Today I wanted to share a favorite short story from my collection called The Misplaced Mermaids. I hope you enjoy it!
NEVER
by
Carlene Love Flores
“Hold on to something now. Get your sea legs set.”
I obeyed my grandpa.
He still waited until I made eye contact with him, the signal that I’d heard him and understood. As soon as my hands grabbed hold of the buoy rope, the engine buzzed and roared, sending a vibration up through my shoes and into my legs. Within seconds, we slowly began to pull away from the dock, making our way through the harbor zone and out into the open water.
Life was perfect. Even at ten years old, I knew this was the truth. The wind blew my blonde curls behind me, all the while as I kept my blue eyes trained on the water. In the distance we could see our first stop.
“Okay Melita, inside now,” said Grandpa as he maneuvered us right up alongside the much larger naval carrier. Once there, he said, “Take the wheel and hold.”
I did, standing on my step-up box and holding tight with both hands. Grandpa saluted me but I didn’t smile. Not on the outside at least. This was our business and I loved it, but I took it very seriously, as I should.
“Hold and standby.”
I nodded, “Yes, captain.”
And then I held and watched as Grandpa walked out to the edge of our boat and a sailor dressed in white and blue tossed several bags of bagged trash with the greatest precision. They signaled each other and then Grandpa moved the refuse over to the intake area. Before the lunch hour, we would make our rounds and that bin area would be full.
“I could do this for the rest of my life,” he whispered into the winds.
“Me too,” I said and felt his warm, rugged hand patting the top of my head.
“You’re well suited for it. Better sea legs than most of the men I served with,” he said with a smile.
At that, we parked in a low traffic area of the inlet, and I got up and scrambled to get our lunch boxes from where they were stowed. Grandpa’s rusty old green and silver one and my Wonder Woman version. We cracked open our thermoses at the same time. He poured some of his steaming hot coffee into his thermos cup and waited for me to pour my milk into mine, and then we raised them into the air and took our sips.
He was my favorite person in the entire world. I loved him with all my heart. I hoped this would never change, and that we would be the trashmen of the sea forever.
Six years later….
There is a brown and white goat staring at me from the back screen door and I wonder if he can read my thoughts.
Maybe I wish he could.
I’d pay serious cash to be able to hear his.
I miss home. My excitement about coming on this trip is completely gone.
Behind the goat, a sprinkler is spraying left to right, and I watch it until I know exactly when it will turn and retrace its arch. A chicken walks up to the goat and they just stand there on the other side of the screen.
There was a chicken in my dream last night. It was a strange one, so I wrote it down. As a conversation that I want nothing to do with takes place all around me, I think about it so hard that I can remember it almost entirely, without having to look at the journal clenched tightly in my hand under the table.
Just then I hear an ugly racial slur come out of one of my great aunt’s mouths and I’m in absolute shock at how freely it flew. My dream journal falls to the ground, and I scramble to pick it up before any of these horrible people I happen to be related to see it.
I’ll never be like them, I vow to myself.
They have cute nicknames like Sissy and Buddy, but inside they are filled with hatred.
Before Grandpa, who I love with all my heart and swear was switched at birth because he’s nothing like his siblings, can refill my cup with sweet tea, I pull my hoodie up over my head and yawn in great dramatic fashion. We’re miles away from home and our trash boat, and I feel every single inch of the distance.
“I’m super tired. I’ll see you in the morning.” I give Grandpa a kiss on his bald head and as politely as is possible, so I don’t get myself lynched, I ignore everyone else and make my way to my bed.
The bed is stiff, and I can’t sleep.
I’ll never sleep in a bed this hard and uncomfortable again, I tell myself. If I can just last another week. I overhear them and their racist slurs gash my ears. I’ll never get out of here soon enough. And I’ll never be like these people.
Fifteen years later…
I never thought I’d be watching my grandpa be lowered down into the ground like this.
His family, who I haven’t considered my family since that very ugliest of visits I made to them all those years ago, sit in folded chairs on one side, near the front. They’re a smaller group now. I’d heard of many of their passings over the years. They were elderly when I was a teen, stuck in their environment for two weeks that one summer.
As I sit there, I wonder, why?
