Shell Shocked

It’s been ten years. Ten years since my life changed forever. You know that your time is limited on this earth, but you never think the day will come until it does. When you’re younger, you always joke about who you hope will go first, but she really meant it. The husbands never outlive their wives, so why was I one of the unlucky ones? Ane had always been my reason. And then all of a sudden seventy-seven years went by, and she was gone. It feels so long while you’re living it. Like you have so much time, until time runs out on us all. I feel lucky to have known her, but still it wasn’t enough.

I looked out the window, and there she was, buried in the cemetery across the street. In the ten years she’s lived there, I haven’t been able to bring myself to visit her. I’ve tried so many times. Picking up her favorite hydrangeas – the light blue ones, not the deep blue, of course – and yet my feet would stick to the asphalt as I clutched them. The stems would start to wilt in my hands, and the sun would shift above in the sky, until the cemetery gates were locked.

I missed her so much. My kids tell me I need to say goodbye. I know she’s just right across the street and I could visit her whenever I want, but it seems so definite. If I go over there, I’m acknowledging that she really is gone. I keep holding onto hope that maybe, just maybe, it was all a terrible dream that I will wake up from. That she will walk through that creaky navy door and head straight to the kitchen, where she’ll whip up her famous blueberry cobbler. Damn, I miss that cobbler. If I go over there, there’s no chance of her ever coming back. She’s just another name in the dirt. She’s so much more than that. She is full of so much life. Or she was.

I never raised the blinds, just fanned them open to peer through the small slits. I didn’t want to see it all taunting me. All the tombstones that blurred in the distance. All the flowers that lay just to die on top of death. But yet, every day I stood there, hypnotized by the cemetery, just staring, never moving. I sipped my morning coffee. Bitter and burnt. I waited too long for it to cool, and now it was room temperature. As I turned to reheat my morning brew, I saw something. Something unusual. Something out of routine. A misshapen sphere outside my window, right where the lawn ended and the road began. I pulled my glasses higher up on my nose to investigate, it came into focus – a turtle.

Ane loved turtles. I just thought they were useless, slow creatures. But just outside, one was on the edge of the road, moving towards the cemetery. I smiled because it reminded me of her. She would have named him instantly. He inched closer to the road, his sharp claws grasping at the loose asphalt. It bothered me how long he took. Is that what people thought about me? I waited with curiosity, watching his every lethargic move. He moved slowly, yet was full of energy. One claw right after the other. No hesitation. It started to aggravate me with how long he was taking. Cars drove by, but he was still a ways away from the main part of the road. He’d turn around for sure. Once he heard the engines and tires, he was sure to stop. But no. He kept lurching forward. A car sped by, only a foot or so away from the turtle, and yet, he didn’t even shudder into his shell for protection. He kept moving at the same consistent slow pace. I couldn’t take it any longer. I slipped on my shoes and scurried out the front door.

Making my way to the road, I reached down for the turtle and picked him up. He hissed and squirmed his legs around, trying to claw at anything. Never once retreating into his shell. I moved off the road, closer to the house, and set him down on the lawn, undoing all of the ground he spent so much time covering. He sat still in the grass, finally not moving a muscle. I went back into the house and retrieved a crisp piece of lettuce. That’s what they like, right? I set it directly in front of him to fuel his body after that exhausting journey that only resulted in him moving backwards. He still hadn’t moved, but also hadn’t hidden in his shell. He just existed. After standing there for a few moments, I finally went back to the house. He wasn’t going anywhere. He was now on a perfect lawn. There was no reason for him to go back in that direction.

As I slipped off my shoes and shuffled back into the kitchen, pouring myself another cup of coffee, I realized that was the closest I had been to Ane in ten years.

* * * *

A few hours had passed since the turtle incident this morning, and yet I couldn’t shake it from my mind. I returned to the window often, checking to see if the little fella was feeling curious again, but there was nothing. Back to the ordinary. Back to the routine.

I spent the afternoon in the garden, tending to the flowers. I was never much of a gardener myself. I actually despised it. Yet, once Ane had passed, I felt like I was keeping some piece of her by keeping her crop alive. She fed off the garden, and it fed off her. She made it look so effortless. Always glowing and beaming while she fussed over the peonies. I just sit here coated in sweat. My already deeply wrinkled and leathered skin, furrowing further as I fight the invading weeds, trying to take over her perfectly pedicured kingdom. This would have to do for now.

* * * *

The next morning, I pushed past the blue front door, always greeting me with an echoey croak, and ventured to the mailbox for the morning paper. The coffee was already brewing. I didn’t know what I was going to have for breakfast. Hmm. Maybe toast and an egg? Sunnyside up. As I opened the mailbox, the sound of metal screeched into the air, disturbing the morning peace, and that’s when I noticed it. There was the turtle. I was surprised to see it. I thought it had moved on to bigger and more peaceful adventures, but no, there it moved with haste but also so slowly. How could that be? You could see the unwavering determination this thing had. It wasn’t close to the road, so I let it be, moving my way back inside with my paper.

