Seth
It was my second day in town and already I had unpacked and repacked twice. It didn’t help that there was little excitement and not much to keep me occupied. However, leaving was not a possibility and, as much as I wanted to, giving up was also not an option.
I sipped my coffee, squinting up at the sun. It was half past ten and the sun was already up, facing the day. It would have been hot if there wasn’t the nice breeze blowing from the water. I sat comfortably at the little café off the beach.
I watched as moms took their children for early picnics along the shore. Little boys in swimming trunks and floaters ran into the water screaming, their moms chasing after them. The sight was amusing, but the noise was beginning to get irritating.
I remembered being one of those kids, driving my mom crazy. It was exciting almost drowning and getting her all upset and having her chase after me. And even though I knew inside that I was far from getting into some kind of danger, it was fun watching her get angry at me.
“Seth,” she would tell me, “one of these days, you will be the death of me.” She would then ruffle my hair, grab my hand, and make me walk with her along the water and sing a lullaby. She always sang the same lullaby, a Celtic one her mom used to sing to her. My grandparents died in a car accident a few years before I was born. My mom refused to talk about them, so I knew almost nothing about her childhood or family. The lullaby seemed to be the only memory she was willing to keep alive. It was the one song that calmed me down. Just the sound of her voice working through the notes was a comfort that was unexplainable, even now.
It wasn’t until I was a little older and noticed the checks that came every month that she explained to me that her father was Native American and she had grown up on a reservation. She left it at that, and I struggled to figure out what it meant. Since I didn’t grow up in the culture, I had no attachment to it. I learned not to tell people about being a quarter Native American to avoid being placed in a category I didn’t belong in.
When everything fell apart and I was left alone, I began to wonder if my mom suppressed her culture because of my all-American father. It was obvious he resented the money she received, and I had even more questions when I discovered the will and decided to seek out my father, who hadn’t made any contact with me since I’d left for college.
I stared out at the beach my mom had loved. It brought back memories of every summer driving from Baltimore to Shelby. It was the highlight of the year for her. She would stare anxiously out the window of the car on the trip over, waiting to catch the first glimpse of the beach. When she did, she would inhale deeply and get really quiet. Sitting in the backseat, I watched her face in the side-view mirror. It was an expression that only came when she saw this beach. Her eyes would light up and get glossy. She would just stare out at the ocean with such an intense expression of wonder and love. I never understood exactly why she loved this beach so much in particular, but being here made me feel closer to her and made me miss her.
It wasn’t until now that I started to understand why. It raised more questions that I was here to get answers for.
“Excuse me,” someone said to me.
I blinked, just noticing the waitress in front of me.
“Would you like another coffee?”
“Um, no thanks,” I muttered, reaching into my pocket for some bills. I handed her the money and headed toward the beach.
It was time for a swim.