What Remains

I had prayed to avoid it. The text everyone dreads getting in the wee hours of the morning, when their eyes are still cloudy, blinking back rare, deep REM sleep.

FLIGHT DELAYED

Warm, tingly dread flooded my veins. The blue-white glow from my phone cast an eerie shadow on the wall behind the nightstand. I scrolled the entire message: Incoming flight from Vancouver delayed on the ground for two hours. My flight to Paris, therefore, would be delayed three. I groaned. Airline procedures never made much sense to me. But that’s about par for my life. Few things seemed to work in my favor.

The judge had moved in my favor, I admit, but if I messed up, one little centimeter, he could just as easily crush my life into smithereens.

My heart raced while my mind went in multiple directions to find sixty ways this was not going to work, the flight delay serving up the proof in the pudding. It has to work, I insisted.

Gathering my wits back up, I packed them away into my brain to hopefully retrieve again at a later time, shoved some toiletries into my carry-on on top of jeans and t-shirts, and carefully, oh so carefully, set my camouflage printed tote bag on the passenger seat of my blue Ford Bronco.

I shook my head, muttering under my breath, as I entered the freeway. “This ridiculous errand you have me chasing…after all you’ve already put me through.” I swallowed hard, choking back the emotions built up over years. Seven years since Mom had passed, three years since Dad brought criminal charges against me, eight months since he passed, and one “incredibly lucky” heir to two beautiful alabaster urns which were attached to an insane mandate.

As I approached security check-in, I noticed an older gentleman watching me. Wearing a dark, zip up jacket and matching cap, he had a slight, yet muscular build for a man of his age. His hair was solid, dark grey, the color of steel, as much as I could make out under the ballcap.

His gaze averted direct contact and he turned his back to me.

My tote and suitcase got separated and the young TSA agent studied me excruciatingly while pulling the tote off the conveyor. I handed over the paperwork, which three agents had to read, nod, and pass, while I ran to grab my suitcase out of another ladies’ way. “I’m so sorry,” I whispered.

“Ok,” the agent said, shoving the papers back in my grip.

“OOO-kay,” I repeated sarcastically. When I turned toward the terminal, the older man was laser focused on me again and only about six bootcamp marches away. I felt my blood pressure pound against the top of my head and based on the sudden reddening of his face, I figured his had, too.

“Isabelle?” he barked, one syllable short.

“Y-yes,” I stammered, shifting my tote to the other shoulder and wincing from it catching several strands of long hair.

He eyed the bag skeptically. “I’m your escort,” he announced.

My eyebrows nearly rocketed past my hairline. “Oh!” I exclaimed, holding out a hand to him. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“My name is Miles,” he said, ignoring both my hand and pleasantry. He turned his back to me and eyed the flight schedule. “You better hope this is the only delay.”

“I know!” I exclaimed. “But with my luck…” No. I stopped myself. I dare not even put the words out into the universe.

Miles turned just enough so I could see his scowl. Poor guy – the unlucky victim caught up in my shit-show. As I calculated our new arrival time in Paris, ground transportation, distance and traffic, tide schedule, and my court mandated return time, Miles chatted cooly to somebody standing next to our gate. They glanced my direction. I could still feel the ghost of my ankle bracelet monitor, felt the heat of embarrassment rise in my cheeks and shifted nervously. I set the tote down at my feet and closed my eyes.

They called our group to board and Miles fell in right on my heels. At our seats, I placed my carry-on into the overhead bin and awkwardly maneuvered the big, camouflage tote in front of me to squeeze into the seats. Miles grabbed my arm and pulled me back. He placed his gray duffle beside mine in the overhead.

 “I want the window seat,” he said.

I couldn’t control the reaction on my face, which immediately told him how rude I found that to be, but I remained silent and allowed him to pass by and occupy the seat. Once he’d buckled his seatbelt, I handed him one of the wooden boxes. His whole face drooped.

“What is…”

“That’s Dad,” I said, pointing to the space beneath the seat in front of him.

“No,” he responded, shoving the box back over toward me.

“Yes, down there, below the seat in front of you. That is now your personal item.”

“No,” Miles persisted, pushing the box against my hands, which still clasped the tote holding the other box.

“That’s the least you can do for taking my window seat,” I told him. I tucked the tote underneath the seat in front of me, buckled my seatbelt, and then closed my eyes.

Miles remained frozen for a moment. He finally relented and kicked the box under the seat.

“You and Dad would have gotten along wonderfully,” I remarked dryly. “You have a lot in common.” I opened my eyes to gauge his reaction. He appeared amused, surprisingly.

“Oh yeah? Smartass daughters?”

“That’s just scraping the barrel,” I answered. “Care to tell me how you landed this stellar job?”

Miles glanced at his watch. “Sure, we have a bit of time. But I doubt you want the full biography.”

“Maybe the cliff’s notes version.”

He chuckled. “I have spent the last thirty years on the road and in the air transporting troublesome criminals across borders.”

“Like me?”

His face brightened. “No. You’re quite the opposite. I skimmed your file but didn’t dig too deep. They had already informed me that you weren’t violent or troublesome.”

