I remember the sound of the Oregon coast. Thundering plumes of sea spray exploding up into the air, like howling giants, as wave after wave smashed into the massive rocks jutting out into the ocean at both ends of the short, nearly deserted beach. Rolling mounds of sand dunes spread across the distance, thick with tall grass whipped by the constant wind. It was the last day of our vacation and Mom said she had to talk to us. We followed her out of the beach house down through the grass. Finding a clearing, the three of us sat down in the sand. My brother Bill, nine years old, on one side of her, and me, seven years old, on the other. And we waited to hear what we had done wrong. When Mom said she had to talk to us, it usually meant a reprimand was on its way. But she was quiet for a while and didn’t seem angry or mad. Bill and I were adept at picking up those signals, so we were unsure of what was to come.
Finally, Mom put her arms around our shoulders and, pulling us tightly together, said, “I want you boys to know I’ll always love you. Okay? I want you to know that. But I have to leave for a while. I’m not sure how long, but I’ll always be coming back. Okay? I’ll be back.” There was a silence for a moment, and then Bill began to cry. Mom embraced him with both her arms, rocking him gently back and forth. As Bill continued to cry, I watched, confused and alarmed. I didn’t understand what was happening. Why was Bill crying? Mom said she was going away, but she was coming back. That’s what she said. But I was frightened at being left out and started to cry too, and Mom put her arm back around my shoulders, holding both her sons in a tight huddle. When the crying was over, we brushed the sand off and walked back to the beach house, quietly. I still didn’t understand what was happening, but I felt better, believing the crisis was over.
Dad had joined us that afternoon, it was dark by the time we started packing up the cars to begin our trip back to Lake Oswego. When it was time to go, Bill and I were told to pile into Dad’s car. I remember watching Mom getting into her black Buick convertible. The top was down, and as she drove away, I remember feeling a little something not right about her being alone. Dad kept a close distance behind her, his headlights lighting up the back of the Buick as we sped through the dark coastal hills. Watching Mom drive through the night, I couldn’t take my eyes off her thick, blonde hair thrashing in the wind.
Mom never did show up at the house that night. Curled up in the back seat, I had fallen asleep and didn’t wake up until I heard Dad and Bill getting out of the car. Expecting to see her Buick parked in the driveway, I was surprised that she was nowhere to be seen. Then I remembered what she’d said at the beach. “I’ll be back.” That’s what she said. And day after day from that point forward she remained nowhere to be seen. I never stopped believing those words, but with each passing day, it became harder to hold onto them, like a flame getting smaller until it’s gone.
If you’re lucky, that’s when disappearing comes to your rescue. I was lucky.
Most of the time I didn’t even notice I was disappearing until I reappeared, and I quickly came to prefer being there than in the land-of-hurt. The first time it happened, I was so surprised, I almost laughed out loud. Having given up my daily walk around the house looking to see if Mom had returned, going from one room to the next hoping to see her, I was downstairs in the family room, sitting on the old couch, staring out the window. The house was completely quiet, all three floors. Dad and Bill must have gone somewhere, leaving me by myself, which was happening a lot. Then I felt a small jolt, a gentle shudder as if I was going into a deep sleep. But it wasn’t sleep. I had gone someplace new without knowing where I’d gone. And it wasn’t just daydreaming. I had gone someplace real, where I no longer felt any fear, where my chest no longer ached from sobbing, where my throat wasn’t ripped sore from screaming out in the middle of the night for my mother.
It was a gift, a special gift, and I didn’t know where it came from, or why I got so lucky, but I was happy to have it. Because as soon as I felt the hurt coming on, all I had to do was sit quietly, close my eyes, and wait. Within moments, I’d disappear and click over to this special place. And I could take it with me, wherever I wanted to go. This was especially useful when, a couple of weeks later, I started second grade. During recess, the other seven-year-olds would pour out of the school and out onto the playground, yelling and laughing, racing to the swing sets and see-saws and monkey bars, or running in packs across the grassy field playing tag. But I would hang back and wait until I was alone, not willing to share my secret with anybody. Once alone, I’d lean against the brick wall next to the door, and slide down to a sitting position, knees close to my chest, arms crossed on top of them. Then I would lower my head, close my eyes, and wait. Within seconds I was gone.
Not only could I disappear, but I could fly. Literally taking off from the ground, soaring over the playground, high above everyone else, performing thrilling feats of death-defying aerial stunts, swooping over running kids, hovering over those standing still, sometimes bolting straight up to dizzying heights, and then diving like a rocket, straight back down, pulling up and away just in time. It was so joyful I sometimes forgot to breathe, tripping me out of the special place for a second, as I gulped a bucket of air. But I quickly returned and continued my invisible performance, never wanting it to stop.
The gift of disappearing lasted nearly the entire school year. It saved my life. I remember feeling alarmed the first time it began to slip away when I had to struggle to bring it back. I was afraid that without it, the hurt would kill me. But the harder I tried to keep it, the harder it became to hold onto. It was leaving me, and there was nothing I could do about it. Not knowing if I could survive without the special place, I found a way to bury the hurt deep down inside of me, so deep I didn’t even know it was there anymore. And then I was shocked to discover that I had begun to play with the other kids again. And little by little, I came to prefer being with them, rather than being alone. But I never stopped hearing the soft echo of the words, “I’ll always be coming back.”<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
I remember the sound of the Oregon coast. Thundering plumes of sea spray exploding up into the air, like howling giants, as wave after wave smashed into the massive rocks jutting out into the ocean at both ends of the short, nearly deserted beach. Rolling mounds of sand dunes spread across the distance, thick with … <\/p>\n