I was sitting on the cliffs and looking out over the ocean
just before sunset. Feeling the crisp
coolness of the air on my skin. Smelling
the mix of salty ocean air and sweet jasmine—rich and heady yet spacious. Dazzled by the rich aqua grey blue of the
water, the shimmering sunlight on the water, white crests of wave after wave
rolling to shore in long angled lines, the pinks and yellows and blues of the
sky, white and grey clouds dotting the sky, huge red sun glowing behind a
pendulous dark cloud.
I thought of the Atlantic Ocean and Vero Beach, Florida, and
how different the ocean is there—the water saltier, warmer, rougher; the sand
whiter, fluffier, and coarser; the air much, much thicker, and the contours of
the land softer—thick green vegetation and marsh instead of Del Mar’s high red
cliffs and velvety soft, densely packed, tawny and black sand.
My brother Trevon and I live on opposite coasts in
vacation-destination beach towns. My
mom, who first took me to the Pacific, died in Vero on the Atlantic.
The time came back to me--the all-absorbing weeks
that felt like a lifetime when I stayed at Trevon and Lisa’s home and visited
Mom in the hospital every day with my mother’s brother, Kent Beyette.
From cold A/C to searing heat to cold A/C to
searing heat—an endless round from one extreme to the next, from the nest of
home to the sauna of the car to the frigid intensive care unit. Kent, who grew up in East Texas without air
conditioning and lived in Florida and Arkansas, was unfazed by the heat. I could barely breathe. The sun seared my skin. It was blazingly hot and humid, like I was
immersed in a hot tub and everything everywhere was more hot steam without even
the possibility of the tiniest sip of cool air or breeze.
We learned the route to the hospital and the maze from the
hospital door to my mom’s room. Most of
the time we drove one of Trevon’s spare cars, the one with the black interior
and navy blue exterior and inadequate a/c and the tiny hula dancer in a grass
skirt bobbling on the dashboard. Kent
admired my driving.
When we visited mom, Kent would spend most of the time
sitting in the waiting area, reading an assortment of mindless books and
observing the comings and goings of people.
When I needed a break, I’d go see him, and he’d tell me something funny
or the idiosyncracies of what he was reading or he’d listen to my report on her
condition. Sometimes when it was time to
go, he’d come get me with the gentlest tap on the shoulder, a kind look or
word, and we’d walk quietly back to the car, the heat always a choking shock
when we walked outside from the frigid hospital. He took me to the ocean to swim and taught me
to boogie board. He bought me a Florida
fishing license so I could go out on Trevon’s friends’ boat, and when he caught
a fish, handed me the pole to reel it in.
His kindness, quietness, and presence in those days will always be with
me and comfort me.
At various points, my sister Leyette and brother Sharlon
were there with us too, and it was almost like Kent was our father in those
moments. After all these years of my mom’s
wandering and my own, I had a family, and we were together.
We each have gifts.
My dad is great at funerals. Kent
is great in hospital rooms. I remember when
I was in the hospital when I was 6 years old, recovering from kidney surgery,
and my dad turned on the TV and the news was featuring an aircraft carrier, and
my dad said my uncle Kent was on one of those and was a pilot. I was confused how someone could fly a plane
on a ship, but Dad patiently explained how it worked to me, and I was filled
with awe. I also remember Kent in my
Aunt Cecile’s hospital room in Lafayette, Louisiana, many years ago, sitting
patiently for days with her and my grandmother, sitting quietly and reading or
listening or entertaining us all, as suited each moment.
The beach in Vero has a lot of coquina shell in it, and on
one of my trips there, I collected a heart-shaped piece of coquina slightly
smaller than the palm of my hand. The
beach in Del Mar, California, has very little coquina, but recently I found an
identical piece here. Same size, same
heart-shape. Only slightly lighter, with
a little more space.
I hold them both in my hands. Vero in the left. Del Mar in the right. I am home.
A pelican flies close overhead, and I know my mom is too.