“Only a flight risk,” I remarked.

“No. I think they just wanted something easy on me for my last assignment before I retire.”

“I’m your last job?”

“Lucky me,” Miles nodded and whipped out a Bass Pro catalogue.

I pushed my head back against the headrest with a loud, lip vibrating sigh.

“You know,” I said after a while. “The irony here is that my own father is the reason that I am here…and the reason you are here.”

Miles nodded knowingly.

I continued. “He accused me of mishandling his funds. He claimed I violated the power of attorney after my mother died. I thought I was being helpful.”

“And as innocent as it may have been in your mind, the letter of the law said you were guilty,” Miles said.

“Yep. Trying to help him while he grieved his wife, my mother. And now, here I am, a grieving daughter and convicted criminal risking life, liberty, and reputation once more for him.”

“I’d question my sanity, too.”

“Why on earth am I doing this for him? For her? After all they put me through while they were alive?”

“Parents are imperfect people, too. My daughters remind me all the time.”

“And yet we never want to let you down.”

“Well, you know, your parents are now dead. They won’t know if you did this or not.”

I wrestled with that thought in silence for several minutes.

“No, but I will,” I said quietly.

As I entered the customs booth, I passed my dad back off to Miles in a quick move before he could resist. A customs agent stepped in and asked me what was in the containers.

“My parents,” I answered.

Miles closed his eyes. The agent searched my face, waiting for further explanation. All I could do was laugh loudly and awkwardly.

“She has documents for the remains,” Miles explained.

Blushing, I pulled the paperwork out. As he studied it, I felt a sharp pang of guilt for making light of carrying my parents’ remains across the Atlantic.

He handed the paperwork back to me. “Go ahead.”

“Merci beaucoup,” I replied.

As we made our way up to the train station, Miles clapped his hands together. “Let’s go rest up. We are going to need it.”

We made good time once we skirted Paris. During the drive, we shared stories about our families: the good, bad, and dysfunctional. It felt almost like therapy.

A couple hours in, we hit a patch of heavy rain. Traffic thickened like gravy. Slowing to a snail’s pace, I suddenly felt nauseous. I couldn’t peel my eyes from the time. Another hour ticked by.

I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel. “Hey, is your name really Miles?” I asked.

“That’s what it says on my birth certificate.”

“Boy, your mom really set you up, didn’t she?”

“She had no idea I’d be babysitting criminals across nearly every continent.”

“Or chasing tides,” I added.

“Right,” he chuckled.

“Look at this,” I said, presenting a photo from my jeans pocket.

“Your parents?”

“Yes. Isn’t that beautiful? They were so young. Married here at Mont Saint Michel 50 years ago today.”

“Good looking couple,” Miles said, handing the photo back to me.

“Good looking and full of demons,” I remarked. “Their final wish was to have their ashes reunited over the water and on the island.”

“You’re a very good daughter,” Miles told me.

My throat caught. “I sure wish they’d have thought so.”

We continued mostly in silence until we reached the outskirts of Beauvoir, where we stopped for gas.

“Miles, we are late again!” I called over the car, as he returned with snacks from inside.

Pulling into the parking lot closest to the causeway, I chose a spot, slammed the car into park, and downed a gulp of water.

The wind gusts were fierce. I fought to open the back door of the car, bracing one foot against the pavement as it tried to slam shut again. Beyond the parking lot, I could see the waves roiling.

I grabbed one urn and ran toward the bridge.

Miles picked up the pace beside me, carrying the other urn. We both looked at our watches.

“I don’t know, Isabelle. It’s awfully close.”

We reached the causeway, where a guide stood addressing a large crowd. I caught pieces of what she was saying, something about the tide, the crossing, the shuttle, but the murmuring voices dissolved beneath the pounding of my own pulse. My focus was on that shuttle. I took off.

“Isabelle!”

I ran harder. I was three leaps behind it when it pulled away.

“No, no, no, no, no!” I cried. “No!”

Tears stung behind my eyes. I blinked hard, trying to think, trying to calculate how to fix one more thing.

“Isabelle.” Miles caught up behind me. “The shuttle was full. They’re running back and forth.”

“How long?”

“About thirty minutes.”

“We’ll walk.”

I started toward the causeway. The wind whipped across my face, slapping strands of hair against my eyes.

“We can,” he said carefully, “but the guide said it’s about a forty-five-minute walk. Each way. That’s tempting fate that we may not make it back here to the mainland in time, even if we can catch a shuttle back. You know we can’t risk missing the flight home.”

I broke into a trot.

“Isabelle.”

I kept going.

“Isabelle, stop.”

“I can’t,” I called.

“Yes, you can.”

“No.” I spun toward him. He was still firmly in the same spot. “I can’t fail…again.”

His face changed.

“I have to do this, Miles. I have to keep this promise. I have to get them onto Mont-Saint-Michel. I have to get them to the Abbey. I have to—”

“You already have.”

“No, I haven’t!”

“Yes.” He stepped closer. “You have.”

