When I drove off Thursday afternoon, I had no idea of a destination. I was more or less sober by then, but, as I’ve experienced innumerable times the morning after, I dripped with shame. Why did I do this damage? Who was I trying to hurt most—Charlie, Vince or myself?
I drove south on 101, past San Rafael, where I’d spent much of my childhood, and was tempted to turn off to Stinson Beach but, after gazing with some longing at Mt. Tam, I kept south, crossed the Golden Gate, and landed like a homing pigeon at Ocean Beach. That’s where I am now. Well, close by—in my room at the Seal Rock Inn.
I made a good choice with this motel. It’s pricey for what it is, but that’s the cost of having a room across the street from the ocean. From the foot of my bed I can see the crisp geometric edge of the horizon line, where the ocean meets the sky. Each day I walk miles up and down the beach. Some days I dislike myself a little less, some, a little more.
I left without anything. Not even a phone charger or a change of underwear. Chaos, I figured, would be the order of the day, but a certain calm set in. I’ve talked myself into appreciating the abstract beauty of being unmoored, aligned with nobody. This existential approach is my initial posture. As if I could live my life without people at all, in a house whose furniture is a Danish Modern echo of me: sleek surfaces and edges, no attachment or resonance.
A woman can reassemble her exterior life, easily enough, if she’s sufficiently solvent. The interior is another matter, although I remind myself that my psyche was likely as twisted before my betrayal of Charlie as it is now.
At first Charlie called frequently and left simple messages. The last one really got me: “Pina, I hope you’re safe. I miss you. Tonight I wished so much I could hold you. Let me know if I can help in any way. I love you.” How to characterize a message like that? Kind. Thoughtful. Helpful. Loving. The first time I listened to it, I thought, where is his fucking malice? Why am I the one left with it? Aside from his flash of anger when I blurted out what I’d done, Charlie has been all equanimity.
I’m not clear why I haven’t returned his messages. I force myself to remember that just days ago Charlie and I were holding each other in bed, living beside each other, convivial. I won’t talk about love because I decided after my husband Marco died that there wasn’t a lot of percentage in it. Consequentially, Vince was easier for me to live with than Charlie. I knew that Vince was only looking out for himself. I didn’t have to worry about loving him; if I hurt him he had it coming. I’m not a spiteful person, but I don’t know how good I am either. Self-destructiveness is a swamp. It sucks me down like quicksand, and makes me afraid that if I talk with Charlie I’ll do more damage. I’d like to do some healing before I make contact. Or is that simply a stall tactic. A therapist once told me: you need to be your own mother once you’ve lost yours. I like that idea and sometimes I try.
My mother would ask: Why are you being so difficult? Why don’t you just break the ice, Pina? Don’t you think Charlie deserves to know where you are? Do you really mean to be cruel to somebody you love and have already hurt badly? Can’t you be a little bigger, honey? Fortunately, my mother isn’t around to hear my answers.
Charlie didn’t call yesterday nor has he called today. Has he given up on me? I could hardly blame him. Tomorrow is Election Day; I like to picture him madly posting last minute Biden videos of Roscoe. I saw one on Twitter. It lasted seven seconds and had three million views, and that was days ago. Roscoe’s perched atop the wine barrel on Charlie’s deck: Roscoe here, he says with a little jerk of his head, any parrot will tell you that a vote for Biden-Harris is a vote for diversity and justice.
Daylight savings ended yesterday and this morning I woke ridiculously early, drained a cup of motel coffee and walked directly down the hill to the beach. I descended the first bank of stairs at the north end and gazed south. I couldn’t see anybody except a lone fisherman in the distance. The tide was way out. The water seemed a day’s walk away in the pre-dawn light.
The other day, during an hour trip to Target, I acquired, in addition to a humble wardrobe, a few practical items: a backpack, a cigarette lighter, flashlight, a phone charger, and a Swiss Army knife with a saw blade and a corkscrew. I brought most of those things with me to the beach this morning; . Barefoot in the sand, I collected driftwood, a few tarry hunks of logs or decommissioned telephone poles, and dry sea wrack. In short, anything that would burn.
Once I managed to get a small fire going. I stripped off my clothes, folded them into the backpack, and dashed the 100-odd yards through the cool sand, skipping over the damp apron of waves and white water before diving into the frigid sea. My face stung with chilled needle pricks; my scalp felt like a slick surface of ice. The ocean was surprisingly calm and I swam a couple of dozen strokes perpendicular to the waves, before going out a little deeper and riding a modest wave back in. Tumbling out of the water, I dashed back to the fire, where I wrapped myself in a pair of motel towels, and stared out at the glassy sea, every bit alive.
After I warmed up and dressed, I gathered more wood scraps to keep the fire going, and then sat cross legged in the sand and meditated. I could feel myself sink deeper, having succeeded to some degree in keeping my thoughts at bay. But soon enough I found myself recalling, of all things, The Book of Jonah. I tried to steer my attention back to my breathing and banish the image of Jonah, who, in childhood, I pictured as a gnomish fellow in a loincloth. I had limited success and, when I emerged from the meditation, Jonah was still with me.
My father liked to tell the story of Jonah when I was a kid. Although he wasn’t a religious man, he found the tale of a man running away from God and being swallowed by a whale an apt narrative for his daughter to consider when she’d been caught telling lies or running away from the truth. He told the story lightly, particularly emphasizing its supernatural qualities. “Can you imagine being swallowed by a whale, honey? What would it be like inside a whale’s belly with all that blubber? When he burped you out, how far would you fly?” At one point the story frightened me, but by the time I was old enough to realize that I’d likely not be swallowed by a whale in this lifetime, I started to appreciate the tale’s parabolic value. Now, nearly a half-century later, I realize that I’m still running away from myself. “Can you imagine being swallowed by a whale, honey?”
Now I wonder why Jonah visited me. What am I lying about? Who, if not everybody, am I running from? And it’s not just Jonah visiting me. Along with my parents, it seems that every spirit with moral sway over me has visited.
Tonight, at dusk, I sat on the edge of my bed and watched the remaining light bleed out of the sky. When it was truly dark, I called Charlie. I began with an apology and he asked me if I was all right.
“I’m not exactly thriving, but I’ll survive.”
“Yes, I hope so.”
He sounded distant and who could blame him. He asked me where I was and I told him.
“Do you need anything?”
“I’ll get by.”
“But do you need anything?
I wanted to say it was him I needed but I didn’t have the courage to tell him.
“I can bring your laptop and a suitcase of clothes. You don’t have to see me. I’ll leave it with the concierge.”
I laughed. “Nobody would confuse the guy at the front desk with a concierge.”
“Whatever,” Charlie said.
I wondered if his generous offer was really just a way of his dropping off my things and effectively dropping me. I told him not to bother, that I’d become reacquainted with my stuff when I finished quarantining.
“Suit yourself,” he said, and wished me goodnight. That was that; I was left with myself.
I switched on the lamplight and gazed in the mirror above the bureau. You again, I thought. I turned to the side to have a look at my profile, and then switched to the other side. In no time at all, I’d created a rogue’s gallery.