The weight of the silence pressed down on Lydia like a thick blanket. Dr. Winters and her husband, Mark, faded into the background as her breath caught in her throat. Even if she could find her voice, Lydia knew her words would fall on deaf ears.
She wanted to bolt from the therapist’s office, but instead, she sat there, head bowed as if in deep contemplation.
“How are you feeling?” Dr. Winters’ voice was gentle, almost melodic.
The ticking of the wall clock, Mark’s steady breathing beside her on the leather couch, and Dr. Winters’ penetrating gaze all grated on Lydia’s nerves.
She inhaled deeply and looked up.
Mark leaned towards her, placing his hand on her knee. “We’re all here for you,” he said softly.
Lydia’s eyes wandered around the room, finally settling on a large abstract painting behind Dr. Winters, who sat facing them in her ergonomic chair. The canvas was a swirl of deep blues and vibrant oranges, like a turbulent sunset over a stormy sea. How much did a piece like that cost? Lydia wondered what would happen if Dr. Winters, in her rolling chair, accidentally bumped into it. She imagined the painting teetering, swaying back and forth before crashing down. Would it be heavy enough to injure the therapist? Could the shattered frame reach her and Mark on their plush, charcoal-gray sofa?
She wanted to discuss the pretentious artwork, to ask an open-ended question like, “What do you think that painting represents?” Instead, she said, “I’m fine, thank you,” and placed her hand atop Mark’s.
Lydia guided her weathered Volkswagen van around a rare bend in Highway 101, where Oregon gave way to California. The van was a ’75 model, with a pop-top roof and wide bench seats. The afternoon sun beat down on her right side, warming her arm through the open window. She envisioned the desert, eager to feel the hot sand beneath her feet and see the endless expanse of the Mojave. Unlike the lush, green landscapes of her hometown, she knew she would appreciate the stark beauty of the arid wilderness. When asked, “Why the desert? It’s so desolate,” she’d simply replied that she’d never experienced it before.
Lydia drummed her fingers on the steering wheel, humming along to Fleetwood Mac’s “Dreams” playing on the radio. She’d need to refuel in another hour or so, but nothing else until she reached Redding for the night. “Hang in there, old girl,” she said, patting the sun-faded dashboard.
She had two rules: explore everything intriguing, and rely on no one, especially not a man. Her mother’s words echoed in her mind: “You don’t understand what it’s like, having to fend for yourself,” and so that had become her mantra, the second rule of this journey and her life. That rule had been tested just north of Portland with a flat tire.
The landscape here was dotted with modest bungalows set back from the highway. Their driveways were lined with towering redwoods, hinting at the majestic forests beyond. Progress was encroaching, most likely due to the expanding tech industry in nearby cities. After seeing nothing but dense forests and misty coastlines for miles, Lydia’s attention was captured by a solitary yellow cottage. It stood out against the green backdrop, its cheerful color a beacon to weary travelers. A hand-painted sign hung from its white picket fence.
“Sunny’s Smoothie Shack,” she read aloud and then pulled the wheel hard right to turn into the gravel driveway.
The shop was cozy and empty. A gentle breeze wafted through open windows, carrying the scent of ocean and pine. Sunlight streamed in, casting playful shadows through potted ferns hanging from the ceiling. A few Edison bulbs dangled from driftwood beams, adding a rustic charm.
The store was filled with local artisanal goods: jars of wildflower honey, hand-carved wooden figurines, and colorful tapestries. The floor was weathered hardwood, smooth from years of foot traffic. Lydia approached a shelf lined with homemade jams and smiled, picking up one labeled “Coastal Blackberry.”
There was nothing here reminiscent of the bustling cities she’d left behind or the scorching deserts that lay ahead.
There were signs, subtle hints she should have heeded, but Ash was as unexpected as the oasis-like shop itself.
Lydia perused the smoothie menu chalked on a reclaimed barn door. There were classic combinations like strawberry banana and tropical sunset, alongside more adventurous blends that screamed “Pacific Northwest!” like lavender honey and pine nut acai. She peered around a reclaimed wood counter for any sign of movement.
Suddenly, he was there beside her as if materialized from the salty air, leaning casually against the counter. He was close enough that she could smell the faint scent of cedarwood and something uniquely… him.
