Borrowed

Something borrowed, something blue. Although I can't remember what my "something borrowed" was for my wedding. As for blue? I remember feeling blue the week leading up to the big day. That feeling manifested into our blue lips the day of. We married in October, on 10.01.10. I picked the day, because it worked with our schedule and also because it was binary (it's an engineering thing). And it was cold. It had rained the night before, evidenced by the wet sidewalks and dewey glow on the flowers that were stubborn enough to hold on to witness the start of autumn.

I woke that morning in a four post bed next to my girlfriend, the last time we would ever sleep next to each other as single women. I was the first to get married and, as it turned out, the first to also get divorced. It was early, and quiet. Kimberly stirred next to me. The sun's soft rays poked gently through the Victorian window. I sat up.

"SHIT!" Startled, Kimberly sat up next to me. "The dress!" I exclaimed.

We both laughed nervously, remembering the champagne inspired dress fitting the night before that had resulted in a broken zipper. How I was going to get into my dress, I had no clue. The rest of the morning was filled with appointments, so many appointments! Hair, makeup, and....getting sewn into the dress. Yes, that is very much the only way we were able to address the zipper fiasco. Later that evening, my new husband had to muster up the courage to rip me out of the $1,600 dress. "Just do it," I had commanded.

That was twelve years ago.

***

The in-between was infused with various measures of self-destruction, thinly disguised as "coping." Finding emotionally unavailable men, to whom I would compromise myself, while also remaining emotionally unavailable. Overworking and overcommitting, to distract myself from otherwise empty time spent alone. Under eating, to remain just invisible enough. Overdrinking, to numb feelings of failure, my lack of sense of belonging, and overthinking. All symptoms of the 20-somethings' insecurities that I had rarely indulged in. I was healing like a wounded teen. It was a spiral that seemed to have no bottom in sight. Except it did. Reality hits when you least expect it.

The man I had been seeing after my divorce, "got" me. He was an architect and engineer. He wasn't tall, but he had a stocky build and a strong presence. He was rugged and smelled of Old Spice. I soaked him in and melted into every hug he offered. I felt safe. He veiled his love with blunt, sometimes almost harsh, words. Yet they landed gently and lovingly. I was equally as difficult, but we understood each other. We would laugh. He was smart, but not arrogant.

He was also married.

I found that out later. Having not yet finalized my own divorce, I found a million reasons to justify his situation with my own. He wasn't in love. They were separating. We would end up together and work passionately to design buildings, neighborhoods and cities. We were a force to reckon with. A power couple.

Only we weren't a couple.

This harsh fact became abundantly clear. It was a crisp spring day. The snow was melting and the scent of the soil rose into the air as I left work and headed towards "home." Home. It was a strange word. It was the place that had become home following the dissolution of my marriage. It was an apartment nestled over an old farmhouse, the first construction on the street that had then become part of a village.

A text. Meet at Eckels! An after work get together. I could not have been more excited. I arrived at the venue, located minutes from my apartment. Hastily, I smoothed down my suit pants, readjusted my weight in my heels, and entered. It was an old, family run establishment that appeared to be presevered from the 1950's. The carpet was worn and the decor antiquated. My eyes adjusted to the darkness inside, and I excused myself from the hostess because I already knew exactly where to find him. I walked confidently towards the bar and found myself a seat next to him. My drink was already poured. Kitty corner on the opposite side of the bar I spotted the CEO of his company with a beautiful, albeit older, blonde woman.

"Not his wife," he whispered to me as he gently ran his hand along my thigh. I nodded, understanding. I diverted my attention and engaged in conversation. Others joined. We chatted, and laughed. The glasses clinked. The bartender jided everyone in our company while we tipped gratuitously, immune to any backhanded remarks.

The door opened and one of his coworkers came in with an enthusiastic "Hello! Patrick! How is Rosie?!"

The question didn't phase me. I knew he was exiting his marriage, like I was. Until then, there was a facade to maintain. Not everyone knew the details. I got it.

"She is good!" Patrick said, somewhat convincingly. I caught a sideeye from the co-worker. He loomed over us at 6'5" and took a seat nearby.

"So you'll be a dad any day now? Congrats man.." He smugly sipped his drink. The cat was out of the bag.

