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Lifetimes Unfold on Scarborough's Sands

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(page 4 of 4)

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Now I was a mother, too, and had moved back to Rhode Island after many years away. With my two small children, Sam and Grace, I repeated the ritual my own mother had performed on summer mornings. I filled my station wagon, picked up my cousin, and headed south to Scarborough. Together, we sat and watched as Sam dashed in and out of the waves. We helped Grace build her own elaborate castles. We walked with them as far as we could, collecting shells and sea glass in their plastic pails.

I'd moved home, and that meant Scarborough on hot summer days. I could easily imagine my children coming here as teenagers, riding waves and whispering secrets to their friends. I believed that one day, as I had, they'd sit here on a starry night and kiss the boy or girl they'd hoped to kiss one whole long summer. Watching my own kids on the very beach where my childhood and adolescence had played out made me feel almost as hopeful as I used to when Beth and I had come here all those years ago.

But in adulthood we know better. Or perhaps we should. By the time we become adults, we've had our hearts broken enough times, suffered enough disappointments, learned enough lessons, to know that some dreams don't come true. That day as I stood watching my children play at Scarborough, I never could have imagined that in a few short years, my daughter, Grace, would be taken from us, suddenly and inexplicably, by a virulent form of strep, leaving me and Sam and my husband, Lorne, in a perpetual winter.

I stopped going to the beach after Grace died. Something about all that bright sunshine, the sounds of children splashing in the water, the endless, relentless surf, was too much for my wounded self. Instead, I gathered my family and fled each summer to far-flung places -- Peru and Vietnam and Thai­land. We visited temples and monu­ments and tombs. We ate crickets and guinea pigs and a fruit called durian that's so smelly it's not allowed in public buildings. Instead of embracing the familiar, I sought experiences so different they couldn't possibly worsen my grief.

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During that time, we adopted a baby girl from China. Annabelle brought us joy again after so much pain. I found myself laughing more. I felt my broken heart start to mend, its cracks and fissures deep.

And so another summer came. On my desk, I had maps and guidebooks and brochures for Chile and Argentina. But something in me knew it was time to stay home again. "What if we rented a beach house this summer?" I asked Lorne. He agreed that was a fine idea.

But the house we rented -- a bungalow, just a worn path through deep-pink roses from the beach -- was far from Scarborough, an hour in the opposite direction. I'm a woman who loves the beach. But I'm not ready for that beach, where I grew up and learned so much about love and life and friendship and family. The sand there has too many footprints on it. For now, I seek a different beach, one without impression or memory.

At Scarborough, I can still see the skinny little girl I was, chasing her cousins along the edge of the water. I can see my teenage self, lying beside her best friend, trying to imagine what the night might bring, bursting with hope. And there I am, wanting that boy to lean over and kiss me, getting that kiss and many more, believing surely there have never been kisses like these.

And not too many years later, one marriage behind me, the promise of a new one ahead, I sit with my father and drink coffee, the smell of baking pies filling the air. I can see myself with my own children, two towheads walking hand in hand toward some unseeable future. In these visions, no one dies, the girl always wins the boy's heart, kisses never end, the sun is always shining, the sand is hot, the beach is full, and summer, glorious summer, never ends.

In July, Ann Hood talks about her latest work: YankeeMagazine.com/10Things