Page 6 of That Birthday in Barbados
“Wouldn’t we all?” she says on a soft laugh. “But when you get to where I am in life, you realize that we are who we end up being because of each and every experience we’ve had. To pull one would unravel the entire masterpiece.”
I laugh a little, thinking of the declaration James had made in my office that morning three years ago. Dr. Dyer hadbeen right. “I don’t think I’m going to end up being a masterpiece.”
“Ah, but you can be. I try to imagine that the tsunami waves of life are smoothing out my sharp edges, making them round and accepting like beautiful sea glass.”
“How old are you, Madeline?”
She answers without hesitation. “Eighty-one.”
“Really?” I ask, failing to hide my astonishment.
She laughs. “Every minute of it.”
“I would never have guessed that.”
“Then I hope it is because I am wearing my life well instead of it wearing me.”
I think about those words long after Madeline has settled in her seat and closed her eyes for a nap. I look out at the clouds below the plane and allow myself to remember that I used to be someone very different from who I am today. I wasn’t bitter. I was trusting. I wasn’t resigned. I was hopeful. I realize too that I do not like myself now. Not even a little bit.
I think of my financial accomplishments, the very large sum of money sitting in my investment bank account. If I quit working today and lived a life far more extravagant than my current one, I would never spend all of it.
That is what I have to show for my choices. That is who I am.
I glance at Madeline, note the soft, peaceful expression on her remarkably unlined face. I envy her contentment, her acceptance of what has been and what lies ahead. I envy her ability to seek out joy again, even when it is not guaranteed.
I once had something of what Madeline has inside me. I know I did. Along with the other losses I’ve grieved in the past three years, I feel a deep pang of mourning for the death of the woman I used to be.
Chapter Two
“From the same window, you keep seeing the same view!”
?Mehmet Murat ildan
Catherine
AS IT TURNS out, Madeline and I are both greeted by a pretty young woman in pink as we enter the customs area. Her smile reminds me of the sun, bright and warm. She is holding up a Sandy Lane Hotel sign with our names on it and introduces herself as Elsa.
“Welcome to Barbados,” she says with a lovely lilt to her voice. “Let’s get you through the paperwork stuff, and then we’ll get your luggage and head outside where we have a van waiting to take you to the hotel. No need to waste time here when you’re ready to enjoyyour vacation.”
We both thank her, and she leads us around the throng of passengers to a booth where our passports are screened, and we are quickly checked through. We wait a few minutes at the luggage carousel while Madeline and Elsa make small talk about the weather in New York and how wonderful it is toescape the December cold.
I think about checking my phone, but find myself unwilling to turn it on because I’ll have to answer questions about where I’ve gone, when I’ll be back, and I don’t want to. For the first time in longer than I can remember, I’m glad to be disconnected from the city and the life I’ve left behind.
My suitcase appears on the conveyor, and I step forward to get it, but at Elsa’s direction, a young man picks it up and loads it on a cart. Madeline’s luggage arrives within a couple of minutes. Elsa leads us through one more checkpoint before we headto the van. As we step outside the airport doors, I remember the freezing air as I’d climbed out of the Uber car early this morning and feel a wash of relief for the humidity and warmth here. I can practically feel my skin sigh with appreciation. Elsa speaks to the driver and wishes us both a wonderful stay at the Sandy Lane.
The driver holds the door for us. We climb in, and he walks around and gets inside, offering us bottles of cold Evian water. “Buckle up if you don’t mind,” he says, smiling at us in the rearview. “It’s required here.”
We both snap our belts, and I gratefully sip from my water as we head away from the airport and into Barbados.
I can see the ocean in the distance. The area near the airport is suprisingly rural. Homes are scattered here and there, cows tied in surprising places, grazing small patches of brownish green grass. This part of the island feels like a place where people live instead of vacation. Within a few minutes, we pass a grocery store and a strip mall with storenames I don’t recognize. A truck parked on the side of the road is loaded with coconuts. A man stands at the tailgate. Using the end of a pickaxe, he slams the coconut against the tip until the hard outer shell cracks. He then passes it to a woman who sticks a straw in the center and takes a sip.
Madeline remarks that little has changed since she was here last, and I have to agree with her. I try to remember what it felt like to make this drive from the airport to the hotel with Connor, but my mind cannot seem to clarify the recollection. Is it gone, or was I still too hung over from our wedding reception for my brain to permanently store those moments? That, or I’ve just refused to let myself remember a time when I had been so happy, or at least believed I was.
I put my focus back on the road ahead of us, glad when I begin to recognize the landscape near the hotel. The driver hits the blinker, and we are turning into the gate entrance of the Sandy Lane. A guard waves us in, and the familiar building is suddenly there in front of us. My heart kicks against my chest, and I feel both elated to be here and as if I am going to burst into tears. Madeline glances at me, reaches over and squeezes my hand. “I have a feeling this willbe a special trip for you, my dear. Just give it a chance, okay?”
I nod once, biting my lower lip. “I hope it’s wonderful for you,” I say.
“I don’t plan to let it be anything other than that,” she says, smiling at me.
