Portion of the Sea (50 page)

It had me thinking that maybe there are other things I should hand down to her. I thought about my mama teaching me the word of God. I still remember today the scripture verses she had me memorize, and I’m glad I can reach into my memory and grab onto those when I need something to cling to. And Dahlia instilled in me the notion of giving thanks
to the Lord even in times of despair. I’ve handed those things on to my own children, and I pray for them daily, but I know there’s only so much you can actually hand your children. For instance, I can’t hand them salvation itself. It’s up to them individually to accept the Lord, as it was with me to do that and God knows, at times it looked as if I was throwing that gift out the door. But each generation is responsible for its own salvation, and that is not to say that the generation before doesn’t have to do anything with regard to it. I do think a mother must equip and instruct and teach them everything leading up to it, then pray like crazy that her children will accept it. Praying for the souls of her children may be the most powerful gift a mother can give.

I stopped typing and sipped coffee, knowing full well that my mother’s prayers followed me through life like butterflies, and, still, I felt them landing on my shoulder, making me tingle from time to time. I am eternally indebted to my mother for her gift of prayer.

I started to type. I also believe declaring blessings upon children is a good thing to give them. I’ve told each of my children I believe in them and know they will accomplish great things in life. I am confident they will then tell their own children the same one day. This sort of gift definitely makes its way through the generations.

I continued my typing. But there is an age a woman reaches in which she starts to wonder about her own mother in terms of who she was as a person, heart, soul, and mind. And she longs for something that might help put an intimate character description on her mother and what she loved and felt passionate about in life.

I stopped typing, this time pushing my chair away from the desk a moment, recalling the day we stepped foot on Sanibel for the first time. “It’s paradise,” my mother had said. And in her eyes, I did, indeed, see a sparkling I had never seen in her before. I saw her passion for the first time that day.

I quickly rolled my chair back up to my desk and started to type again. So why can’t a mother hand down a special place to her children? I looked up from the typewriter and thought about what it might mean to show my own children the place their great-grandmother Dahlia loved and their
grandmother described as “heavenly” and where their own mother first fell in love. I continued typing fast and furiously. Yes, a mother can most certainly pass on a place to her children. And just as a tea set can break, there are the geologists out there warning that sea islands shouldn’t be considered permanent and immutable objects, but natural phenomena such as storms and tides and currents and evolution are too much for me to worry about. Those are the negatives that go along with heavens on earth, I suppose. I stopped typing, pulling the paper out, for I had overdone it a bit. I could redo that page.

Hmmm—maybe this particular column should finish in an open-ended manner in the form of a question, and maybe I should invite my readers to submit what they believe a mother can pass on to her children, grandchildren, great grandchildren. For each mother has her own wonderful ideas of things she wants to pass on.

I finished typing the rest of the column, ending it with the following question:

What sort of meaningful, eternal gift can a mother pass on to her children, grandchildren, great grandchildren and so on?

I stood up, personally giving further thought to it. If I died today and I never took my children to see the place where I once lived and loved and left my heart, then they would never have truly known their mother and that wouldn’t be fair for them or me. I think there comes a time when a grown child should really know who their parent is.

“Florida,” I announced when Nora came into my office with fresh coffee. “I’m taking the children to see a place called Sanibel Island.”

“But you just got back from San Francisco a few weeks ago.”

“That’s okay. It’s been a prosperous and roaring year for us. We can afford another trip. And the boys are getting so independent that soon they’ll be taking trips with girlfriends or wives of their own. I’ve got to take them now before it’s too late.”

“Why Florida? I thought you planned on taking them to Paris again,” said Nora.

“They’ve been to Paris a half dozen times. But they’ve never been to Florida, and I’ve talked about it so many times through the years. I don’t know why I’ve never taken them. It’s crazy. I’d like to leave right away. I’ll call the boys so they can make arrangements and take vacation time at work.”

“I’ll start your packing,” said Nora.

I walked over to the globe in the corner of the room and gave it a hearty spin. Florida had been hit with heavy hurricanes in recent years and its state economy was in a recession, but our taking a quick trip there now was like tossing pennies into a fountain. We could easily afford it. And my showing the island to my children was priceless. I could think of nothing better to pass on to them then a place they could go to if they ever needed to see beauty in the world. It was the perfect thing to pass on and one that couldn’t be broken, except by way of a hurricane, I guess. But I can’t worry about the weather.

And I can’t worry about my age, although it’s hard not to when the average life expectancy is under fifty-five years old. Maybe this is the reason I’m suddenly obsessed with passing something on to them. I had always wanted to pass on a novel to them, but that hasn’t happened and might never at this pace. Of course there’s always my journal, in which I sporadically wrote throughout the years, but who knows if they’d ever be interested in that. Besides, I’ve surrendered that to the Lord.

