I USED TO be that girl who was optimistic about everything, but then life slapped me in the face and forced me to become a realist. I’m not cynical or anything, but I’ve been through enough not to see the world through rose-colored lenses. The day started off normal enough—my mom called to try to set me up with this guy, Derek. She’s been trying to set me up with him since I was, like, six. This time, I said yes. The shrieks of happiness that permeated through the phone lines were intense, to say the least. It was as though she was channeling her inner hyena. I recall it all went downhill from there.
The gallery was spotless when I got here, just the way I like it. Now, it looks like ten groups of toddlers tore through it. It all started when Finlay, a thirteen-year-old boy, asked Veronica out on a date. Finlay’s best friend, Brett, had apparently wanted to ask her out, so when he overheard the conversation and she said yes, he lost it. LOST. IT. In my studio! He threw his paintbrush at Finlay, splashes of the blue he was using to paint an ocean went everywhere, and that started a paint fight, which resulted in me calling their parents to pick them up.
So here I am, an hour after I wanted to be here, wiping paint off every surface in the room. My one salvation is that the room is an enclosed space separate from the art outside, because if they’d gotten any of this mess on one of the local artists’ work, or worse—Wyatt’s—I would have died. My ass hits the floor when I get tired of bending over, and I look around once more. The canvases they are painting on are still on their designated easels, and I take a moment to look at the one Fin was working on. It’s a gloomy day in his world. The gray sky makes the water below it hit the rocks angrily. The dark blue brush strokes on the ocean almost make me feel like I can hear the waves, and I decide I want to see the real thing. My studio isn’t far from the beach, and I don’t enjoy it as often as I could. I gather everything I need for the hospital meeting into one box and set it aside, next to the door. As I’m locking up, I see the splashes of paint on my arm from the paint fight. Damn kids.
The temperature usually drops around sundown and, like clockwork, when the sun begins to set, I feel a cool gust of wind hit me. I pull my light jacket closed, as I stroll toward the water.
I stop at the light a block away and listen for the waves, feeling lighter already. Aside from the other galleries in the area, the ocean was a huge selling point for us when we got the place. If I close my eyes and think hard enough, I can picture Wyatt running toward the beach with his board under one arm, his wet suit practically falling off his body. The memory makes me smile, even though it makes my heart squeeze in my chest. When I first came back to the studio, that was my first thought. Not the gallery, not the painting he was working on that I have put away in the back room, not our daily breakfast together, or the way he would smile when I walked in a room—but remembering the way he ran toward that water.
Surfing was quite possibly the only thing he had in common with my brother. When I first got together with Wyatt, my mom joked that I purposely brought home the artiest man I could find. Forget the fact that he was highly successful, older, and made the effort to wear a suit to their house the first time they met. My mom saw him beneath it all. Not in a bad way. She grew to accept Wyatt, as did my dad. Vic never really did, but didn’t say otherwise. I think they all saw him as an extension of me. I was already kind of an outsider in their world anyway. I hated going to those pretentious parties and galas my parents attend annually. My dad’s an orthodontist, and my mom’s an English professor, so everybody assumed their kids would follow in their footsteps. Well, Vic became an attorney, and I became a painter. They’re supportive of me, though. They love my work and cheer me on, so even though I know I’m the black sheep in some ways, I’m never made to feel like one.
When I reach the sand, I take a really deep breath and close my eyes, relishing the moment. Every second counts. Live in this moment. This is life. This is what matters. It’s a simple thought, but it’s so easy to forget. The ocean is there as a constant reminder though. The big waves crashing against the rocks are as cleansing as they are dangerous. I take a seat in the sand and watch the surfers, young and old, and let the sounds wash over me. Instead of drowning out my pent-up sorrow, it cuts me in half. The anniversary of Wyatt’s death was a couple of days ago. It came and went without much remembrance, other than from me and his parents, via the phone call we had to check up on each other.
A little over a year ago, I was on this very beach for a completely different reason. I saw ambulances drive through the sand and followed them because curiosity got the best of me. God. What would I have done if I hadn’t followed them? How would I have found out? I wore a frown as I walked closer to the water, recalling the small crowd of people—mostly surfers—watching the paramedics work on someone. It was like I was having an out-of-body experience as I reached them. It felt like something was pulling me closer to the chaos, but I instinctively knew I wouldn’t want to see what was going on once I reached it, so I walked slowly. I caught a glimpse of the man on the ground and thought, “Holy shit, that looks like . . . but . . .” and glanced down at my phone in a panic. I looked in every direction—toward the gallery, the beach, and the little colorful wooden shack that sold drinks—all the while my heart pounded in my chest.
My feet drove me forward, closer to the paramedics . . . closer to the body. And then I saw him. Really saw him. His long, blonde hair fanned over the sand, his brown eyes were closed, and his wet suit was pulled down to reveal a thin torso. My vision began to blur, walls that weren’t there, beginning to close in around me. I felt like I was fading. Like I was there, but not really, because I wasn’t supposed to be looking at what I thought I was seeing. My knees began to buckle when I finally reached him and saw just how white his lips were and how pale his face was.
“Wyatt?” I heard myself say, but the shriek belonged to someone else . . . someone in a panic . . . someone who felt like she was losing the love of her life, and that person couldn’t have been me. “What happened? He’s my fiancé. What happened? Wyatt!” I screamed over and over as panic rushed through me.
One of the paramedics held my arms, as I watched them work on him. CPR . . . pumping his stomach over and over . . . Finally, they brought out that machine I’d seen a million times in movies—the one that “clears” and zaps people when they’re dead and need to be revived. When I saw that machine, I fell to my knees with a scream. I clutched the warm sand below me as the paramedic tried to calm me down.
“Why isn’t he waking up?” I sobbed. “Why aren’t you letting me go to him?”
“I need you to stay calm—”
My pleas died out with a howl and the sound of the tide crashing behind us.
“He was just surfing,” somebody behind us said.
“He was taking too long to come up after his last wipe out,” another added.
“I called nine-one-one when I noticed he wasn’t coming up,” a third one said. “I hope he pulls through!”
The paramedic helped me get up as they put Wyatt on a stretcher, and I let her walk me into the back of the ambulance. I sat there beside Wyatt’s feet, staring at his face.
“Will he be okay?” I asked, half sobbed, half shrieked.
Nobody answered. They just kept on tapping him, breathing into his mouth, and pumping his stomach. They pronounced him dead on arrival when we got to the hospital, before they even wheeled him in. I knew he was gone before he even made it onto the ambulance, but it hurt so much more to hear them verbalize it. For days, I felt lost. He was only thirty-five and an excellent swimmer. The only thing I could think about was that those brown eyes would never look at me again. Those hands would never paint again. Those lips would never smile again. And coming back to this beach now, always brings back the memories.
The autopsy said he’d had a heart attack while he was in the water and that there wasn’t enough water in his lungs for him to have drowned. The only thing I kept thinking was—he was only thirty-five.
I no longer cry when I come here. It’s not filled with bad memories anymore because I know Wyatt loved this place as much as he loved the gallery. Today, though . . . today I cry. Today I let myself remember the look on his smiling face when we had breakfast in the morning. I close my eyes and take a breath, hoping to smell dry paint and gloss on him and hug myself tight at the memory of being in his arms at night. I let those thoughts break me open and hope that, even from a distance, the waves can wash away my pain. Tomorrow I’ll be okay, but today I let myself bleed, and that’s okay too.