The Words We Leave Unspoken(15)

Pulling me closer to him, bringing me back to this moment, John wraps his arm around my shoulders and I think, Later. I’ll tell him later.





Chapter 10





Charley


Okay. Now what? I think to myself while I stare at Max and Olivia, the reality that I’m alone with them for over 24 hours finally sinking in. And then I think of the things I used to do in this town when I was little.

“Okay, kids. Bundle up, we’re going out for a bit,” I proclaim, clapping my hands together to rally the troops.

“Where we going, Aunt Charley?” Max asks, craning his neck up at me.

“We’re going to the harbor before it starts raining and we’re stuck inside.” I brush my hand through his hair, admiring his adorable chubby cheeks.

“Can we get hot cocoa?” he asks, his blue eyes wide with excitement.

“Sure,” I say.

“Yes,” Max says as he pumps his fist in the air and runs off to get his coat and shoes.

“You in, Olivia?”

“Do I have a choice?” Olivia snarls, catching me completely off guard.

“Whoa. Where’s the attitude coming from?” I ask, throwing my hands in the air, adding my own flair of drama. “That’s not going to fly with me, young lady. Do we understand each other?”

“Whatever.”

“Okay, this can be easy and fun or this can be hard and ugly. What’s it gonna be?”

“Fine,” she concedes and slips off the barstool slowly. I stand in front of her and place my fingers on her cheeks, gently lifting her mouth into a forced smile as I flash her one of my own. She rewards me with a small grin, ducks around me and trudges up the stairs. I might have my work cut out for me. What happened to my sweet little niece?

Once everyone is bundled in coats and rain boots, and Olivia has helped me secure Max’s booster seat in the backseat of my small car, we climb in and head toward the harbor.

I once loved walking up and down the docks, looking at all the fishing boats and upscale yachts. My dad had been a fisherman and I can remember sitting on the docks, watching him unload bin after bin of fresh fish. When I was finally old enough to go out on the water with him, bundled in my rain coat and bright orange life preserver, I puked all over the deck of the boat. Without a moment’s pause, my dad had grabbed a bucket attached by a thin rope, leaned over the edge of the boat and scooped it full of water which he poured across the deck, washing away my breakfast.

When I started to cry, he patted my back and said, “Sorry Charley, you just weren’t born with sea legs is all.” I wasn’t sure, exactly, what he meant or what my legs had to do with it, but I stuck to the docks after that, inserting myself in my father’s life in any way I could.

I swallow the lump in my throat and shake off the memories that come flooding back as I drive the familiar route to the harbor. We park the car and decide to hit the café first. The café sits at the birth of the docks, a popular place for breakfast or lunch and known for its fresh pastries. Usually in the late morning, after first catch, the red vinyl booths are filled with fishermen desperate for a cup of hot coffee. Although, today the place is practically empty. Olivia and I follow Max into a corner booth next to the window that faces the water. The kids order a hot chocolate with whipped cream and cinnamon rolls and I order a cup of coffee.

When we’re done, we stroll out to the docks where Olivia and I follow Max up and down each row, admiring the boats, calling out the names of each one. The Blue Fin, Crabby Lady, The Office, The Cod Father, and my personal favorite, Rosalita. Something about it leads me to believe that love exists somewhere, even if that love is only for a boat.

The cold air fills my nostrils with the thick scent of salt and fish, the smell of Puget Sound arousing scenes of my past. Standing on the dock, beneath a sky of rolling dark clouds, I feel the weight of a thousand moments spent here. I imagine a life where no matter the problems my parents were having, my mother loved my father, loved our family. I imagine a life with my father, a life that he never left. A life where my days continued to be filled by moments here at the dock, counting fish and learning how to tie a slipknot. I imagine coming here when I had a bad day or needed advice. And my father would make it all better in the way he always seemed to, spinning the scenario until it didn’t hurt so bad. I can almost hear his voice on the breeze now. I imagine he would say something like, Sorry Charley, it’s not fair, what’s happening to Gwen. But life’s not always fair, and neither is death. He was a simple man with a simple explanation for everything.

We stop and watch as silvery salmon and crates of snapping crab are unloaded off the boats. And when we pass slip 21, I pause. I kneel down and trace my initials that are etched into the wood slats. CB. Right next to Gwen’s initials. I remember the day we carved them.

“What’s that Aunt Charley?” I hear Max ask.

“See these letters?” I ask. Max kneels down next to me. “These are your mom and I’s initials. Your mom and I used to spend a lot of time here when we were your age.”

“I didn’t know that,” Olivia says.

It doesn’t surprise me. Gwen closed the door on that part of our life. It’s a wonder that she can live in this town and not fall prisoner to the memories, but Gwen’s strong like that. She can close herself off to things. I’ve always envied her ability to keep things simple. My life always feels messy and complicated. When I try to close the door on things, I end up feeling as if the walls are closing in all around me. Like right now in this moment. I close my eyes and I can see it all like an old movie, an old reel projecting on a screen, as it plays in my mind. I can hear the soundtrack, my desperate cries as I run down the tree-lined street, chasing his old pick-up truck like an abandoned dog. No, Daddy don’t leave. Don’t leave me. My voice growing hoarse the longer I scream and the harder I run, until his tailgate is out of sight, never to be seen again. Endless tears pouring down my little face. Gwen had watched it all from the porch, her eyes dry as dust, before she came and picked me up where I had finally collapsed in the middle of the street, crying hysterically. That empty, hollow pain in the pit of my stomach carving out a place where it would live for decades to come. Gwen had stroked my hair away from my damp face and held me for hours and all the while my mother was locked away in her room.