Shadow and Light

Dave and I pull over yet again.  Why even bother to re-mount my bike?  A murky pond, its brown water choked with lily pads graced by the occasional white blossom, stops us.  A flock of gulls hovering over the water, rising as one, then sweeping low with a wave of speckled wings, catches our eye. Spires of yellow goldenrod arching from green thickets bid us pause.  A simple clapboard church, stark against blue sky, beckons us to brake for a closer look.  We pass the camera between us, each not convinced the other sees just what we see, exactly the rock, ripple, or wildflower we want to include in the picture.  With the camera in tow, we perceive the wonder that is always there in lichens, crisp chestnut leaves, or a clutch of Queen Anne’s lace.

Our artist friend, Peter Hussey, often paints details, a full canvas devoted to a roof gable or porch railing.  And when our kids were little, Dave would draw a mystifying close-up and challenge Tucker and Casey to identify it.  “A stone wall?  A cave?  A bridge?’  They would guess.

“My nostril.”  Dave would reply.

So, there is art and surprise in noticing details, and when I spot stacks of bowls beneath a lace curtain framed in a window, I drop my bike and ask Dave for the camera. 

In a recent issue of Yankee magazine, a photographer relayed a tip that influenced her for decades: “don’t forget shadows,” so I’ve sought to note them as well.  And this morning, after breakfast, when Dave and Nelson sat in green rockers on the porch playing guitars, it was their shadows that sent me seeking the shot.

But it was friends, not photography, that brought us to Block Island.  As we have for years, Dave and I boarded the Point Judith ferry – snapping, as we pulled out, a few photos of fog draped cottages – to meet friends, some of whom we have known for over forty years. 

Art, Janet, Nelson, Steve, and Deb figure in photos taken during muddy quad football games at Trinity College in the seventies, in wedding pictures, and long-ago summers on the Cape, when all of us had long hair past our shoulders.  Len and Joan held our kids as babies in the early eighties, and as their godparents, have been diligent in providing religious guidance… Well, maybe not.  In recent years, Ann, Moo, Mary, and Cisco have joined us, friendships stretching back decades, but newer to our annual island retreat.  

There have been times when this sojourn was an escape; when troubles were heavy, such a burdensome yoke, that we laid them down on one shore and fled to the other.  But this year, whispered sadness was rare, for babies are on the way!  Janet and Art are new grandparents. Mary is knitting for a child due in December, and Dave and I are dancing to join this club, as Tucker and his wife are also expecting in December. “Our baby,” Casey calls the unknown little one Lisa is nurturing.

So, Dave will take a trip to Milford Photo, to make sure our cameras are picture ready.  Back into our lives, feet pajamas and cozy stories!  Splashy tub times and soft, kissable cheeks.  Holidays restored to their full measure of magic.   And Dave and I will pass the camera back and forth during precious moments, not convinced the other sees just what we see. 

              

Together on The Block

Tangled brown tresses tumble from the blond woman’s rolling bag.  A wig, I figure, but a closer look reveals a head.  A mannequin’s head, mind you, but with its lifelike face and all that hair, it is…well, unnerving. 

“Traveling with a head?”  I comment.

The woman glances down at her bag and laughs.  “Yeah.  I have a wedding tomorrow.”

Oh.  That explains it. 

My husband, Dave, is parking the car while I wait with our friend Joanie - plus Dave’s guitar, our backpacks, a cooler, and bikes - for the ferry to Block Island.  It is September, and as we have for years, we are meeting dear friends for our annual gathering.

The drive from home to the ferry, as always, was tricky.  As a rule, on this weekend, Dave leaves work in Greenwich around 3:00 PM.  He then sits, stews, and grumbles in traffic while Joanie and I pace, anxiously glancing at the clock, waiting for him to pull in at home to pick us up.  When he arrives, he unfolds himself gingerly from his seat, adjusts his back, and walks as briskly as possible to the house.

We girls strive to be upbeat, feigning calm, once Dave sets to work hefting the bikes on top of the car and strapping them in as the minutes pass.  Joanie, ever optimistic, gives a “Whoo-Hoo! We’re off!” kind of cheer as we plunge back into the sluggish current of Friday afternoon traffic.  Under ideal conditions, it’s two hours and fifteen minutes to the dock in Point Judith, our preferred place of departure.  The last ferry of the day chugs out at 7:00 PM. 

