the name of my photography business: NataLily Studios.
“There you go,” says the bartender. He sets my glass down on a square napkin and slides it toward me.
I smile at him. “Thank you.”
“You just passing through?” he asks, wiping a white dish towel over his hands. When he’s done, he leans a hand against the bar.
I lift the glass, bringing the amber liquid to my lips, and take a small sip. The liquor burns as it goes down, the ice-cold drink heating my throat until the fire travels all the way through my chest and into my stomach. I wince.
“Yup,” I reply. “Just passing through.”
“You alone?”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Should I be telling you one way or the other?”
He raises his hands in a harmless show of surrender. “Sorry. Just making conversation. We get a lot of locals here, but also a lot of tourists. I was going to offer you some ideas on the local attractions. But”—he runs a hand through his straight dark hair—“I can tell you don’t prefer to talk.”
I take another long pull, enjoying the bite and knowing tonight I’ll be stripped of everything—pain, memories, guilt, dreams. At least until I wake tomorrow.
The guy starts to walk away, but I call out to him. “Why did you ask if I was alone? You want to be a personal tour guide or something?” I scoff, then take another burning sip, the alcohol already making me bold.
“No,” he says, wiping the counter and clearing glasses from the bar. “Unless you wanted a little company.” A smile plays on the corner of his lips.
I turn back to the waves outside, hardly visible now as a cloud floats in front of the moon. “No,” I mumble. “I don’t want company.”
He doesn’t say anymore, and he walks away in the reflection on the window as I look out toward the blackness.
All I wanted was to drink alone after the crappy day I’ve had where I probably just blew up my life. So if giving this guy the cold shoulder is what’s needed to get that, well … so be it. I do feel a little bad, but not that bad.
As I continue to sip my whiskey, I fall back on the thoughts ping-ponging around in my head.
Leaving Maple Lake was hard, but leaving Luke is brutal.
Never in a million years did I think I’d be going back home—if I can even still call it that.
It hasn’t been my home for close to ten years.
And look where I am. All of my choices and mistakes have led me here, to a hotel bar in a town I’ve never been to, downing alcohol to numb the pain.
It doesn’t help. It never has—not for long anyway. But at least I’ll get some sleep tonight. Alcohol always puts me to sleep, and it keeps the dreams away.
I rest the back of my hand against my cheek, feeling the flush on my skin. With one last swig, I down the Jack.
“I’ll be right back for more,” I tell the bartender. He nods his head at me in acknowledgment.
I aim for the door facing the beach, stepping out onto the terrace where I pass men playing cornhole and couples whispering in each other’s ears near the shimmering pool.
Blue lights shine through the water, but no one’s swimming.
The music is still loud, but out here I can hear the ocean waves lapping against the sand.
In one messy collage of thoughts, I’m bombarded with wanting Luke to be here with me, but anger peeks through, taking over my train of emotion.
Why can’t he get over his fear of having a baby?
Why are his fears more important than my desires?
It’s like he doesn’t consider what’s really best for me, what I value.
Why does he get to dictate how the rest of my life will go?
With a baby, everything would be different.
I don’t want to chase Luke around the country as he checks on his properties or work the rest of my life photographing other people’s accomplishments.
At one point, I was happy to do all that, but I want a change.
I want the change that comes with being a mother.
I’ve always wanted a child, but seeing a friend bloom as a mother only put it at the forefront of my mind.
The pull grew stronger when Emma was pregnant.
Emma was glowing with happiness throughout her whole pregnancy, and even though she didn’t have a partner to share her burdens with, she shined with joy.
I want that. The seed of desire was planted when Emma told me she was expecting, and it grew like a rising sun when I met baby Ceecee in the hospital.
The way her tiny fingers wrapped around one of mine, and how her wide-set eyes searched for my voice.
When Emma let me hold her that first day, I was a goner.
I thought of nothing else other than being a mother; I wanted someone to look at me the way Ceecee looked at her mom.
I made Pinterest boards for a baby shower I wanted to plan one day, spent hours walking through the baby aisles in stores, and I watched videos on YouTube on how to sleep train a baby I didn’t have.
I even talked about babies in my sleep. Luke told me it happened one night, but he never mentioned it again.
When I near the steps leading down to the beach, I slide my sandals off.
They dangle from my fingers as I walk, and I savor the feel of the cool sand sliding between my toes.
It’s a minute before I reach the water, but when the waves lap at my feet I close my eyes, listening to the sound of the ocean.
The ocean is a funny thing. Not a ha-ha kind of funny, but a I-have-trouble-explaining-it kind of funny.
Oceans are wild, untamed, dangerous things.
And yet, they soothe us. We enjoy them. We desire to be where the water is, even though it’s deep and dark and we don’t know what lies under the surface.
People are a lot like that sometimes, but only a few will want to stay around to discover our depths and all the oddities that make up who we are.
A lone tear slips from my eye, tickling my lashes before sliding gracefully down my warm cheek.
The sand is cold; the water is cold; my tears are cold against my alcohol-induced blush.
Everything in life is cold right now, and as beautiful as the white crescent moon is on the lapping waves, I wonder if my life will ever truly see the sun again.
I trudge back to the bar through the sand, with my thoughts swirling around my head and my shoes in my hand. I order another drink, down the glass like my sleep depends on it—because it does—close my tab, and go back to bed, hoping to dream of the sun.