The Return

Hope had eventually gotten out of bed. It was chilly at the beach, and, putting on a jacket, she’d retrieved the letter Tru had written to her long ago and seated herself on the back porch. She’d wanted to read it, but couldn’t summon the will to do so. Instead, she’d stared at the darkness of the ocean, clutching the well-worn envelope, overwhelmed by a surge of loneliness.

She’d thought to herself that she was alone at the beach, far from anyone she knew. Only Tru was with her; except of course, he was never really there at all.

* * *

Hope had returned from her week at the beach the previous year with a mixture of hope and dread. This year, she told herself that things would be different. She had decided that this would be her last trip to the cottage, and in the morning, after placing the box on the back seat, Hope rolled her suitcase to the rear of the car with a determined step. Her neighbor Ben was raking his lawn and came over to put it in the trunk. She was thankful for his help. At her age injuries came more easily and were often slow to heal. Last year, she’d slipped in the kitchen, and though she hadn’t fallen, catching herself had left her with a sore shoulder for weeks.

She ran through her mental checklist before getting in the car: the doors were locked, she’d turned out all the lights, the garbage cans stood by the curb, and Ben had agreed to collect her mail and newspapers. The drive would take her a bit less than three hours, but there was no reason to rush. Tomorrow, after all, was the day that mattered. Just thinking about it made her nervous.

Thankfully, traffic was light for most of the trip. She drove past farmland and small towns, keeping a constant speed until she reached the outskirts of Wilmington, where she ate lunch at a bistro she remembered from the year before. Afterward, she swung by a grocery store to stock the refrigerator, stopped at the rental office to pick up the keys, and began the final leg of her journey. She found the cross street she needed, made a few turns, and eventually pulled in the drive.

The cottage resembled the one her parents had once owned, with faded paint, steps leading up to the front door, and a weather-beaten porch out front. Seeing it made her miss the old homestead keenly. As she’d suspected, the new owners had wasted no time in tearing it down and building a newer, larger home similar to the one where Tru had stayed.

Since then, she’d only rarely visited Sunset Beach, as it no longer felt like home. Like many of the small towns dotting the coast, it had changed with the times. The pontoon bridge had been replaced with something more modern, larger homes were now the norm, and Clancy’s was gone as well, the old restaurant limping along until a year or two after the century began. Her sister Robin had been the one to tell her about the restaurant’s closing; on a trip to Myrtle Beach ten years ago she and her husband had made a detour to the familial island, because she, too, had been curious about the changes time had wrought.

These days, Hope preferred Carolina Beach, an island a little ways to the north, and closer to Wilmington. She’d first visited it upon her counselor’s suggestion in December 2005, when the divorce proceedings with Josh were at their worst. Josh had made plans to bring Jacob and Rachel out west for a week during winter break. The kids were young teenagers, moody in general, and the implosion of their parents’ marriage had compounded the stress they were feeling. While Hope had recognized that the vacation might be a beneficial distraction for the kids, her counselor pointed out that spending the holidays at home alone wouldn’t be good for her own mental state. She had suggested Carolina Beach to Hope; in the winter, she’d said, the island was low-key and relaxing.

Hope had booked a place sight unseen, and the little cottage at the beach had turned out to be exactly what she’d needed. It was there where Hope had begun the process of healing; where she’d gathered the perspective she needed to enter the next phase of her life.

She had known she wouldn’t reconcile with Josh. She had cried over him for years, and while his last affair had been the deal breaker, the first one was still the most painful to remember. At the time, the kids weren’t yet in school and their needs were constant; meanwhile her father had recently taken a turn for the worse. When Hope learned of the affair, Josh apologized and promised to end it. However, he remained in contact with the woman even as Hope’s father got sicker and sicker. She felt as though she was on the verge of panic attacks for months, and it was the first time she’d considered ending the marriage. Instead, overwhelmed at the prospect of upheaval and afraid of the devastating effect divorce could have on her kids, she stuck it out and did her best to forgive. But other affairs followed. There were more tears and too much arguing, and by the time she finally told Josh that she wanted a divorce, they’d been sleeping in separate bedrooms for nearly a year. The day he moved out, he told her she was making the biggest mistake of her life.

Despite her best intentions, bitterness and rancor surfaced in the divorce. She was shocked at the rage and sadness she felt, and Josh was equally angry and defensive. While the custody arrangements had been fairly straightforward, the financial wrangling had been a nightmare. Hope had stayed at home when the kids were young and it wasn’t until they were both in school that she went back to work, but no longer as a trauma nurse. Instead, she’d worked part-time with a family practice group so she could be home when the kids finished at school. While the hours were easier, the pay was less, and Josh’s attorney argued strenuously that since she had the skills necessary to increase her salary, any alimony should be drastically reduced. Nor, like so many men, did Josh believe in an equal property division. By that point, Josh and Hope were communicating primarily through their lawyers.

She had felt battered by emotion—feelings of failure, loss, anger, resolve, and fear—but as she walked the beach during that Christmas break, she worried mainly about the kids. She wanted to be the best mother she could be, but her counselor had continually reminded her that if she didn’t take care of herself first, she wouldn’t be able to provide the kids with the solid support they needed.

Deep down, she knew her counselor was right, but the idea felt almost blasphemous. She’d been a mother so long that she wasn’t even sure who she really was anymore. While at Carolina Beach, though, she had gradually accepted the notion that her emotional health was as important as the children’s. Not more important, but not less important, either.

She also understood how slippery the slope might be if she didn’t heed her counselor’s advice. She’d seen women lose or gain substantial weight while going through a divorce; she’d heard them talking about Friday and Saturday nights at the bars and admitting to one-night stands with strangers, men they barely remembered. Some remarried quickly, and it was almost always a mistake. Even those who hadn’t gone wild often developed self-destructive habits. Hope had seen divorced friends increase the two glasses of wine on the weekend to three or four glasses multiple times during the week. One of those women had come right out and said that drinking was the only way she’d survived her divorce.

Hope didn’t want to fall into the same trap, and her time at the beach was clarifying. After returning to Raleigh, she’d joined a gym and started taking spin classes. She’d added yoga to her routine, prepared healthy meals for herself and the kids, and, even on nights she couldn’t sleep, forced herself to stay in bed, breathing deeply, trying to discipline her mind. She’d learned to meditate, and put a renewed emphasis on rekindling friendships where contact had lapsed in recent years.