Upon the Waves of Time

Upon The Waves Of Time

Some said it was the screeching of the gulls that finally tipped the scales, and broke the balance of Theodore Jeffries’ mind.    

Others said the salt must finally have gone to it, him being exposed to the stuff on such a regular basis. These were not notoriously kind nor reliable individuals, and so this opinion was rather widely disregarded. 

And here and there, among the scattered kindred souls of the island, there lay a sympathy and fond heartache for the man who walked the shorelines. After all, only so much unbounded grief can be taken by a broken man, when he has nothing to keep the pieces together. And in his favour, it must be said that he was really quite right in it by turns. In fact, 6 days a week you would never know him for anything but a perfectly normal individual, (although unusually solemn) with perfectly normal habits and customs. 

Except on Thursdays. 

On every Thursday of the month, they would see him as they had for the past three years. Stepping carefully over driftwood and abandoned sandcastles, and making his way to where the wharf had once been.

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The shore lay empty now, the hurricane that had struck the year before last had made sure of that. Only the occasional post was left still standing as a memorial of what had been. He would not have noticed if they hadn’t been there at all. The picture in his mind was as vivid as it had been the day it all happened, and reality would have needed to try a great deal harder in order to factor into the scene at all. In short, to the present, he was quite oblivious. To the past? Never had his senses been more keenly attuned.

He always came this way. Dressed in a suit, hair neatly combed, shoes polished, and a sleek briefcase in one hand. A light grin would tease the corners of his mouth, and a boyishly excited expression would spread over his face as he hurried his last few steps to his waiting place. 

Pulling out his watch, he would scan the horizon. And he, and the watch, and the gulls would keep vigil. Patiently, at first, indulgent even, a little. But as time ticked by, and still no sign appeared of the person he was waiting for, a slight impatience would creep in.

Then at five o’clock, without fail, the watch would snap shut with a regretful little click, and he would turn to leave.  Muttering “It can’t be helped, worst luck. Can’t be helped. Got to catch the 5:15,” he would turn, and walk briskly up the path, with the air of someone who is going to be late if they do not hurry.

Then by the third fence post of the Collins homestead, a look of stark realization would wash over his face, and he would stop.

She knew his routine by heart, did Sarah Collins. Many was the time she had seen it played out, surely enough, and it was no wonder that she did. To be sure, one cannot help noticing things, if one is at all inclined to pay attention to them. So she counted. In precisely three seconds, he would give a horrified lurch, and start back down the path he had just come up. And there he would wait until the sky turned black, and he was lost from sight. She did not know how long he stayed then. 

Her heart ached for him. She had boys of her own, just his age, had seen him grow up alongside them…. Had bandaged scraped knees countless times, and comforted him when his pet frog got away. And yet, to comfort him in a grief he could not seem to realize fully…. So little, it seemed, could be done. So very little. 

She gave a sorrowful little shake of her head, and a startled, half-ashamed little jump as from somewhere behind her there came a delicate tinkling, like a spoon being gently rattled against a teacup. And indeed, one was. 

She had nigh well forgotten that she had left her guest to bide time by herself, she has been so caught up in the sorrow of the story. Indeed, she must have been quite out of the room, practically. She certainly had no recollection of what might all have happened, and the whole thing generally took at least half an hour, once it was well underway. 

Fiona Cochrane smiled quietly. She was used to Sarah.  She rose carefully, coming to stand beside her oldest friend. Indeed, had they not been in short skirts and pinafores together? This complete absorption in things or subjects at unexpected moments was not at all a new thing. 

Slipping an arm around her friend’s waist, she looked out the window curiously. It must be quite the view, to have kept her intrigued for so long. And here she was, off in her thoughts again. Fiona looked at the man on the shore, consideringly. He seemed to her to be quite a normal sort of a person, and not exactly deserving of quite such rapt attention, but surely there must be something in him to have kept Sarah looking at him so long. 

Her voice rose in a matter of fact sort of question mark. “A fine looking young man. D’you know him, love? Why so caught up in your thoughts just now?”

Sarah considered, thoughtfully. What was there, really, to say? At least, anything that had not been said of him a dozen times over. But then…. Fiona had not heard it, coming from an island to the south of them. She could tell Fiona. Fiona would understand it.

Not everybody did. 

“Well…. Perhaps we had better draw the table over, like so, and have our tea while I tell it. It’s a long, sad story, it is, and no easy answer do I have to give ye.” 

The table was accordingly drawn over to the window, and two silvery heads bent together over their teacups. And her voice dipped smoothly into the peculiar intonation belonging to storytelling as the fire flickered in the hearth, and cast sorrowful shadows about the walls as if it were playing in accompaniment. And the story unfolded before them. 

