The Vacation

This is a long one. I sometimes wonder why the young people are expected to have all the fun. So, this is a story about two people falling in love as they near their retirement years. More than that, it's about how none of us escape this life without being broken in some way. Both these people are broken in their own way, and they need someone else to help them heal.

This story contains considerably more sex than I normally write and it has one element that I admit to being unsure of. It seemed like an interesting twist, or maybe it's troubling. You decide.

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It was mid-June on the coast of Maine, and I was taking a much-needed vacation. In recent years, the summer season has been starting sooner. It used to be the summer season didn't kick off until the Fourth of July, but the start had crept into late June and from there into mid-June. The roads and motels that once were almost empty in early June were now starting to get crowded, so I had started taking a vacation in mid- to late-May while schools were still in session. Until the local school boards change the school calendars, mid-May would continue to be safe. However, work had been crazy this spring and this week was the first opportunity I had to get away. Vacation season on the coast of Maine was in full swing and the crowds had arrived. I don't do crowds well, but I adjusted my expectations and tried to go with the flow.

This year's vacation was turning into a bust. You see, my wife died ten months ago and while I would not describe the last decade of our marriage as happy, I was accustomed to her company. Depression had killed my marriage, or more specifically my wife's depression had taken the life I had hoped we'd have. I know that sounds selfish and perhaps it is, but it slowly overtook her as I tried to adapt to what was always described as my fault. It was always my fault - her doctors didn't listen, her friends were jerks, this wasn't done, that wasn't right, she couldn't stand the other thing, and it was always my fault. Well, I do exaggerate on one thing. She didn't complain much about her friends because she drove them all away. It was really her former friends that she continued to complain about.

I don't know if honesty is the first casualty of depression the way it is with adultery, but in our case the results were much the same. The marriage suffered, the love took a beating, and I was left with a deep sense of obligation with very little joy to sustain it. I would explain it better, but I never fully understood what was happening to our lives and her psychiatrist would never speak to me. The asshole kept claiming doctor-patient confidentiality, so I remained in the dark. Ten months earlier it all came to an end, and I found myself alone.

I adapted to my new situation. Life was less complicated, and I had my friends, my work, and my hobbies. I spent much of that time ridding the home of the many signs of depression including clutter, hoarding, and lists, hundreds of lists. By the time of my vacation, my life had achieved a new normal and I found myself a sixty-five-year-old engineer living a stripped-down simple life in a Boston suburb. I'm not complaining. The truth be told, my new life was an improvement over what it had been. It just wasn't what I wanted it to be or what I had hoped it would be at this point in my life.

And so I found myself on the coast of Maine taking my first ever solo vacation. I was settled in at Bar Harbor on the edge of Acadia and I was doing the things I had always enjoyed, visiting the places I knew well, and enjoying it well enough, but there was nobody to share it with. I'd rise to search out a good breakfast, but I would eat alone. I would hike the trails alone. I'd go to dinner and sit alone. A pattern was developing, and I didn't like it. I struck up some conversations with people I met, but those conversations were fleeting, if pleasant, and I soon found myself once again making plans that included nobody. I rarely saw a single woman my age and when I did it seemed they were content with their status quo. I wasn't setting the world on fire with my newly acquired bachelorhood.

On this day I had decided to take a break from the hiking and drove up the coast to Eastport. The small town of Eastport sits on the Canadian border and is notable for having the deepest harbor on the East Coast of the United States with some monster tides and powerful currents. That's about all it's known for. People sometimes claim it's the first place the sun strikes the United States in the morning, but that honor goes to the peak of Cadillac Mountain on Mount Desert Island in the heart of Acadia. Eastport makes a good effort with longitude, but Cadillac wins with altitude.

Okay, I'm a geek. I wanted to see the place for myself.

