Diminished

I go to bed at night and worry. My mother, Nina, dislocated her hip twice this summer and lives in constant pain. She drinks vodka and takes too much Percoset and Ambien. She doesn’t count the pills and doesn’t worry about the consequences. My father, Sam, long divorced from her, is in the hospital recovering from spinal fusion, but losing his mind in the process. I don’t see any improvement coming his way, and I worry less about what that will mean for him, but more about what this will mean for me. I never needed help sleeping before, but the crisp clean sheets and plump down pillows are no help at all. The cool sea air at the beach does not soothe me; instead, the way it wafts the linen curtains is just one more distraction. I shake my own small pink pill from the vial on the nightstand. Then I lie there and wait. Soon, my thoughts subside until morning. When the sun peeks through the curtain, I wake with a start, remembering all over again. My sister, Clare, her second husband, Stan, and her daughter, Amelia, are the last to visit us at the beach this year. Arriving late in August, they do not find me at my best. I am already weary from the summer of houseguests that proceeded them. Clare enters breezily late one afternoon, sun hat dangling from long ribbons down her back. With her flowing sundress and big straw bag swinging, she is the very picture of sunshine and light. “You’re late,” I greet her. “Polly, I’m on vacation,” she replies. Punctuality has never been her concern. We aren’t especially close. I have been inviting Clare to visit every summer since we bought the beach house, but she always has other plans. Accepting better offers to other family’s chateaus in the south of France, or taking their daughter on a cross country rail trip to Alaska. This is the summer she finally said yes. Maybe she wants to escape the realities we share together, as a family. Most likely, this is just wishful thinking on my part, when the more likely reality is a hole in her schedule. Either way, we are together. She arrives with bags of groceries just in case I have forgotten the many calls to remind me she is a vegetarian, her daughter vegan. Clare works all day, and then visits our father in the hospital at night. When visiting hours are over, she often takes my mother for a meal. I shuttle back and forth from the beach, but by my sister’s standards, not nearly enough. I stand by my father’s bedside for an hour or two making conversation with myself. I am happy when the nurse stops by so I have someone to talk to. He doesn’t recognize me when I am there. I don’t see the point of the visit, but I feel the obligation. It is always such a relief to turn my back and leave the room. I take my mother for a cocktail. My intentions are kind, but it depresses me to see how much she enjoys it. I am eager to return to the beach. I welcome the glare of bright, sunny days. I inhale deeply and let the sea air fill my lungs. Sometimes I even sleep without the pills. I am so happy to be away from them. . . . . . I run across the dunes, drop my towel and plunge into the surf with uncharacteristic abandon. Within moments, a wave catches me from behind and flips me into the surf. As a child, my father taught me it was best to let the wave carry me and toss me through the water until I could regain my footing. And I do. But when I rise another wave catches me and knocks me down again. I haven’t picked the best day to be brave. This time, I am breathless and scared. A stranger’s hand reaches out to me and I take it. I am lucky not to be on the beach alone. I assure him that I am foolish, but okay. Drenched and salty, I rest on the sand. Exhilarated. Exhausted. I stare out to sea.