Where We Drift

The beach is quiet now, just the low rumble of waves that curl rhythmically over the sand and retreat back into themselves. Adam is surprised by this. Dad always warns him about coming to the beach after dark, has always said that when no one was watching, that’s when the sea becomes truly alive. But as Adam steps off the short, wooden bridge and out onto the sand, he doesn’t understand what his father was talking about. He flinches a little at the coolness of the sand between the toes of his bare feet and wonders why he hadn’t thought to bring shoes. Adam is not usually the forgetful type.

He doesn’t have to walk long.

The boat that sits along the edge of the water is big enough for two, but Adam doesn’t have to worry about a second person. His pace quickens as he draws closer, until he can hear the steady plip plop of water against wood. This time he's ready for the shock of the cold water against his feet, and he barely flinches as it slides over his ankles as he nears the left side of the boat. It seems to be waiting for him, slatted edges glistening a little beneath the half-formed moon overhead. Adam swings one leg over and into the boat, using the other leg to push off from the sand and into the calm swell. There are two wooden paddles, one on either side of him, and Adam grips them both with sure hands and begins to row. He thinks of what Dad would say about his nightly exploits, if he knew. He thinks about what Mom would say about them, if she could. And then he decides not to think at all. He lets the small boat carry him out over the water, lets himself get lost in the steady rhythm of rowing to a destination somewhere in the middle of nowhere.

After a while, when his arms are beginning to shake, Adam stops rowing. He knows that if anyone were to venture onto the beach tonight, they wouldn’t even think to look for him out on the waves. Even the strong, sweeping beam from a lighthouse would barely catch the shadow of his outline, and even then, he would be nothing but a small dot of black against the endless dark blue; a speck small enough to be ignored.

It’s all he wants, sometimes. To be ignored. To be the anonymous glint off of a car’s windshield, the little bit of light you blink away from so you don’t miss the other cars on the road or the traffic signs that keep you from colliding with something.

But Mom died two years ago, and Dad still hasn’t stopped staring into that light. The light is Adam, and the collision is coming. It has to, and Adam has to be the one to pull his father’s attention back to the road long enough to feel the impact. Adam lets both oars drop into the boat and leans his head back against the rear seat.

“I got a letter in the mail,” he practices aloud, reaching the fingers of his left hand out to dip into the rippling water that surrounds him. He clears his throat and tries again. “Dad, I got a letter in the mail. A letter. A letter.” It sounds all wrong. Maybe there’s another way to say it.

“Dad, I sent in an application….”

“Dad, it’s only a few hours away…”

“Dad, I know you worry a lot and I know it might get lonely here without me, but we’re both going to be fine…”

And his father will look at him, will search for his dead wife, as he always does, in the matching irises of his son’s ocean-colored eyes, and he won’t understand. Adam knows he won’t, because Dad has been clinging to him for two years like a vine to a dying tree, can’t let go of him long enough to realize that all he’s doing is killing them both slow.

Mom used to say Dad had an embrace like an ocean wave; a warm swell pulling you close. Adam knows she was right, just like he knows that if he stays, that embrace will swallow him whole. He shivers a little in the pale moonlight, suddenly aware of just how late it is, just how far away from shore he’s drifted. He sits up, repositions the oars, and starts to row back the way he’d come. He leaves the boat where he found it, where it will be again when he needs it next, and walks the half mile back home. It’s still dark by the time he makes it there, and he is shivering a little in the open, sea-salt breeze. He leans a hand against the porch railing and brushes the sand from his feet before sliding the spare key from its hiding place and carefully opening the door. He need not have bothered being quiet.

The kitchen light is on, and Adam can hear the socked footsteps of his father moving lightly across the tiles. His dad is a large man, but he moves like he has a secret to keep. Adam knows the feeling, but he doesn’t try to tip-toe as he begins walking in the direction of the kitchen. There’s no point trying to sneak past, and Adam finds that he doesn’t really want to.

His Dad is standing at the counter in a t-shirt and boxers, a half-eaten orange in his hand with the juice sliding messily over his fingertips.

“Hey, Dad,” Adam says, hovering nervously in the kitchen’s entryway.

“Hey, Bud,” his father answers, taking a bite of the orange and swiping a hand across his mouth when some of the juice dribbles into his beard. Even though Adam is several feet away, his Dad peels off a slice of orange and holds it out to him. “Want some?”

Adam nods and walks the rest of the way into the kitchen, grabbing the slice from his father’s sticky hand and taking a bite. It’s almost too sour, but not quite. Adam freezes and stops chewing a moment later when he notices the piece of paper sitting on the counter beside the orange peel. His Dad follows his gaze to it and inclines his head a little bit. He finishes the last of the orange and wipes his fingers on the front of his boxers.

“Ah yeah,” his Dad nods. “That.”

“Dad…” Adam starts, not sure how he’s planning on finishing the rest of the sentence.

His Dad interrupts him before he can think on it too long.

“Cutting it a little close, don’t you think?”

Adam shakes his head, confused. “Wh…?”

“Deadline’s tomorrow,” his dad clarifies. “You planning on skipping out without telling me?”

Adam swallows hard. He still has half an orange slice in his hand, and he can feel the juice worming its way down along his wrist. He wishes he’d stayed out on the water just a little bit longer, aches to dip his fingers back into the ocean and wash all the stickiness away. “I was gonna tell you, Dad. I promise.”

His Dad nods, seems to accept this. The two men stand in the shallow light of the kitchen, silence holding them for a long, indeterminable moment. Finally, Adam’s father breaks it.

“When you…” he stops and clears his throat, seemingly unsure. Adam has never seen his father without a look of apt determination on his face. It throws him a little, and he waits timidly for the next words. His Dad rolls his eyes, frustrated. “I wish you wouldn’t go so far.”

“It’s only a couple of hours away…” Adam insists, the words feeling stilted and over-rehearsed.

“No, I mean…” his dad shakes his head, rubs his hand along his beard again. “That boat, it’s not built for the bigger waves. Can be hard to pull back into shore if you get her too far out. Especially that late at night.”

Adam blinks. “How did you…?”

“Oh, kid,” his Dad says, and it sounds like he wants to cry or maybe laugh. But instead he just repeats the words, and they sound like confession. Oh, kid.

He does laugh, then. A single, booming guffaw that echoes off the kitchen cabinets and putters out into the living room with the moss-green couch and Mom’s untouched antiques.

“Dad, what?” Adam says, dropping the rest of his orange slice onto the counter next to the white piece of paper with “Congratulations, Adam Reese Evans” printed across the top in bold, black letters.

His Dad looks at him, and for the first time in a long time, he’s not looking for anyone else behind Adam’s eyes; not searching for someone who’s never coming home. He’s just standing there in the kitchen in his boxer shorts, looking at his son, and he’s smiling the way he walks: with a secret pressed into the corners of his mouth.

“Kid,” he repeats, shaking his head and clicking his tongue. “Where the hell do you think that damn boat came from?”