Grand Junction Workshops

Editing and Coaching

Retreats

About Sandy

Selected Work

Response From Writers

Fiction

Novel excerpt from: "Girl in the Sea"

Behind closed doors, Linda sat in her open robe on the edge of the rose-colored bed, her feet up on a woven chest that was flanked by two black Tibetan dragons. The fragrance of lavender and eucalyptus and mint filled the room from a small open jar. It could not be better, she thought, dipping the cream and rubbing it on her stomach and legs. Aside from Sylvie's near drowning, and seeing a woman in the water, which had seemed astonishing at dinner, and a little grimmer now that the wine had worn off, they were all settling in; she would drive back and pick up Elaine tomorrow, then get to work; the house was gorgeous, the women were still up, talking in the kitchen. Linda sprawled on her fresh sheets that smelled of rain water, triumphant as a whale in the middle of the king-sized bed.

The phone rang.

Michael?

Hi, Ma.

Well, are you just checking up on me? She giggled and smoothed the bed covers.

Yeah, I always want to know about women's groups.

So how you guys doing?

O.k. I got in some time at the rock gym. Set some new routes. Good dinner.

Oh I'm so glad you liked it --

Yeah, Dad's in a pissy mood.

Oh? How come?

Well, he always is. It's the weekend, Ma. How long have you lived with this guy?

Oh, don't worry. Just give him some time.

He wanted me to call you. He's up in his office.

Still? It's almost midnight -

I'm going to put him on. Hold on.

Mikey.

What, Ma.

Just - call me if you need anything, o.k.? She pulled out the covers and got under them.

Ma. I'm nineteen, remember? Why do you both think I'm going to fall apart when you're fighting?

Mikey, I'm not fighting with him, number one. And number two --

Ma, please don't number things.

O.k. Secondly, I'm not worried about you. I'm worried about your dad.

I know, Ma. It's your job to worry about everybody. State of the art. Here, I'm going up, I'll give him the phone. I'm going climbing tomorrow too, did I tell you? Jim' s coming. He' s got the quick draws and we' re going to do all the arrest at Smith Rock.

She swallowed. That's great. That's really great. Be careful. Are you leading?

Yup. Uh, Ma? What' s going on?

His voice had changed; abruptly she remembered a small boy falling headfirst from the slide.

I don' t know. But I' ll tell you, o.k.?

Thanks, Ma. Love you. Here's Dad.

She waited. From the window came the far sound of the waves and the slow stirring of the wind high in the Sitka spruce, and from the phone she could hear Michael's footsteps echoing down the stairway that connected the house to the office, and they sounded like the trees and the waves. Echoes of their years together, all their endings, all their beginnings.

Linda?

It's me, she said.

I want to talk to you, said Tad's voice, flat and strained.

She turned off the light and lay back down with the phone clenched in her hand.

I can't go on with this, he said.

What this.

This, he said, vehemently. All of this. Did you hear me?

Yes. Yes, I heard you. I heard what you said.

I've been thinking about it tonight.

But I -

Would you just listen. Christ, just listen for a change.

All-ll right.

Remember last year - when was it, when I went to the AIA? Do you remember?

I'm listening.

I've been thinking about it since then.

She curled under the covers.

I don't know - he paused, she waited. I don't know if I can stay married, Linda.

After a moment she found her voice. What are you talking about.

I'm a man, Linda. That's what I'm talking about.

Well, that's a shocker. Anything else you want to -

Listen, and I mean, listen.

Silence.

You can't just keep taking care of me. And the house.

She rolled her lips together and pressed them against her teeth and pulled the covers over her head.

I mean - his voice softened - it's not as if you haven't done a good job.

Silence.

Thanks, she said bitterly.

Well, I knew you'd be like this. This is hopeless.

I'm like this? I'M LIKE THIS? You call me at the end of the day and say you want to leave me and then I'm the one who's -

Linda, calm down.

She threw the covers off and sat up on the bed, gripping the blanket.

I didn't say I was leaving. Did I? Did I?

More or less, you did.

I didn't. You're jumping to conclusions. Just listen, please. His voice became his own again, with pleading in it.

She put her hand over her mouth. The thought flashed through her mind that if the women could see her now, what would they make of her, Linda, the owner of this house, the queen bee in the master bed binding her own mouth.

You're gone a week. Right?

