I would pay anything--any fee, price, or limb--to be numb. Just numb. Bombardment with emotion is on my list of things to eliminate. The dark abyss in my chest seeps black tendrils of despair, agony, and loneliness. Finding the right way to feel is impossible. It would be inappropriate to feel happy, if I could even dig deep inside myself to obtain happiness. Sorrow draws too much attention. I do not want some pity party following me. Who knew that responding to the loss of a parent could mess a kid up so much? Before anyone can stop me or slow me down with questions, I am out the door of our classic colonial white house and walking across the fresh cut grass, climbing into the topaz blue Chevy Cruze my mom had picked out for me, it still smells of fresh car interior, and I drive on down the road on my way to her happy place—well, what used to be her happy place.

Just outside of Wilmington, North Carolina, there is a beach, Wrightsville Beach. Every summer, my mom and I would try to go as many times as weather and my dad would permit. Under the hot sun we would eat finger sandwiches and drink cranberry juice like it was wine and we were living the life of rich ocean-side mansion owners. She helped me get my first job at Wrightsville Beach, working for a boat cleaning service. I can still see the excitement on her face, her crow’s feet looking larger than ever at the edges of her blue eyes. Her little girl was making her own money and growing up. We talked all winter about how much fun we would have. I could work in the mornings and meet up with her afterwards and spend the rest of the day at the beach. We only made it once this year. The car accident just one month ago made sure of that.

Now I am driving to that beach, our beach. Windows open and my brown curls whipping, I pass the shops we used to stop at. Hot bright sun shines again today through my windows. The leather wheel heats up, causing my palms to sweat. I pass the pastel-painted shops and boutiques with the screen doors and trinkets and products lining the windows. My favorite shirt—loose, lavender, and soft-- was bought at one of those shops. “It is an early birthday present, Jade,” my mom had called it. My birthday had been more than a month away. I laugh to myself, recalling the silly excuse. I smell the salty air blowing into the car. It caresses my skin like a silk blanket. The drive is both sad and pleasing at the same time as I remember my mother and our adventures. Tears that slowly and softly flow from behind my large sunglasses down to my cheeks make small streaks. The breeze blows them away, and with them, some of the darkness. With each tear shed I feel lighter.

Car parked, I walk down the path surrounded by the tall light green and yellow grass leading to the shining sand. Even over the crash of the waves you can hear the chirps of bugs and the skittering of small animals. I take off my shoes for this trek to feel the radiating warmth off the grains of sand in the path. I picture myself as a child, skipping and jumping with excitement as I near the glorious ocean, amped up for activities my parents had told me we would do: building sand castles, riding in on the waves with foam boogie boards, and seeing who could find the biggest shell.

The absence of my mother leaves this place feeling different from how it is in my memories. The beach and ocean seem vaster than ever before. The sand stretches for miles while the water goes beyond the horizon. Eventually, the waves in the sand and water disappear and become flat, non-descript surfaces. As hard as I try, my presence does not emit the way hers did. No matter where we were it would seem as if she would draw people towards her. Her laugh would echo and her smile would radiate. How did she do it? Did she seem this way to everyone else, or just to me? I scout out a spot to plant myself and as I look at the families and couples scattered on the beach I wonder if they would remember her if they saw her. Maybe she seemed to emit this attractive force because I was hers, and because she was mine. I let her presence consume me in such a way that everything around us was insignificant and small. These people about me seem to do the same thing--let them be immersed in what their group was doing, and ignore the goings-on around them.

Towel rolled out, I sit down. As the waves move up and down the beach I think of the change of tides. I asked my mom why the waves would move further and further up the sand and she replied, “It’s a cycle, always coming in and then going out. It washes away our footprints so we can make new ones.” Making more footprints is harder than just walking down the beach. With time I may be able to leave more, but for now I will savor the footprints I made with Mom. Mine had been smaller than hers for a long time, but as I took more steps they grew.

I lay back, remove my sunglasses, and close my eyes. The heat from the sun makes my olive skin feel tight. With my eyes closed, I can picture her lying next to me on our pink, soft blanket. She could be here and I wouldn’t even know it. Happy that I came, she would smile and try to brush my hair with her fingers. If I think hard enough I can feel her hands smoothing out my curls.

“Maybe I will dye my hair bleach blonde and straighten it,” I would joke.

“I better not see the day you change your hair,” she would always reply. I vowed the day she died to never change my hair. If I were to even dream of it, it would be a nightmare. Altering something she loved would feel like a betrayal.

After an hour, I get up and stroll along the water’s edge. I let the wave’s tips roll over my feet, cooling down my body. I feel a slight joy that I am making footprints. Better to make footprints now than regret not making any at all. With each step I feel closer to Mom as her memory steps into me. The tension in my chest lessens as I breathe in the cool salty air. I am not so much on the brink of tears but the brink of mental exhaustion. My feet keep moving as my mind grows tired from the overbearing sorrow. The bits of happiness from my reminiscing have eaten away at the fringes of pain.

