Christy Hartman
Running into my younger self in the omelet line at the Ocean Dreamer buffet is a shocking way to begin this cruise. When the bikini-topped, ponytailed girl orders extra mushrooms and green olives, I blurt out, “that’s my order!” She turns to offer an awkward smile, and our matching gray-blue eyes connect. I bolt, leaving my croissant-and-orange-juice-laden tray behind.
I convince myself she’s only a manifestation of my guilt for not wanting to be here.
This twenty-fifth anniversary cruise was a gift from my husband. “The same ship and ports as our honeymoon.” Ralph had beamed, passing me a copy of the itinerary.
“It’s not a good idea; the doctor doesn’t want you to travel.” I tried to reason with him. “Maybe next year.” Ralph had convinced me with his sad pout, and now I’m leaning on the Lido Deck railing, pretending to watch a game of shuffleboard.
I’m so angry at you for making me promise to do this on my own. I don’t want to remember—it’s too painful.
Laughter floats on the ocean breeze. “Let’s go back to the room.” A familiar male voice draws my attention to the deck below. They’re sharing a lounge chair, limbs entwined like seaweed.
“We can’t spend all day in bed.” She giggles.
“But it’s our honeymoon, Butterbean.”
My nickname, spoken in the youthful version of Ralph’s voice, slaps me across the face so hard I gasp. The girl looks up, meeting my eyes over the shoulder of her doting partner. There is no doubt now. This is me, on my honeymoon. I remember the cherry-print bikini I’d bought in the airport gift shop. The chunky blond highlights in her ponytail are dated now, but at twenty-two I’d been on trend.
Ralph, is this your idea of a joke? I’m trapped on this ship and you’re just chilling up there. You’re probably convincing some angels to play poker and offering to smoke your famous root beer ribs. I bet you think it’s funny—but this is cruel.
I stagger to the pool deck. I can’t go back to our room where the untouched pillow on Ralph’s side of the bed had sent me fleeing to the upper decks as soon as the sun rose. Plopping onto a chair, I hide my puffy eyes behind sunglasses and try not to think.
I know it’s her when the neighboring chair shifts. She smells of Tommy Girl perfume and Sun-In hair lightener. Ralph had said one whiff of that chemical cocktail made him want to toss me over his shoulder and drag me to bed.
“Excuse me. Is this chair taken?”
God, she sounds so young. I shake my head.
She lays out her towel and slides into the deck chair. We’re silent for a few minutes, listening to kids play, and men talk about the Dodgers’ playoff chances.
Her sniffling and huffing draws out a twenty-five-year-old memory. This same poolside, alone, fuming after our first married fight. I’d been disappointed and angry at my new husband for some slight I’ve long since forgotten.
“Are you married?” Her question sounds like an accusation.
“Yes.” I hesitate. “Well, I was.”
Her eyebrows raise—I’d forgotten that tragic phase of plucking my brows pencil-line thin. “Well, I’ve only been married three days and I’m ready to toss him off this ship.”
Your suit! You swore you picked it up from the cleaners and packed it. I was so angry!
“Weddings are stressful. I’m sure it’ll blow over.” I sneak a peek at her from behind my sunglasses.
“I bought the most beautiful dress for the formal night and now we’ll have to eat dinner at the buffet like animals because he couldn’t be bothered to double-check the list I sent him.”
“I’m sure he was just forgetful and will make it up to you.” She doesn’t know yet that you went straight to the concierge to arrange a private romantic dinner on our balcony. That ended up being my favourite part of the trip.
“All I know is I’m not going to have a marriage like my parents. Mom does everything for Dad and he doesn’t appreciate anything.” She twists her fingers in my tell-tale sign of frustration. “I thought Ralph was different.”
“I’m sure he’s nothing like your dad. Want some advice from an old lady?”
She smiles. “You aren’t old. You actually remind me of my mom.”
My first genuine laugh in months bubbles up. “Thanks for that.” I sit up and take her hands in mine. The slender fingers with their perfect French manicure are so familiar my breath catches. “Your husband isn’t perfect, and neither are you. Sometimes he’ll forget to bring home milk when you ask him to, but he’ll never forget your birthday. He’ll spend too many Sundays playing golf with his friends, but he’ll plan a date for you every Friday night. He’ll sleep through his alarm every morning and you will have to wake him up, but he’ll never leave the house without saying ‘I love you.’”
“Sounds like you should’ve stayed with your husband if he was that great.” She smiles sympathetically.
“I’d have stayed with him forever if I had the chance.” I squeeze her hands then lie back again. “Now, find your husband and behave like honeymooners!”
“You’re right. He’s probably pouting in the room, feeling terrible.” She gathers her things. “Thanks for the pep talk.”
Twenty-five years with you lies in front of her—that girl has no idea how lucky she is.
Someone new slips into the chair beside me. “I overheard. You were kind, especially since I know you’re hurting.”
Her face is lined with unfamiliar wrinkles; her lips are thin as my grandmother’s. The laugh lines around the gray-blue eyes are deeper than mine but in the same pattern.
I struggle to choke out the words. “Tell me I’ll be happy again one day.”
She reaches for my hands. “Sooner than you think, sweet girl.”
Christy Hartman pens short fiction from her home between the ocean and mountains of Vancouver Island, Canada. She writes about the morsels of magic in life’s quiet moments. Christy has been shortlisted for Bath and Bridport Flash Fiction prizes and is a two-time New York City Midnight winner. She has been published by Sunlight Press, The Good Life Review, Sky Island Journal, and others. Find Christy at www.christyhartmanwriter.com.
