Spending A Day

By Dennis J. Kafalas

To this day I look for her, the little girl in purple, bobbing like a butterfly

along the waterline by the sea.

            Because I was the dad with two uninterrupted vacation weeks—and didn’t bring golf clubs—my job was to set up twelve beach chairs, five umbrellas and assorted Boogie Boards and toys, for our four families. By 7:20, as the sun rose over the three-story hotel across from our five-bed, two-bath rental cottage, I was precisely stacking items on top of two beach buggies for the forty-yard trek. Had to arrive early to steal a spot on the private beach reserved for hotel guests. By nine, security would be checking for room passes.

Pulling each with one hand like a rickshaw caddie, I clattered along the uneven, narrow wooden walkway to the beach then onto the heavy sand, umbrellas and chairs teetering from side to side, the wheels making deep, wiggly trails. With the sun warm on my back, I set the chairs in a semi-circle facing the tide. At eight o’clock, I’d sneak in the hotel lounge and fill my mug with the complimentary coffee put out for guests. Tomorrow, I’ll have hazelnut.

            As the waves fluttered ashore in lines of blue linen, I sat upon a deeply-cushioned Adirondack guest chair by the back stairwell of the hotel. I put the brim of the cup to my nose. Love the smell of coffee in the morning, especially when it’s free. While I sipped, the wives and kids would eat breakfast back at the rental: cereal bowls, bagel crumbs, peanut butter jar lids and half-empty cups of milk and tea left behind on the counters and table. I’d get back in time to clean up, have more coffee, then read two newspapers front to back—maximizing my quiet time—while they were gone. The beach job was worth it. I’d spend more time alone than with Roberta and the kids, but I needed it: my mental health vacation. The dads played golf to stay sane but I pretended to be a guest at a fancy, waterfront hotel, instead.

            Sitting in the shade of the workers’ back entrance, I watched college kids wearing white polo shirts with black Dickie pants run up and down the twelve steps between floors carrying bundles of bedding, towels, vacuum cleaners or toiletries: hard work building character and providing, maybe, better tips. Our kids, Drew and Amy, had allowances and savings accounts so Roberta and I could teach them the value of every penny. Someday, our two preschoolers would earn their way, too, in the world like these sweating college kids. Good parents teach their kids life lessons.

            As I imagined Drew praising my parenting during his future Harvard valedictory speech, I felt the presence of a small child by my side. She was round and soft and fleshy in a toddler’s way. Wearing a one-piece purple bathing suit, matching swim cap and red swim goggles, she stood close to me, one chubby finger pressing grains of sand into my forearm. “Who are you?’ she asked.

            “Who wants to know?” Her magnified eyeballs were like a squid’s. “Those swim goggles too tight?”

“Who are you?” she said, digging her fingernail into my skin.

            Thinking a parent must be close, I said, “I’m a guest here, like you.” I gently lifted her wet hand. Her round belly, legs and feet were caked with white, dusty sand. “Where’s your mom?”

            She blinked, then thumped one knee after the other onto my lap. Sand flew into my eyes and, instantly, I felt the cool wetness of her bathing suit on my legs. She was facing me now, nose to goggles. “Who are you?”

            I didn’t spill any coffee, but black grains of sand swirled in the center of the cup, so I placed it on the grass. Looking up, I expected an adult to appear, apologizing for letting the child wander off and for ruining not only a perfectly good morning sit, but a full cup of delicious coffee, too. But no one seemed to be missing a child, and none looked interested in this purple, bugged-eyed imp. Guests sat reading, chatting or applying SPF, as if nothing else mattered.

A female hotel employee, walking gingerly on her right foot, passed me, her arms full of rumpled linen. “Excuse me,” I asked. “Would you know who this little girl belongs to?”

            “What?” she asked.

“Do you know this little girl?”

She stared for a moment, paused then said, “Uh, no?”

Annoyed, I wanted to ask if she were blind, when the little sand flea up and scooted from my lap. She moved quickly, elbows out, body wobbling like a purple butterfly, down a path leading to the ocean.