Seven days, she said evenly.

What I'd like - I'd like us to take the week to consider being married. He said the last three words so softly she had to strain to hear him. He's rehearsed this, she thought.

Just, just think. God, I have got to get enough time to think.

Silence.

A week, she said, and pulled the blankets closer.

When you get back we'll talk. Relief lightened his voice. We'll go out for dinner, and we'll talk. You always want to talk and so that's what we'll do.

I see, she said softly.

Linda?

From under the covers she clenched the phone and swallowed.

Liin-daah.

She felt cold all over, but her breath would not come.

Linda, what do you want?

I wanted forever, she thought. I wanted to go on and on, no matter how bad it got.

I' m thinking, she said in a whisper.

Well - it' s late.

Yes. Yes it is.

Let's talk later this week.

O.k..

And don't call me so much.

What, during the day?

Yeah. I've got too much going on.

That's right, she said. You have too much going on.

He sighed. Well, I'm going to hang up.

Tad?

What.

Why don't you call me.

When?

A night. When you want to.

O.k., he said, sounding uncertain. But don't count on anything.

I have learned not to, she said.

Well, this is enough. The sharpness curled back in his voice. I've got to get to bed.

After a long moment, she said, I've got to pick up Elaine in about eight hours.

Is she coming?

Well, yes.

No kidding. O.k., I guess that's good.

She said nothing.

Well, I'll talk to you, the next time.

Next time, she said, trying not to be curt, but failing.

Good night. His straight-up, nicest, professional, what-a-good-guy-I-am voice.

'Night. Her voice empty.

The lamp light in the room glowed pink as she came up from under the covers. Linda hung up the black plastic receiver and then took it and hit the mattress again and again until guttural sobs started in her stomach, and she rocked back and forth, strange, high shrieks coming from her throat.

She should have asked. She should have asked.

The windows were still open; the curtains were stirring, lightly lifting up and down with the wind from the sea. She got up and went into the bathroom, the room of blue and white tiles from Greece, which they had designed together to remember their first trip there. The cold water ran for several minutes. She shook out one Trazodone.

Then she stood next to the window, her lips pressed together, watching the vault of the sky darken over the cerulean blue of the water, the breaking white lace of waves, until she could stand no longer.

She sat heavily on her side of the bed, then reached under the end table and pulled out a worn copy of Alicia Ostriker's The Imaginary Lover. She thumbed through it until she found the poem, and curled up, a pillow between her knees, the book open at her breast.

Years

I have wished you dead and myself dead.

How could it be otherwise.

I have broken into you like a burglar

And you' ve set your dogs on me.

You have been a hurricane to me

And a pile of broken sticks

A child could kick.

I have climbed you like a monument, gasping,

For the exercise and the view.

And leaned over the railing at the top =

Strong and warm, that summer wind.

* * * * * Sylvie, sitting next to a butter dish glued and clamped together, was engrossed in almost the very end of Maitwan, but after listening to the regular, cathartic thumps and muffled cries down the hall, she wondered if it was possibly not, after all, a good night to watch a movie. Was it the chicken, she wondered, or what was going on with everyone? Hopefully it would all lighten up in a day or two. At least Geri seemed fairly sane - a very cool cucumber, at dinner, a little too reserved and scientific for Sylvie's taste. After all the noises ended, to a dead silence, except for the humming of the refrigerator, she did not think it wise to knock on Linda's door.

She fast-forwarded to the scene, shut down the laptop, and shivered a little. She still could not bear to listen to the ocean, which completely unnerved her, but the kitchen, with its dark windows that looked east into the trees and the hill, was at least removed from the front of the beachhouse and the first line of fire. For some reason she couldn't get over the feeling that the water could move up over the beach in the middle of the night and fill the house, and that she would wake up in the waves, again.

Was this a tsunami zone? She'd have to ask, at breakfast, and the others would think she was crazy, but they'd all have a good laugh. She stood up and stretched and yawned.

She was glad all the windows in the kitchen were shut when she turned off the lights, but she had to walk into the hallway, with its glowing Japanese night light, down to the steps - she clapped her hands over her ears, hurrying to the steps, but there was no sound of waves; Linda must have shut up the house tonight. She'd said at dinner that Tad wanted to alarm the house, but Linda had refused; I've come here since the 1950s, she'd said. Nothing ever happens here.