“Heavenly Father,” I prayed recently after writing in it. “I hope one day this journal falls into the hands of a young girl who may relate to it. Who might that girl be? I haven’t a clue. It might not even be my own daughter. I know my columns reach thousands of readers, but my columns don’t mean nearly as much to me as my personal journal has. I once promised my Grandmalia that I’d turn her into a character in a novel and grant her eternal life on earth. I know she’s in a better eternity and doesn’t need me granting her anything. And so I pray that one day this journal lands in the hands of a girl somewhere out there who needs, if nothing else, a friend or a mother or a family of sorts. Thank you, Lord. I trust that you’ll answer my prayers as you see fit. Amen.”

I walked over to the window and stared out. I hoped this trip to Florida
might touch my children. I’d show them where their grandmother once skinny-dipped. They’ll get a kick out of that. And while there I’ll get to retrace the footprints of a young girl madly in love for the first time, and I’ll watch as she went from believing that anything is possible to believing everything is impossible back to everything is possible with God. A girl like that leaves deep tracks, and I’m sure they’re still embedded. But I’ll try not to judge too harshly the direction those tracks went or why they slowed. A woman must accept the choices she’s made and the ones she’s left behind. And focus on where her tracks might go next.

Lydia

I closed the journal, wanting more than anything to throw my arms around Ava and tell her what her journal has meant to me throughout the years and, most importantly, how it was about to change the course of my life. I wanted to thank her, for the journal was more valuable than any million-dollar inheritance and it had been passed on to the right person, one who viewed it as priceless.

She got me to thinking about my own future, something I hardly had time to think about. I didn’t want to one day look back and regret the man I left behind, so I walked over to the phone and booked roundtrip airline tickets for Jack and me to fly to Florida. The time was now. If I waited any longer, it would be too late. It might already be too late. Still, I had to tell Josh he had a son, and then I’d have to face the consequences and accept whether he loved or hated me for the secret I had kept from him.

I still felt like a criminal, for I was the one who went after men for withholding rights such as equal jobs and pay from women, yet I had withheld a father’s right to know he has a son. Josh had no idea there was a little boy in the world with features of his own.

There were already a lifetime of should-haves racing through my mind, and I feared there might be more soon. I might arrive only to find him in love or married to someone else—those were his rights and the consequences I would have to face. Besides, I wasn’t going in hopes of selfishly
starting a relationship. I was going so that my son might have a chance at knowing his father and because his father had a right to know about him.

That night I climbed into bed with Jack and opened a wildlife book and started reading it to him.

“Parent pelicans must teach fledglings the necessary skill for dive-bombing fish,” I explained as we looked at the picture.

“Why?” asked Jack.

I was glad for Jack’s curiosity toward life, and I knew he got it from me, so I did my best to answer every one of his ‘why’ questions. “So the children can learn basic survival, Jack,” I said, and then continued reading. “And the parents take this very seriously and have been known to interrupt a youngster’s diving practice in mid-flight if the form is badly off.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s a parent’s job to correct when they see their children going wrong, Jack.”

“Why?”

“Well, the watery impact could possibly damage or break a wing while a young bird is learning.”

“Do pelicans live in the city?” Jack asked.

“No, they don’t,” I said. “But they do live on Sanibel Island.”

“But I saw them. I saw pelicans.”

“No, honey. Those were pigeons.”

“Why?”

“That’s a good question, Jack, but I’m not sure why they were pigeons,” I said, starting to tire. “They just were. God made them that way.”

“Where is Sand-a-ball Island?” he asked.

I closed the book and tossed it onto the floor and laid my head next to Jack’s on his pillow. “How about I show you in a few weeks? Would you like that? In just a few weeks I’ll show you where Sanibel is.”

“Why?”

“That’s another good question, Jack. Let me think about that one and I’ll get back to you on it.”

“Why?”

“Because sometimes a mommy doesn’t know everything, Jack.”

XLIV

LYDIA

IF JACK ASKED THE
same questions three weeks later as our plane headed south for Florida, I would have given him the same answer—let me think about it. But I knew why I was going. What I didn’t know was whether Josh would want anything to do with us.

Jack was coloring with crayons and nibbling on an endless supply of snacks I had packed him for the flight when I pulled out Ava’s latest journal entry. Marlena had sent it to me just after I had called to tell her we were coming. She insisted we stay with her, and I was glad to have a comfortable place to run to should the outcome of my trip not turn out as I prayed it might.

I smiled at Jack as he yawned and then laid his head on my shoulder. He had woken up way before his normal time to catch our flight, and it was a matter of seconds before he’d fall fast asleep. I opened the journal and began to read:

Ava

A strong woman knows what to do. She must pick up the paddles and with all her courage row way out there, to her very own portion of the sea. She may have to row around in circles a bit, or dive down some, but soon she will spot them either bobbing in the water or resting on the floor of the sea, the treasures she thought she had lost for good
.

Whether a heart full of love, or a soul that once prayed or a mind that loved learning, or the body that felt better, they are still her treasures and are waiting to be reclaimed
.