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Little Tommy had been nine years old when his mother died. Influenza, it was. Sudden, so sudden. The whole town had mourned her, and it was commonly believed that Theodore would die of heartache. His family always was the kind to take things harder than most, and it was expected, of course, that he would be the same. 

But somehow, he and his wee boy, they mourned in life, and saw the beauties she would have loved, and loved them for her, and they lived because she would have wanted them too. Theodore once said that it would have broken her heart if she knew her going had broken them, and so they never gave up joy. 

Her voice faded. “And then the day came. It had been a year since, and the boy had been wanting to see him at work. He was in business then, you know, editor of a large newspaper in the city.” 

Fiona had not known, but she did know that to keep Mary in with storytelling, one must make very little noise, and yet occasionally interject encouraging murmurs that might be consequently interpreted to fit whatever part of the story one was in. She proceeded to comply with both, taking a hasty sip of her rapidly cooling tea as she did so, and Sarah obligingly continued. 

“So they decided to make a day of it. Theodore had an important meeting scheduled, and must be there else it could not take place, and so decided to combine business with pleasure. Tommy had never been, raised an island child if ever any were, and you never saw a lad so excited in your life. Never saw two people so excited, I should say, Theodore was as excited about it as he was.” 

“Well, he had a little boat, Tommy did. A little rowboat, really, but he steered it like a grand vessel, and all the skill of a seasoned fisherman. Called it his “Lisa Marie”, as if it were a ship he had.  The sea was in his blood, from his mother’s people, and keeping him out of it was chore enough in itself.”

She shook her head, laughing reminiscently. The laughter faded as suddenly as it had come, however, and the merry little face was graver than it had been before. Fiona felt a a twinge of foreboding as she looked into it. There were storm clouds ahead, or her name was not Fiona Cochrane.

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He had taken that boat out the morning of their trip, promising solemnly to be back by three, so as to be ready in time, but “his Lisa M’rie” must sail that morning. He always said the wind in the waves sounded a little like his mother once had, singing a ballad for a lullaby, and he could not leave without thinking of her on a day like that. And what could Theodore say to such a thing but yes?

He had come by her house asking for Tommy when the boy wasn’t on time, thinking he might have stopped by for a dive in the cookie jar. Tommy never forgot which day was Baking Day, nor had Sarah ever forgotten to make his favourite molasses cookies for him.  All in all, it was a very little neat system they had going, and so this was quite a logical conclusion to which one might jump. But it was not the case that day, and Theodore went to wait for him by the wharf. 

It had always been their special meeting place, the wharf had. The running joke was that if ever one of them was lost, the other should head for this place, and the lost one would do likewise, and thus the situation should be got out of quite beautifully, without any of the nonsense that ordinarily went into such doings. They thought this very clever of themselves, and so “have you looked at the wharf?” became a family byword to be used whenever anything went missing. This made it, all in all, a very logical place to wait for Tommy.

And so he did. One hour went by, then two. And by five o’ clock, Theodore simply couldn’t wait a moment longer. Made him miserable, but he must go, or the people at the paper would be gathered to a meeting with no point. And Captains could not abandon ship just because they only wanted to steer it if a particular person was First Mate. That would be ridiculous. Still…

He gave one last searching glance towards the horizon, scanning the shoreline in all directions, but no Tommy was to be seen anywhere.

Snapping his watch shut with a regretful sigh, and going as if his business were the last thing he wanted to tend to at that moment, he left. 

It was a clear, glorious day. The kind of day made for white sand picnics and bathing parties. And it was really no wonder that Theodore thought Tommy had simply lost track of the time. Tommy came with the curiosity to stock a dozen, and a way of forgetting the time when he got his head into something that got him caught up in it. So Theodore went, thinking it would be a valuable lesson to Tommy,  much as it pained him to have to teach it.

Sarah’s voice had risen and fallen with the lyrical grace of one born to tell tales, and her words had woven a scene so vivid that Fiona blinked at the sudden shift that took place. 

For from that point on, and for the first time in her seventy-two years, Sarah Collins sounded old and very, very weary. But she continued, doggedly. 

“A storm blew up, Fi’. The worst and the fastest in approaching anyone had ever seen in those parts. You couldn’t see it coming an hour before it struck, and several houses were nearly washed into a ravine, it was that strong. Theodore was caught out in the city, without a notion of what was going on out here. He knew it was too rough for the ferry to cross, but the island bore the worst of it.”

“And Tommy…. Tommy was out there.”

