A Promise Made. A Lifetime Lost
A Promise Made. A Lifetime Lost
One final time, Dorothy Ryan prepared to play the game. The game from her teenage years when she’d squeeze her eyes shut and hope with all her might that when they opened, she would be on a stage on Broadway.
Solo in a dazzling spotlight, she’d sing her heart out to an enraptured audience. Music would fill the theatre as her voice soared to one high note and then, another. Thunderous applause followed, and her eyes flew open as she bowed with a flourish.
The disappointment was always the same. The stage was her bedroom. No audience, only dolls in a row on her bed. The music was her little sister singing to herself in the next room.
Her dreams vanished under the practical guidance of a mother who wanted her children properly educated. Dorothy left the game behind when she departed Rivers End at the age of twenty.
Now seventy-nine, Dorothy was back in her hometown after five decades, clinging to a final hope. She closed her eyes and wished—wished she was in her old bedroom in Palmerston House.
If only she was a daydreaming teenager again before this lifetime passed like the blink of an eye. Before she lost what mattered. Before her own choices shattered the life of the person she cared most for in the world, choices that destroyed true love.
Dorothy opened her eyes. She was still here, seated at a small table in a dingy motel room with a lumpy bed and peeling wallpaper. Her wrinkled hands were spotted from age, and her failing heart still pounded uncomfortably in her chest. So much for games.
She smoothed out an ivory page of delicate writing paper. Few people mattered to Dorothy. Her only grandchild, Christie, was one of them and this letter would say goodbye.
Her hand hovered over the paper, the expensive pen not making contact. There’d been another letter, one written and sent more than a month ago. Had Martha even read it and understood the urgency of her older sister’s request? Dorothy sighed and put down the pen.
So little time left and so much to say. To explain herself and be forgiven. Surely Martha would accept Dorothy’s actions all those years ago came from a place of love and concern?
I need you to understand.
None of this would have happened, none of it, had Martha ever cared about anything their mother, Lilian said, instead of following the rather bad example of their carefree father, Patrick. Martha was somehow the perfect combination of both parents, wild and stubborn, generous and passionate like Patrick, as well as proud and selfish, sensitive and protective like Lilian.
Ah
,
the beautiful one, the smart and funny child everybody loved. Especially me
.
Her tea was cold in the thick white mug. It would have tasted better in her bone china and properly made by Angus, the only man she had not scared away over the years, no doubt due to the generous salary she paid him to run her house. She’d rather be there, or even at Palmerston House, than in this horrid room.
Dorothy shook her head with a frown. She needed to write her farewells to Christie. As she picked up the pen, a memory intruded, and her hand trembled. It was 1967. The year that changed everything.
Patrick Ryan stood by Dorothy’s lounge room window, contemplating the hustle and bustle of Melbourne city several floors below. The outlook was straight down the main street filled with mid-afternoon shoppers, cars and workers. Patrick helped himself to a glass of whiskey from the small bar Dorothy kept, mostly for his visits.
“Father, you’ve got a long drive ahead!” Dorothy scolded.
Patrick tapped the window. “Do ye see the Clydies now?”
“The streets are getting too busy for the horses, Father, and besides, we don’t have milk delivered to the apartment.”
Patrick turned around. “All this progress—does it not make ye want to come home?” A third generation Australian, Patrick nevertheless spoke with the soft Irish accent of his father and grandfather. It was somehow out of place in Dorothy’s modern apartment.
Her life had been in Melbourne since boarding school days, punctuated by long summer school holidays in Rivers End she tolerated for her mother’s sake. The reality was she loved the progress, loved her job as a trainee manager at a department store, and rather loved the young man she was seeing. Going “home” would stifle her.
“Before I know it, Martha will be all married and gone as well. Both my girls disappearing in the blink of an eye.” Patrick sighed.
“What do you mean, married? Martha won’t marry Thomas Blake!”
“Have ye not spoken to yer sister in so long? She might not always like it, but Thomas has our girl all worked out. Them being wed will change her ways.” Patrick chuckled and drained his glass. “Ye be coming to the engagement party when they have it?”
