Trigger Warning: suicide/depression & mild profanity
Clarity
Part One
Breathing. Her lungs filled with midnight ocean air.Biting.
Exhilarating.
Cool air.
This feeling.
This.
This is being alive. Ocean air in her lungs. Breasts bare in the luminous moonlight. The maritime breeze softly tickling her pubic hair. Synchronized heart beats with the two naked friends lying on either side of her exposed figure.
Clarissa.
Sally.
And Peter.
Skinny dipping in the Pacific ocean with a few drinks in each of them. At a very public beach. At 11:30 in the evening. Possibly the best worst idea they’d had in awhile.
Peter’s idea of course. She remembered last June, that summer afternoon. They were soaking in the hot tub--an absurd addition to the garden of their beach house on the Oregon coast
(no bathing suits Peter's idea of course) and had finished their bottle of wine. Much to the surprise and distaste of her Aunt Bruton, who was entertaining some politician lawyer or the like,
(Clarissa had no mind whatsoever for the political economic or was it bureaucratic?) Peter ran into the pristinely clinical sitting room--his stark naked form, all shades of sun-kissed pink and tan juxtaposed with the white walls of the summer home. With absolutely no misgivings, he grabbed the crystal decanter of whiskey, winked at the astonished baby-kisser, and then sprinted back toward the hot tub.
When he returned, the party dissolved in a fit of giggles. “Still prefer cauliflower to men, Clarissa?" he asked, out of breath, face flushed. "Because he was quite your type. Tall, skinny, smartly dressed.”
She splashed him as he slid back into the Jacuzzi. “What! He was adorable! Feminine features. Probably a homosensual. Just to your liking. I almost kissed him myself.”
Peter would kiss just about anything that moved that summer. Excepting Hugh, who tried to kiss him while they were smoking on the beach together. Clarissa, on the other hand, was only kissing Sally then. Sally Walsh. Forever-in-love-with-Clarissa Sally Walsh.
(The unclothed Sally on the beach would deny all remaining feelings. She had a new girlfriend. A girlfriend who was currently married to the abominable Hugh. They were all very happy.)
As Peter made rude kissing faces in the hot tub, Sally put her arm around Clarissa's waist protectively. "I'm sure he'd bore Rissa to death. Can you honestly see with her with a suit?"
"Oh I don't know, if he was respectful and left me well enough alone, I'm sure I could make something work." Clarissa had said, all sincerity.
Peter and Sally exchanged glances; they both started splashing Clarissa mercilessly. The bastards. "The perfect hostess!" they teased. "You'll be the model wife--the perfect hostess."
Feigning exasperation to mask the guilty twinge at her core, Clarissa dunked Peter in the steaming water and then drew Sally close. Clarissa kissed her. It wasn't sloppy or showy, only affectionate. A tender kiss, slowly intensified by Sally's passion.
Her aunt’s guest was just leaving, observing their antics as he walked to his car. Clarissa watched him pull away.
"Really not my type, Peter. You've never been so wrong." She took a sip of stolen whiskey and clambered out of the hot tub.
A year later they were lying on the beach. Still young. Bare. Alive. Together.
But just barely alive, barely together. Two months ago Clarissa was in the hospital having her forearms stitched up. The memory of her blood would stain the bathtub in her apartment forever
(Aunt Bruton had the entire bathroom renovated.)
Clinical depression and PTSD, the doctor said. Still dealing with the death of her sister. Her antidepressants were all wrong—these pills, not those. She doesn’t have a therapist? We'll set her up with one. Dr. Bradshaw's great, she really is.
During those days in the hospital, Sally was by her side whenever possible. She was there every day, even though they had been fighting regularly for the last month or so.
("Clarissa, is this about Richard?"
"No! I know you don’t like him but this is about you and me! I can't give you what you want. We can't be everything to each other! I just can't..."
"You just won't commit because your Aunt doesn't like the idea of us as a couple. Living together. Getting married."
"You want all of me Sally! And it’s too much. I can't live like this!")
Sally probably blamed herself for Clarissa’s suicide attempt but she kept a brave face.
As they lay on the beach in silence, Sally’s fingertips traced the path of Clarissa’s scars—Clarissa’s attempt at defiance. Death was defiance. Death was her rebellion against a coercive world.
Against losing yourself to love for something or someone else—giving too much.
Against oppressive religion without faith or grace.
Against those little white pills that she had to take every day.
Against the fog and pain of depression.
Death was freedom. Freedom and clarity. Death was her liberation from pain.
But so was this. Freedom in a shared experience: the heat of laughter, the rush of adrenaline, the brilliant ocean water, the peaceful mind.
Lying on the beach, they are
Peter.
Sally.
And Clarissa.
And maybe, she thought, just maybe, living could be an act of defiance too.
As Peter made rude kissing faces in the hot tub, Sally put her arm around Clarissa's waist protectively. "I'm sure he'd bore Rissa to death. Can you honestly see with her with a suit?"
"Oh I don't know, if he was respectful and left me well enough alone, I'm sure I could make something work." Clarissa had said, all sincerity.
Peter and Sally exchanged glances; they both started splashing Clarissa mercilessly. The bastards. "The perfect hostess!" they teased. "You'll be the model wife--the perfect hostess."
Feigning exasperation to mask the guilty twinge at her core, Clarissa dunked Peter in the steaming water and then drew Sally close. Clarissa kissed her. It wasn't sloppy or showy, only affectionate. A tender kiss, slowly intensified by Sally's passion.
Her aunt’s guest was just leaving, observing their antics as he walked to his car. Clarissa watched him pull away.
"Really not my type, Peter. You've never been so wrong." She took a sip of stolen whiskey and clambered out of the hot tub.
A year later they were lying on the beach. Still young. Bare. Alive. Together.
But just barely alive, barely together. Two months ago Clarissa was in the hospital having her forearms stitched up. The memory of her blood would stain the bathtub in her apartment forever
(Aunt Bruton had the entire bathroom renovated.)
Clinical depression and PTSD, the doctor said. Still dealing with the death of her sister. Her antidepressants were all wrong—these pills, not those. She doesn’t have a therapist? We'll set her up with one. Dr. Bradshaw's great, she really is.
During those days in the hospital, Sally was by her side whenever possible. She was there every day, even though they had been fighting regularly for the last month or so.
("Clarissa, is this about Richard?"
"No! I know you don’t like him but this is about you and me! I can't give you what you want. We can't be everything to each other! I just can't..."
"You just won't commit because your Aunt doesn't like the idea of us as a couple. Living together. Getting married."
"You want all of me Sally! And it’s too much. I can't live like this!")
Sally probably blamed herself for Clarissa’s suicide attempt but she kept a brave face.
As they lay on the beach in silence, Sally’s fingertips traced the path of Clarissa’s scars—Clarissa’s attempt at defiance. Death was defiance. Death was her rebellion against a coercive world.
Against losing yourself to love for something or someone else—giving too much.
Against oppressive religion without faith or grace.
Against those little white pills that she had to take every day.
Against the fog and pain of depression.
Death was freedom. Freedom and clarity. Death was her liberation from pain.
But so was this. Freedom in a shared experience: the heat of laughter, the rush of adrenaline, the brilliant ocean water, the peaceful mind.
Lying on the beach, they are
Peter.
Sally.
And Clarissa.
And maybe, she thought, just maybe, living could be an act of defiance too.
_________
P.S. The first person to guess why I titled this story "Clarity" wins a prize. Research away!
You are such a great writer Lois, more, more!
ReplyDeleteYour cousin Wendy
Initial guess -
ReplyDeleteClarity: of or pertaining to Clarissa ;)