I walk back, picking up shells along the way for my bedroom. When I went away to camp one year my mom redecorated my room as a surprise for me, deciding the beach theme would be fitting. She was right, as always. Since then, every time she went out shopping and saw something beach themed that I did not already own, she would buy it. I always appreciated her gifts, but I scolded her for a lengthy sixty seconds for buying yet another decoration to put in my already cluttered room.

As I draw closer to my blanket I see a tall man—he’s wearing an aged fishing cap turned backwards, a loose Life is Good t-shirt showing one of those stick figures reclining in a hammock, and ripped jean shorts with paint remover stains from last summer’s house painting adventure and he’s sitting on a towel adjacent to my stuff. His relaxed position makes him look like he had been waiting for a while. My dad obviously did not change when he got home from fishing before searching for me. “How did you find me?” I ask as I approach him.

He looks up at me with his cobalt blue eyes and light-heartedly says, “Well, if you remember, I set up a locator in your car when we got it. I haven’t had to use it much but it does come in handy.” Of course I should have known he would use that on me. I turned off my phone thinking he’d try to track me through that, but I forgot about my car. That’s what happens when your dad works for Homeland Security.
He takes off his hat and runs his hand through his dark grey hair. He closes his weighty eyes and breathes in deeply, taking in the cool salty ocean air, filling his tired lungs. The sun is high enough that his large brow bones cast a shadow over his lids. “Your mom loved this place,” he says as he stares at the ocean. Deep in thought, I am not sure if that statement was actually directed toward me.

I look down to my sand covered feet, half-heartedly whipping one with the other foot. “We both did. We shared it together,” I counter solemnly. I sit down next to him and follow his gaze to the deep blue waters. I wish I knew how to comfort him, but that had always been Mom’s job. After his own mom died eight years ago, my mother sat with him for hours in my grandmother’s bedroom. When they walked down the grey staircase, he looked refreshed and at peace with his mother’s absence. I wonder what she said to him up there to sooth all of his pain.

“You know, Jade, I am here for you. I may not be as good at this stuff as your mom was, but I will try to help you as best as I can” he says as he turns to face me. It’s as if he could read my mind. He can be very intuitive--not very good with emotional issues, but he can sense things. It’s why Homeland Security loves him so much. “ I know you are trying to be strong for me but you don’t have to be. That’s not your job at your age.” Concern leaks out with those last few words. I look away from him and back to the waves. This obviously is a conversation he thought about the whole drive here. I do not notice the tears until they’re part way down my cheek.

Dad stands up and walks back toward the walking path. I twiddle my thumbs, thinking about how I must have appeared the past few weeks. My mom had always referred to me as lively and for the most part carefree. I sometimes helped out around the house, but she did the majority of the cleaning, cooking, and up keeping. My dad was allotted more down time after the funeral. I hardly noticed his extra presence though. I spent day and night cleaning meticulously, preparing meals hours before dinner, and taking some of my mom’s things and putting them in boxes. Today was the first day I hadn’t woken up and started off my morning with the smell of Windex, Febreze, and diluted bleach. I must have seemed like such a head case.

My dad approaches with two vanilla soft serve ice cream cones, one with rainbow sprinkles lightly spotted, not drenched. He really does know me well. He slowly sits down, trying not to drop our tall towers of dairy. I take my cone and immediately try to stop the small streams attempting to run down my hand. Once I have the cone under control I look at my dad, “I’m sorry. I hope I haven’t worried you too much. I didn’t realize how weird I was acting and how much you probably noticed. I was just trying to keep things normal since Mom had always done the house stuff.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he looks at me with sympathy, “ you’ve been a great help, but it’s not necessary for you to slave like you have been. I have plenty of time to pick up some of the house work.’ Again he looks out to the sea, as if for guidance to help with what he wants to say next. “Even though your mom is gone, you don’t have to fill her shoes. You should try to continue your life as you did when she was with us and keep her with you in heart. Spending all your time trying to make up for her absence will leave you with regret for not living your life. Mom loved you liveliness. She would rather see you with friends or here,” he finishes. I’m guessing this is how my mom’s conversation with him went. He bites into his ice cream and rises up off the towel.

“So, how would you like to go home, and go out with your dad to see some nerdy movie?” he asks with humor now in his voice.
“Why don’t we stay home and watch the old Star Wars movie and make popcorn. I have the sudden urge to make a mess,” I suggest, returning his smile. I can smell the fake butter already.

I get up off my towel and roll it up. I stuff my belongings into my beach bag. “I’ll catch up with you at home. I just need to wet my feet before I leave,” I tell him. His gives a small nod, waves and walks off to the hot parking lot. I move to the water’s edge and let the waves roll over my feet, cooling them after resting them in the hot sand. I say goodbye to my mom, knowing she will be here waiting for me the next time I come. As I step away, I leave my footprints clean and deep so Mom can look at them. I walk back to my car, at peace knowing I will come here again soon to say hello and reunite with her in her happy place.