We all love Point Judith, but for Dave, it’s an integral part of this Block Island weekend.  After the frenzied ride, he likes to browse at the sweatshirt shop, then stop in next door to pick up a steamy cup of Rhode Island clam chowder, with it’s salty gray broth and potatoes, no cream.  Around the docks, the stench of fish and motor oil pervades.  Gulls cry as they dart and wheel around hoary fishing boats bristling with lines and rigging. Engines grind, chains clank, halyards whack against masts, and somehow, it all seems charming.

But it was well after 4:00 when we left home today, and I had to seal my lips shut to maintain the fantasy, for as long as possible, that we might make Point Judith in time.  We were passing the exit for Waterford when Dave asked how long it would take to get to the Point.  “We’d have maybe ten minutes to spare if we don’t hit any slow spots,” I said, trying not to embellish, whine, or coerce.  

Dave is a master at maintaining an animated public face, but he had spent too many hours in traffic this week, and could not mask his disappointment.  “So I guess it will have to be New London,” he said. 

There is nothing wrong with New London.  The downtown boasts lovely Victorian buildings of aged red brick, but the transportation center is a utilitarian ferry depot, and we would sorely miss the joy of our accustomed ride over with our friends, Hallie and Buck.  Still, decision made, we are here in plenty of time to catch the ferry along with the woman and her extra head.

Once Dave joins us, we board the ferry, climb the metal staircase to the upper deck, and take our seats.  Dave is determined to be content and heads for the bar.  He returns with potato chips, two plastic cups of merlot, a beer, and a smile.  We click our drinks in a toast as the ferry churns out of the harbor.  Too bad my husband chooses to set his beer down, for he kicks it over, sending a cascade of golden brew toward our assembled belongings.  Argh.

An hour and a half later, it doesn’t matter, for we are encircled by friends at Dead Eye Dicks on Block Island, ordering swordfish, crab cakes, lobster rolls, and shrimp.  It’s the perfect spot for the first night, right across the street from our hotel, The Narragansett.

In the beginning, the “Race Around the Block” was the incentive for this island weekend.  Dave’s brother, Steve, would run the course, sweating, pumping, and panting, while the rest of us relaxed in the warmth of the afternoon sun at the finish line, sipping tasty mudslides and admiring the view of New Harbor.  The tradition has continued because increasingly we recognize how precious is this time together.

Last year we celebrated Janet and Art’s daughter’s wedding and Steve and Debby’s 40^th anniversary, although we were saddened to learn of Moo’s son’s divorce.  The year before that, Len had just retired, good reason to indulge in an extra mudslide.  Three years ago, we learned of Nelson’s Parkinsons diagnosis, and in 2009, I trudged off the ferry wearing a scarf, newly bald from chemo.  Dave had thrown out his back the morning we left for that visit, and this year, Joanie's the one wearing a back brace. But Moo’s husband Cisco has joined us for the first time; Art and Janet’s daughter is pregnant; Mary’s daughter just got married; Tucker got a job at Google, and Casey’s boyfriend, P.J.  got a job at IBM.  So we celebrate and support, depending on what’s called for.  “Peaks and valleys,” says Nelson’s wife, Anne.

Our topics, activities, and props have changed.  There is more emphasis on stretching before mounting our bikes, and the question, “How did you sleep?” is not idly made.  While none of us felt a need to bring a head in a bag, everyone carries a phone.  As we catch up and crow while poring over the photos stored in those phones, most reach for their reading glasses to do so.  Despite these signs of our aging, Block Island restores us.  Deb says, “As soon as I see the island come into view from the ferry, the weight lifts from my shoulders.  Here I can be a kid again, silly, and free-wheeling.”

Saturday night, after dinner at Dead Eye Dicks and a day of shopping, beaching, and bike rides, we gather in the living room at The Narragansett to sing.  A couple, Karen and Peter, gray-haired and about our age, are reading quietly on the couch.  I don’t give them much thought, but with a friendly smile, Joanie goes over to sit with them. Meanwhile, Art goes to the bar to buy them a drink, a kind gesture to offset our disturbing their peace.  I file away their lessons in courtesy, and am proud of my gracious friends. 

As everyone settles in, Dave strums his guitar, starts and stops a bit, trying out a few possibilities.  I think he’s crazy to bring the guitar over to the island.  He has to lug it around in addition to his backpack, and grapple with it while riding his bike.  I’d never bother, too much of a pain, but where I give up on something that seems like too much trouble, Dave is willing to deal with the inconvenience if it’s going to make a difference in the end.

