Lana (F)

In the photograph—a real photograph, one that you can hold in your hand—Lana stands just ankle deep in the sea, her left hand hooked inside the waistband of her corduroy jeans that sit down on her hips, and she has cuffed the legs a few times. Because a gust of wind came at that very moment, her right hand has come up to capture the brown hair that is falling across her face, but she is expressionless in the pose, and because she wears sunglasses, no hint of surprise registers.

Or, she laughs out loud, a laugh that registers no inhibitions, both hands up to tame her hair and pull it behind her head. 

“Be still” I say. Lana giggles and fusses with her hair a moment, and then she again faces me. 

“You can’t smile?” 

Laughing, she places a hand over her mouth. “No. Not today.”

Truth is, I did not take the picture. Lana showed it to me. As I held it in my hand, I wanted to be there with her on the beach, looking out at the sea, feeling the heat of the sun on our faces, rather than her sister being there, being the one to take the photo.

We started talking when my lab schedule changed three months ago, and most days we were the only two in the lunch room. Lana has four sisters, and she is the oldest. She told me about their week-long vacation last August at Pawley’s Island while we sitting at a table together in the lunch room at work. I heard about the kids getting sunburned, her baby sister Kris disappearing for nearly 24 hours, and how she nearly always had to cook the meals. When I tell her about my adventures in cooking, she nearly always laughs out loud.

Or, she is biting her lip as she stares straight at the camera.

“What’s wrong, Lana?”

“Nothing. Just thinking about Kris. Worried about how she’s doing.”

“Did you talk to her last night?”

“No, but Ed told me she was starting to feel like herself again. She cooked dinner for the first time in two weeks, and she took Angela to soccer practice.”

“That’s good, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Yes it is. I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay. You ready to try this picture again?”

When we see each other in the lobby at the end of the working day, Lana usually nods and wishes me a good evening. Fridays are a little harder. She wishes me a good weekend.

To me it seems that she and I rarely exist for the most part in the world beyond the office walls—or the front lobby, or the lunch room, but one Saturday at the Piggly Wiggly I saw Lana in the checkout line. I was coming down the rice and pasta aisle, and when I saw her I felt that little catch that comes every time I see her, a small intake of air, a little flutter in the gut, and I took a quickened step or two forward. But, then I stopped and turned and headed away from her.   

Monday morning I confessed, “I saw you at the Pig Saturday.”

“You should have said hello. I was getting the stuff for a birthday cake for my niece and some dog food.”

“Well, you were headed out the door and I was more than halfway up the aisle.”

“I’ve got some extra cake. Want a piece?”

And twice we have run into each other at Barnes & Noble. The first time, she was heading to the checkout line with a copy of The Remains of the Day and a calendar that featured photographs of Paris. The next time, I was having coffee and looking at magazines featuring log homes. She saw me and waved, and after getting her coffee she came over to my table and sat down. Two hours went by before she blurted out that she needed to get home because her 9-year-old son Ben needed a ride to little league practice.

Lana is a few years younger than me and I am 38. When we stand next to the Coke machine, I am always reminded of—surprised even—by how short she is. While her eyes are pretty, her special feature is a smile that when she really smiles just makes me think that all is well with the world. I like to think of her smiling like that when Ben gets a hit or her dog Rowdy runs down the beach or across a field.

Now life is often a series of routines, routines that shift over time, routines that set their own rhythms. As I go about my business, some mornings I will see Lana and some mornings get to say hello and see that smile. Nearly every day we will share nearly an hour at lunch and she will tell me about her son and about her sisters. 

Not very often, but sometimes, she doesn’t laugh as much and may even seem a bit sad somehow. She keeps her head down, and one day she even said “I’m sorry” and left lunch fifteen minutes early. 

Some days she will offer me a brownie or a cookie or two from a batch she fixed at home. Then, at the end of the day, I may see her on her way out the door, her head down as if she is on to the next moment and leaving behind her day, and more often than not, I will receive the quick wave and that wish for a good evening. 

Or another wish for a good weekend.

What will not happen is that we will ever sit out at the shore and share a beer and go home together to shower off the beach sand. Never, never to wash away the salt from the sea.  Ladson 2013