Pouring myself a cup of coffee, I planted in front of the window. Only this time, I wasn’t drawn to the magnetic pull of the cemetery. My eyes were fixed on that damn turtle. What was wrong with this thing? Did he have a death sentence? From the time I saw him outside to now, he had already made it to the center line of the road, separating the two directions of traffic. How on earth did that thing get there? At least it was early enough that there weren’t any cars – no, no, no.

A blue Chevy was bobbing up the road. I could hear it before I could see it. The turtle never slowed his already slow pace. He kept trekking forward, like he was on some sort of mission. Like he was being pulled to something. Why was this turtle in such a hurry to get somewhere? Couldn’t he just enjoy where he was at? He would hear the truck, right? He would stop in his tracks and escape into his shell at least. I’m sure of it. Would that be enough? Oh, what does it matter, it’s a turtle for God’s sake. God had a funny way of deciding when people’s time was up, and it seemed to be this fella’s turn.

As the engine got louder, sweat started to form on my forehead. My chest felt tight. I couldn’t watch this. I bolted outside – well, if you call someone my age bolting, more like a scurry. The Chevy was a few yards away, but quickly closing in. My feet met the asphalt. I felt like the turtle in that moment, trying to hurry but only moving so quickly. Come on, come on, come on. The Chevy started honking its horn at me. I waved my arms, but he didn’t seem to slow. What was wrong with this guy? I didn’t have time to think, something I wish I did, lunging forward, grabbing the turtle, and stumbling onto the opposite side of the street. The Chevy missed us by about a foot, never stopping.

I stood there, trying to catch my breath, as the Chevy disappeared down the road.

“Asshole,” I said to myself.

The turtle was still in my hand. This time he didn’t hiss, but he kept moving his legs as though he were still on the pavement. After a bit of the adrenaline wore off, I realized I was standing directly in front of the cemetery. I guess today was the day. Never setting the turtle down, I walked through the gates. I took my time, making my laps up and down the rows, reading each name plate, until finally stumbling upon hers. Annabelle Cynthia Fredrickson. This was it, huh? This is what I had been putting off for nearly a decade. I thought I would feel more, but I felt numb. No pain. No sadness. No tears. No closure. Just numb.

I stood there for who knows how long, staring at her tombstone, turtle still in hand, making his lethargic yet intentional movements in the air.

“You must be Charlie,” said a young man, ripping me from my trance. He wore a uniform. He must work here.

“How do you know –,” I said, setting the turtle down in the perfectly manicured grass.

“This is for you. It’s about time you showed up,” he said, handing me an envelope. And then he was off. Not a single word more. I was too stunned to speak. He never once looked back.

I stood there in silence, shocked by this strange encounter. Was I dreaming?

I flipped the envelope over in my hands, and there it was – her handwriting. There’s no way. This couldn’t be possible. What on earth was happening?

I tore the envelope open and started reading immediately.

Hey, Hun. I hope you’re reading this. I know you’re stubborn, but I think you’ll come around. I hope you’ll come around sooner rather than later. If you’re reading this… then you finally made it.

I don’t know when it is — next week, next year, decades from now. I wanted to leave something for you, should you ever get brave (or bored) enough to cross the street.

I imagine you hesitated. Maybe you stood at the window like you always did, overthinking it. That’s okay. I didn’t expect you to rush. You never rushed anything — not decisions, not grief, certainly not grocery shopping. I loved that about you, even when it drove me mad.

But now you’re here. And I need to tell you something that no one else knows.

I’m not here.

Not in this grave. Not in this ground. The kids, along with everyone else, think my body is here, but it’s not. I am not here. Not spiritually. Not physically. I never wanted this. We talked about this — remember? That trip to the coast when we got caught in the storm, and you said we’d scatter our ashes someplace special like some tragic, poetic movie? That was my wish. That’s where my heart is. Wild. Free. Windblown. Not boxed up and planted across from our front porch like some museum exhibit.

But I didn’t have time to make it official. Things moved quickly. Too quickly. And I wasn’t there to fight for it. So they did what they thought was right. Don’t blame them — they were grieving, just like you. But you’re the one who knows better. You always knew me best.

He took my body somewhere else.

So now that you’ve come — now that you’ve stood here, reading this — I need to ask you something impossible and entirely necessary:

Don’t mourn me here.

Don’t let this place be the final version of me. Don’t think this is where I live now. I am in the places we loved — in the lemon trees we never got to plant, in the songs you can’t sing without crying, in the quiet moments when your breath catches for no reason at all.

I’m still around. Just not here.

So go home. Open the windows. Let the air in. Tell me a story. Make coffee. Burn the toast. Live the life we built, not the one we lost.

And when you’re ready — truly ready — go find me.

I trust you.

Love,

Your turtle, Ane

My heart was racing. What the hell was going on? Who was the man she mentioned? Was there something more sinister beneath it all? How would I find her? I felt lightheaded — dizzy with questions — when I heard it behind me. A car horn, a skid, then the sickening crush of the turtle beneath its tires. The crack rang out sharp and dry, like a branch splintering under sudden weight. Final. Like the snap of a truth long buried – brittle, reluctant, and irreversible.