What I Didn’t Do On My Summer Vacation
The last day of vacation is always a little sad, but this one hurts — and not just figuratively. I sit in the sunny kitchen of the house we rented, hoping not to hear feet on the steps. Silence has been in short supply this week in Asbury Park. I sigh somewhat dramatically, and, as if to say goodbye, look at each of the glass-fronted cabinets filled with stacks of Mediterranean-looking plates. I admire the gleam of the oversized subway tiles. We never sat on the stools at the counter because we spent all our time where I now sit. A kitchen table that seats ten may be my new definition of luxury.
I sigh again. Most vacation-last-days are tinged with a bit of regret — I should have read more, we should have argued less, should have gone to the beach the night there was a full moon. The “should have’s” are as much a part of my vacation routine as overpacking and about as consequential — they get put away and forgotten about, along with the unworn heels and dresses, when we get home. Today, though, I think the “should have” that has become my mantra.
I should have looked.
I should have looked before turning my handlebars. I should have braked. I should have worn a helmet. I should have been careful. If I had, I wouldn’t have felt the impact, seen the blur, heard the scream, known the terrified confusion I can’t fully recall as I try, again, to piece it together. I wouldn’t have heard my daughter Ava’s scream, from the bike behind me, or seen the fear in her eyes as she stood over me, shouting “Mom!” I wouldn’t have to think of how it must have felt for Ben, Ava’s twin, on the driveway, with his back to the street, to hear the screech of brakes, the shriek of his sister, the slams of car doors.
We had just pedaled back from the bike rental place, as we’ve done on every first day of vacation for as long as I can remember. Ava and I followed Ben as we approached the house. I saw that Ben had turned into the driveway and was surprised, because I thought the house was a little further down. Quickly, I turned left, so as not to overshoot.
The car that was coming from behind swerved to try to miss me but couldn’t. My slow-motion fall felt odd and dreamlike, a muffled-sounding scream coming from somewhere. And then, in a vivid flash, I felt the hot pain of street meeting skin as my elbow and shoulder hit the pavement. Hard.
Ava stood over me, fear, like invisible toothpicks, widening her eyes. “Mom!” she said, in a way that made me want to protect her. Her lip trembled as she reached for me. Ben later told me he had helped me to my feet, but I only remember him walking me to the curb. “I’m ok,” I repeated but we all knew I wasn’t. My husband, who’d been inside, appeared, and looked more freaked out than I wished. The driver joined the circle of worried faces that floated above me. She said she’d tried to miss me. Her mother stood next to her crying. I told them I was fine, that it was my fault and that I’d pay for any damage.
Phone numbers were exchanged. A kind-faced neighbor arrived with two bottles; one filled with water, the other with rubbing alcohol. We got me to my feet and made our way to the kitchen, where alcohol came in handy, but not the rubbing kind. I downed four Advil with a Paloma, wincing as I shifted in my seat. There was talk of the ER, but I had no desire to spend a Sunday afternoon in an emergency room and, we reasoned, I was able to lift my arm, although not without moans that made everyone look alarmed.
The week went on, as vacation weeks do — we grilled, read, ate ice cream, spent late afternoons at the beach, went to dinner. I did so with a little less pain each day. But with a little less joy too. I reasoned that it was hard to feel happy when you couldn’t move half your body.
But on this last morning, my sadness feels heavier than that. I bring my coffee to the yard and walk through the garden, wishing I was one of those people who enjoy weeding. I glance at the bike rack and look away. Our rented bikes sit like unopened books on a shelf.
I carefully ease myself, right side first, onto a chaise and in addition to pain, I feel longing. Normally, when we’re at the beach, I wake before everyone, hop onto a bike and hit the boardwalk, where you’re allowed ride before 10. Riding from Asbury to Spring Lake, with the ocean at my left and candy-colored Victorians to my right, I enjoy the thump of boards under my wheels as I sing softly to myself. I meet the eyes of oncoming bikers, returning their smiles, and before I know it, I’m singing a Bruce Springsteen song, not caring how obvious a choice it is. Down the shore everything is alright. I ride amongst the joggers and walkers, the new moms convincing themselves that mini-golf with a three-year old is fun, the overly-tanned older couples who look more like twins than spouses, the toddlers who dart away from their parents like pinballs in the arcades they’ll frequent when they’re tweens. My people. My morning. My time.
I always finish with an iced coffee and a seat on a bench that faces the beach, admiring the look of my feet, propped atop the fence, pedicure glistening in the sun. The ocean sparkles at this time of day and only a smattering of chairs and umbrellas dot the sand. Sometimes, I text “Want fries?” to Ava and Ben. We lazily pass a cone of hot salty perfection between us, dab our fries in ketchup, then wash the world’s least healthy breakfast down with lemonade. I reason that I just biked 10 miles, albeit on a Huffy. When one of the kids asks if we should get a second cone, I automatically say yes. There are times when I worry we’re boring for taking the same vacation every year, but if this is boredom, sign me up.
I grimace as I get off the chaise and step back into the kitchen where the rush of cool air makes me want to stay. I pour more coffee, looking at the bikes through the kitchen window. I fantasize about coming back for a do-over, but Ava and Ben are about to start summer jobs that won’t end until just before they head back to school. Senior year of college came faster than any year of any grade before.
Next summer, they won’t be college kids. What a difference there is between that phrase and “grad student,” if indeed, that’s what they become. I hope so because I know how to be the mother of a student. I don’t know how to be the mother of an adult with a full-time job. And I don’t know how to behave in a world where my kids don’t have summers off and we don’t take vacations in the town we’ve known since they were babies.
The thought of all that change is jarring. As jarring as a crash to the street. This could be the last summer when all four of us live together. I think the phrase “empty nester” and shudder, because empty is what I feel.
I decide to walk to the boardwalk for one last look at the ocean. I flinch at the sight of a car down the street and look more times than is necessary before stepping off the curb. With sudden clarity, I realize that crossing — from one side to the other — is exactly what I have to do. And I don’t know how. But I take a breath. And a step. And then another.