Eastport is not what most people would call a tourist destination. It's small and very quiet, but the drive there and back is interesting. Once north of Ellsworth, which is the gateway to Acadia, the character of the coast changes. The hotels, motels, and restaurants that litter the coast are largely gone and the scenery gives way to farms, summer homes, and small coastal communities. There are great vistas, and the communities have their own personalities with interesting and unexpected artisans working out of their homes, but the towns are more real and less geared toward separating tourists from their money than what you find further south.

I had explored the small towns along the coast as I drove north reaching Eastport in mid-afternoon, and I spent a bit over an hour walking around the town. It's a pleasant place and anyone who is fond of the sea will appreciate it. My curiosity sated; I began the drive south. Forty minutes into my drive it was time to buy gas, so I pulled into a small gas station with a two-bay garage and began to fuel up. Glancing over at the little convenience store attached to the station I thought I saw a friend of mine from work pacing back and forth and deep in thought. After a double take, I knew I had!

"Jennifer, is that you?" I know, that has to be the dumbest thing anyone has ever said! It ranks right up there with people who walk up to celebrities and say, "Are you somebody?" or "Are you who I think you are?" Still, it's what people say in situations like this, and she immediately looked up and recognized me as well.

"John? Is that you?" Okay, we were two-for-two.

"Last time I checked I was!" That wasn't much of an improvement, but I was trying. At least we were both smiling.

I finished filling the tank and walked over to join my friend.

"Small world! What brings you up here?"

"I was visiting our offices in Bangor and thought I'd check out Eastport before heading home."

A word of explanation is in order here. Jennifer and I both work in the Boston office of a large engineering firm that has satellite offices up and down the East Coast. It isn't at all unusual for one or several of us to be called away to another office to work on a project.

"So you heard the siren of Eastport, too, did you? You just couldn't stay away?"

I love to make her laugh. She laughs so quickly and so easily.

"Well, you know, it's the most eastern point of the United States, the first place the sun hits every morning. I just had to see that lighthouse." She was laughing, but that's exactly why I was there as well.

"And so now you're stretching your legs getting ready for the long drive back to Boston?"

"Oh Gawd, I wish! My car broke down and they towed it here to fix it."

"You're kidding me! How long before it's ready?"

"Three days minimum!"

"What the hell! Are you serious?"

"Apparently, they don't have the part... they have to order it... then there's shipping..."

"Well, serves you write for driving that fancy car or yours!" That was standing joke between us. She drove a twenty-five-year-old Volvo with enough miles on it to drive to the moon and back. She was emotionally tied to that car. Both the engine and transmission had been replaced, and she routinely had rusted areas cut out and patched. The entire car had been repainted twice and it needed a third paint job.

"Well, since you're stranded without wheels, how about I take you to dinner?"

"Why, John, are you asking me out?" This was one of those awkward jokes you never expected from Jen. She was, in reality, quite self-conscious and a bit insecure in social situations, but we'd been friends for almost twenty years and had developed a rapport.

"Why, yes mam, I am. If your calendar is open, that is." That got me another of those self-conscious laughs.

"My calendar is nothing but open!"

"Great! How about you leave your contact information with the office, and we'll go off and find someplace to eat."

"Already done. Lead on!"

I picked up her bag, walked her to my car, and tossed the bag in the back. As we climbed into the car and got settled, I said, "I guess we have three choices. I saw a sub shop back in Eastport if you want something fast."

"I've got three days! I don't need fast!"

"Okay. Option 2 is a seafood place I saw up the road. It didn't look fancy, but I'm betting the fish is fresh."

"That sounds good. What's option 3?"

"Option 3 is we just drive around and see what we can find."

That started her laughing again. "Typical man! You just won't ask for directions, will you?"

"Okay, option 4 is we go in there and ask them where they eat?"

"I already asked. They have packaged tuna fish sandwiches that they bring in once a week. I don't think I trust their recommendation."

"Sounds like the seafood place it is!" With that, we headed off. There was no hurry, and the company was good, so I drove at a leisurely pace, and we did a little sightseeing as we drove. With sightseeing came conversation. This is what I'd been missing on my vacation. I needed someone to talk with. I was starved for conversation, and I found myself hanging on every word she said. This was already the by far best part of my drive to Eastport.