“Engagement? I think I must.”
“I shall tell yer sister to hurry up and arrange the party so both my girls will be together again.”
If Martha was engaged to this boy, Dorothy needed to speak with her. It may not be too late to change her mind, and if anyone could talk sense into Martha, it was her big sister.
In the dull motel room, Dorothy’s heart overflowed with anguish.
Please, please let my letter have found you.
With both hands on the table to support her weight, Dorothy stood. Every bone hurt and her heart thumped oddly. She shuffled to an armchair in the corner of the room. The memories of that night in 1967 were crystal clear and she leaned back, closing her eyes.
Limestone cliffs towered above the perfectly curved, white sands of Rivers End beach. Midway along its one kilometre shore, a shallow river cut through the sand, forming a lagoon near the tideline. Close by, an old jetty resisted years of exposure to the open ocean to stand firm against the assault of the high tide.
Although after midnight, the air was hot and sultry with a bare whisper of a breeze to offer relief. Out over the Great Southern Ocean, a storm brewed.
Cut into the face of one cliff was a steep staircase of narrow limestone steps. Dorothy ran down them as fast as she dared. The beach was the last place she’d expected to be.
Where are you?
She reached the sand, almost tripping over shoes at the bottom of the steps. Martha’s. She jumped as lightning flashed. But now she knew where Martha was.
Almost at the lagoon, long emerald-green dress hitched up to let her run, Martha disappeared into the dark. Not far behind, and closing fast, Thomas still wore his shoes. He must be desperate to reach her if he hadn’t taken a few seconds to remove them. Dorothy pulled her sensible lace up leather shoes off, but kept hold of them as she took off after Martha.
Dorothy veered higher to the soft, dry sand. Surely Martha would run inland in a moment to follow the river back through the cliff to town. She aimed for the highest part of the lagoon, expecting to intercept her sister. Not finding her there, she ploughed through the sand toward the sea.
The sky lit up. Martha stood midway along the jetty as huge waves thrashed against its end. Dorothy opened her mouth to call out. But Thomas was there. On the sand, taking off one shoe, then the other, as though he had all the time in the world. What was he waiting for? He crossed his arms.
“Go away!” Martha’s voice carried to Dorothy, and she came to a halt, unsure if she should show herself. “Don’t follow me. You have no right!”
“Either you come off the jetty right now, or I’ll come and get you. Martha, I mean it, I’ll carry you back to the cottage if I must and I’ll—” Thunder, directly overhead, cut off his words.
Horror paralysed Dorothy as a wave crashed over the boards where Martha stood. With a scream, she slipped into the swirling water and disappeared.
Even as Dorothy managed a few shaky steps, Thomas was on the jetty, tearing off his shirt. Then he dived.
Dorothy’s eyes flew open. She sat upright on the armchair, disoriented. It was November 2016. Not 1967. The memories of that night almost fifty years ago were raw.
Martha had to learn the truth before it went to Dorothy’s grave with her. As she stood, a wave of dizziness darkened the room for a moment. Somehow, she reached the table and dropped onto the chair. She scrawled a few words on the blank paper, pursing her lips as pain caught at her chest. The pen slipped from her hand.
Angus will know what to do
.
Dorothy straightened her back as she shuffled to the bed, removed her shoes and placed them neatly on the floor. From an open cardboard box on the bedside table, she extracted a small photo album. Her breath ragged, she lay on her back, closed her eyes and willed her heart to steady. If only she’d done things differently that night so long ago.
Dorothy ran toward the jetty. Thomas surfaced amongst the angry waves for a second, only to dive under again. With a deafening crash, lightning struck the top of the cliff on the far end of the beach, and Dorothy screamed.
The seconds dragged like minutes, and still, there was no sign of them.
I cannot bear this!
As she tentatively stepped onto the jetty, there was a disturbance in the water, and Thomas burst up, Martha in his arms.
