Bathroom tears

We dropped Will off at school and then Don drove me to the ferry terminal.  I found on the ride over that I was missing him already.  Don had never done a drop off at this ferry before, which I find amazing since he is supposedly the adventurous one and yet I’m the one who has been here many times. 

“Turn here,” I said.  “And then a right into here to the drop off section.” He carefully pulled up so that the car was directly opposite the entrance doors. 
“I love you,” he said.  “Have a good time with your sister.” It was really weird how homesick for him I was feeling.  We’ve been together for over seven years.  I was only going over to Nanaimo to see my sister for the day. 

He stayed parked by the side of the curb, blowing me kisses until I disappeared inside the building.  I went into the women’s bathroom, rather than the ticket terminal.  I was on the tail end of my period and needed frequent bathroom pit stops through out the day.

I hoisted my computer bag off of my shoulder and hung it on the hook on the back of the door, coated the seat with toilet paper, and sat down.  I wondered if he noticed that I went into the bathroom door rather than the ticket counter?  Whether he’d still be there waiting by the curb, clenching his fist over his heart, smiling out of the window, blowing me kisses, to accompany me to the booth where I would pay for my fare?

The outer door of the women’s bathroom banged open.  I could hear footsteps, a thump of something being put down, a clatter as something plastic fell to the cement floor.  And I heard something else.  Broken hearted sobbing. 

I froze.  I was in the process of wiping, but what should I do now?  She probably thought that she was alone.  If I went out would it make it worse?  Would she have to deal with embarrassment as well as bone weary hopeless sorrow? 

I finished what I was doing and then waited.  After a few minutes the explosion of sobs seemed to calm slightly.  There was movement noise as if she was pulling it together, busying herself.  I waited a few more seconds and when it seemed relatively calm, I stood, swept the toilet paper on the seat into the bowl with my foot, buttoned my jeans, zipped.  It was one of those automated flushing toilets so it flushed itself.  I took my computer bag off the hook and slung it over my shoulder and exited. 

My plan was to not look over, wash my hands and exit, acting like I hadn’t heard, inadvertently witnessed, her grief. 

I washed, all but my middle finger on my right hand, as I had five minutes earlier applied a Band-Aid there to protect a hangnail.  I was moving quickly, keeping my head facing forward, but she was trying to fill a Gatorade bottle with water and the machinations of the sink proved to be too much for her to handle.  When she would get the bottle under the tap, the automated sink would turn off, and when she took it away the swipe of her fingers holding the bottle would activate the faucet again. 

She hit the faucet with her palm, fingers curled slightly under like the effort of straightening them was more than her body could do, a cry escaping from her throat.

“Here.  See.” I reached over, still not looking up, and put my fingers in front of the sensor.  “It needs.” I wasn’t sure what I was saying really.  She managed to get her shaking hands to hold the Gatorade bottle under the streams of water.  Her hands were street hands.  Tanned, hardened and calloused, the nails thicker than normal nails, and yellowed, and broken with dirt underneath.  The water mingling with the leftover blue of the Gatorade, then she pulled the bottle away.

“Is that enough?” I asked.  Her head jerked up to look at me.  Lost.  Dark shadows under hollowed out, frightened eyes.  What now?  They seemed to shout at me.  Drowning eyes.  She gestured, tipped her head to her hair covered her face again.  I started to go, but then she started to cry again.  I was almost around the bend of the bathroom to the exit, but there was such desperate aloneness and I found myself with my arms around her, holding her, my head resting on her freshly washed hair soft against my cheek, sweet smelling.  I can’t find the words, just soothing noises coming out of my heart like the calming sounds I used with my children were small and heartbroken about one thing or another.  It was that kind of feeling.  And she cried and she cried and then after awhile she straightened and I did too, neither of us looking at each other.  She turned back to her bag of things and I went outside.  Glanced over at the curb incase Don was still there waiting to catch one last wave and blown kiss.  But where the car had been was empty.  Just the street sign and the charcoal colored garbage can.  I could feel her around ten yards behind me.  I bought my ticket and went inside. 

The waiting room at this ferry terminal is quite beautiful as far as ferry terminals go.  It is a bank of windows opening out to the marina filled with vacation boats, the ferry dock, the expanse stretches out to include Bowen Island, and huge craggy tree covered cliffs.  Breathtakingly beautiful.  I wait around fifteen minutes before I glance around at the other people here, but she isn’t one of them.  Maybe she was going on another ferry.  Maybe she decided not to travel.  Her clothes were clean.  Jeans fitted, the black vinyl jacket with the stainless steel square zipper up the front.  Were they donated clothes?  Had she just been released from a halfway house and was terrified.  Or did she come from regular and got involved in drugs and lost her way.  Had gone to family, was allowed to get clean clothes, a fistful of money, but nothing else.  Not allowed to stay.

I am on the ferry now.  Becky will be jumping up and down on the other side with her arm and head squeezed out from behind the barricade that blocks people from going into the restricted area, to wave and smile at me.  She always does this and people exchange looks, but I don’t care.  I like it.  It makes me feel loved. 

We will talk and eat yummy food and talk some more.  She will drive fast and jerky and I’ll pretend to be calm.  But I will be double-checking whenever she makes a lane change, just in case. 
I am going to see my sister to have a nice cozy sisterly day, but the woman in the bathroom is with me too.  A reminder of what could have been, if either one of us had taken a different road, a different path, to deal with the challenges that life threw our way.

Posted by Meg Tilly on Wednesday, July 02, 2008 in Bits and Pieces

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