That night I’d gone to my room early, why had I heard them speak the way they did? Why had their hearts been filled with so much ugliness? Who had taught them to be like that?
What could have been done to change them? And then a wild thought entered my mind.
Could I change them now?
As a 35-year-old woman, would they hear me? Listen to me?
It was the time of the service when people were called to get up and share words about the departed.
The swelling of my heart encouraged me to raise my hand and step up to the platform at the front of the room.
“My grandpa was a wonderful and kind man.” I close my eyes and concentrate on what I will say next, wanting it to come from the deepest part of my soul. “He must have come from somewhere, someone very special. I know each of you who are here hold him in the highest of regards. I know that is true because I see how far some of you have traveled to be here. I’d like to share my favorite story about him if you don’t mind. It was about 20 years ago when I travelled with him back to his hometown….I had been so excited to meet the relatives I’d heard mentioned so many times throughout my childhood. To finally see the faces in person I’d only seen in pictures in the photo album. ….”
But I stop.
I know I may never have this group of people here again.
And I want so badly to tell them this story.
So that they know I was in the other room, built with thin walls. I heard the words they used when talking about my friends back home. I want them to know I heard them.
But what will that accomplish?
If my grandpa is near me now, it has to be him who I am listening to. Because I am ready to spill this story in their laps. I want them to hear how ugly they are so that they will be shocked and change themselves.
I look out into their eyes and I am at once unsure that is how things work.
A sea breeze blows over from the harbor up to the grassy hill where we are gathered. The trees sway. I see tears in the people’s eyes. They are sad for his loss. I do not want to hurt them any further on this day.
A gentle call reminding me that is not love washes over me.
I know they are all waiting on me, for this story I’ve just mentioned.
I close my eyes, hoping something better will come to me.
And it does.
A soft chill runs over my skin, pulling my shoulders inward.
“Actually, it was about 19 years ago,” I say. “Grandpa and I set out on his boat, Scoopy Thia, to begin collecting the trash from all the harbor ships.” I look into their faces again, a smile broadening across mine. “We did everything just like we had every Sunday for the past, oh, I don’t know, but I can remember all the way back to about the age of six and this particular Sunday, I was 16. We always collected first, then stopped midway over near the island Navy base. They would let Grandpa park his boat and eat his lunch. I had just handed him his old green and rusty metal pail and sat down beside him on my seat which was an overturned bucket, my Wonder Woman lunch box opened. We did our thermoses like always, and when we toasted, he looked at me for a second and then looked off, out toward the water. It was very bright and reflected in his eyes. And then his head hung down. I knew it was getting close to the time when he’d be retiring. I knew this was weighing heavily on his heart.”
I had to stop for a second because I hadn’t thought of this moment in such a long time, it was hitting me, the emotion of it, stronger than I’d imagined. That, and the realization that I wasn’t going to see my grandpa again, not in this lifetime. My beautiful husband and son sat a few rows back and I centered myself in their loving eyes. They loved Grandpa too.
I breathed the salty air in slowly, letting it fill my belly, and as it eased back out, I gained my words again.
“Grandpa didn’t look at me in that next moment, the water seemed to be all he could look at. The choppy little waves. I watched as a tear fell down his wrinkled leathered cheek. I thought this was about his retirement. He had told me as we left the house early that morning that today would be the last day we took Scoopy out together to collect the trash. But after a moment, I heard his deep voice quietly say words I’ll never ever forget.”
At this, my face twisted and scrunched up, I guess in an attempt to hold my sobbing tears from exploding out in front of them all. I held my face as tightly as I could to prevent that from happening. The next breath I took was like a series of stutters, in and out. I sniffed loudly.