I stared at him.

“Look around you.”

I snatched the urn out of his hands. “I don’t have time to look around!”

“That’s exactly what I’m telling you.”

I clutched the boxes tighter against my chest, turned, and began running again.

“Isabelle,” he called. “I’m on your side. But I also have a job to do.” His voice grew fainter, but more assertive the further I got away. “And if I have to order you to stop and get back in that car, I will.”

“You wouldn’t.” I was begging.

“I would.” He was not bluffing.

I turned and glared at him.

The corner of his mouth moved. “Now take one minute and look around you.”

Behind him, Mont-Saint-Michel rose from the water, ancient and impossible against the churning sky. The tide had swallowed the flats, leaving the abbey seemingly suspended between water and heaven.

“You made it. You’re here. Your parents are here on their fiftieth anniversary, just like they asked.”

“Not where they asked.”

“No. Not exactly where they asked.”

“That matters.”

“To whom?”

I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.

“Your parents are going to be together,” he explained. “You brought them across an ocean. You fought a judge for permission to do it. You dragged them through airports and security and halfway across France. You nearly chased down a moving bus…carrying all that!”

Despite myself, a laugh escaped.

Miles pointed toward the water. “Don’t waste the part you actually got because you’re angry about the part you didn’t.”

I looked back at Mont-Saint-Michel. My lips quivered. “But it was supposed to be perfect.”

“Why?”

“Because…” My throat tightened. “Because I needed to get this one thing right.”

Damn, there it was. Not for them. For me.

I looked down at the boxes in my arms. “God, they’re heavy.”

Miles was quiet for a moment. “Then put them down,” he said plainly. “Just for a minute…put the weight down.”

I lowered the boxes onto the stone barrier beside us.

Miles rested his hands on the wall and looked toward the water. “My wife died two years ago.”

I turned toward him.

He kept his eyes on the horizon. “I wasn’t going to bring it up because this wasn’t my trip. It’s yours.”

The wind filled the silence between us.

“I’m sorry.”

He nodded once. “People kept telling me it would get easier. Lighter.” He rubbed his hands together against the cold. “It doesn’t.”

I waited.

“The grief doesn’t get lighter, Isabelle. You just keep putting things on the other side.”

“The other side?”

“Of the scale. A balance scale.” He glanced at me. “Your life. The people in it. Places you haven’t seen. Things that make you laugh when you don’t think you’re supposed to.”

I looked at the boxes. Mom and Dad. All those years. All that love. All that anger. The things they’d given, as well as taken. All that I had done, which never seemed like enough.

Miles bumped my shoulder with his. “If you’re waiting for perfect, you’re going to be waiting a hell of a long time.”

I laughed through the tears.

He nodded toward the boxes. “Now say whatever you need to say to your parents, and by God, let’s get this over with before I have to explain to a federal judge why my last assignment decided to defect to Normandy.”

I opened Mom’s box first. The tide was at its highest, waves lapping against the distant walls of Mont-Saint-Michel. Wind tore through my sweatshirt and whipped my hair across my eyes.

I took some ashes. “I don’t know if this is what you wanted,” I whispered. “But it’s what I can give you.”

The wind gusted. I opened my hands. Ashes lifted into the air and disappeared toward the Atlantic. In that moment, my hair plastered itself across my face. I couldn’t see! My hands were covered in ash, so I tried to shove hair away from my eyes with the back of my wrist, only making it worse.

Suddenly, standing on the edge of the Atlantic Ocean on my dead parents’ fiftieth wedding anniversary, under court supervision, half-blinded by my own hair with Mom and Dad literally blowing away in front of me, I started laughing.

Not a polite laugh. Not even a sane one. I laughed until my stomach hurt. I laughed until the tears came harder. I laughed until I wasn’t sure which was grief and which was joy and which was simply relief.

I gathered the last of their ashes together. Mom and Dad, one final time. I looked toward the abbey. Then I let them go.

The wind carried them out in a pale cloud. I wiped my eyes with my sleeve and turned around.

Miles stood behind me. He was spitting toward the ground and wiped furiously at the front of his coat.

I stared at him.

He stared at me.

“Which one was that?” he wanted to know.

A laugh exploded out of me. “Dad. You guys really bonded.”

Miles looked down at his coat again. “Of course it was.”

That did it. I doubled over.

Miles laughed, too. Not the dry little chuckle I’d managed to coax out of him over the past two days, but a deep, ridiculous, belly laugh that seemed to surprise him as much as it did me.

For a moment, neither of us moved. The wind howled, the Atlantic churned, Mont-Saint-Michel stood where it had for decades.

Mom and Dad were gone…kind of. The weight was still there, but as I watched Miles wipe my father off his coat while laughing hard enough to bring tears to his eyes, I thought maybe something had landed on the life side of that balance scale.

Miles straightened, cleared his throat, and checked his watch. Just like that, he was back.

“All right,” he barked. “Airport. Move.”

I smiled and picked up the empty boxes. “Yes, sir.”

We turned toward the car. This time, I let Miles drive.