Until I Say Good-Bye (26 page)

Captiva Island

August

The Lion's Paw

M
y son Aubrey wanted to go to Sanibel Island, Florida, for his special trip. He had gone a few years before with our neighbor Sabra and her children, and it was his favorite place.

Sanibel Island, and its neighbor Captiva Island, are long, flat barrier islands off the west coast of Florida, places renowned for their seashells and sunsets.

Mind you, not all beaches have shells. The Florida beach I live near on the east coast usually has just a thin strip of inch-longers and broken fragments deposited by the tide. Sanibel and Captiva are positioned at such an angle to the Gulf of Mexico that millions of shells wash up on their shores.

A seeker's dream.

And the islands were only a three-hour drive west of Palm Beach, an easy jaunt across Florida's inland swamp. A close world, a familiar one, but separate and special nonetheless.

Wonderful, I thought. Perfect.

I set to work.

Aubrey and I sat in the Chickee hut and looked over websites. He chose a house on Captiva Island that slept ten, right next to the beach. It was three stories tall, “with an elevator, Mom, so you can go up and down.”

We would be there for a week in late August, with John and the other kids, Nancy and her children, Steph and her family, cycling through. But the first three days would be for me and Aubrey.

And Steph, my caretaking companion.

I knew exactly the memory I wanted to plant.

As children, Steph and I had mooned over a book called
The Lion's Paw
. As soon as we read it—in fourth grade for both of us—it was our favorite book.

We loved Nick and Penny, a brother and sister who run away from a cruel orphanage in search of a better life. They meet Ben, a teenager whose father has gone missing in the war. Ben is convinced that if he finds a lion's paw, a rare shell found on and around Sanibel and Captiva, his lost father will return to him.

The children steal away on Ben's father's boat in search of that small shell. They travel all over south Florida, fighting alligators, hiding in mangroves, outwitting pursuers, forming a tight friendship, learning lessons, and having the adventures of a lifetime.

For years, I wanted to be like Penny or Nick or even Ben. I wanted to steal away and find what I was missing in my life.

I own a lion's paw shell, a fully intact one, with all five “knuckles.” Knuckles are knobs on the shell that make it resemble a real animal paw. I received my shell as a young adult and kept it through children and travels and career, one of my prized possessions.

I love it because, on first glance, the lion's paw is not unique. It is the basic fan shape of almost every shell in the ocean, with a preponderance of brown.

But a true lion's paw comes from one particular species of scallop.

It is the size of a fist. The distinctive ridges are so high and curved they look almost like toes. And the color, on closer inspection, is not brown, but a dozen shades of orange, with purple bands that spiral and melt, or striate the shell, or mix with the orange into ochre. A glance-and-you-might-miss-it beauty, but one that grows the more you look. Each shell a story in itself.

I decided to take my lion's paw to Captiva.

After reading the book with Aubrey, I would take my old-soul son to the beach. One of the landing-strip-wide sections. We would talk of the story of the lion's paw as the sun set, painting the sky my favorite colors—sapphire, mango, magenta.

Then, “Oh, look, a lion's paw.” My lion's paw, the edge poking out of the sand just where Stephanie buried it.

Aubrey would smile. He'd probably say, “Here, Mom. You keep it.” But I'd say, “No, no, no, it's yours, my boy. You found it, just like Nick and Penny. Keep it all your life.”

Eye-heart-u, son.

Eye-heart-u, too.

Of course, if you've read up to here, you know events rarely happen as anticipated. The no-show northern lights, Stephanie upchucking on the cruise, Panos's Bible, even Kleinfeld's—none of those things turned out just as planned.

But were perfect memories, nonetheless.

Because I did not have expectations. I guess that's a lesson, if there must be one. Accept the life that comes. Work and strive, but accept. Don't force the world to be the one you dream.

The reality is better.

So I did not fret when a host of things went wrong with the Aubrey plan.

“Your mom tells me she has a lion's paw!” Ellen said to Aubrey. Ugh. Capsize the surprise, why don't you?

My parents told some friends, who kindly bought a lion's paw online. My mother gave it to Aubrey with such glee. It wasn't a real lion's paw, but Aubrey thought it was. Sheeeeesh!

And of course Aubrey wasn't eager to read the book.

Steph chased him around the house for half the summer: “Sugarplum, don't ya wanna read? It's my favorite book! And it's about Sanibel!”

“No,” he'd say.

I decided to read it with Aubrey. But my voice was too slurred, and he had no interest in sitting down and reading to his mom.

No bother.

The real problem hit the moment we arrived at our house on Captiva Island. The beach. I had begun to form the plan four months before. Back then, I could have walked out with Aubrey. Not far, but far enough.

But now, after the exhaustion of Cyprus and New York, and four more months of ALS, I could not walk unassisted. Especially on loose sand.

Do not pine for things you cannot have, I thought, for that is the way to the loony bin.

I turned away. Went inside our rented house, furnished just so, with a screened pool and jacuzzi, private balconies, five bedrooms, a spiral staircase, a house so lavish and nice that Aubrey didn't want to leave.

“There's a flat-screen TV in every bedroom!” Aubrey gushed.

He was knee-deep in a two-pound tub of Jelly Belly jelly beans. Jelly Bellies come in scads of flavors, like buttered popcorn, cotton candy, cappuccino, and plum. Aubrey would fish out two matching beans for Steph and me, and we'd guess the flavor. He manned the flavor guide.

“No! No! That was pomegranate!” he'd say.

Here's Aubrey in a nutshell: the other night, he expressed concern about John going back to college soon. “Dad, you're gonna get pantsed. The younger students will tease you and pull your pants down.”

