by Nancy Chase - November 12, 2007
Guilt. This is what sweeps over me as I write out last minute instructions, kiss one of my sons on his forehead as he watches tv, as I shout my goodbyes from the foyer to my other children who aren't listening, as I head out the front door with my bags and my books. Guilt. Divorce and Guilt seem to go hand in hand, just as Love and Marriage once did.
I'm heading to the beach for a weekend alone, one that was originally planned to be spent with my sisters and my ailing mother. I agreed to go even though I had a million pressing things going on within my household, things that needed my attention. I agreed to go because of the opportunity to spend personal time with my mother, who I haven't seen in weeks, and who is becoming noticeably weaker in health with each passing day. Within the past hour I've learned that my mother has determined she isn't feeling well enough for the 2 hour drive to the beach, and because of the heavy rain that is forecast, all 3 of my sisters have decided to cancel as well.
It only takes me a second to decide that I'm going to go anyway. I'm no fool; the house we planned to use for the weekend belongs to one of my brothers, and it is spectacular. Beachfront, 2 fireplaces, a gourmet kitchen - even if I only stay cocooned in the master bedroom suite for the next two days and order takeout, I'll be living in a luxury that no weather forecast can deny me.
The sky is turning a dusky purple as I enter the turnpike. My drive to the shore is familiar and unusually fast, there's no traffic this time of night and this is off-season as well. I've been under a lot of stress lately, and tonight I don't even want the pleasant distraction of listening to the radio or my cd's. Instead, I use the driving time just to think. Uninterrupted thought feels like a gift and gradually as I drive, my thoughts come up all on their own of the things that have been causing such turmoil for me recently. I'm able to start taking them on one by one with the beginnings of a calm I haven't felt in a long time.
The Atlantic City Expressway blends seamlessly into the Garden State Parkway, and soon I find myself on the exit to Ocean City, my destination shore point. I love coming here in the fall and winter, it always feels like I'm entering a ghost town in a Stephen King novel. I pass street after street of empty houses, vacant beach cottages, lights out and summer all packed away. I've vacationed here every July with my children for the past 20 years, and we have a family history here, one that I've made an effort to continue. Some of the landmarks I'm passing on my way through town bring up immediate memories; the ice cream parlour we always walked to at night when the kids were little, the screened porch of a house we once rented, the house where my daughter jumped off the front step and fell not even ten minutes after we arrived, needing stitches and a 5 hour wait at the Emergency Room. A different house is in view now, the one where my then 6-year-old son met up with a older bully who was renting next door to us, the one where he asked my husband to "Come out and show him your muscles" ...the little cottage where two hermit crabs mysteriously disappeared (they just crawled away into the woodwork, never to be seen or heard from again) the basketball courts both of my sons still use whenever we're there, the bakery where we get the cinnamon buns & the morning paper...and on and on.
I think about my mother and how she always loved coming to the shore. When I was growing up our summer vacation consisted of two weeks here every year, nowhere else, just here. I think how difficult it must have been for her to pack for 8 children, washers and dryers didn't automatically come with a beach house back then. I think how difficult it must be now for her to give up the very activities she loves doing most; walking, traveling, cooking, being with all of her daughters. How difficult to have to give in to illness and frailty. I start feeling guilty all over again, for not using this weekend as I'd initially intended: to spend the time with her. Guilty for taking it all for myself instead.
My brother's house is just up ahead, and I pull into the dark driveway and turn off the engine. I immediately hear the ocean, the waves crashing and pounding, a huge, immense sound. I get out of the car and walk around to the front of the house, climb up the steps leading to the front deck and well, I just have to stop right there, overwhelmed. The ocean at night is such a powerful force of nature, at once awesome and terrifyingly beautiful.
I wish I wasn't alone all of a sudden. I miss my mother, I miss my children. I miss the same man I'll always miss for the rest of my life. All that, and the guilt too. Turning the key into the lock, I go inside to start my weekend.
Nancy Chase is a writer from Pennsylvania. She also pens the Overheard column as topazz and can be found at topazz (with a zz).