And it does.  Would we have gathered on the couches and chairs at The Narry to sing if Dave hadn’t brought his guitar?  We limp through “Sloop John B” and some Simon and Garfunkle numbers, straggly and short on words.  Then the phones and reading glasses come out as Mary, Len, and Karen locate a lyrics site so everyone can lean in close to see the words.

Beatles songs seem embossed in our sixties-era souls and everyone belts out “You Won’t See Me.”  As we move on to “In My Life,” a few voices quiet as eyes fill with tears.     

“All these places had their moments

With lovers and friends

I still can recall

Some are dead and some are living

In my life I've loved them all.”

Once just a pretty song, the lyrics now strike a poignant chord.  While every one of us has lost a loved one, this weekend at The Narry is a joy-filled moment, alive with laughter, friends, and memories in the making.

As we warble though Cat Stevens’ “Father and Son,” I reflect that ours was the youthful perspective when that song was popular.  Now, we are the wistful parents. Okay.  Enough of that.  Getting maudlin.  Time to ramp up the mood.  Nelson takes over the guitar for a while, then back to Dave for some Jonathan Edwards and our favorites, “Don’t Cry Blue” and “Shanty.”  Usually, we count on Steve’s harmonica for these two, but he left his guitar and harmonica at home.  No one gives him any grief about that though. Hmm.  He does not disappoint, however, and amazes us with a convincing vocal “harmonica” accompaniment.

It’s getting late, and even with the help of eyeglasses and cell phones, the tempo is slowing down.  I look around this circle and marvel at the decades, experiences, and life phases we’ve been through together:  our own graduations, weddings, pregnancies, job changes, and kids…not to mention, many birthdays.

This morning, while browsing the shops in town, I noticed and bought a greeting card, a vintage photograph of a line-up of little girls, each holding the waist of the child before her.  Audrey Hepburn was quoted in the caption beneath the picture, her words so apt, so true:  “The best thing to hold onto in this life is… each other.”    

Circle Unbroken

We heard their laughter and the lyrical rhythm of island accents before we saw them.   Two women - one with red lipstick and long hair, the other with corn rows tight against her scalp, both with cocoa skin - had struggled to sit atop a massive boulder on the lawn below the lighthouse and above the sea. Their male companion stood before them, holding a camera at arm’s length. Happy people on a glorious day, I thought and smiled to myself at their joy.

 “Would you like a picture of the three of you?’  Dave asked.  Naturally, they were delighted by his offer.

After they’d checked out Dave’s shots from their perch on the rock, the woman in cornrows, Ann-Marie, I soon learned, twisted toward me and said, “Is he a photographer?  Just has a way….”

Her friend, Maxine, slid to the ground and strolled over to where I sat nearby on the grass. “We have reason to celebrate,” she volunteered.  She nodded toward Ann-Marie and said quietly, “A year ago, I was with her when she had surgery.”

A few years back, I would have left it at that, but since I’ve had cancer and Ann-Marie is a woman, I said, “What kind of surgery?”  Given the statistics, it was almost a formality.

“Breast cancer,” she replied, and the sadness is, I wasn’t surprised.

When Ann-Marie joined us, I told her of our bond and hailed her as a sister.  Her nice-stranger-smile deepened to one of connection, and she hugged me tight, a hug infused with shared fear, relief, hope, and gratitude, then she settled to the grass next to me, just barely loosening her hold. 

I was half in her lap, my hand in hers, as the five of us spoke for close to an hour.  “During diagnosis and treatments, it was the circle of love that kept me going,” Ann-Marie said as she smiled at Maxine.  “The circle of love is essential.”  With our hands still clasped, her eyes locked on mine, she added, “There is no coincidence in our being here, together, in this place.”  And I knew she drew strength from our companionship in cancer, just as I had from Joanne, Dede, and Wendy.  The disease and fear might have been ours to fight as individuals, but we were not alone.

Nor were Dave and I alone this weekend; we had a date on the hill above New Harbor, so it was time to mount up.  Dave took group pictures, we exchanged emails and hugs, our three new friends headed to the lighthouse for a tour, and Dave and I retrieved our bikes for the ride back to the hill.

