My Father's Gift Horse

It was summer in Florida, and the days of August were hot and sweaty. The air hung thick with moisture, clinging to the skin and dripping from the brow. The damp heat was something I was well accustomed to, but the feeling that accompanied it was far divorced from my childhood. Back then it meant dripping ice cream, sandy shoes, and long, dehydrated days at the beach. It meant my mother, brandishing a newspaper like a bat, trying to corral me and my siblings back into the apartment. Now, however, the sun was angry and so was I.

Pushing past some tourists (easily identified by their fascination at one of the thousands of brown lizards that overrun these parts), I walked briskly in the direction of nowhere and tried to keep my head empty and calm. It was impossible.

Yesterday, I got a call that I had inherited a sum of 20,000 dollars from a father I had never known. A father I had never even heard of until his death. A cardiologist from Miami. A man from old money who, my mother admitted to me after much coaxing, had a beautiful wife and three pristine children when I was born. I couldn’t help but imagine the shock on their tear-soaked faces as they discovered me, the shamefully secret child, as a footnote on his will. And that’s all I was: a footnote. I despised that the amount of money he threw at me as a late gesture of overdue goodwill meant nothing to him and everything to me. I could start a new life with 20,000 dollars.

As I quickly rounded a corner, the quarters in my pockets jingled together. It was an ironic melody. The coins I had saved to push into the slot of a vending machine were now as insignificant as I was. I could buy a vending machine if I wanted. I could quit my salon job and travel to Europe. I could go on a cruise across the Atlantic or bury all my new money away in a savings account for nonexistent children. It was so strange to feel grateful and resentful all at once.

My mother had always told me, “Nathalie, you wouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth because you would’ve already decided it was gonna bite you.” I suppose she was right. I remember the first time she said this, when she had bought me a small, black notebook for my 15th birthday. At first I had ogled at it, crinkling its shiny plastic wrapper and tracing a finger over the leather, before I decided that it was a trick. I had always wanted to write, so this little black book seemed to pile on the pressure and tell me that I needed to work harder. My mother scoffed when she heard this and said, “Honey, it’s just a gift. Fill it with whatever you want, don’t even think of me.”

For the first time in my life, I listened to her and filled the notebook with dreams. Sketches of the covered awnings of Parisian cafes, poems about true love, and the landline number of a sandy-haired boy who was visiting Cocoa Beach from Vancouver. As I got older, the dreams grew to be more realistic. A study drawing of a hand, algebraic equations, or a shopping list. The last time I had opened that notebook, I still lived with my mother in that cramped apartment complex.

The sun was beginning to set now, and the sky was ablaze with hues of orange and pink. Glancing down from the sky at my surroundings, I realized I had walked since the break of dawn and still knew exactly where I was. The familiarity tasted stale with the sting of defeat. I had gone as far as my feet would carry me, and I was still at home.

I only had to walk 100 feet to settle myself in the sand and see the sun fade over the sea. Those few minutes when the light was waning felt like hours, and for the first time that day I felt at peace. The salty wind whistled through my hair and the strong smell of the sea lulled me into tranquility. A seagull cawed overhead, and I heard another bird respond in turn. When the daylight had finally dissipated, and the air started to feel cool on my skin, I felt ready.

I could be rational. I could start a savings account or a college fund. I could buy a car that didn’t leave tiny puddles of oil whenever I backed out of a parking spot, or even fix my plumbing so I finally didn’t have to wait until my roommate was done showering to use the bathroom. Hell, I could even buy a vending machine.

Instead of doing any of these things, I fished my phone out of my purse and bought a plane ticket for Paris that departed a week from now. I couldn’t help but feel a little shocked that my card didn’t get declined. A minute later, I got a confirmation number sent to my email account.

Laying my head down in the sand, not even thinking of the grains dirtying my hair, I basked in the sound of the rhythmic crashing of ocean waves and the soft chirping of crickets. I thought of freshly baked bread, crisp white wine, and conversations with strangers. In the ground, I used my nail to etch out the words I would write on postcards. As I was overcome with the feeling of childhood again, I made a mental note to remember to pack my little, black notebook.