A Deer on Fire Island by Tamar Gribetz

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A Deer on Fire Island


      An energy sits in my blood and muscles and won’t stop stirring. A habit from years of multitasking. My brain and body need a release, so I’ve started to take long walks. Now I walk along the dirt path and, though I bring my ear pods and phone, I don’t use them.  I inhale the scent of honeysuckle and feel the mist settle on my skin. I’m walking nowhere.  We’re staying at a friend’s empty cottage on Fire Island. We couldn’t get our kids to join us. Our son wanted to be in the city with his friends.  Our daughter lives in London. The twins, Madeline and Jeremy, just went off to college. 

     We’re staying in Corneil Estates, a small town in Fire Island, New York, just two blocks long. No cars are allowed. There is a peace and quiet that is stilling. My husband, Steve, has drifted off to sleep on a hammock while reading. But I must move.  I walk towards the water onto winding boardwalks that curve through the dunes to connect the homes to the beach. On either side lies tall grass whose tops hang over, lounging in the sun.  A little bit off the boardwalk, cattails, lavender, black-eyed Susans line the paths to neighboring shingled cottages.  Monarch butterflies dance around white, blue, pink hydrangeas. I notice the scent of jasmine and try to commit it to memory.
     
     What’s next for me?  There’s an emptiness around my heart that somehow sticks. No dinner to cook is nice, but nothing? It’s really an absence, this empty nest thing.  Absence of stress, of cooking, food shopping, carpooling, nagging, orchestrating.  But nothing has replaced the tumult. Only a cavity I keep tonguing and can’t leave alone.  How can the lack of something have such a strong presence?

      A fear has settled in my throat and arms. It’s grey, sometimes charcoal, then occasionally pitch black. It’s heavy, pulling me down. I know I’m meant to do something, but I can’t remember what.

     I hear a rustling nearby, open my eyes, and see a deer. She must be older, like me. I don’t see an udder hanging beneath her, no protruding teats. They must have dried up. She’s moving slowly. She grazes on the grass and appears serene. She must feel safe without the cars, with all the quiet. She notices me, looks my way, but doesn’t flinch or seem afraid. Her tail is at rest. She’s not going to let my presence ruin this for her. She has nothing to prove to anyone.

      I think back to when my I nursed my twins, sometimes simultaneously. Often when they were latched on to me, my older ones would join to cuddle, leaning on either of my shoulders.  I felt suffocated, boxed in. I wanted everyone off. Now, I finally have that. But what’s my purpose?

     Men don’t have this problem.  They don’t have to repeatedly redefine their purpose. My husband Steve works, always worked, and nothing has changed in his schedule from the time we got married, had kids, and became empty nesters.  It’s always been the same.  I had to adjust to being pregnant, then take time off from work each time I gave birth. Sarah and Evan were two years apart, and then four years later, we had the twins.  As a woman, you had to learn to “pivot,” “reinvent yourself,” be “resilient.” These are the words in every women’s magazine on shifting identity. Fuck that.

      The deer seems to be following me. She trails behind, lowers her head to the ground, sniffs at the flowers, browses at the shoots of trees and shrubs.  She’s content just taking in the scents and colors, the textures. I am reminded of the years before I was married, evenings at my easel, painting. The joy it gave me. Just appreciating color, light, shape, texture. Mixing pigments to create the right shade. I miss it. I stopped when life became busy, and painting felt frivolous.

      My legs keep walking, and I can feel my heart thumping, my blood churning. My body is telling me there is more to do, more ways to exhaust myself. But does it really crave this or is it just used to this? Because when I allow myself to stop for a second, I want to be still and not figure anything out. Just process the change before I blindly run ahead to fill my time. I need a pause, a reset. 

      The boardwalk ends, and there is only sand. A sign says I entered Summer Club. Lots of tall grass sprouting around the dunes, dark green bushes too. Yellow wildflowers pop everywhere. A couple of seagulls are squawking. I’m only about twenty feet from the ocean and hear the waves lapping on the shore. It is quiet. I can hear my breathing. Just my breath and the waves. I stand there for a few minutes, close my eyes and try to register the stillness.

      I sense a presence, and I see the deer is right behind me, browsing in the dunes. Her ears, soft. Her brown eyes, fixed on me. I look away for a second because the intimacy feels uncomfortable. But I quickly look back because I sense she’s telling me something. I notice she has a few scars along the side of her torso. She continues to look at me, then licks her scars, and pointedly stares at me again. See, I have scars too. We have scars because we’ve lived. We are survivors. She’s humming something. You’ve earned the stillness. Do not be afraid of it. I want to get closer to her, to better hear what she’s telling me. But I’m afraid I’ll scare her away.

      I read somewhere that when male deer shed their antlers—which they grow to attract mates—they run because they feel free, and they can forage.  They are no longer encumbered. They shed their antlers by thrashing them against tree stumps and bushes. I imagine how that must feel: the violence, and then the release.  And it makes me shiver.  In a way, we females have antlers too, but they’re internal. We shed our antlers slowly, quietly, and only then can we figure out what’s next. For us, change—like nature—is gradual, not sudden or aggressive. Buds slowly bloom into flowers, leaves slowly change color. It’s all a process, gradual and massive at the same time. We can’t force it; we need to just go through it.  After this doe nursed her young, and they went off on their own, there had to be a natural reshaping before she experienced the joy of freedom.

      She looks at me for another couple of seconds, then turns away and continues to graze. A lightness settles on me. The earth around me is shifting, but my footing somehow feels solid on the sand.

      Right there, I take off my shoes, my cover up, spread my towel. I lie there, close my eyes, relish the warmth. I dig my fingers into the sand until it’s cool and damp. I let the sound of the ocean wash over me. 

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Tamar Gribetz's short stories have appeared in 3cents Magazine, Halfway Down the Stairs, Manifest Station, Blood & Bourbon, The Hunger, Rumble Fish Quarterly, Poetica Magazine, and elsewhere. She lives in Westchester, New York, where she is at work on other short fiction. 



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