You, the Ocean, and Me
From Act II, Scene 5 of Blisters by Ivy McSlade.
[Marie stands on the stage, a piece of paper in her hand. It is one of the letters from Marcus.]
Marie: [reading aloud] Marie, don’t mourn me for too long. Don’t let yourself become closed off to love. Our love was true, is true, but it doesn’t have to be only. I read something once about first loves, how they teach you to laugh at yourself and how to see beauty in things you’ve never thought beautiful before, and first loves teach you how to be lonely and how to say goodbye and how to accept endings. That’s what I need you to do, Marie.
[Marie pauses, her voice cracking. She closes her eyes and clutches the letter to her chest as she takes a deep breath. Then she opens her eyes and continues.]
Marie: [reading aloud] I need you to accept our ending, love. And then I need you to let yourself heal, and you need to let yourself fall in love again. Second loves have things to teach us, too. You need to discover what they are for me, Marie, because I’ll never be able to.
On the drive back from Padstow, Ivy fell asleep in the car. When she woke up, they were in the driveway in front of the cottage. Harry walked her to the door and kissed her in the doorway. She wanted him to come in, but there was “no rush,” he said. No reason to hurry. That made her smile, because it let her know that the future she’d given herself little leeway to imagine–he’d been thinking about it too.
In the morning, Ivy wakes up eager to return to the play. She finishes her outline before lunch and, after heating up some soup on the stove, she begins writing in the details. She can see the shape of it now, the shape of Marie’s journey from someone whose identity is entirely brokenhearted widow to a woman who is able to reclaim parts of who she used to be as well. Marie’s able to build her new self.
That night, Harry texts her and says that he’s having dinner with his mum but could he stop by afterward? Ivy reads the text with foggy eyes and forgets to respond. When he shows up around 8, she hasn’t eaten, her hair’s a mess, and she’s still wearing last night’s pajamas.
“You’ve been writing?” Harry asks when she opens the door. “That’s great, Ivy. Should I go?”
Ivy blinks at him, annoyed at herself for forgetting about his text message. She should’ve showered. “No,” she says. “I need to eat. Sit with me?”
He smiles as if this is exactly what he wants to do.
As Ivy scrambles some eggs, Harry sits at the table in the small kitchen and tells her about his day. He’s building a cabinet for his classroom, he explains, to increase the storage available for instruments to motivate the school to buy more. He asks Ivy’s opinion on what color to paint it, and her first thought is mint green, after the tea he had the first time he came over.
He tells Ivy about his mum, about the flowers she will be doing for a wedding next weekend. She’s recruited Harry to help, and Ivy laughs as she imagines it, Harry struggling along under dozens of bouquets. She likes that about him, his love for his mum, his innate desire (he probably doesn’t even realize he does it) to lift up those around him, to make their lives better in whatever way he can.
“What about your day?” Harry asks as Ivy joins him at the table with her plate of toast and eggs. “Tell me what you wrote today.”
“I think I thought the play was about love before,” Ivy says, then pauses to take a bite. When she’s done chewing, she takes a sip of her tea and continues. “About how you love somebody even after they’re gone and that love is so all-encompassing that you can’t imagine it ever not being the center of your life. But I changed my mind, because I don’t think that’s real.”
Harry nods, watching as Ivy stabs forcefully at her eggs. She didn’t realize how hungry she was until she had food in front of her. “So what’s it about now?”
“Letting someone go,” Ivy explains, thinking of Marie’s cardboard boxes and wedding photo on the floor. “And letting someone new in. So it’s about love, but it’s about second love.”
“Oh?” Harry says, raising an eyebrow that makes Ivy blush. “Did I have anything to do with that?”
“Hmm?” Ivy returns the raised brow, but then she remembers their conversation from the other night. Harry’d said that love is real every time you feel it, no matter how many times you’ve felt it before. “I guess you did, though I didn’t realize it when I was writing.”
“You’re welcome,” Harry says, smiling. Without waiting for an answer, he gets up from the table and goes to refill the kettle. Ivy listens to the water ping and whir against the metal as the kettle fills, and she listens as Harry turns off the tap and sets the kettle on the stove and lights the burner. Ivy sets her fork down lightly on her plate and stands up. She walks to the stove and touches Harry lightly on the arm, stepping close to him as he turns around.
His arms come up easily, wrapping themselves around her shoulders, and she slides her hands up his chest to link behind his neck.
“Thank you,” she says, leaning her head on his chest. His arms tighten around her, pulling her close to him, and she closes her eyes.
A week ago, she never would have imagined she’d be here, nearly finished with a play that isn’t half as bad as she once thought it would be. Of course, it isn’t perfect. The Charlie subplot, Marcus’s best mate who’s always had a thing for Marie, it doesn’t fit, but Ivy doesn’t want to scrap it. Isn’t that what life is like sometimes? Some of the bits don’t fit, but they’re there anyway, and you’ve got to confront them. Sometimes the bits are good, and you’ve got to wrap your arms around them tight and hold on.
And Act I is much longer than Act II. Ivy considers the possibility that maybe the play should only be one act, no dividing lines to tell the audience where they should feel the turning point. That’s how life is, too. You can only see where you began to change when you’re looking back at it all. Hindsight is 20/20, isn’t that what they say?
And looking forward, ignoring the rearview altogether–that’s practically going in blind. That’s letting anxiety creep into your stomach but not letting it take control. Fate’s involved, sure, but you’re the one at the wheel. You’re the one with your foot on the accelerator, pushing faster, faster, faster until you end up where you want to be–even if it isn’t where you thought you were going.