Not only did the seafood turn out to be fresh, but the kitchen surprised us. They had far more than your basic fried fish, fried scallops, fried clams, and fried potatoes, all of which I love, but they had some absolutely lovely lobster served with a delicious sauce, rice, and fresh vegetables along with some crab-stuffed striper similarly prepared. We shared our orders and enjoyed them both. With a nice salad to start and some freshly baked pie and coffee for dessert, not to mention a lovely white wine with the meal, we felt like the king and queen of Maine. Whether it was the good food, the delightful company, or just the atmosphere with views of the coast, we took our time eating and managed to stretch the meal into a wonderful two-and-a-half hours of conversation and relaxation.

As we spoke and laughed, I found myself reflecting on all the years I'd known this woman. In the best and the worst of circumstances, she'd always had that steady good humor. She was by no means a Pollyanna, but she seemed to always know that the problems could be solved, good results would be obtained, and there was no reason for stress. Engineers can be wound a bit tight at times and she was always a calming influence. While she remained confident in every professional situation, I always had the sense that she lacked confidence in personal or social situations. It's hard for me to describe as it was just a sense of things, but in almost twenty years I'd never known her to have a romantic life or any form of social life outside of work.

Maybe it was the wine, or maybe it was the moment, but there was a section of bare floor in the middle of the room. There was music quietly playing overhead, so on a lark I stood, extended my hand, and asked, "Could I have this dance?" Shock is the only word to describe the look on her face. After a long pause I said, "Please don't tell me you're going to leave me hanging here."

That brought her back to the moment and with a quiet chuckle she stood and said, "I'd love to!"

I surprised myself. In my younger days I'd never have been able to do something so impulsive, but time changes a person. Either I'd become courageous with the passing of years, or I just didn't give a damn. Either way, I had Jennifer Mehan in my arms, and we were dancing to a slow tune on the coast of Maine where nobody knew us, and we didn't care. It was delightful. We got up to dance twice more after that. Each time we danced we danced a little closer. Perhaps that's why dinner took two-and-a-half hours?

When it was time to leave and we walked back to my car, I opened her door and on impulse I lightly kissed her on the lips. "Thank you. This has been the most enjoyable night I've had in over a decade and it's all because of you."

I think I caught her off guard, but she stood there looking in my eyes and then just before she turned to enter the car, she returned my kiss.

It had been a very long time since I'd been on a date with a woman, but it seemed this had inadvertently turned into exactly that. I was delighted, excited, and nervous all at the same time. Damn, I was supposed to be old enough to be past things like that!

As we drove back to the motel by the mechanic's shop we talked.

I glanced over at her and then back to the road. "So, have you decided what you're going to do?"

"I guess I'll just take a room here and work."

"That doesn't sound like much fun."

"I'm used to being alone. I've got my laptop. I'll keep busy."

I looked at her again and wondered, "Is she serious, or just trying to end the evening?"

"You know, you won't have a car and there aren't many places to eat within walking distance. There's only so much work you can do before you have to get out and do something."

"I don't know what choice I have."

I was turning an idea over in my head, but I wasn't sure how to broach the subject. "There is alone and there is alone. Living alone in your own place is one thing. You don't need to stay in the house all the time and you can surround yourself with things you like to do, or at least the things you like to do indoors. Staying in a motel room with just you, the TV, and your computer is like prison. You're stranded, you can't go anywhere, and there's no one to talk with. One day stranded like that is one thing, but three days is more like solitary confinement. You owe yourself better than that."

"Like I said, what choice do I have? The car won't be fixed until the end of the week and there aren't any trains that run home from here."

Before we could continue our conversation, we arrived back at the motel.

The lot was full of cars! There were only about a dozen rooms and there must have been twenty cars parked in the lot.

"Where'd they all come from?"

"Hell if I know!" Jen could curse like a sailor when upset and this was an example of her demure side.

She hopped out and marched into the office. In less than a minute she was back in the car.

