The SurfMaid’s Promise, "Beginnings," Lindsey Elder, ed., Alyson Publications, CA.
The SurfMaid’s Promise
I am sitting in the Family Surgical Lounge of St. Vincent’s Hospital, waiting. My feet are resting on the edge of the coffee table strewn with today’s edition of the "Worcester Telegram & Gazette" and outdated issues of "People," "Time" and "Newsweek." The magazines belong to the hospital staff, I think, because the mailing labels are noticeably torn off, or are colored over with black marker. I hear the metal door bang open, hear the high-pitched squeal of a gurney as it rolls down the short hallway. And as it passes the lounge, I see the familiar black hair.
Suddenly, I am back in time, sitting in the dormitory lounge at Pettibone House. I hear the front door creak open, hear footsteps shuffling down the short hallway. And as you turn and walk down the hallway that leads to your room, I see your long black hair, cascading down your shoulders, embracing your tiny waist, resting on your small, shapely buttocks like thousands of fingers.
I watch as you unlock the tall, beige wooden door and then disappear into your room. Although your room is next to mine, I rarely see you, never speak to you. I just watch you come and go, and I long to run my fingers through your thick, black hair.
******
Pushing off the brown leather couch in the Family Surgical Lounge, I hurry down the hallway to your room. I stroke the top of your head, your eyes open, glazed onyx orbs.
“It hurts,” you whisper.
I kiss your forehead, as I’ve done thousands of times over the past fourteen years. “I know, honey,” I say softly, “just sleep for now.”
******
We finally speak to each other on the last day of the semester. I knock on your door.
“Who is it?” you call out.
“It’s Rita, from next door.” My voice sounds hoarse—not because I am ill, I am nervous.
The door opens and you step out into the hall.
“Um, hi,” I stutter, “I saw a notice on the bulletin board. You’re selling your tennis racket?”
“Yeah,” you say, eyeing me. “You can check it out, but I think the grip might be wrong for you.”
You go back into your room, leaving me standing in the hallway, returning seconds later with a wooden Wilson tennis racket.
“Here, try it.” You hand the racket to me.
I grasp the the handle, swing it back and forth.
“Do you play tennis?” You ask, suppressing a smile.
“Well, no...not really.” I look down at you. You are petite, with skin tanned the color of cinnamon from growing up in Hawaii.
Grabbing the racket from me, you comment, “This isn’t right for you. It’s too short and the grip is too small.” Then, taking my hand, you place yours upon it, palm-to-palm. “Your hands are much larger than mine. You need a bigger grip.”
******
I am holding your hand when Dr. Riso enters. “I wish I had better news for you, Kay.” You squeeze my hand and it feels smaller than usual. “It’s malignant. We’ll need to schedule the mastectomy. I’d suggest waiting two weeks, give you time to heal from the biopsy.”
******
Six years pass until we speak again. I am living in New York City, earning a meager living as a jazz singer in nightclubs. I call my college friend Claire and invite her to attend my show at an Eastside club called Something Different. After the show, I seek Claire out. She is not alone. “You remember Kay, don’t you? Class of ‘76,” Claire says.
I offer my hand to you. “Yes, of course I do. We lived next door to each other in Pettibone House my junior year.”
You take my hand, squeezing it gently. “Ever get a tennis racket?”
I smile shyly, secretly thrilled that you remember that brief conversation we exchanged over six years ago.
“No, I never did,” I tell you.
I join you and Claire for a drink. I notice that you hadn’t changed much, though your skin is less tanned, and your long mane is permed, giving you a wild, rock & roll star look, especially in those tight black jeans and black silk baseball jacket. Although it is night time, you wear sunglasses.
“I bet people mistake you for Yoko Ono,” I say.
“They do.” You smile. “But I’m much prettier, don’t you think?”
******
“So what do you think?” You ask me.
Blinking, I say, “I’m sorry. What did you say?”
“I said, what do you think? About the mastectomy? Do you think I’m making the right decision?”
I sit down on the bed and take your hand, although what I really want to do in crawl in next to you, hold you close, take this disease away from from you, make you better, make you not have to lose your breast, your hair.
Shaking my head, I say “Yes, I do. If losing a breast means saving your life than do it.” I try to keep the fear and sadness out of my voice. Your tender look tells me I am not successful.
A nurse comes in carrying a tray with a small container of orange juice and a bowl of strawberry jello. She leaves it on the bed stand.
I fill the plastic cup halfway and hand it to you. As you sip the juice our eyes meet. “Don’t worry, Rita. If anything happens we’ll find each other again. The SurfMaid promised.”
******
We have our first official date on July 3, 1983. You take me to see your favorite movie, "Diva," then to dinner. I have Thai food for the first time. We spend the evening walking the streets of Greenwich Village, occasionally stopping into a bar for a drink.
It is 1:00 a.m. and we are at the SurfMaid. The bar is almost empty. Small wooden tables with rickety wooden chairs from some old grade school dot the room, church pews line the walls banquette-style. A large wooden figurehead of a mermaid, its gold and blue paint weathered from years at sea, hangs on the wall. Carved underneath her breasts are the words "The SurfMaid."
We take a table near the jukebox, under the watchful eye of the SurfMaid. You order beer; I have Chardonnay.
“Do you have a quarter?” You ask.
Pulling change from my front pocket I hand one to you. You practically skip to the jukebox, make a selection, and return to the table just as the waiter deposits our drinks. In the background Marvin Gaye croons “Oooo baby.....when I get this feeling I need sexual healing....come on, come on,...ooo baby....”
At that moment our eyes meet, and linger. I can no longer hear Marvin’s sensuous voice. Only the roar of the sea fills my head. Images of past lifetimes with you flash before my eyes like a Movieola. And even more incredulous, as we walk uptown to my apartment that night, you tell me you had the same experience.
******
I take your hand, help you from the hospital bed, help you put on the loose button-down blue flannel shirt. You ease your left arm into the sleeve, wincing from the pain of the biopsy incision. Gently, I hold you to me, your head rests against my shoulder.
I think about the SurfMaid—how that goddess of the sea watched over us that night, two souls who grew up oceans apart, and I am thankful for gift we were given. Thankful for that moment when we looked into each other’s eyes, into each other’s soul—suspended in time.
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