I felt the blood drain from my face. Patrick wouldn't make eye contact. I pinched him, an attempt to communicate "what the fuck is he talking about?!" He rubbed his arm and continued in conversation.

That was seven years ago.

***

I found myself on a plane, last minute, heading to L.A. Becca had called me earlier in the month and asked, "what are you doing at the end of August?" A question that was difficult to answer.

At this point, I was highly nervous of making commitments and yet, the idea of an adventure was compelling. I wanted to go. It was an opportunity for me to spend quality time on her boat playing "mom" to her two boys. It was an opportunity for me to escape the dismal city I lived in, known as "prison city" for its identifying feature: a maximum security prison nestled right in the middle of its downtown. As dusk falls, the city becomes caked with a murder of crows, seeking roosts while exchanging information only they can understand.

Not here in Los Angeles. The noisiest thing about the marina, where I was to stay, were the barking sea lions. The first time I visited, I was intrigued by them, perched lazily on the docks calling out to claim their territory. They had since migrated closer to Becca's live aboard docks, identifying those as their new resting area.

As I exited the airport, Becca shouted and waved to me excitedly as she popped the trunk of her Outback to make room for my bags. I dropped them and ran to grab her in a tight hug. Two sisters reunited. Not biological sisters, however Becca had been in my sorority back during my days at the University. We had reconnected after our collective divorces, our visits only obscured by the recent pandemic.

She welcomed me aboard her yacht, "Pieces of Eight," which was to be my home for the next ten days. I greeted the boys, who had created a sign that said "Welcome Back Annie!" with a drawing of the yacht, the swimming ladder, and an anchor. I clutched my chest in admiration.

"Thank you guys!" I exclaimed, hugging each of them. Meanwhile, Moose nipped at my pants and jumped as high as possible in an attempt to gain the same affection.

Moose was a rescue dog, a small chihuahua mix. He had scraggly hair and white eyebrows that contrasted starkly with his black coat, making him look as though he was wearing a perpetual scowl. A grumpy old man. Only he wasn't grumpy, ever. I sat down at the table and he quickly claimed his space in my lap, curling up, taking ownership. And that set the tone for the week.

Becca left for a work trip in Lake Tahoe the following evening. After obtaining her captain's license, she had been scouted by a company and quickly hired. They are the "Teslas of watercraft." Her enthusiasm for her work was palpable, though she also embraced the sadness of leaving her boys. Ever since she had been willing to leave them for more than a day, I had been the only person she entrusted with their care, and she was able to convince her company to pay for my trip.

I quickly got to work cleaning the yacht, yearning to leave it better than I found it for her. Becca was a skilled chef and always cooking for crowds in the small galley. I was in awe of how she navigated the small space, limited storage and mini fridge with such ease, and managed to manifest gourmet meals that should have been served in a Michelin star restaurant. All guest plates always ended up clean.

I threw on some music and started on the dishes, washing them one by one, breaking only to put away the clean ones and to create more space. George Winston's piano music whisped through the yacht, in time with the ocean air that came in through the open windows. The boat rocked gently, as though a mother holding her newborn. Ever loyal, Moose stayed by my side. It quickly became evident he was besotted with my company.

Every night, Moose would whimper by the bed that was too tall for him to mount until I assisted him and he was nestled safely under the covers in the curve of my legs. Whenever waves of anxiety crept on me, he became especially present, finding whatever warm spot on my body he could fold his tiny body into. When he sensed I had been working at the computer too long, he would offer his toy in an attempt to engage me in play. If I looked sad, he would make sure that no snot was left in my nose, licking it away lovingly with his tongue. I suddenly understood why people declared "emotional support animals." He was the therapy I didn't know I needed. This was the trip I didn't know I needed.

Monday was the boys' first day of school. I had never driven in L.A. before, and had only witnessed Becca's frantic lane changes, abrupt stops, and chaotic merging all while she remained perfectly calm. Anxiety ridden, I woke the boys at 6:25 a.m., much to their confusion.

"We need to leave by 7:25 guys." They winced.

"But it only takes ten minutes to get there!" I explained that I didn't know where I was going and was likely going to be a lot slower than their mother who was well adjusted to the geography, traffic, and other conditions. Begrudgingly, they got up and clothed themselves in their school uniforms.

"What do you want for breakfast?!" I called down to them.