Fiona gasped in horror. “No! No, Sarah, tell me you’re pullin’ my leg, now. Not out there. Not the laddie, Sarah, don’t.”  She was weeping into her handkerchief now, knowing the answer before it ever came. 

Sarah nodded, wearily. “He had lost his oars, and when the storm blew up, he was out at sea. They think at least, that it must have been mercifully quick, the storm was that violent. He was found the next day.”

“Theodore never forgave himself for not waiting. And in some way, it’s as if he is waiting now, for the time he didn’t. Just waiting, waiting for his boy. It all plays out just as it did then, every time. Even to his leaving. But now….”

Her eyes were filled with tears. “He catches himself. He goes back to the place where the boat was always tied, and waits. And he never leaves until the light is gone. Just as he is now.”

She pointed at him as if to do so made the ache in her mother-heart triple in volume. And as she did, something to the far corner of the window moved. Sarah, fishing for her spectacles, and dabbing at both eyes and spectacles with a wet handkerchief, squinted at it unhurriedly. It was likely only the neighbour’s dog, anyway, coming to see what her scrap-pail held.

But it was not a dog. Not a dog, nor yet any other creature that might be angling for a visit to the back door. A tiny girl, perhaps three years old, had wandered down to the beach, seeming to be quite alone, and equally assured that this was where she had really wished to be all the time.

Fiona gave a start, wiping her own eyes, and stood up in her seat.   “That child. We must run fetch her, Sarah-dear. T’isnt safe so near the water. Goodness, I may never trust it again, myself.” She gave a little shudder, and went on indignantly. “Well! I DO wonder what her mother is thinking….”

Sarah held up a cautioning hand, an awestruck wondering spreading over her face. “Wait a moment, love. Look….” 

Her voice had faded to an almost inaudible whisper. “He never talks to anybody when he’s down there. It’s like he doesn’t hear them…. But look at him. Look at him now.”

If they could have heard the conversation, their astonishment could scarcely have been any greater than it was at that moment.

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Theodore Jeffries bent his head, and looked wonderingly down at the little stranger who stood beside him. She looked up at him, solemn brown eyes fawn-like in their trusting gaze, and slipped her hand shyly into his as if they were quite well acquainted.

He couldn’t help but smile. “Well, honey, and what are you doing down here? You should be at home eating your supper.”

She smiled up him confidingly. 

“My supper isn’t ready yet.” She reached into her pocket, and shyly held something up for him to see. “I brought you a ‘lasses cookie. Do you like ‘lasses cookies?” 

He choked on something that had not been there a moment before, and a bewildered look crosed him face as the present swept the last traces of the past out of his thoughts. Nodding slowly, half unsure if she were some sort of a queer mirage, he reached for the cookie, smiling wonderingly at her as he took a bite. 

It was a little crumbly around the edges, it was true, but it was a real cookie if he had ever had one. In fact…. It tasted of something he hadn’t had in a very long time. For two years, in fact. The secret ingredient in all home-baked sweets. He swallowed hard, and looked down at her, willing his features into some sort of expression that would not frighten her. 

“Mmmmm. Your mama makes good cookies, duckie.” She ducked her head, overcome with pleasure. “She letted me cut ‘em out wif’ a little cutter. I like the pretty heart ones bestest.”

He smiled, almost without realizing it. He hadn’t done that in a long time. Not on a Thursday. “Two good cooks, then.” He squeezed her hand. “And how did you know I needed a cookie, wee one?”

Leaning her head against him tiredly, worn out from the walk that had seemed so long to her short little legs, she spoke up. “My mama said you waited and waited for somebody to come, all the time. So I thought I would come, so you didn’t need to anymore.”

And his heart broke as it melted. A dark shadow crossed his face so suddenly that even the little girl noticed, and tugged at his coat with an urgent fervency.

“Please don’t be sad anymore, Mr. Man.” She was nearly crying now, tears set to spill at a moment’s notice, and he stooped down to her level. “Why not?”

She really was crying now, and it was between hiccuping sobs that the words were gotten out. “Cuz it makes our heart hurt when you is. Mine an’ mama’s both.” And his own heart did something it hadn’t in a very long time. It skipped a beat.

Patting her tears dry with a large white handkerchief, he spoke imploringly. “Don’t cry, honey, please don’t. I….” And he swallowed something large. “ I don’t know how, little girl. I forgot, I think, when the person I was waiting for left.”

A smile lit her face even as a couple of latecoming tears tumbled down her cheeks, and even they were no match for the radiance of it. It was if the sun had come out from behind a cloud. The words were so decisive that he had to look twice, to make sure it was really such a very little girl who stood before him.

“Then I’ll teach you. I’m awful good at being happy, so I know ‘zackly how. An’ it’s only hard just sometimes. Mama says so.”