A petite woman with wild, curly hair bounded through a beaded curtain, pulling a cart of fresh produce. Lydia couldn’t quite place her age. Her face was youthful, but her eyes held the wisdom of years. When she smiled in greeting, laugh lines crinkled at the corners of her eyes.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, “Sorry to keep you waiting, dear.”
“No worries,” Lydia replied, her finger tracing the menu indecisively.
“You should try the ‘Forest Floor’,” he suggested, his voice a low rumble beside her.
“I’m sorry?” Lydia said, instinctively stepping back. She hugged her arms close to her body.
“Just thought you might like a local favorite. The ‘Forest Floor’ has wild mushrooms, pine nuts, and a hint of…”
“Thanks, but I can decide for myself,” Lydia wanted to say. He didn’t look like a local, wearing cargo shorts and a faded band t-shirt despite the cool coastal air. There were splatters of paint near the hem, as if he’d hastily wiped his hands there. She imagined his life was full of spontaneity, interrupted only by the ebb and flow of creative inspiration.
Her expression must have betrayed her thoughts because he backed up, hands raised in a gesture of peace, though his eyes still twinkled with amusement. He persisted, “The ‘Forest Floor’ is…”
Lydia laughed despite herself. “I can read the menu, thanks.” She wanted to ask why he cared what she ordered but didn’t want to prolong the interaction. Instead, she asked the woman behind the counter, “Can you make the ‘Coastal Sunrise’ with oat milk?”
The woman nodded enthusiastically, “Absolutely!” and set to work.
He chuckled. “‘Forest Floor’ for ‘Coastal Sunrise’? You’re trading earthiness for sweetness,” he said, as if this was some profound metaphor. “If you’re passing through, you should try something uniquely local. Last chance,” and he spread his arms wide, as if presenting the entire shop to her. Lydia noticed his sun-bleached hair and the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled. It wasn’t hard to imagine skilled hands beneath the paint-splattered shirt. He was undeniably attractive.
“One Coastal Sunrise with oat milk!” the woman called out, sliding the vibrant drink across the counter.
“Thanks,” Lydia said, turning slightly towards the stranger. She measured her response carefully. “To each their own,” she’d wanted to say, taking a sip of her smoothie, aware of his gaze. To hell with his suggestions, what he thought he knew about her preferences. She’d leave the thought unfinished and breeze out the door.
Except that’s not what happened.
Ash padded past her in the darkness, his bare feet barely audible on the worn floorboards. Lydia was awake, staring into the void. She was exhausted, but sleep eluded her. One leg was propped up on the rocking chair, supporting the baby’s weight as he slumbered peacefully, head tilted back and mouth slightly agape. Even in the pitch black, she felt it – the walls closing in, just as they did in her nightmares. They were always the same in her dreams, the color of sand and emptiness.
Noticing her, Ash crept back towards her and stood silently for a moment before asking, “What did the doctor say?”
“It’s been three months. It’s not just postpartum anymore,” and when he didn’t seem to understand, she added, “I need to find a therapist or psychiatrist or someone.” She looked in his general direction, barely making out his silhouette. “He gave me some referrals,” and then her gaze drifted back to where she knew the baby’s face would be, though she could see nothing but shadows.
“You know my sister can come help,” Ash said, his voice barely above a whisper. Lydia wondered if he was trying not to wake the baby or if he was afraid of her reaction. She sighed. “I was supposed to go to South America: Peru and Chile, maybe even Easter Island,” as if reciting a list of far-off galaxies. Then, “Do you think we’ll ever get there?”
The first light of dawn was beginning to filter through the curtains. Lydia leaned over the crib and gazed at her baby boy, his face as round and perfect as a full moon, with dimples that mirrored Ash’s when he smiled. Her breathing steadied as she gently stroked the baby’s cheek, marveling at its impossible softness. She could hear Jade in the kitchen already, her presence expanding to fill the space as she moved about, opening cabinets and setting things on the countertop. The moment shattered, and Lydia rose to her feet.
She was improving now. At least that’s what Ash said.
