Wind Over Tide

by Alycia Ripley

Overview

Known for her novels Traveling With An Eggplant, The Final Alice, and Alice's Army, Alycia Ripley brings her sensitivity and eye for detail to this unique memoir. Written in the form of letters, one each week over the course of a year, it captures her grief following the sudden death of her mother's thirty year companion, the man who raised Ripley since childhood. The letters shed light on the special relationship between author and stepfather and
translate the pain and loss that brought on fugue states and panic attacks following his
death. They examine the powerful impact of childhood upon our identities and the
valuable lessons loved ones teach us.
Framed within four nautically titled chapters, each representing a stage of the year, the
book's title signifies the rocky sailing conditions which well reflect the author's life and circumstances. Gripping and raw, yet peppered with humor, Wind Over Tide illustrates
the unusual way a creative mind interacts
with grief. It serves as a fascinating look
into a poignant, personal conversation, one which can help readers examine their own coping strategies to find peace after loss.
Wind Over Tide is a heart wrenching book that takes the reader through the emotional waves of mourning a loved one. The author's penned letters are a tribute to Joe, her stepfather, keeping his spirit, significance and lessons alive.Ripley's words are both validating and healing. We learn, as she did, how to continue living even when faced with darkness and layers of loss. A must read that is hard to put down."
-Michelle Pawkett, MA, LMHC

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781490782010
Publisher:	Trafford Publishing
Publication date:	04/25/2017
Pages:	112
Product dimensions:	6.00(w) x 9.00(h) x 0.27(d)

Read an Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

October-January

Point of Sail: In Irons (into the wind)

10/19/2014

You wouldn't have wanted me at your wake. You once told Mom that no matter what my age, twenty minutes at a wake was more than sufficient. I didn't need to see loved ones in that state. Didn't need to pace the room, stuck in sadness. You would never have wanted me at yours.

It shouldn't have happened like this. It was unrealistic to believe you'd live until I was elderly, but the way this transpired was strange. Mom believes that if she could just get you to eat, to walk, to not be in that damn chair, she could turn things around. We weren't even aware of how sick you were. You didn't seem to be either, until the end. You told me in the hospital that you had a feeling you and I were getting gypped. I stood in that funeral parlor for six hours and avoided looking at the casket. The white shirt and dark suit were too damn stark for a man who favored warmly colored shirts and ties. At least one thousand people stopped by, and for that, you'd be happy. But not happy I was there. I couldn't leave Mom alone. Her eyes were unfocused, and her face molded into a mask of vague panic, and I just remained frozen in shock and anger that the person who made me feel most safe, who I had the most inside jokes with, who saved me from my worst times, that after all you had done for me, I couldn't save you. After all that time we spent together, it couldn't end like this. You were my constant.

The furthest part of the room was overflowing with flower arrangements. You always remarked what a waste of money funereal flowers were. Each organization tries to outdo the next, and the arrangements end up bigger, brighter, and so expensive. You believed they should be donated to a church or hospital instead of being taken home to die. It all felt like a terrible joke to confuse or make me despair. I read a book once that portrayed the devil's main goal as to create despair within us so that we weaken into an easy target. Mom had already been asked to move to a non-family section and I eventually made my way forward. I wasn't waiting in any line. I stood staring that damn box down to prove you weren't really inside, that the real you was standing behind me, stating my twenty minutes were up and it was time to go.

Being without you was never a valid concept. The only time we discussed it was at Dairy Queen. I told you that at my wedding, we should dance to "Heart and Soul" because Big was the first movie we ever watched together and the last scene of the two kids reminded me of you and I. You told me that even if you weren't at my wedding, you'd still be there with me somehow and would set aside money so Mom wouldn't have to worry. Even then, I was in denial that you might not walk me down a beach aisle in Florida or dance with me to that specific song. I scooped out the last of my ice cream and said, "Well, I wouldn't want a wedding you couldn't be at."

