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Eighteen
Malakai
It’s beena year since I left Connie sleeping peacefully. Her satiated body and calm breaths a memory I’ve clung onto with every beat of my undeserving heart. Leaving her had been the single hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.
But I had to leave.
I did it for her. To keep her safe. From me, from my family.
I thought I could stay away. I thought that I could get her out of my system. I’ve travelled the oceans, sailing around Europe, never laying down anchor for more than a couple of days to stock up on provisions. I’ve been living off the memory of her that night, hoping it would be enough, and it was at first. Then out of the blue a couple of weeks after I left, Connie sent me a text message. My initial reaction was to throw my phone into the ocean. I couldn’t do it.
I read that text a thousand times. It was a simple message, short and to the point.
I’m sorry.
That night I’d drunk a whole bottle of bourbon trying to assuage my guilt. I was the one who should’ve apologised. I was the one who should have at least said goodbye. I was the one who wasn’t man enough to do either.
Her texts came regularly after that first one. I began to look forward to them. Sometimes she would send a few in one day, sometimes a week or more would pass before another came through. Those days without word hurt, and I suspect she was trying to show me what it felt like to be on the receiving end of silence. I don’t blame her. In fact, in a weird way, I was proud of her. Nothing like a bit of your own medicine to keep you grounded.
Yet, in all the messages, she never once asked me to return. Instead, she told me about life on the island. She told me how Lola was sick for a whole week when I left, and Ma Silva had been true to her word and looked after her until she was better. She talked of Lola’s Shack and finding a rhythm working there. She told me about the small things, how Lola tried experimenting once again with healthier food options for the fishermen and how, after a whole month of serving fat free yoghurts and fruits and nuts, they all complained, and she went back to cooking them fry-ups for breakfast. She told me how her friendship with Jack, Alice and Georgia had drifted apart. I can’t say I was unhappy about that. I didn’t like that little prick Jack, he looked at Connie like she was his and that pissed me off more than I’d care to admit.
Life carried on without me, as I knew it would.
In her texts Connie was also careful not to tell me too much about Lola, but from the brief mentions, I knew my best friend was beyond angry. I can read between the lines better than anyone. Lola might’ve forgiven me once, but she won’t do that again. I know that. I’ve accepted that fact. Like my mother once loved to say, “you’ve made your bed, now you’ve got to lie in it.” Some things can’t be fixed, and mine and Lola’s friendship is one of those things.
But throughout the long months apart, Connie never once made me feel guilty for leaving.
Part of me wished that she had begged me to return. Part of me thought that she would. But Connie is stronger than either me or Ma Silva gave her credit for.
At some point down the line, the text messages became less conversational, albeit one-sided, and more like random thoughts, an expression of her feelings, I suppose.
The sky was so dark today, it reminds me of the quiet between sleep and wakefulness.
I wonder how many years it takes for a boulder of stone to turn into sand, a thousand, ten thousand. More? When I hold those tiny grains in my hand, feel them run through my fingers, I imagine how many lifetimes have passed.
A whale beached itself on Broken Shores this morning. I knew death had come even before I’d left the house.
Joy doesn’t have to be fleeting. Love doesn’t have to be all-consuming. Happiness is a state of mind, don’t you think? Are you happy, Malakai?
Grandma said that Lola and Rob are an item. I don’t like to think of relationships as things we can purchase.
That message had made me smile and believe me that doesn’t happen very often. Lola deserves to be loved. Hurting her the way I did was never my intention, but she knows the kind of man I am. I’ve never hidden that from her. We’ve spent months apart before, never sharing a word. Though, I accept that this is different. Lola isn’t mad that I left. She’s mad that I left without saying goodbye. Twice.
Repeating that same mistake with Connie isn’t something I’m proud of, but it was a necessity. I needed her to hate me. To forget about me. And yet, as far as I can tell, she doesn’t, she hasn’t.
As I sailed across oceans, to different countries, my one constant aside from the ocean’s tides were Connie’s text messages. Every single one that I received brought me a little joy and as pathetic as it might seem, I looked forward to the tiny bell that would sound every time one of Connie’s messages came through. I became obsessed with ensuring my phone was fully charged, which is no mean feat when you live a life on the ocean waves. After a while I began to respond to her text messages on paper. I picked up a leather-bound notebook in a small fishing village in the South of France and scrawled my response to Connie’s messages across the thick cream pages. Eventually, it became a diary of sorts. A way to explain how I was feeling, rather than bottling everything up inside. I purged myself of my past, and it helped. For a while, at least.
Some of her messages made me smile…
I found a conch shell this morning. When I put it to my ear I swear I could hear your voice.
And some made me wince…
Words are powerful, don’t you think? They can ease someone’s suffering, they can cut deep, they can express emotion so easily if only a person is brave enough to voice them. Is that why you didn’t say goodbye? Do words scare you, Malakai?
I’d wanted to respond to that particular message. I almost had…
I’m not afraid of words, Connie. I’m afraid of you.