He gave a weary little laugh. “Your mama is a very wise woman. Anyway, I don’t think I’m very good at learning things, dolly. I’m too old.” 

She shook her head at him reprovingly. “My Gran’pa learned to ride a bike, and he’s prac-ly a hunred years old.” She slipped her hand out of his, and stuck it in the pocket that so recently had housed the molasses cookie. 

“I gotta go see ‘bout supper now. The p’tatoes might be soft, and I gets to check them. G’bye, Mr. Man. ‘Member I’m coming back.”

And she smiled winsomely up at him. Giving in to an impulse, he reached out, hesitantly at first, and patted the curly little head. She giggled at him, and his heart warmed. 

“My gran’pa does that. It makes me tickle.”

He looked at her, suddenly solemn again. “Goodbye, Little Dolly. Thank you for bringing me my cookie.”

She nodded at him seriously as she backed away. “I hope you feel better, Mister. They always makes me feel better, even when I hurted my foot.”

And with that, she turned, and skipped back up the path and towards towards the road, a veritable living dolly in her pink calico and brown curls. He didn’t know that he had seen a prettier sight in years. Stopping at the top of the hill, she paused, and waved happily at him before turning, and skipping out of sight up the road. 

And he realized suddenly that he had not even asked her name. Not that it mattered, the writer in him had already nicknamed her. But still, for informational purposes, it might be nice to know. He laughed. He couldn’t help it. Trying to remember his grief with a little sunbeam practically in his coat pocket was proving to be difficult. Tommy would have loved her. 

Tommy. 

It struck him with a force that he had never let through before, and left him staggering under the weight, crushing his heart as he had known it would the moment he let himself believe. Tommy wasn’t coming back. Not tonight, not by sundown, not ever.

He had left his own son for a business meeting.  He had been safely inside a sturdy brick building while his boy was out on the seas with only a boat as his companion. He had been an island away while his only son drew his last breath, and thought he was building sandcastles. And a racking sob caught his breath away as he fell his knees in the sand. 

The light had begun to fade, and the rising of the first star of evening was not many hours away as he rose to his feet. Battered, unutterably exhausted, creased, and rumpled, he rose, yet refreshed in ways that had reached his soul. He felt as if the world had gone from black and grey, back to the colours of Creation. So this was what he had needed all this time. Not to hold the grief, or to bear the responsibility, but to admit he couldn’t, and simply to lay it down at the feet of the only One who could truly help. His heart still ached, but it was a different ache than it had been before. This held the promise of healing. Take though it might as many years as it had been carried, it had begun tonight.

He looked out over the sea to the horizon once again, and spoke in a broken whisper. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here, Tommy. So sorry.” He was weeping now, but they were tears of sorrow, of loneliness, and of something deeper. Relinquishment. Simply, he let go, and gave his boy into the hands of his True Father. And every tear washed a moment of bitter self-hatred away. Tommy had not been alone that night after all.

He became away of something pressing into the palm of his hand then, and uncurled his fingers slowly. It was his pocket watch. He had been clenching it so tightly that the front cover had imprinted itself into his palm, and it now clearly read “Romans 8:38-39.” 

Lisa Marie has gotten that watch for him on his twenty-fifth birthday, and had it specially engraved. Those had been her favourite verses, and the ones she said comforted her most when he was away on business trips, and her imagination tried to get the better of her. She said that it helped her remember that he was never so far away that he wasn’t wrapped in a love bigger than hers ever could be, and it brought her great peace of mind.  

He looked upwards suddenly. Something had dawned on him, and the impact of what had just happened was just beginning to hit him. He had prayed for death. Only yesterday. Had thought in utter despair that there was no more life for him, could not be. Nothing so broken could be mended. And what was the point of living then? And yet here…. His face turned towards the sky, he whispered brokenly.

“That couldn’t be a coincidence, could it? Did that…. Just happen, or did you send her, Father? Because….”  

Eyes widening with awe, he slowly put away his watch.  Life. He had been given life. And his messenger came dressed in ruffles and bearing cookies. He shook his head, wonderingly.

Perhaps Tommy would have said what his mother had. Perhaps living was the best way to honour them. Perhaps…. There was beauty in life yet. And for the first time in three years, he turned, and walked slowly home while the sun was still setting. Turning his face towards the heavens one more time, he prayed out loud, and the sound made him smile.

His eyes were soft as he remembered the look on the little girl’s face as she had skipped away. Such a very little girl. And the longing in his words startled a stray cat as he rounded the bend, and came into view of his house. 

“I hope she wasn’t an angel, God. I’d kind of like to keep her.”