EBB TIDE
Isaiah Dyer’s memory is like a connect-the-dot puzzle, an array of random bits of information that he tries to organize into a meaningful image. But the connections he painstakingly makes between one detail and the next keep getting erased. Each day he has to reestablish relationships between the facts floating around his head. Number 3 Swale Way: his address. Two eggplants, three tomatoes, two green peppers, two zucchini: ingredients for ratatouille. June 26th: today’s date. Maya: my daughter’s name. That woman, walking by the water…that woman. She looks familiar to Isaiah, but he can’t find the word for what she’s called. He sits forward in his low beach chair and grabs at the sand, digging his fingers into the shifting grains and then squeezing them solid in his fists. He pumps his hands in the sand until the muscles in his forearms burn, until enough energy reaches his brain to spark another connection. That woman with the broad hat and the tablecloth tied around her waist: she is called Sabine.
She strolls along the sandbar that has been exposed by the out-going tide, stopping occasionally to pick up stones. Some she palms in her right hand; others she tosses aside. This woman, Sabine: she is left-handed. Other famous lefties: Einstein; that pitcher for the Sox; the fellow who, who made sounds with…that wooden thing.
Sabine leaves the wet sand and walks toward him, up the incline of the beach. She’s smiling. Another line drawn from dot to dot: Maya and Sabine have the same smile.
She kneels at his feet and lays a collection of smooth white stones on the sand.
“I know you.” He says.
Leaning forward, her sandy hands on his knees, she blows gently into his face. He closes his eyes and hums.
“Were you lonely?” she asks.
“Why are you wearing a tablecloth?”
She pulls the material more tightly around her waist. “This is a sarong. You brought it back for me, remember, from Sydney.”
“I remember Sydney.” He pictures a Chocolate Labrador puppy and a little girl, rolling
together on a bleached lawn.
“What happened to that dog?”
She looks out toward the water and is quiet for a moment. When Isaiah coughs–a deep sputter, like a motor turning over in his chest–she grasps his hand and strokes the long, yellow fingers.
“He was old,” she says.
“You’re my wife.”
“Yes.”
She kisses his thin, dry lips and then rests her forehead against Isaiah’s, as though, in this way, she could transmit the energy of her brain to his.