There once was an old man who was tired and nostalgic, and every day he walked down to the boardwalk and sat on the splintery red wooden bench. He watched the grey ocean tides, and sometimes he’d even get there early enough to watch the sun rise. He could sit for hours, watching the water. But the water was only part of what he saw; his eyes were blind enough to see right through the world. Mostly he watched the past, children running by his memory, playing in the sand in front of him with a giant beach ball. And very rarely, on gifted days, he saw heaven.
One Thursday a ridiculous-looking girl walked up and sat down next to him on the bench. He shuffled to one side to make room, watching her bright pink and platinum hair and rainbow sharpied hoodie with distrust. She didn’t say a word, just sat there and shared his ocean view. She tried to sit still, but she was a fidgety girl, and her many bracelets made a constant plasticky clinking as she crossed and uncrossed her hands and feet. They each pretended not to know the other was there, and after a brief while he found himself taking comfort in her steady breathing. Company, non-company.
This went on for a couple of days, until the next Monday when she got there before him. He sat down next to her, and realized she was reading a book. He peeked at the cover. On the Road. So he asked.
“If you’re a wanderer,” he said, “why would you want to come sit here with me?”
She gave him a shrug, and a smile. “It’s peaceful here, and I like having company that doesn’t talk much.”
So he stopped talking, and went back to his watching.
A whole week went by before they talked again, though they both came back to sit on the bench, side by side. This time she started the conversation. She asked him what he saw when he was looking at the ocean; he told her about heaven. And the more he sat there thinking about it, the more he wanted to tell this complete stranger, generations away, about his past lives. He felt like he’d been so many people, it was like peeping through his layers to find the core. He wasn’t sure he could find it on his own anymore.
But instead he only gave her a brief outline, worried that too much would make her leave. She seemed to understand.
“So what’s heaven like?”
He shrugged. “Peaceful.”
“Is that where your family is?”
“Yes.”
She looked at him sideways, as if unsure of how to respond, and he noticed that she was wearing a necklace of turquoise beaded letters. “Nellie.” He wondered if that was her name. But he didn’t ask. Instead he said, “Don’t say you’re sorry. It would sound too much like an apology. It was a long time ago. I come here because then I’ll have things to tell Miranda when I see her again. She always loved the beach here.”
The girl nodded her acceptance, and they sat in silence for the rest of the day.
“Past lives?” she asked when he mentioned it one day.
“Yes. I think everyone lives in layers, masks. With one person, you’re a clown. With another you’re the straight man. Father, brother, husband, soldier. But in simpler ways too. Wise or silly, hard-hearted or soft. Introverted, wild, always leaving or always staying.”
She smiled her crooked smile. “Wanderer,” she added.
He smiled back at her. That was exactly right. Something else occurred to him, and he added, “They’re not very good labels, in the end, because they apply to everyone.”
“Or maybe that’s what makes them so good?”
A month of company, non-company, talking and not talking. They both enjoyed the silence as much as they enjoyed the conversation. The old man learned that her name was indeed Nellie, and that she had two older brothers, and lived with her mother nearby. She was out of school for the summer, but her mother worked a lot and the brothers always seemed to be off being busy, so there was never anyone home. She didn’t mention her father and he didn’t ask.
In return, he told her about Miranda, Beth, and Becky. The husky mix they had when the girls were teenagers that would always escape the backyard and then come back in through the front door. He remembered the dog’s name for the first time in years. Zedo. Beth had named him. He didn’t remember the significance.
And as soon as he told something to Nellie, it disappeared from his own head, leaving a foggy grey space behind. He felt worn out, and knew it was all slipping away. He thought this should upset him because he’d always been known for his excellent memory, but he just felt relieved, like their loss was lifting a physical weight from him.
“I think we went on a road trip one year when the girls were small. Beth was seven, so Becky must have been five. It was summer. But that’s all I remember.”
Nellie was quiet, very quiet. “You told me. You went to Virginia and stayed in a cabin for three weeks. You woke them all up early once to go for a hike and see the sun rise, and Miranda was grumpy for hours because you’d made her get up. And there was a bear in the woods on the way back to the cabin, but you were the only one who saw it, and you forgot your camera so you had no proof. I remember that day. And the rest of the trip.”
He sighed, relieved. “Oh, good. Then you can remember it for me.”
Eventually the day came when the old man didn’t remember anything from his own past. He remembered vague shadows of things, but was no longer sure if they were from his memories or Nellie’s.
One day soon after, Nellie didn’t show up. The old man sat on the bench until late afternoon, feeling a little lost without her. Then he went home early.
He returned before the sun rose the next day, armed with a present for Nellie just in case she came back. She didn’t, but he sat there all day anyway. It had been a long time since he had been alone on the bench. He found that is was pleasant to truly have non-company again. Not better or worse, just different.
When it was almost sunset he finally heaved his old bones off of the uncomfortable bench and started toward the ocean. He reached the water’s edge, removed his shoes and socks, and stepped out onto the water. It was cool under his feet, and quite steady. He walked.
He walked and walked, slowly, towards the setting sun. The farther he went, the more free and happy he felt. His back straightened, his knees loosened, he held his head high. At the last moment, he saw Miranda. Heaven looked just like Miranda.
Two days later Nellie finally came back to the beach. She’d run most of the way and was out of breath when she reached the bench, an apology on the tip of her tongue. Busy mother, busy schedule, needed help. Nellie was ready for some peace and quiet.
No one was there. Instead there was a book sitting on the bench, damp and wrinkled from yesterday’s rain. Bohemia. She’d never heard of it, but started browsing through the pages while she waited for the old man. “Life will thrive at the water margins,” she read when she opened the book to the very last page. The line had been highlighted, and her friend had left his own note on the side. “Tear down the dams and unplug the holes, let the memories stream through the cracks for the next generation. The world is at its most possible at the water margins.”