She was breathing. Martha was alive. Yet, Dorothy retreated. Back to the darkness near the lagoon as Thomas dragged himself from the shallows, Martha held against his chest. He staggered away from the water’s edge, closer to Dorothy, who ducked down.
How he had found Martha was a miracle. He must love her so much to put his own life at risk. Perhaps she’d been wrong about him.
Thomas knelt, his arms tight around Martha. “Damn it, woman. You could have died, throwing yourself in the ocean!”
Martha pushed herself out of his arms, falling unceremoniously onto the sand. She glared at Thomas as she got to her feet, ignoring his outstretched hand. Her dress was torn. Sea water dripped from her long dark brown hair.
Why was she still angry when he’d save her life? Dorothy pushed herself a bit further away, still watching them.
“It’s not what you think,” Thomas said. “You don’t understand.”
“Understand? Oh my God, Thomas. I saw you! It’ll be all over town tomorrow. She’ll tell everyone. How could she? How could you?”
“Let me explain.” Thomas stood.
“I don’t want an explanation, Thomas. I saw what happened and I cannot endure this!”
The sky opened and hard rain pelted down. Dorothy was soaked in seconds, but couldn’t take her eyes off the couple who were so close, yet unaware of her presence.
Martha twisted her solitaire engagement ring, then took it off.
“Put it back on before you drop it and stop being so damned melodramatic,” Thomas said.
“Oh, how can you say that?” Martha cried. “Don’t you get it? I’m leaving! It’s over!” She threw the ring onto the sand, turned and stalked off.
Thomas scooped up the ring and pocketed it, before striding after Martha. “Where are you going?”
Dorothy followed, heart racing. Was this it? Was Martha about to end the engagement?
“Just wait for one god-damned minute!” Thomas bellowed.
Martha spun around, her eyes flashing with a fury Dorothy recognised. Martha always wanted her way. But when she grabbed at the pendant around her neck as if to tear it away, Thomas covered the ground between them and captured her hands in his. He leaned down and whispered to Martha.
Martha’s expression had completely changed. Whatever he’d said, mattered. Now, she looked sad.
Thomas pulled Martha closer and traced the contours of her face with his fingertips.
The rain stopped.
The waves were the only sound.
The tenderness in Thomas’ face as he wrapped his arms around Martha and held her against his bare chest tore a hole in Dorothy’s heart.
For a long moment, it was as though even the elements held their breath.
“It’s over between us.” Martha stepped back.
Thomas held her wrist in his hand. “It will never be over with us.”
“You see, I can’t stay now. Not to face all those people and their laughter behind my back. After our engagement party of all times. And—”
Thomas cut her off. “That’s what you care about? Your pride? Always your pride and your temper that gets between us! Well, go! Run away and think about what your pride is doing to us. No doubt your sister and your mother will be thrilled but know this, Martha Ryan, I will wait for you!”
“Well, you’ll be waiting forever, because I’m not coming back!”
“I’ll wait for you. There,” Thomas pointed to the sea, “at the end of the jetty, I will wait. Every day I will be there to meet the dawn, as we have done so many times. Promise you’ll come back.”
Dorothy covered her mouth with both of her hands.
“Promise me!” Thomas insisted.
“Alright!” Martha cried out.
“No, Martha. A proper promise or it’s not real. Say it.”
“I promise! I promise I’ll return, Tom! Now let me go!”
Thomas released Martha, and she sprinted back along the beach. Thunder boomed, and a flood of rain began.
“I love you, Martha Ryan!”
His voice must have reached Martha through the rain, for she glanced back. Then, she was gone.
Dorothy turned her eyes back to Thomas. He’d dropped to his hands and knees on the sand. As lightning hit the waves near the jetty, Thomas raised his face to the skies and cried out. “I will wait, Martha.”
Now, on the lumpy bed in the dingy old motel room, Dorothy’s eyes fluttered open. Against her chest, she clasped the photo album with both hands open on a photograph of Martha and Thomas, taken on the beach at Rivers End, holding hands and laughing.
A single tear escaped. “I’m sorry.” Dorothy’s final breath was like a whisper.