Sanibel Scribbles (49 page)

Suddenly, as she turned right onto College Avenue, Beethoven’s stately music erupted. Startled by the unexpected sounds filling her car, she accidentally switched lanes, cutting someone off behind her. Horns honked, and she laughed, because it fit well with Beethoven’s piece, a rebel bassoon player, a naughty spirit.

When the music came to its magnificent finale, there was enormous silence, and she knew instantly that the third movement of the symphony in her own life had come to an end, the symphony that started the night she first scribbled her dreams and goals on the white paper tablecloth. She parked her car, not minding the silence. She embraced it as she walked quietly and alone to Till Midnight and took a seat at a small, round table draped with a white paper tablecloth on the sidewalk in front of the café.

The tulips she and Rebecca had seen together last spring had disappeared, their season of stardom past. As surely as the seasons would come and go, new tulips would return to take their place in the same soil come early May. As she looked around, the day stood still. No candles were lit, and a closed sign hung on the restaurant door. Despite the chilly air and the light snow, the tables were already covered with paper tablecloths, sheltered by an awning and heat lamp above. She could see but not hear the staff as they scurried about inside, preparing to open in an hour.

Aware of the hours of studying to do, but more aware of the special things in life that come first and should always fit into any hectic schedule, she sat down at the same table where she and Rebecca had last planned their future together. She understood now that silence served a very important purpose. She closed her eyes and could hear the voices of the people she had encountered, their words and stories like building blocks of wisdom, just as the waves, casually over time, deposited the grains of sand that slowly formed the islands of the world.

She could hear valves, vibrating strings, and pipes all at once, an orchestra tuning up, and she knew the silence was coming to an end. She was ready to enter the fourth and final movement of her own personal symphony as she opened her eyes and noticed silver-frosted clouds draping the horizon. She picked up a red crayon from the table and, with the confidence of a conductor who had gained interpretations from scores of musicians, she began to write fast and furiously on the white paper tablecloth.

As if a bow was stretched over the strings of the violin, she heard Rebecca’s voice, full of emotion, and wrote, “Live within the present.”

She thought of Captain Porter Smith and their passionate battle with
the tarpon, and she could almost hear the silvery fish breathing, like the breathier, throatier sound of the viola accompanying the violin. She wrote, “Find a domain and bring passion to your life.”

She remembered Denver classifying her as a submarine and telling her it was okay to feel down. His voice was loud and clear like that of a trombone, and she was sitting directly in front of it, with its long u-shaped slide moving back and forth, poking her. She wrote, “Anchor long enough to repair and refuel but always work your way through dark waters.”

She could picture Rebecca’s mother writing her that letter, like someone fingering the valves on a trumpet, and scribbled, “Celebrate life.”

She watched a waiter inside running from table to table, like fingers swiftly sliding over the strings of a triangular harp, and it reminded her of Ruth. She wrote, “Build your own fortress with walls made of boundaries.”

She felt an emotionless chill thinking about John Bark and wrote, “Surrender your dreams to God.”

She could hear Howard’s voice, like the piccolo, the baby brother to the flute and sounding just an octave higher, with its shrill tone adding much color to a piece of music. She wrote, “Start fresh daily, adding beautiful colors to your plain white canvas.”

She thought of Evelyn, her voice regal and resonant, yet evoking melancholy, and wrote, “See something new out your same old window.”

She heard Connie’s loud, boisterous laugh, like a rebel bassoon player and scribbled, “Add laughter to your life.”

She could hear the motor of Simon’s boat making its way through the water with a crisp, clear fluidity similar to the sound of a flute and wrote, “Discover an island where you can rediscover yourself.”

She thought of Ben sitting on the dock, a tuba player adding much background depth. She wrote, “Hop, skip and jump toward goals, enjoying the process as much as the destination.”

Her thoughts quieted for a moment, and she almost put her crayon down, but they must have been crying wolf, because suddenly she remembered what her parents had told her as she boarded the plane to Spain. Their voices, like clarinets, created a flowing melody as she wrote, “Abandon
comfort zones and discover adventure.”

Again, she thought the music might end, but voices travel far, perhaps farther than any voyager in history. She could hear Rosario’s voice like a fiddle, the instrument all the other instruments tune to, all the way from Spain. She wrote, “Don’t rush any part of life. Savor it like a delicious meal.”

She could almost taste sangria as she thought of Lorenzo and his deep voice, one of three trombones, and wrote, “Indulge in fiestas but never lose your dignity.”

She felt the chilliness of the seat she now sat on, and it reminded her of Triste, a violin going up one notch. She wrote, “Get on with your life. Live life!”

She remembered the flamenco dancer and the tambourines she danced to and, with a smile, wrote, “Dance through life.”

Her heart pounded as loudly as any instrument when she thought of Isabella and Ron, and wrote, “Nourish the heart – red wine, olive oil, romance, and careful listening.”

Drums sounded when she noticed a tray with red cloth napkins near the door and thought of the matador and wrote, “When death comes around, stare it in the eyes.”

She closed her eyes and could hear Nacho’s piano music and remembered the time he told her she was the conductor of countless symphonies in life and that it was up to her to interpret the music given to her by the composer. It was up to her to set the pace, the volume and to make an interpretation of that music. He had told her there were four parts of music in a symphony with silence between the parts. She opened her eyes and wrote, “Do as you like with your moments of silence.”

Suddenly, everything went quiet again, and she listened desperately for Rafael’s voice. She knew this time was more than just a pause. The music had definitely ended. She couldn’t write anything as she thought of him. Their time together had been incomplete. She longed to know what she might have learned had she spent more time with him.