 For over a decade, our September Block Island gathering has served as escape and celebration. In 2008, the route to Point Judith was tagged with evacuation signs and cars, countless cars, heading the opposite direction as a hurricane blew in.  Did we postpone?  No!  Otie and Janet made the trip from Pittsburgh a day early just in case, and our Connecticut contingent barreled ahead, thrilled at the prospect of howling winds and pounding surf.  There was one brief moment on the way up, after we’d passed the third evacuation sign, when I thought, are we being stupid about this?  Forget about it!  All aboard!

In 2009, the weekend fell during my second round of chemo-loser days.  I’d just lost my hair and felt logy and sad, plus it was windy and rainy and I worried about errant gusts stealing my scarf.  Dave had thrown out his back and we were a gimpy, pathetic pair – not our usual BI selves.  The Friday ferries were cancelled, so we made the crossing on Saturday; the rest of the group – Hallie, Buck, Steve, Deb, Len, Mary, Otie, Janet, and Joan – had taken an earlier boat.  They met us at the dock, a receiving line of loving friends.  They relieved us of our backpacks, and Dave and I rented a mo-ped, a motorized means to free-wheeling, so we could keep up.

Every year, on the Friday of departure, there’s the ordeal of the white-knuckled drive down I-95, zipping along at 15 mph through rush hour traffic to make the last ferry.  Once that ferry pulls from the pier, however, there is water between us and …everything else.  Water between us and worry.  Water between us and doctors.  Water between us and the ability to take care of to-dos, commitments, and concerns. Through Steve’s diagnosis, Colombo’s strokes, hurricanes, and my cancer, Block Island has been gloriously and blessedly AWAY.

I hesitate to speak to my Sylvestros of God, but this weekend, that of Steve and Debby’s 40^th anniversary, I sensed His hand in the brilliance of the sun, meadows of golden rod glowing yellow, sapphire seas, and blue skies swirled with playful wisps of clouds, a setting fit to honor four decades of marriage.  

By the time Dave and I pedaled up, most of the others were on the hill, spreading blankets on the grass, hauling a ponderous picnic table to a level spot, opening bags of chips - tortilla and potato - and the requisite containers of hummus.  While mudslides – a frozen chocolate/coffee/rum confection– are always the drink of choice, Hallie was also chilling champagne.

What would be the afternoon’s format?  No one was sure.  While this time together on the hill was a given, the anniversary layer was uncertain.  A few weeks before, Deb mentioned to a few of us her wish to renew her wedding vows.  “When we got married, I said the words I was supposed to say, but I was a kid. I didn’t get it.  Now I do.  It’s not always easy.  You have to work things through.  It really is ‘in sickness and in health.’ After forty years, I know about commitment.  I’ve lived what I vowed.”

Steve, I’d heard, was not so sure about the renewal of vows piece, but he’d bought Deb – forty years later – an engagement ring, and today, he would present it. 

Others had planned their own presentations.  Moo had flown in from New Mexico, her first trip to the Block.  She’d done some research on traditional 40^th anniversary gifts and had something hidden under a sweatshirt in her bike basket.  Nelson and his wife Ann had also joined us, and Nelson had worked with the island to create an appropriate gift. 

Steve and Deb’s son, Trevor, had thought the celebration was the next day.  Oops.  So, as the rest of us chatted and sipped mudslides, Trevor sat eyes and fingers to phone, working on his toast while his wife, Lisa, and soon-to-be-three daughter, Ava, spilled packets of colorful sand on paper, preparing a bee-u-ti-ful picture. 

Because Dave is an online-ordained minister of the Church of Spiritual Humanism, a justice of the peace, and Steve’s brother, he was chosen to orchestrate events, whatever those events might be.  After Ava changed into a pale blue princess gown and donned long pink gloves with the help of two young courtiers enlisted at the playground, Dave rose to chorale our attention. 

Until he spoke, we were scattered, small groups on blankets facing this way and that, but when Dave began to speak, we naturally formed a circle, a circle of love.  Deb and Steve were the focus, at the head of the circle, but in a circle, actually, there is no head, so all the words spoken of lasting love and friendship were spoken for all of us, everyone in that circle. 

Steve’s white mane, Deb’s river of blond hair, a circle of sunglasses, a circle of soul-deep smiles that have beamed at each other and at these two people for most of those four decades.  There have been losses, hospitals, worry and nursing homes, but there’s been traying at Trinity, cheering at races, work at Eagle Hill, hunkering down for hurricanes, dancing at Captain Nick’s, trips home for the holidays, weddings, Trevor and Christopher’s concerts, strumming guitars, playing with Ava, and this shared weekend on the Block.  How does that translate into words?