Marie: [reading aloud] Marie, don’t mourn me for too long. Don’t let yourself become closed off to love. Our love was true, is true, but it doesn’t have to be only. I read something once about first loves, how they teach you to laugh at yourself and how to see beauty in things you’ve never thought beautiful before, and first loves teach you how to be lonely and how to say goodbye and how to accept endings. That’s what I need you to do, Marie.
[Marie pauses, her voice cracking. She closes her eyes and clutches the letter to her chest as she takes a deep breath. Then she opens her eyes and continues.]
Marie: [reading aloud] I need you to accept our ending, love. And then I need you to let yourself heal, and you need to let yourself fall in love again. Second loves have things to teach us, too. You need to discover what they are for me, Marie, because I’ll never be able to.
On the drive back from Padstow, Ivy fell asleep in the car. When she woke up, they were in the driveway in front of the cottage. Harry walked her to the door and kissed her in the doorway. She wanted him to come in, but there was “no rush,” he said. No reason to hurry. That made her smile, because it let her know that the future she’d given herself little leeway to imagine–he’d been thinking about it too.
In the morning, Ivy wakes up eager to return to the play. She finishes her outline before lunch and, after heating up some soup on the stove, she begins writing in the details. She can see the shape of it now, the shape of Marie’s journey from someone whose identity is entirely brokenhearted widow to a woman who is able to reclaim parts of who she used to be as well. Marie’s able to build her new self.
That night, Harry texts her and says that he’s having dinner with his mum but could he stop by afterward? Ivy reads the text with foggy eyes and forgets to respond. When he shows up around 8, she hasn’t eaten, her hair’s a mess, and she’s still wearing last night’s pajamas.
“You’ve been writing?” Harry asks when she opens the door. “That’s great, Ivy. Should I go?”
Ivy blinks at him, annoyed at herself for forgetting about his text message. She should’ve showered. “No,” she says. “I need to eat. Sit with me?”
He smiles as if this is exactly what he wants to do.
As Ivy scrambles some eggs, Harry sits at the table in the small kitchen and tells her about his day. He’s building a cabinet for his classroom, he explains, to increase the storage available for instruments to motivate the school to buy more. He asks Ivy’s opinion on what color to paint it, and her first thought is mint green, after the tea he had the first time he came over.
He tells Ivy about his mum, about the flowers she will be doing for a wedding next weekend. She’s recruited Harry to help, and Ivy laughs as she imagines it, Harry struggling along under dozens of bouquets. She likes that about him, his love for his mum, his innate desire (he probably doesn’t even realize he does it) to lift up those around him, to make their lives better in whatever way he can.
“What about your day?” Harry asks as Ivy joins him at the table with her plate of toast and eggs. “Tell me what you wrote today.”
“I think I thought the play was about love before,” Ivy says, then pauses to take a bite. When she’s done chewing, she takes a sip of her tea and continues. “About how you love somebody even after they’re gone and that love is so all-encompassing that you can’t imagine it ever not being the center of your life. But I changed my mind, because I don’t think that’s real.”
Harry nods, watching as Ivy stabs forcefully at her eggs. She didn’t realize how hungry she was until she had food in front of her. “So what’s it about now?”
“Letting someone go,” Ivy explains, thinking of Marie’s cardboard boxes and wedding photo on the floor. “And letting someone new in. So it’s about love, but it’s about second love.”
“Oh?” Harry says, raising an eyebrow that makes Ivy blush. “Did I have anything to do with that?”
“Hmm?” Ivy returns the raised brow, but then she remembers their conversation from the other night. Harry’d said that love is real every time you feel it, no matter how many times you’ve felt it before. “I guess you did, though I didn’t realize it when I was writing.”
“You’re welcome,” Harry says, smiling. Without waiting for an answer, he gets up from the table and goes to refill the kettle. Ivy listens to the water ping and whir against the metal as the kettle fills, and she listens as Harry turns off the tap and sets the kettle on the stove and lights the burner. Ivy sets her fork down lightly on her plate and stands up. She walks to the stove and touches Harry lightly on the arm, stepping close to him as he turns around.
His arms come up easily, wrapping themselves around her shoulders, and she slides her hands up his chest to link behind his neck.
“Thank you,” she says, leaning her head on his chest. His arms tighten around her, pulling her close to him, and she closes her eyes.
A week ago, she never would have imagined she’d be here, nearly finished with a play that isn’t half as bad as she once thought it would be. Of course, it isn’t perfect. The Charlie subplot, Marcus’s best mate who’s always had a thing for Marie, it doesn’t fit, but Ivy doesn’t want to scrap it. Isn’t that what life is like sometimes? Some of the bits don’t fit, but they’re there anyway, and you’ve got to confront them. Sometimes the bits are good, and you’ve got to wrap your arms around them tight and hold on.
And Act I is much longer than Act II. Ivy considers the possibility that maybe the play should only be one act, no dividing lines to tell the audience where they should feel the turning point. That’s how life is, too. You can only see where you began to change when you’re looking back at it all. Hindsight is 20/20, isn’t that what they say?
And looking forward, ignoring the rearview altogether–that’s practically going in blind. That’s letting anxiety creep into your stomach but not letting it take control. Fate’s involved, sure, but you’re the one at the wheel. You’re the one with your foot on the accelerator, pushing faster, faster, faster until you end up where you want to be–even if it isn’t where you thought you were going.