 Finally! Glad to be rid of her. Knocking the sand from my shorts, I grabbed my cup, wondering if I should get a fresh one.

“Surf’s picking up,” the hotel worker said. “Hear it?”

Most times I was back at the cottage, so I’d never paid much attention to the tide, but now the loud clap of the waves slapping at the beach struck me. I stood, then went looking for the little girl in purple. Damn! Why is this my problem?

“Can’t believe I have to waste my time,” I said, hoping she’d be right by the first beach umbrella or cooler I spotted. I stopped at the end of the path. Many bathers were down by the water, and the beach was lined with blankets and umbrellas in both directions. The red flag, noting a strong surf warning, rippled in the wind.

“Okay, where are you?”

To the left, at the water’s edge, I spotted her. She was on her toes, chasing the retreating waves, but too close to the surging tide.

I ran to her, but she continued on, darting in and around beachgoers. Just when it seemed I’d lost her, I saw her skipping towards a blanket and umbrella away from the water.

Determined not to let her out of my sight, I hustled through the sand, my chest and throat tightening, but I soon slowed. I wasn’t one for exercise, and I felt it now: back tight, chest heaving for air. I stood by the pink blanket where she sat, intently staring at the surf. Near her was another little girl, asleep on her right side. Blood thumped in my temples and I felt dizzy: something wasn’t right. Taking a deep breath, I realized these were our chairs, and that my Amy—brown curly hair pasted in streaks to her sweaty face—was lying beside her.

Amy coughed. A lollipop stick was wedged awkwardly between her blue lips. “Amy?” Her hands were by her neck. I grabbed Amy by the feet, swung her upside down, then yanked the pop from her throat. She gasped—a deep, heaving gulp of air plunging into the void of her chest.

“Don?’ Roberta asked, standing with a plastic pail full of sand. She saw the lollipop. “Oh, god,” Roberta said, reaching out. She cradled Amy. “Open up, baby.”

“Nothing else in there?’ I asked.

Roberta’s face was flushed. “Thank god you came,” she said, voice trembling. Drew slid his hand wet into mine, and a deep wave of relief washed over me. Falling to my knees, I laid my head on Roberta’s shoulders. My eyes filled with tears.

“Amy, how did you get a treat?” Roberta asked, finally. Amy stared blankly, she didn’t understand.

“Oh!” I said, “There was a little girl. In a purple bathing suit. Maybe she had it.”

“What? I didn’t see—”

“I followed her. From the hotel. She was right there.” I pointed to the spot where Roberta sat. “Thought she was lost...”

Roberta shook her head. “Not possible,” she said. “Never took my eyes off Amy.”

#

            I needed to know who she was. I stopped by the Westerly, Rhode Island police department to ask is if a child was missing. But no toddler wearing a purple bathing suit was reported lost, or found. Eventually, to please Roberta—and at the insistence of my therapist—I dropped the purple girl story. I became hero dad instead of a crazy one, the dad who saved the day while the others were playing golf. I went along with it, too, because I was tired of hearing how I must’ve imagined it because, maybe, my blood pressure and cholesterol were high, or that I was anxious or depressed. So I chucked all the meds, started walking, and adjusted to being hero dad, for my own sanity. But I never gave up on the hope of finding her. Let the others think it was a dream or hallucination or maybe I’d dove off into the deep end, it didn’t matter.

I will grant the therapist this: if it were all an illusion, it’s known, too, that butterflies emerge from the hollows of fallen, dead trees. I believe I was one of those trees.

 Now, when we’re in Westerly, I begin by setting up at the beach right as the sun rises. Once the chairs are in order, and the umbrella poles are buried in the sand, I place my toes in the swirling surf and wait for her. After all, it’s impolite not to thank someone, no matter how small, or impish, so I stand ready. And as I spend the days with my family by the water, I watch for a little girl in a purple bathing suit, bobbing around on the beach. I will thank her, someday. 

The End