We tried… with laughter, stories, tears, and hands to hearts.  We spoke of Steve and Deb’s love, their courage, their example, and their role in bringing us all together.  Dave, who accompanied Steve and Deb on most of their dates and followed Steve to high school, college, and Eagle Hill, relayed a dream in which Carolyn, our recently departed friend, told Dave “True love is a gift,” thus giving him his message for this day.  With great ceremony, Moo unwrapped her offering: an eggplant engraved with “Happy 40^th Anniversary.”  Nelson unveiled a rock-solid symbol of love, a rock, in fact, found on the beach, shaped like a heart, and signed by each person in the circle. 

Trevor waited until everyone else had said their piece, then mused aloud, “How do I say thank you for all the love and caring over the years?  How do I repay all the sporting events, girlfriend advice and all the hours you lost when I was late coming home (or would fail even to come home)? What can I give you for all the times you supported me in my triumphs, and provided a shoulder when there were losses? What present is there for all the times we just sat together and shared…whatever? How do I thank you for the guidance when I was unsure of my way, and your restraint to allow me to find it myself? You nurtured my growth, yet allowed me my independence. So… what gift is enough for two kickass parents?

The answer came to me today. And no box can hold it, no wrapping can cover it.  No store had it on a shelf. My gift is not to you, it is to my little girl. I promise to care for her the same way you did for me.

              

And someday, just maybe she'll say, ‘How can I thank you -- for all you've done for me?’
              

Hopefully I get the chance to tell her, ‘Don't thank me. Thank your Mimi and Poppy. Because I'm the product of their love.’”

Whooshhhhhh.  Tears.  Tears around the circle.  Every one of us wiping eyes and cheeks as Steve and Deb reached out to their boy for hugs.  And then, thank God, Deb requested a bathroom break before the boys brought out guitars to sing.  Trevor called his brother Christopher, in Arizona, who spoke to his parents and sang along via speakerphone, as Otie, Dave, and Trevor played the Wedding Song, as it had been played at the marriage forty years before. 

And that would be a good place to end, a moving place, but Nelson emptied and upended a beige plastic ice bucket, now a drum, and joined the musicians.  Steve whipped out his harmonica and Len scrolled through words on his cell for round two of the festivities: Sloop John B, The Boxer, and Shanty.  A gleeful blond princess whirled to the music, arms outstretched as her own kickass parents looked on.

 

Weight Lifting

Rain taps at gutters and rushes through leaves, wet drops course down the windowpanes. At mid-afternoon, it is dark as dusk and I feel heavy and sad. Is this a reaction to chemo or to my barely fuzz-covered head? We’re supposed to go to Block Island today and I just want to curl up on the couch and cry.

For years, Dave and I have loved this annual “Race Around the Block” weekend when his brother, Steve, runs ten miles or so while we sit drinking mudslides, a frozen rum treat, with friends on a hill overlooking the sun-flecked harbor. Block Island is AWAY and since Dave’s father’s internment in the nursing home and Steve’s cancer diagnosis, this tradition has been a wonderful escape.

But this upcoming weekend has hovered like a cloud on my horizon. So much of the joy of being on Block Island - taking the ferry, free-wheeling with friends, riding bikes, and beaching – involves wind-in-the-hair fun. Involves an uncomplicated diet. Involves sun.

The label on my amber bottle of anti-biotics says “avoid sun.” It also says, “Avoid alcohol.” My oncologist has suggested I avoid fried foods, white flour, white rice and fats. That knocks out fish n’ chips, chocolate chip pancakes and ice cream – the usual Block Island fare. Avoidance plays a big role in my new regimen; Block Island is all about embracing – fun, friends, food, and wind.

That wind alone has me panicked. Usually, I love its many forms: the banshee wind shrieking through a crack in the window in the bathroom at the inn, the wild hair-tossing stream on the ferry, the soft, cooling, breezes while riding my bike past meadows yellow with golden rod. But I worry about wind and my head-gear options. I don’t want salt and damp to wreck my wig and I’ve only worn the scarf twice at home. How small a flick of wind would it take to carry that flippet of fabric away leaving me large-eyed, bald and mortified?

