“I am glad you are here,” she whispered into my ear, and after a long and gratifying embrace, I kissed her while the sound of ocean waves seemed to roar their approval. When she kissed me back, I knew instantly that she’d made her decision about me, and my world shifted on its axis.
It was not the first kiss we’d ever shared, but in many ways it has become my favorite, if only because it happened when I needed it most, marking the beginning of one of the two most wonderful, and life-altering, periods of my life.
Ruth smiles at me in the car, beautiful and serene in that summer dress. The tip of her nose is slightly red, her hair windblown and redolent of the ocean breeze.
“I like this memory,” she says to me.
“I like it, too,” I say.
“Yes, because I was a young woman then. Thick hair, no wrinkles, nothing sagging.”
“You haven’t changed a bit.”
“Unsinn,” she says with a dismissive wave. “I changed. I became old, and it is not fun to be old. Things that were once simple became difficult.”
“You sound like me,” I remark, and she shrugs, untroubled by the revelation that she is nothing but a figment of my imagination. Instead, she circles back to the memory of my visit.
“I was so happy that you were able to come on holiday with us.”
“I regret that my visit was so short.”
It takes her a moment to respond. “I think,” she says, “that it was good for me to have a couple of weeks of quiet time alone. My parents seemed to know this, too. There was little to do other than sit on the porch and walk in the sand and sip a glass of wine while the sun went down. I had much time to think. About me. About us.”
“Which is why you threw yourself at me when I showed up,” I tease.
“I did not throw myself at you,” she says indignantly. “Your memory is distorted. I walked down the steps and offered a hug. I was raised to be a lady. I simply greeted you. This embellishment is a product of your imagination.”
Maybe. Or maybe not. Who can know after so long? But I suppose it doesn’t matter.
“Do you remember what we did next?” she asks.
Part of me wonders if she’s testing me. “Of course,” I answer. “We went inside and I greeted your parents. Your mother was slicing tomatoes in the kitchen and your father was grilling tuna on the back porch. He told me that he’d bought it that afternoon from a fisherman tying up at the pier. He was very proud of that. He seemed different as he stood over the grill that evening… relaxed.”
“It was a good summer for him,” Ruth agrees. “By then, he was managing the factory, so the days were not so hard on him, and it was the first time in years that we had enough money to go on holiday. Most of all, he was ecstatic at the thought of teaching again.”
“And your mother was happy.”
“My father’s good spirits were infectious.” Ruth pauses for a moment. “And, like me… she had grown to like it here. Greensboro would never be Vienna, but she had learned the language and made some friends. She had also grown to appreciate the warmth and generosity of the people here. In a way, I think she had finally begun to think of North Carolina as her home.”
Outside the car, the wind blows clumps of snow from the branches. None of them hits the car, but somehow it is enough to remind me again of exactly where I am. But it does not matter, not right now.
“Do you remember how clear the sky was when we ate dinner?” I say. “There were so many stars.”
“That is because it was so dark. No lights from the city. My father noted the same thing.”
“I’ve always loved the Outer Banks. We should have gone every year,” I say.
“I think it would have lost its magic if we went every year,” she responds. “Every few years was perfect – like we did. Because every time we went back, it felt new and untamed and fresh again. Besides, when would we have gone? We were always traveling in the summers. New York, Boston, Philadelphia, Chicago, even California. And always, Black Mountain. We had the chance to see this country in a way that most people never could, and what could be better?”
Nothing, I think to myself, knowing in my heart that she is right. My home is filled with keepsakes from those trips. Strangely, though, aside from a seashell we found the following morning, I had nothing to remind me of this place, and yet the memory never dimmed.
“I always enjoyed having dinner with your parents. Your father seemed to know something about everything.”