do not feel as if I am fully embracing summer in Michigan. I shut my eyes as they sing to me. Finally, their call calms, and I can hear the soothing lapping of the lake.
I sit up in bed.
Be a girl, Iris, I think. A girl of summer. Not a child of war. Be a part of this world, not apart from this world.
I literally hop out of bed and shuffle toward an ancient armoire that takes up an entire wall of my bedroom and which has more coats of paint on it than an old canoe. I open it, the cabinet squeaking loudly. Where are you? I think. How long has it been?
I shuffle through drawers, tossing aside long pants and sweaters, before moving on to shorts, T-shirts and sweatshirts. I’m about to give up when—there!—buried in a corner of the final drawer is my swimsuit. I pull it out and hold it in front of my face, eyeing it suspiciously, like one might a long-forgotten, frostbitten Tupperware meal found deep in the freezer.
My swimsuit is a colorfully striped one-piece that I bought decades ago, in seemingly another lifetime.
The Twiggy years. Or was it Cheryl Tiegs?
I wore it a few times when I used to go to the beach, but I caught a glimpse of myself one time in the mirror and realized I was not a supermodel posing for Sports Illustrated, unless the SI stood for Stop It!, so I put my swimsuits away. For good.
I head toward the bathroom, still holding the suit at arm’s length like a skunk. Here goes nothing, I think. I wriggle and twist, and tug and yank, and when the suit is completely on, I stare at myself, wide-eyed.
“It fits,” I say to my reflection. “It still fits.”
I wouldn’t say I look great in the suit—it’s old, worn and threadbare, like me—but it fits and, at my age, that’s all that pretty much matters anymore. I turn this way and that, feeling a bit like a young girl. I move toward the sink and then stop.
No need to wash my face, I think, grabbing a beach towel and padding out of the bathroom. I march toward the kitchen and stop cold.
What if there are early walkers on the beach? What if someone sees me?
You can do this, Iris, I think. No pills. No thinking. You’re a girl of summer. Go.
I move toward the back porch, slide into some flip-flops, and head outside and toward the beach, my heart racing.
Suddenly, I stop. The world flips upside down. I crouch by the fence for support. I have been only to see Mary and clung to the fence to see Abby, Cory and Lily. Those have been my farthest trips, which can be measured in counted footsteps. This—I look toward the beach—is like flying to the moon.
“I can’t, I can’t, I can’t,” I whisper, tears suddenly filling my eyes. “You are an old fool, Iris.”
I stand to head inside when I hear the waves crash into the shore. I turn to scan the beach yet again, and in the mist rising from the lake, I can picture Cory and Lily as I saw them just the other day. A little girl helping a grown man, a child helping a war hero, be brave. She had held his hand, and the two had taken baby steps until they were on the beach, and Cory was seated in the sand. He had actually fallen knees first into it, and tossed sand into the air as if it were gold. They had played in the lake, built sand castles...acted like children.
If he can do it, I can, too, I think. Be brave, Iris. Be brave.
I slip down the dune, one baby step at a time, sliding through the dune grass slowly like a cautious rabbit, my flip-flops churning sand as I go. I emerge, stopping at the edge. I look left and right. The beach is empty. My heart is racing. I again think of Cory, and I fall into the sand knees first. I am thankful to be covered in sand.
I did it!
I look up. The lake is like glass, the waves lazily lapping at the shore as if the heat has already sapped their energy. The water is blue-black at first, the clouds that line the horizon of Lake Michigan eerily dark, but as I stand at the water’s edge, the sun begins to cast just enough light to change the scenery, one second at a