The last night you were alive, I whispered how much I wished I could save your life because you'd once saved mine. Your eyelid flickered a little, and your finger slipped onto my palm. I choose to believe you heard me. I need you to understand how I feel about all you've done for me. Especially when I was a kid. I never like thinking about those days. Meeting you was like a kid's version of a fairy tale. I had little in terms of good male role models. My father wasn't a consistent presence in my life. For all the creepy plastic snakes in his house, he also had a fun pinball machine. For all the times he'd sing with me in his truck, he'd also bring me to a bar and give me tokens for the video games of the time so that I'd entertain myself: Pac-Man, Centipede. We had no idea what to say to each other. Once when I was at his house, I colored four eggs and wrote I love you, Dad on them. Those words don't even make sense to say when you don't really know a person. His version of love was analogous to the attention you'd show a new dog, checking to ensure it didn't go to the bathroom in your house/car. I just wanted so much to believe that all I needed was a magic button and we would be like the dads and daughters I saw at my elementary school. So I was excited to give him the eggs. He was on the phone, so I placed the carton on the kitchen table. He looked at them and waved and said to the voice on the other end of the phone, "My kid made me something, she's having a great time. Yeah, she's off playing pinball now." But I wasn't, I was standing right next to him. He walked into the other room with the phone. I crept around the house for a while. There wasn't really TV, a backyard, or much of a front yard at the house on Lexington. I was unsure of what to say when I next saw him but needn't have worried. After emerging from his tiny office, he said not a word about the eggs then or at any other time. He did keep them in the refrigerator. I realized then that you can't elicit love in some people. Some people just don't feel those feelings. It's a shame. My mother would have had more opportunities and experiences had she not married him and had me. I was always made to feel special and loved but did realize how my very existence complicated matters. I felt I needed to do something big with my life, to really make something happen, because if I didn't, everything they went through would be for nothing. My father wasn't around, the next boyfriend exposed me to things I can't unsee or unhear or forget, but those bad times made me appreciate you more (remember when I finally told you all about this in the parking lot of Protocol and you said, "I'm truly sorry that happened. It shouldn't have, but all that is over"?). It was during those years that I prayed for someone who would understand. I couldn't imagine someone wanting to deal with a middle-schooler, and I was terrified of another shitty person coming into my life. I've always had this fear of the other shoe dropping. A panic comes over my body. One day Mom told me her new friend wanted the three of us to have dinner. I wasn't expecting anything much. You picked us up, and I froze because you took my hand and said you'd heard a lot about me and hoped I was hungry for dinner. I was entranced by your white hair and nice suits and how you held open doors and helped me put my coat on. You were older than I expected, and this put me at ease. I told you about my favorite books and movies, and I actually breathed. For the first time in a long time, I breathed and felt everything was OK. The panic went away. I didn't call you Joe, then. I called you 'Buddy,' because you were my friend. It didn't occur to me until years later that I'd gotten what I asked for. The word stepfather implies "second." But you weren't second — you were the only one. You and Mom hadn't gotten married in the thirty years you were together, so I encourage people to make up another word in the dictionary. I certainly am not going to say "my mother's boyfriend" over and over. You raised me. Therefore, you're my parent. God heard me when I thought he was least paying attention. Snot is running down my face as I write this, but I know you're here, and thank you so much for being my friend.

10/26/2014

Sympathy cards. Fruit baskets. Flowers. Even a grocery store gift card from Chrissy. You always felt an event like this separates friends from pretenders. Most people have been wonderful, but you were right — some people did show their true colors. Some who Mom even cooked and bought gifts for, considered our friends. I remember something you said once as we went for ice cream. More money equals more fake people who remember only what you can do for them. Mom and I have too little to matter. You always told me to keep moving forward, and I know you'd remind me of that now.

There's not a place here that doesn't harbor memories of you. People say that's a blessing, but I feel empty and scared and alone when I remember that you and I can never again have souvlaki at Zoe or a cocktail at the Links at Akron Golf Course — never hit the 33 on our way downtown or when picking me up from the airport. Even the neighborhood streets where we rode our bikes feel empty now. I drove to Gatehouse Grill to pick up Friday fish, and as I stood at the bar, I prayed to be able to feel you behind me at the hostess station, testing your new hearing aids to see if they worked above the din of the noise.

Driving home, everyone's headlights shone too brightly. Parking lots look darker since you've been gone. I feel transparent. My outlines won't budge. It's the outlines that remind me I'm here and you aren't. Writing these letters helps because I owe a debt, and writing is the best way I know to repay it. It's the thing I most know how to do. I owe a debt for your raising me; for the conversations, lessons, and hilarious times; for your friendship. I hope that once written, the memories are cemented in my brain to take with me wherever I go.

Mom wore your favorite cream-colored sweater for the funeral. I counted the minutes until I could get her out of there. She could barely walk by the end, so I carried her in a way that wouldn't attract attention. Forty steps later, we were safely inside the car. From there, we went to see my uncle in the hospital as he went into heart surgery. I wished "Plainsong" by The Cure could have been played during the service. You always really liked that song. You raised the volume each time it played in the car, that and an instrumental piece by Michael Giacchino called "Landing Party." It was you put to music.