When Aubrey gained admission to a prestigious arts middle school this year, he declined to tell a buddy in his band who hadn't made it. He didn't want to hurt her feelings.

Aubrey enjoyed quiet moments with me. But three days? I knew he would enjoy company more. So I invited Nancy and her children, Liam and Devin, who met us there.

“There's an elevator!” sunny Devin announced. “In a house!”

“Yes, dear, it's for Susan,” said Nancy.

Now this elevator would be a blessing and a curse. Because at each story it had two doors that had to be closed tightly for it to operate, and these doors tended to stick.

The elevator was the size of a closet, fitting a wheelchair and two people at most. And it was so stuffy inside, the house caretaker asked us to keep the doors open to air it out. There was no emergency phone or alarm, just a lone wire. If the doors got stuck, which they often did, you poked a metal rod in a hole above the door and it was supposed to pop open. Supposed to.

Of course, the doors immediately stuck. Wouldn't open to let me in. Nancy and Steph ran up and down the stairs, ensuring all the doors were closed so the elevator would operate.

Finally, they had to carry me up the stairs.

Steph grabbed me under the armpits, and Nancy grabbed my feet. Imagine a ninety-five-pound sack of potatoes. Now schlep it up two flights of stairs.

Nancy, bearing my lighter end, wanted to move quickly. Steph with the heavier end: NOT. They kept plopping me on my bum, as gently as they could, but not as gently as I liked.

Ergo, I was happy to stay on my third-floor private balcony, writing, enjoying the rustle of the palm tree beside me. The balcony became my command center. My place to be alone, a state I was becoming more and more comfortable with.

I sat on my balcony while the kids explored the house. Turned on every television. Went to the beach with Nancy and Steph. Polished off the entire two-pound container of Jelly Bellies.

I was not imposing myself on Aubrey. Not forcing him to be near me. He was close. He was having fun, and that was enough.

In the evening, I came down to lounge. We marinated and grilled steaks, since Aubrey loves steak. Nancy nearly ignited herself along with the gas grill.

Over dinner, we played Table Topics, a game we found in the house. Cards with questions you can talk about: “If you could meet one famous person, who would it be?” Barack Obama. “Do you love the beach or mountains more?” The beach, of course. (Steph and I resolved to get the game and play it with our parents, to try to get to know them better.) One question for everyone: “When you die, where do you want your remains put?”

And my old-soul son said: “At the graves of my parents.”

The game moved on. The kids went for ice cream.

Alone in bed, I cried myself to sleep.

“C
ome on, sugarplums! Let's read!” I heard Stephanie calling the next morning. She was reading
The Lion's Paw
to the kids at every opportunity. Nancy's children, Liam and Devin, were interested. Aubrey was becoming so.

I texted John. “Come on over,” I told him. If it was a party, I wanted everyone there.

That morning, Nancy's sister Sally and her husband Paul took us boating. I have been crestfallen when friends who used to invite me boating no longer do so. We sat in the back of the boat, chatting, sunning, enjoying the salt air. Flying over the water, but feeling still. Sally and Paul made my day, and Aubrey's too.

John arrived with Wesley, Marina, and Marina's friend Lizzy. The tenor of the house began to change. Aubrey and Marina argued. Marina disappeared as often as she could with Lizzy. Wesley drove a golf cart (came with the house) into the garage wall.

I stayed on my balcony, above the chaos. Letting the noises swirl up to me. Occasionally a child with a question. Or Aubrey, trying to get away from Wes. Or an adult came around to sit with me or ask if I was all right.

I got my Zen on. Tapped out this book, writing the chapter on the space shuttle. Watching the clouds blow across the sky.

“What would I do without this book?” I asked Steph at one point.

Because without it, I would have wanted to be down there with my children, with my friends, and wanting is the hardest part.

One afternoon, I lay down to rest. John helped me into the king-size bed, turned me on my hip, positioned me just the way I like. I love to have a pillow between my legs, so my bones don't hit together, and I hate to have hair over the ear against the pillow. These are the little things John knows, the little details he always takes care of, because finding the comfy spot, for me, is bliss.

I was lying there all snuggled on down comforters when I heard Wesley's muffled voice: “Help! Help!”

Silence. He screamed again.

“Help!”

I listened for a response downstairs. I heard someone yell: “Oh, no! Wes is stuck in the elevator!”

I tried to roll over. To get to him.

Oh boy, I thought. I hope they find that metal rod. And I hope it works.

Wesley continued calling out: “I'm stuck! I'm stuck!” His voice was rising.

I heard people far away: “It's okay, baby. We're getting you out.”

I waited, stuck and alone. Listening so intently I could have heard an atom move.

And then Wesley started wailing like I've never heard before. Wailing like a wild animal shot. He was hysterical.

I thought of him trapped inside the stuffy elevator alone, gulping down the finite amount of oxygen in there.

I tried again to inch myself to the edge of the bed, intent on flinging myself to the floor and crawling out of the bedroom.

Wes wailed and wailed, louder and louder. It seemed to go on and on.

I imagined him red and sweating, his blue eyes bulging in terror. I imagined those elevator walls closing in on him.

Why aren't they calling the fire department? I thought.

I had no phone. I couldn't move. I couldn't help my son.

I had a panic attack and began wailing. “Help! Help!” I yelled as loud as I could, which isn't very loud.

Finally John rushed into the bedroom to find me slumped against the side of the bed. I had managed to slide myself off the mattress onto the floor, but I couldn't stand up. “What happened?” John said. “Susan, what's wrong?”

“Call fucking nine-one-one!”

“Why?”

“Because your goddamned son is stuck in an elevator!”

“He's out! He's out!” John said. “He's crying because it scared him.”

“Are you sure? Are you lying?”

“No. He's fine. Hysterical, but fine.”