Jade had entered their lives like a whirlwind. Crossing the threshold of their small bungalow, she immediately set down her duffel bag and surveyed the living room. “A growing family needs nourishment,” she declared, as if it explained everything. With a sweeping motion of her toned arm, she cleared a large portion of the coffee table. Magazines, empty mugs, and half-eaten snacks were piled into a box to be sorted later, even the baby’s toys. “There,” she said, satisfied. She then picked up her bag, strode to the guest room, and began unpacking her essentials. Jade kept organizing things. She’d moved Lydia’s cherished record player from its spot by the window to a high shelf, citing baby-proofing concerns. Lydia had to stretch and fumble each time she wanted to play a vinyl.
The initial feeling was one of reprieve. Lydia slept. She woke up one day, unsure if it was evening of the same day or morning of the next. Hearing the soft murmur of conversation and the clink of cutlery, she found Ash hunched over a plate, eating something green and fragrant over quinoa that he scooped up with a fork. He ate with quiet appreciation. Jade stood by the sink, dishes drying on a bamboo rack, gently bouncing the baby. She beamed and said, “Look who’s up!” to Lydia, her voice carrying a note of forced cheer.
“This is amazing, sis, thanks,” Ash said as he stood. He went to kiss his sister on the cheek and then sidestep the high chair as he made his way to where Lydia stood in the doorway, still blinking sleep from her eyes.
“Oh, it’s nothing special,” Jade said with a dismissive wave. “Just a quick stir-fry. Anyone can throw it together.”
Ash guided Lydia to her seat, where a plate of the same green stir-fry and quinoa awaited her. The reclaimed wood table looked different. She ran her fingers along the edge of a new placemat, its pattern a swirl of ocean waves, and noticed her fork resting on a cloth napkin folded into an origami crane. Ash squeezed her shoulder gently. “See,” he whispered close to her ear, “Everything’s going to be alright,” though Lydia was certain Jade overheard. Lydia pushed the food around on her plate.
“How is it?” Jade asked while cradling the baby, who was starting to fuss. Lydia nodded silently.
Dr. Winters said, “Let’s try a mindfulness exercise.”
The therapist’s office was painted a soft sage green, unlike the sandy hues of Lydia’s dreams and their bungalow, but Dr. Winters had chosen large houseplants to fill the corners. They were lush and vibrant: a towering fiddle leaf fig, a cascading pothos, a collection of succulents in varying shades of green. Still, the walls seemed to pulse, the ceiling above her undulating like waves, the breathable space contracting until she felt submerged in an endless ocean. She massaged her temples, trying to dispel the unsettling image.
The gentle ticking of a meditation timer punctuated the silence, a reminder that their session had a finite duration. Dr. Winters observed them through round, wire-rimmed glasses that softened her features. “Please face one another,” she instructed. They joined hands, their knees almost touching. Ash’s gaze moved slowly over Lydia’s face, as if memorizing every detail.
“I want you to repeat after me,” Dr. Winters said, “and then add your own words, focusing on what you appreciate most about your partner.” She reminded them, “Maintain eye contact.” After a pause, she began, “I see you…”
Ash took a deep breath, his lips curving into a gentle smile. “I see you,” he echoed, giving Lydia’s hands a reassuring squeeze.
“What do you see?” Dr. Winters prompted. “Continue.”
“I see your strength. I see the love you have for our son, and the way you’re trying,” he added, glancing briefly at Dr. Winters before returning his gaze to Lydia.
Lydia nodded, feeling a tear trace its way down her cheek. “I see you,” she repeated softly. After a moment’s hesitation, she continued, “I see your patience, and your unwavering support.”
As she spoke the words, Lydia felt as if she were floating, tethered only by Ash’s steady hands holding hers. The exercise continued, but afterwards, she struggled to recall the specifics of what had been said.
As they prepared to leave, Dr. Winters remarked, “You’ve made significant progress today. Lydia, especially you.”
“Thank you,” she replied, and turning to Ash, she managed a small smile and said, “I think I might take a walk on the beach later. It’s been a while since I’ve felt the sand between my toes.”
“That’s wonderful!” Dr. Winters chimed in, overhearing her. “Reconnecting with nature can be incredibly healing,” and she gently closed the door behind them.
