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Earlier in the day, I’d had an argument with my mother about my recent studies, and she’d found one of my art pads full of sketches. She’d then found four more. While most parents would have likely been proud of their child’s creativity, my mother always saw mine as a distraction, and she’d tossed the booklet along with all my drawing supplies overboard. I had been completely distraught, crying and throwing a tantrum like a four-year-old. Surely, the teenage hormones hadn’t helped with my irrational and ill-tempered disposition, but my mother hadn’t tolerated outbursts of any kind. Crying was not an option in our family because it showed weakness. She’d told me that I was not a proper lady and couldn’t be seen in public.
After that moment, all the children had been punished and told to stay aboard the docked craft while the adults went to dinner. My sister shunned me for the evening, calling me spiteful names—adding a blow to my ego—before locking herself in her room. As the sun set, I found myself choking down tears at the ship’s edge, mourning my lost treasures at sea and wondering how I could possibly feel so out of place among the people who were my family.
About an hour later, when the tears had dried, I felt another body sitting next to me—Gerard.
“You know,” he said quietly in the foreign accent I so hated at the time, “there’s a saying that those who never cry suffer far more than any others.”
I sniffed, drained of tears, the ache and longing still weighing in my belly. “I doubt that.”
“I don’t.” He handed my exhausted hands a small artist’s pad with textured paper and a pack of drawing pencils. “I had the steward pick them up in town.”
He took his index finger to his mouth in a gesture of silence, indicating a secret between us. My worn and spent emotionless body was able to muster a grin. I nodded and concealed the items from view under my leg. In comfortable silence, we sat side by side for some time until the sun rested under the water’s edge.
“So, who said that?” I finally asked when the darkness surrounded us.
“Said what?” Gerard asked.
“Something about those who never cry suffer more?”
“Hans Christian Andersen. It’s fromThe Little Mermaid. Mermaids can’t shed tears, and thereby, they bottle all their pain.”
I exhaled, immersed in the view of the gently lapping sea. “Then, I must strive to be a mermaid. Living in those depths is likely better than trying to survive up here.”
He nudged his shoulder with mine. “I’ll go with you.”
From that day on, Gerard and I merged a friendship based on our mutual understanding of expectations that neither of us fully desired. While we both knew our parents loved us, we also knew freedom was something we would never fully have. Unlike so many others, our birthright was a blessing of opportunities and a curse to the wanderlust of our souls.
Over the years, our relationship has grown into an agreement. We play the charade for our families, knowing that peace is the best course of action. We’re friends and like siblings in arms.
While his companionship is pleasant at these reunions, there are always the underlying expectations from our parents. We try to portray enough interest to keep them at bay but not enough for them to be overly hopeful. It’s a chess match of us versus them, and each movement needs to be precise.
A small breeze blows the drapes, creating a flowing wave of fabric, outlining the entryway into the grand room. I push my shawl back up and over my shoulders, preparing for the cooler air at the water’s edge. We step out onto the veranda, and to celebrate our annual union, we each take a drink from the server coming around with champagne.
My father raises his glass. “I just want to say how thankful I am for my family and friends. After all these years, we still remain close.”
“And hopefully for many years to come,” my mother adds, glancing at Gerard and me where we are paired at the balcony railing.
“Yes, agreed.” My father smiles. “I love you all and feel blessed for our continued fortune.”
“I couldn’t have said it better,” Guy adds. “Thank you everyone.”
We lift our flutes higher, and following my father’s lead, we say in unison, “Cheers!”
The crisp fizzy liquid sluices across my tongue, and I drink to the living facade.