"Yogurt and fruit!" James exclaimed. I pulled yogurt and strawberries out of the fridge, which he supplemented with a dollop of strawberry jam.

"Harry, and you?!" I crossed my fingers hoping that he wasn't going to ask for eggs, toast and sausages, which I feared I didn't have time to make while also being able to leave on time.

"We usually have a real breakfast," he answered defiantly in response to the dread in my question. I took a deep breath.

"OK, and what does that look like? Eggs? Toast?" I had a feeling I was setting myself up for a disaster.

"No, Harry doesn't like eggs," James said without looking up from his bowl of yogurt. A drizzle made its way down his chin as he hunted for more jam to get onto his spoon. He casually wiped it away with his bare arm.

"OK well, then Harry, let me know what you would like to eat. And do you both have your bags?"

"Yes!" James said looking up for the first time as he wiped his bowl clean. Harry brushed past me and grabbed a hawaiian roll into which he shoved several slices of deli meat. He collapsed onto the seating area at the dinette, his legs perched on the cushions with one casually angled over the other. He inspected his "breakfast" sandwich as he took each bite. Meanwhile, Moose desperately tried to find a place to nestle where he wouldn't be disturbed by the constant commotion.

By 7:30 a.m. we were off, arriving twenty minutes later. In my haste to get them to school on time and prepared, I neglected the pièce de résistance. The obligatory first day photograph. Heading down the promenade, I texted Becca that I would fulfill that at the day's end. My anxiety was beginning to dissipate. They were succesfully at school, on time, dressed, and with lunches packed.

Moose was lazily sunbathing on the bow of the boat as I returned and neared the dock gate. Sensing my proximity, he immediately got to his feet and started shaking his rear in exaltation. I shouted over to him and told him I was coming. I pulled the fob out and waved it in front of the keyless entry system. It beeped, but flashed red. I tried again. Still no entry. Moose cocked his head as if to say, "What's the matter? Come on, hurry up!" He shook his butt again, and then stilled, his confidence in my arrival waning.

I looked at the sign on the gate. There was a number for management, though I was certain there would be a lockout fee. I decided to patiently wait and see if another tenant would emerge. I paced back and forth maintaining eye contact with Moose, my new sidekick, trying to reassure him that I would be inside soon. Having reached the entry to the Ritz, I turned around to head back towards the gate and saw a man approaching with luggage, key fob in hand.

"Excuse me?! Do you live down there?" I asked loudly.

"Yes, do you need to get in?"

"I am boatsitting for a friend and my fob isn't working." He smiled and opened the gate, holding it for me as I thanked him profusely.

"MOOSE!" Moose scurried over to the side of the boat as I climbed up the stairs and over the starboard side. Eager for company, he settled as I pulled out my laptop to initiate my work for the day. My heartpace slowed as Moose lulled himself into a deep sleep on my lap.

And so it went. Every day, waking up, getting the boys to school, returning to the yacht, and settling in to do work. Moose was always by my side or on my lap. Becca indicated in conversations that Moose was special. He could sense things. And I was beginning to believe that. Mid-week I offered that it was "take your Moose to work day," to which she responded through laughing emojis. I snapped a photo of him nestled between my legs, "sleeping on the job," making it difficult to access my laptop without first a therapeutic petting.

Becca returned at the end of the week. I had made life changes between the start of my trip and the time she returned, many which she had encouraged through active listening and allowing me the space to come into my own awareness. By the time she returned, I felt renewed, ready for a true vacation and hesitant to leave the safety and comfort of her marina in L.A. I had lived under the cloak of depression and anxiety for so long that it had begun to feel familiar, even comfortable. I was starting to be able to breathe again.

The night before my flight home I finally mustered up the energy to gather my belongings and re-pack my suitcase. I carefully folded my clothes.

"I'm taking Moose with me!" I declared.

"James might have some feelings about that," Becca laughed.

She had gotten Moose as an emotional support partner for James, who had struggled with his parents divorce. As though in understanding, Moose climbed into my suitcase, protesting my imminent departure. I picked him up and resituated him, refolding the clothes he had attempted to make into bedding. He sat next to me watching me, gently reminding me as he had throughout the week that even when I'm alone, I'm not alone. Moose was my something borrowed, and I no longer felt blue.