"Wedding." She looked exasperated and that's all the explanation she gave. We learned later that a local wedding had reserved every room in the area, and they were using the motel lot for reception parking.

"Now what?" I could hardly blame her for being frustrated. She'd had an awful day and it wasn't getting any better.

"How about we drive south and see what we find? That gives me time to pitch an idea that I've been thinking about all night."

That got me an odd look. "Okay..." That's all she said. I never have been able to read this woman, but I figured I was getting a dose of wary skepticism.

We headed south on Rt-1 and began the search for a motel. Like I said, once you get north of Acadia the character of the Maine coast changes. It becomes small towns with summer homes rather than tourist destinations and there aren't many places to stay.

"So what's this idea you have?"

I took a breath and gathered my thoughts. This could blow up in my face and severely damage our friendship. "You know, I was married for thirty-six years, and they were ten of the best years of my life."

Okay, that got a laugh out of her. "That's an old joke!"

"I wish I were kidding, but I'm not. I always took my vows very seriously and I worked at my marriage, but as the years went by, she slowly withdrew from me and then she withdrew from life. You can't force a person to engage if they don't want." Memories were flooding back into my mind and none of them were pleasant. "Depression is a hell of a thing and alcohol doesn't make it any better." That had to be the understatement of the century. "When she died, I was sure it was suicide. I can't tell you how relieved I was when the coroner found she'd thrown a clot and stroked out in her sleep." I looked at Jennifer again. "Death is bad enough, but the thought that she was so unhappy that she might have taken her own life was more than I could handle."

I had her full attention. "John, I never knew. I'm genuinely sorry to hear that."

"The thing is, I took my vow of '...for better or worse, in sickness and in health' very seriously, but I always thought sickness would mean physical illness and maybe even cancer someday, not mental illness. I thought I might wind up caring for an infirmed spouse who still loved me, not a housemate who tried to ignore me as much as possible."

"I'm not sure a bad attitude is covered by your vows."

"It was more than that. She became a virtual shut in. She pushed away all her friends, quit her job, and didn't want to leave the house unless it was absolutely essential. I became convinced that if I divorced her, she would wind up living in a box under a bridge someplace. I couldn't let that happen. So I sucked it up, and I did my best to take care of her."

I glanced over at her and she was giving me her full attention.

"The thing is that kind of dysfunction plays games with your mind. I had to sit down with a shrink more than once and they used to lecture me on codependence. It's hard to fend off the psychological games that a depressed person will play with you and to this day I'm not sure if those games are deliberate or the result of a twisted mind that thinks one plus one equals three. She never seemed to have quite the same emotional reaction to things that others would have. Things that I enjoyed seemed to annoy her, and things that troubled me she took as proof that the world was as she thought it must be. I found I was bouncing back and forth between feeling responsible for what I could not control and ignoring a need that I could at least try to provide. I'll tell you this - my aunt had a kitchen magnet on her refrigerator that said 'Insanity is hereditary. You get it from your kids.' She had seven, by the way, so she knew what she was talking about. I'm here to tell you that you can get it from your spouse, too!"

That was one of my favorite jokes, but she wasn't laughing.

"Sorry. I guess I went off there for a minute."

"I don't blame you! I'm amazed you are as normal and kind as I've always known you to be. I couldn't have done what you did. I would have ended it."

"I thought about it many times. Sometimes I felt like that frog in the pot."

That got a chuckle from her. "You mean 'How do you boil a frog?'"

"Yeah, that one."

"I can understand that. Your life got slowly worse, and you adjusted just like the frog as the water got hotter. The thing is you got out before the water boiled."

"Actually, the pot broke, but the end result is the same."

We drove on in silence for a time. We did pass a small motel that didn't look like someplace we wanted to stop, and Jen didn't say anything. She seemed content to keep driving. Then without a word, she reached down and took my hand. I looked over at her and she was smiling.

"You're a good man, John. She was lucky to have you, even if she didn't appreciate you at the time."