I hear Dave honk the horn in greeting as his car pulls up outside our house. I meet him at the door, watching as he walks stiffly after sitting in traffic for an hour and a half during his commute. I’ve washed my face, but still my eyes are swollen and red.

My public face is a source of pride. Even when despair has held me under, I’ve been told, “It must be nice to be upbeat all the time.” I’m skeptical of book passages in which moods are revealed in a character’s eyes. Hah. I know how easily they are masked. Unless allowed to be so, eyes are not windows, but I don’t have to fake it for Dave.

“I don’t want to be this sad person you come home to,” I tell my husband as he pushes open the screen door.

He slides his computer onto a stool by the kitchen counter and gathers me in his arms. I snuffle in his hair; my tears soak his shirt. At first, he just holds me, saying nothing.

“We don’t have to go,” he says quietly.

“But maybe it would be better to be with the others. Maybe I’d feel better once we were there. I just… I just… I worry about the scarf and the wind.”

“I know. Let me check the weather and the ferry schedule. My vote is we go tomorrow and settle in here tonight. We could do Chinese take-out for dinner.”

I whimper into his shoulder. “I’m not very hungry. How ‘bout a salad?”

“A salad would be perfect. I’m not hungry either.”

He has saved me again. Granted me permission to give in. Don’t need to be brave or cheery or chatty or strong or a good sport. What would I do without him? And that spurs a new onslaught of tears because I really don’t know what I would do without him. I am afraid to even peek in that shadowed corner.

Once I calm down, Dave goes to check the weather online and - he says with a grin – to change his shirt.

“No worries about leaving today, Lea,” he calls from his post at the computer upstairs. “They’ve cancelled the ferries.”

Saved again. I’m not to blame for this postponement: the heavens have given me leave to hole up.

* * *

We wake to overcast skies and drizzle. It’s 7:24 am. I still don’t want to go, don’t want to leave this cozy hollow between the sheets, don’t want to ride the ferry or my bike in the rain. Don’t want to meet up with friends while I’m wearing a scarf.

“What do you think?” says a snoozy Dave.

“I don’t know. What do you think?”

“Well, how do you feel?”

“Okay.” (I’m not being very helpful.)

“What if we skip the bikes?”

“Skip the bikes?”

“Yeah. Would you be more comfortable if we take cabs instead once we get to the island?”

I feel a trace of weight lifting. “Hmmm. No bikes. Usually that’s what I love about being there, but yeah. That’d make a difference.”

“All right. That spares me from loading the bikes on the car. I’ll check the ferry schedule again to make sure everything’s running.”

We get out of bed and Dave heads to the computer while I grab our rolling overnight bags from the hall closet. I turn to my bureau and open a drawer. One night only, but it could be wet, cold, or hot. A small pile mounts on the floor – underwear, shorts, capris, socks, a tee-shirt, flip flops. I’ll wear sneakers, a sweatshirt and raincoat for the trip over.

“We might have a problem,” says Dave as he walks slowly into the bedroom. His hips are skewed to the side.

“What’s wrong?”

“I ducked my head to miss the beam on the stairway and wrenched my back.”

Oh no. Dave’s back is tricky and once a year or so, it goes into spasm. His face is grim as he stalks rigidly around the room trying to stretch it out.

“This is ridiculous,” he hisses. “I chopped wood last weekend, worked out last night and exercised my back every day this week, and I can’t walk down the stairs without hurting myself?”

“Have you taken any Advil yet? Okay. I’ll get some. Plus an ice pack. Your bag is right there. What do you want to bring?”

“I can do it,” he says through tight lips as he hobbles to his closet. I dash from the room to get the ibuprofen and ice.

The ferry departs from New London at 11:30. Advil-stoked, ace-bandaged, ice-packed and breakfast-fortified, we set off from the house at 9:30. “We have plenty of reasons to stay home,” says Dave, “but nine reasons for going…” and he lists the friends and family awaiting us on the island, “Steve, Deb, Hallie, Buck, Len, Mary, Joan, Janet and Art.”

* * *

As the ferry rides to the crest of each wave and glides down into a trough before mounting the next swell, a number of our fellow passengers turn ashen. All the restrooms are occupied. White seasick bags appear like mushrooms after a spring shower.