“He said to me, ‘Dear, I hope you know how deeply I love you. I’ll never be able to make up for the hurtful things you heard me say that day visiting the family. But I want you to know I didn’t mean any of that. It was just the time and place and that’s no excuse, no reason. I just didn’t know how to be a part of the conversation I was having. I wish I’d have said nothing. I’ll take it to my grave, the pain I feel over letting you hear that. I’m not asking your forgiveness, I don’t deserve that. But I love you. And I care very much about Carlo. I know he’s going to grow up and be a good man.’ His chin quivered after that. I didn’t waste any time in jumping up and giving him my warmest, tightest hug. And I told him that I understood and that I loved him. And that sometimes, we all make mistakes. There are two things I’d like to say right now. The first is that I hope Grandpa has not taken any of that to his grave today. I forbid it, actually. The second is that…”
I looked up and scanned every face made blurry from my eyes full of yet to fall teardrops, “I know that we are each born with the most beautiful, open and perfect loving heart. And somewhere along the way, sometimes, things happen to us that changes us. We meet up with things we don’t understand, things that scare us or irritate us or let us down. I know this happened to my grandpa in his lifetime, but what a beautiful example his life was and is, that he showed us it is possible to change our hearts back to being open and accepting. Grandpa lived out the rest of his life in this city of so many differences and diversity, and there isn’t a person who crossed his path who he didn’t wave to and say hello. Anyhow, I’d like to close by saying I wish that love and forgiveness and new beginnings find everyone gathered here today. And Grandpa, I’ll never stop loving you. We will never forget your life and the beautiful, gentle lesson you’ve so bravely and graciously given us.”
That night, my husband Carlo and my son stood with me out at the pier where Grandpa used to dock his boat. Carlo didn’t ask me about the origins of what I’d shared today. And I would probably never tell him because it wouldn’t serve any new purpose. What Carlo knew and what my son knew, was that Grandpa loved them with all his heart. That’s what mattered.
As we stood with our forearms resting on the wooden wall of the pier, I felt a hand come from behind and rest on my shoulder. My family turned when I did, and we saw that it was my great uncle Clint, Grandpa’s youngest and only surviving brother. I’d only met him the one time, on that trip I’d taken with Grandpa to visit the relatives.
He took a moment, but then he said, “Thank you for sharing what you did.” Then that was it for a long minute. “So this is where Lou would dock his boat?”
I knew in that moment, with my great uncle standing there with me and my family who might not look like him on the outside, but were the same on the inside, that Grandpa’s love had made its way into this once locked, scared heart.
“Yep, every Sunday. See over there,” I pointed out across the harbor to the huge naval carrier that looked small from this distance, and I regaled him with the odds and ends that I knew he’d find fascinating. I’d just finished describing how the sailors would often toss Grandpa down little mementos from their travels when we’d pass by, when my young son came over and grabbed our great uncle’s hand.
For a moment, I wondered if Uncle Clint realized that his blood flowed in my son’s veins, just the same as his own.
The tall, skinny russet-headed and freckled man reached down, left with no choice but to grasp my little Jamie’s hand. My throat clenched when he bent down in a crouch so he was at the five-year-old’s level.
“My grandpa Lou had a deep deep voice. And he liked bananas and tuna sandwiches.”
I saw Clint’s blue eyes tear up just then. I prayed he would find love in his heart and make a connection with Jamie.
A good, positive connection.
My heart swelled to nearly bursting when Clint scooped Jamie up and held him on his hip, their very different hair colors and textures resting so close to each other, but their hearts coming ever so close to matching, as they looked out into the dark water, together with us. Above us in the moon, full and bright, I saw a shimmering yet faint beam of light. And I followed it down to where it lit up the waves below it.
There was love in this water.
In this deep blue sea.
My grandpa was there.
Someday, I would be too.
Carlo kissed me softly on the cheek and whispered, “Thank you.” I squeezed his hand, knowing all the things he meant in those two simple words.
“Never say never,” I whispered back to him. “Never say never. Even the hardest of hearts can change.” I knew, because any of the hurt and anger I’d carried with me these past decades melted and disappeared. And in its place, I was filled with compassion. Before the sea could call to me anymore, I suggested we continue our walk along the harbor, back to the little seaside village where we’d had dinner and parked our cars.
Carlo held my hand, and Clint held Jamie’s.
And all there was, was love.
Thank you for reading all the way to the end! If you enjoyed “Never”, you might like the rest of The Misplaced Mermaids, which is a collection of 12 unique love stories. You can check it out HERE. Have a nice weekend, everyone! Happy Fall!
CARLENE LOVE FLORES 