It was during my first year away at college that my grandmother died. You called and said she wasn't doing well and made arrangements for me to get on this tiny plane out of Poughkeepsie. Fleetwood Mac's Greatest Hits was the only album I listened to during the flight. You picked me up and wouldn't say much until you pulled into a parking lot (How did you choose it? I always meant to ask you) and told me something happened with her heart and she didn't make it through surgery. I'd just spoken with her two nights earlier. You and I sat in the dark, and you said you knew how I felt, that you felt the same way, but we had to keep it together. After all my grandmother went through years earlier with her full recovery from the brain aneurysm, it didn't seem fair that she'd be extinguished like this. I didn't even get to say goodbye. My hand went limp and sweaty, and I kept expecting you to drop it. You told me I never had to worry about saying goodbye to anyone because I showed them I loved them every day, that I lived the truth of how I felt. I did not deal with her death in a healthy manner but knew it was permanent. I knew I could no longer call, send cards, or drive with her to pick up videos from Blockbuster. I saved her voice messages as I'd later save yours but knew she died. I wasn't letting it in but understood that it happened. It still helps to trick myself once in a while. If you can trick yourself that your loved one is still alive, you can forget which reality is truth. Living within false truth for even a few moments can bring enough peace to help me breathe without choking.

It's not the same with you. I may have watched you walk more slowly this summer as I'd force you to exercise around the backyard. I knew you weren't as hungry when we'd eat dinner. It wasn't like you to ever turn down dessert. You never said no when I brought out Mom's homemade raspberry bread with a spoonful of ice cream on top. You always had a few bites at least. But the idea that you wouldn't get better or bounce back, that it could all be over, didn't compute.

I wish you could have stayed at our house. It was heartbreaking to have a friend tell us that you said, "I want to go to Maria's, I want to go to Clarence." And you did come a few times, but being able to have you stay overnight wasn't up to us, and in the end, it wasn't up to you either. That last day you could speak, you asked how my work trip to DC had gone and if I was pleased with the results. I held your hand and told you how many photos I'd taken. You always loved looking through my photographs. I never did get to show you photos from that trip. You fell into a coma the next day. I still feel like you're about to walk into the kitchen carrying the newspaper, stealing carrots from the salad I'd made. You got me through Amma's death by reminding me of all the reasons things would be OK. You gave me pep talks about everything, and now with you gone so quickly, I don't have your words on how best to deal with it. It's like being given a surprise exam. In almost thirty years, I never dealt with any difficult situation without your pep talk, and because of that, I feel stranded in some strange inertia, waiting.

I'm rereading the cards you've given me. It's difficult to explain to friends the significance of why you and I wrote your name with a backward E. You always wrote it the normal way, Joe, and then underneath, with a backward capital E long after we even remembered why. You wrote it in your very last card, the congratulations card from my recent book launch. And back in 2009, in the new driveway cement, I wrote, Maria, Alycia, Joe (with backward E), and Fluff with her paw pushed into the cement before it dried. Even though you and Fluffernutter have passed, you're both still there frozen in time, memory, and cement.

11-4-2014

The crying comes at me clear and fast. I constantly feel exhausted and terrible. I need to know where you are and what you're doing. When I got to the grocery store today, I saw this display of various teas. I could see the brand letters in a large simple black font: JOE. I'd never heard of the brand and just stood there, staring, holding on to a miniature cart. All I'm sure of is that I stood staring at the tea, holding on to the cart, and the next thing I knew, seven minutes had elapsed. I'm beginning to lose time.

11-10-2014

We threw away the wilted flowers, but the ones in my room are doing well. Even when they begin to flake petals onto my dresser, I won't throw them out. Remember when I researched the meaning of each color rose? You and I were stuck on how yellow roses represented platonic friendship because we were sure someone screwed that up and used them at a wedding. At some point, some husband gave those to his wife, ignorant to its meaning. And lo and behold, you and Mom went on a trip and came across an outdoor wedding in which you pretended to be a guest so you could take a photo with the yellow roses to show me later.

You gave me pink roses when Fluffernutter died. We celebrated the day we brought her home, and I can't imagine a dog more a part of any household than she was. We each wore a lei on Christmas mornings for "Hawaiian Christmas," Fluffernutter included. Same for the birthday parties I threw for her, everyone wore the pink leis, and I decorated the patio with pink crepe paper. There was that time you and Mom came to see me at college, and while driving back home in a snowstorm, the car spun off the highway. Mom described it as a hill covered with trees and that any minute the car could have hit one and it all would be over. She described holding Fluffernutter close, protecting her from the air bag. It was terrifying and fast until just as suddenly, the car stopped at the bottom of the hill. If things had gone differently, I could have lost all three of you in one moment. My life would have ended then. I'd be physically alive but would have moved through life like a zombie. Without you guys, there'd be no point.

(Continues…)

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Excerpted from "Wind Over Tide"
by .
Copyright © 2017 Alycia Ripley.
Excerpted by permission of Trafford Publishing.
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