She put her crayon down and stared at the frozen flowerbed where last year’s tulips had stood in perfect harmony waiting for the infamous tulip
festival to begin. The cup-shaped, solitary flowers died each year, but every winter their bulbs divided under the snow-packed earth, and new ones bloomed in the spring.

She spoke as if someone sat across from her. “No, a believer in God and all that is spiritual, I will not fear death! Death will be the start of eternal life with God. For now, while I’m alive, death will serve as a reminder.”

All at once, the music burst forth again, and she could almost hear the tulips, in perfect harmony, the red with the red and the pink with the pink, their petals opening in unison, as if synchronized to the movements of a conductor, and at the end of her new list, she added, “Remember the tulips. Just as their season of stardom comes and goes, you too will one day pass.”

As death was added to that list, it put everything into perspective.

The music of the fourth and final movement ended. There would surely be other symphonies in her life, but this particular one she declared done. Of course, she would always hear the memory of its music in her mind, and now, in the immediate silence following that music, she valued her time and the very moment, and neatly folded the tablecloth with her new scribbles. She knew this list would bring her an immediate yet long-lasting sense of accomplishment, as well as joy, because everything she wrote could be started right away. It wasn’t the type of list that could be defeated with excuses. And this list wouldn’t cause stress. It had no deadlines and inflicted no pressures. Instead of consisting of a set of things she had to do in life, it was simply a way of doing things in life.

She rose from the table, unable to contain herself any longer, a woman sitting quietly through an entire symphony, bottling her desire to clap and scream and shout within herself like a bottle of champagne, and now ready to explode with excitement, she jumped away from the table and did an angel in the snow. A few passing cars honked. She took a handful of snow and tasted it. Still in angel position, she closed her eyes and felt the refreshing coldness of Michigan’s wintry mantle.

When she opened her eyes again, the robust clouds overhead shimmered in shades of white she had never seen before, matching the snow beneath, and in the far distance, the horizon between sky and earth
blurred where the grayish whites met. Thin tree branches wrapped in snow looked so perfect that she could swear a little elf from the North Pole had stayed up all night carefully and perfectly hand-painting each and every twig in a thick coating of opaque white.

She lay in the snow a good five minutes. Things she had never pondered before drifted through her mind. One could determine the life span of butterflies by capturing them and marking their wings with a square-tipped marking pen, then watching for them later. She didn’t want to be captured. She didn’t want to know the number of her days.

Dear Grandma
,

Everybody will lose someone or something they love at some point in this life, as we know it. A loss can be a family business sold, a move from a hometown, distance from a big or little sister. It could mean the end of life-long friendships. Losses great and small come in various ways
.

Some people will grieve; others will be grief-stricken. I recommend actively grieving, I mean going on a grief journey. Grieving is a long process. You have to rediscover the world about you
.

Some will turn their grievances into fears and phobias. Others will turn their grievances into an appreciation for life, for the living moment itself, the present
.

P.S. I look forward to seeing you again, Grandma. I hope you’ll be there some day when I walk through that door to eternal life. I wonder what my symphony will sound like then!

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

DICTATED BY TIME ZONES
,
the New Year would arrive first in Spain. With forty-five minutes left before the year changed, Rafael knew his Spanish custom of tardiness might postpone a meeting or delay a luncheon or make Victoria stand desperately by herself on the corner. Alas, he knew that his tardiness would not, could not, prevent the New Year from coming. He wanted badly to take hold of the skinny little hands of the clock, to twist and pull them until they fell off, to put the worldwide celebration on hold until someone with tools could repair them and set the clock in motion again. No, though he could not control time, or the coming of the New Year, he could control his own decisions, and this—this he would do. He had to!

Sitting in the leather seat next to him, his wife shouted and cursed at him. “Drive faster!” she demanded. Instead, he thought of his latest line of clothing, the line that took Spain by surprise with its subtle Americana twist, the line he labeled, “Living Victoriously.” The screech of his wife’s voice interrupted his daydream once more.

They were late for the event of the century—wining, dining, and gossiping with Spain’s best, Spain’s royalty, and its most gorgeous and impressive people. As he drove slowly in the direction of the Palacio Real, he dreaded entering a New Year with no love, no children to call his own, no friend to share his emotions with. He couldn’t stand thinking about spending another year with his wife and her materialism, rudeness, and
self-serving selfishness.

They had driven to Palacio Real hundreds of times before, so he had no excuse to give his screaming wife as he made a wrong turn and drove an extra couple of blocks before stopping his car on the corner outside El Corte Inglés department store. For years, words like
“loco”
and
“estupido”
had left her mouth like balls at a batting cage, hitting him head-on. Now, they only rolled past him. He refused to look at her, but through the corner of his eyes he saw her throw her hands up in a tantrum as she belittled him with crude names. The combination of her perfume and hair spray smelled like a sweet Tento de Virano and sangria mixed together, and it made his head throb and his eyes water. He watched out the window as a woman walked by with two babies in a double stroller, and again he felt desperate to become a father. He mourned the fact that his wife never wanted to have babies. She had a right not to want them, but she had never told him this. In fact, she had once lied, saying she wanted children. She had said it simply to get him to marry her. Her self-centeredness burned his stomach. As the young mother turned the corner, he made a left turn, ignoring his wife’s cursing, and drove to the palace. He knew he had changes to make in the New Year. He would make these changes. He would do so -
mañana! Mañana, mañana, mañana!