I am chemo-punky, devoid of energy and enthusiasm, but blessedly not nauseous. We’d nabbed a booth of stiff red upholstered benches upon boarding and have spread our back packs, books and water bottles about on the table between us. Our overnight bags are tucked in close so as not to trip passersby. Dave is practicing mind-over-matter, willing his back to resist another spasm.

I pick up my book, but it is too tiring to hold the pages open so I give up and slump back against my seat. Dave writes a word in his crossword puzzle – in pen, in capital letters, as is his custom.

Four little girls race up and down the aisles, their blond ponytails bobbing and swinging. It’s exhausting even to watch them. A woman two rows over combs her abundant hair up into her fingers and wraps it into a knot. I bet she doesn’t think twice about all that hair. A young couple sits spooned together in the next booth. The woman wears a green plastic necklace festooned with four leaf clovers. Her eyebrows are raised, her mouth twisted in a grin as she peruses her issue of “Cosmopolitan.” How lovely to delight in something so simple as a magazine article.

After an hour or so, the ferry bumps into the dock on Block Island. Dave slides gingerly from his seat and shakes one leg. He adjusts his stance and leans over for his bag. “I’ll get it, honey, “ I say, reaching for the handle.

“You’re not supposed to lift anything either,” he says, but actually, it makes me feel better to help. What a sorry pair we are, crooked, scarved, tremulous, and irritable. I’m glad our kids aren’t here to see us reduced to this gimpy, wincing couple.

We follow the line of passengers down the metal staircase, onto the deck and out to the pier, our bags clattering on wheels behind us. Standing at the end of the walkway, behind a portable fence, are all nine of our reasons for coming, waving to us in welcome.

My sister-in-law, Deb, comes forward to hug me and whispers, “I spoke to Kathy at the Narragansett’s front desk and arranged for you to have a private bathroom at no extra cost.” I am wordless with gratitude. Usually, we use the communal bathroom in the hall and I like the youthful flexibility that implies. But the side effects from my anti-biotics make a convenient bathroom desirable and I had worried about lines of disgruntled guests forming as I monopolized the restroom.

But Deb has taken care of that - another worry gently taken from me.

And then, a literal lift, Joanie grabs my bag and hoists it to her shoulder.

“You’re so dear,” I say, “but it’s light. I can handle it.”

“I know you can, but let me do this. It would make me happy.”

And so, for a moment, but for the weight of fatigue, I am unburdened. Still, there is the matter of transport to the inn. I wonder where we catch a cab?

“Hey babe. I’m going over to check out the mo-peds,” Dave has left his bag with Art and is limping across the driveway to the awning-ed shack that houses the rental shop.

“Are you kidding? I thought we were going to take taxis.”

“Nope. I want to be mobile.”

A few pounds of worry re-establishes residence on my back. To the perils of wind, I add speed, accidents and helmets. “Dave…”

“Relax. It’ll be fun.”

I feel limp and out of place, a gypsy refugee in a lavender paisley scarf. Dave is gone. The others have not moved, but the mood has shifted to one of next steps. Their bikes are lined up, ready to go.

“Um, I guess we’ll catch up with you at the Narragansett,” I say, turning toward the rental shack.

“Okay,” sings the friend-chorus brightly. Easily, they spin their bikes around, flinging legs up and over to mount up. Oh, the energy. Was I ever that light?

Dave is checking out helmets when I reach him at the shop. Having made his choice, he heads out to the parking lot. Listless, uninterested, I try one heavy, ill-fitting black shell after another. Oh, who cares. This one will do.

Out on the lot, Dave is riding a snappy-looking silver mo-ped. He circles cautiously, then applies a hint too much gas and whacks into the barricade of hay bales lining this section of the parking lot. He stops and grins, singing out, “C’mon babeee! Get on!”

I am ever attuned to my husband’s moods and I perk up at his obvious cheer. Once the rental agent is satisfied as to Dave’s driving competence, he releases us to the road.
I hug Dave’s back, my arms around him, my hands tucked into his belt, a motorcycle mama in a scarf and black helmet.

“I love having you close like this!” Dave yells over his shoulder as we skim past Victorian hotels, strolling tourists, tiny boutiques and the sea. Life is all around me and suddenly I realize that my own is not on hold for the next three months. Pills, chemo and worry may be part of my days, but friends, outings, mudslides and mo-ped rides are still mine to savor.

Agile and free-wheeling with the aid of a motor, Dave laughs with the joy of the ride and I smile into his back.

Where has the weight gone? It, too, has taken off.