Sitting alone, toes in the sand and highball in hand, Jaquie reflects she prefers her relationships as she does her drink- simple, smooth, and with no bitter aftertaste.

It hadn’t always been that way. There were relationships she’d had with men, and even women, when she had given every last ounce of herself, had been squeezed like a tube of toothpaste, the end rolled up so tightly it cracked and crumpled under the pressure of another’s need. 

Even her children frequently sucked her dry. Literally, as babies (her nipples still stung with the memory of assault), and then later, as teens and young adults, leaving their funky-smelling laundry scattered across the floor and demanding meals 24/7 as if she were some sort of maid service at a high-end hotel. Through it all, like a lush, abundant tree, she had sacrificed limb after limb, selflessly feeding them her fruit, the juices running down their greedy little faces.

Now she had become barren, shriveled, a stump of her former self. She reluctantly admits she had encouraged it. The neediness, this never-ending dependency of others. She’s had a tendency, unfortunate as it may be, to throw herself at the feet of the people in her life, to bestow them with gifts and services as if she was bringing frankincense and myrrh to the baby Jesus himself.

No more.

In an unprecedented moment, on an otherwise normal Saturday in April, something inside Jaquie had snapped. She’d spent the day chauffeuring her grandson, Marcus, to soccer games while her son, Ben, and his wife Tish lounged at the spa, claiming yet another “much needed break.” After dropping Marcus off (didn’t she need a break?) Jaquie had scrubbed her car, cleaning greasy hamburger wrappers, ketchup stains, and grimy socks off the floorboards.

That night, exhausted yet unable to sleep, Jaquie found herself on the internet at 2 a.m. gazing longingly at pictures of far-off beaches in tropical locals. St. Barth, Talum, Martinique. The possibilities were endless. She could practically smell the salty sea breeze, feel the sun’s gentle warmth on her face. Brilliant sunsets of every color and crystal sugar sand beckoned like sweets in a candy shop. Jaquie had glanced out the window, taking in the wet, drizzly Seattle night and imagined more of the same, the never-ending dampness smothering her with its oppressive gray weight.

She packed her bags.

To the horror and pointed displeasure of Ben and Tish, as well as others who had come to depend on her (like barnacles clinging desperately to a ship), she bought a one-way ticket to Mallorca, leaving her return open to whim. 

 Ben drove her to the airport, making a last-ditch desperate plea for her sanity. “Mom, you’re too old for this! It’s not safe. And we need you here to watch the kids,” he begged, voice high and tight with need.

“I’ll be fine. Don’t you have Liz coming over to babysit? They love her!”

“Yes, but Liz doesn’t clean the way you do, mom.”

Jaquie had glanced back in the rearview at grandson Marcus, who was loudly playing the video game of the moment on his phone, blue eyes glazed as if in a trance. Guilt flooded through her. Second guessing herself, she looked back again, as Marcus began picking his nose, curly blonde hair standing up in disarray, cold clumps of oatmeal from this morning’s breakfast still clinging to his shirt. NO, she had thought, a steely resolve suddenly and firmly pushing any doubt aside. It was now or never. Her second act.

She had hugged them decidedly, swiftly, then turned away before boarding the plane, where she was immediately handed a glass of Prosecco. “Cheers” said the flight attendant as Jaquie lifted her glass, the airy bubbles reflecting her mood, a slow smile spreading across her face in anticipation of what was to come.  

Now, toes in the warm, Spanish sand and highball in hand, Jaquie gazes out at Santiago, the latest course of her Latin smorgasbord. They had met the previous week at Chiringuito Bonito, a local beach bar famous for its delicious cocktails. He had offered to pay for her drink, an act which Jaquie would have quickly rebuffed in the past but in the spirit of adventure had accepted, surprising herself. She was glad she had. Santiago emerges, now, from the frothy waves, beads of water dripping off his tawny skin. The smell of coconut oil wafts through the breeze as he walks toward her on the beach, beaming, his teeth gleaming like polished ivory. She admires him, savoring the moment, not quite believing that she is here, now.

Just the day before, Santiago had taken her cliff diving (what a thrill!) off the bluffs of Deia, a Mallorcan hot spot for daredevils. In her previous life, she wouldn’t have dared, would have sat gnawing her fingernails until they bled contemplating the risk. What would happen to those who needed her if she met an untimely demise? “Trust me, I am your angel, you are safe with me,” Santiago had said in his thick Spanish accent, pointing to a rather large tattoo of angel wings on his back. Pushing fear aside, she had closed her eyes and jumped, throwing caution to the wind. What freedom she felt, face to the sun and windblown hair fanned out in glorious liberation.

Later that afternoon, after enjoying a long-deserved hot stone massage and pedicure at Arabella (Mallorca’s award-winning spa), she had taken a long walk along the shore, admiring her “bikini coral” toenails, refreshed and more relaxed than she had been in years. As she bent to gather shells, their pearly-pink undersides glowed, a perfect match to her mood. 

For years, what seems like eons, Jaquie had lost pieces of herself, like a much-loved puzzle touched so often by so many that the edges were soft and worn, almost unrecognizable. There were bits that had fallen to the floor, brushed under couches and dusty rugs, leaving the final picture incomplete, disconnected. Now, as she brings herself back to the present moment, basking in the sun, sand like velvet beneath her, she is surprised to discover that pieces she had thought lost forever were being found, one by one. She is beginning to recognize herself again. Not as a mother, or even a grandmother. Not as an extension of any other. As herself. Jaquie.

That evening, as Jaquie gets ready for dinner with Santiago, her cell phone buzzes. Ignoring it, she pulls on a breezy white linen dress and cinches the middle, admiring how it sets off her shapely figure, newly acquired tan and turquoise earrings. She quickly finishes with a dab of local orange blossom perfume. Glancing in the mirror, she sees warm brown eyes beginning to show the passage of time. Even so, they twinkle with the beauty of life and newfound adventure. Jaquie smiles, smoothing her sleek chestnut hair one last time before heading out. Santiago has made reservations at Aromata, a popular spot with a Michelin-star chef famous for its Calamari de la Plancha, a traditional Spanish dish. Stomach fluttering in anticipation of the evening to come, Jaquie checks the time. Santiago is due to arrive any moment.

As she walks from her villa to the lobby where they are to meet, moon high and full in the night, a balmy breeze running through her hair, Jaquie’s phone buzzes again. Expecting a text from Santiago signaling his arrival, she glances down, smiling. Immediately, her face falls as she sees several missed texts from her son, Ben, screaming out at her, each message more urgent and insistent than the last. The final text, written in all caps, reads simply “MOM PLEASE ANSWER, EMERGENCY!”

Immediately, Jaquie starts to sweat, the spell of the evening broken. Heart pounding, she 

dials Ben with shaking fingers. “Mom, why didn’t you answer?” he shouts, urgently explaining that grandson Marcus has had an accident. Jaquie, cringing with guilt (an emotion she knows all too well) listens with growing panic, hears the words “blood loss, concussion, possible surgery.” Apparently, Marcus had been on a hike in the Washington Cascades with his cub scout troop, and, in a self-absorbed moment on top of a rocky outcropping had taken a “selfie” and fallen off. They found him far below, conscious but confused, leg bleeding and bent at an unnatural angle. Air-lifted to the local hospital, he was currently being evaluated and would most likely need emergency surgery on his leg. “Please come home, mom,” Ben pleads, voice cracking with distress.

 “Of course, honey. I’ll be there as soon as I can,” Jaquie replies, the part of her that has always and forever been pulled to those who need her like a magnet to steel gripping her once again.

The following morning, a driver picks her up early. As they head to the airport, she looks out at the Mediterranean, its glinting ripples just beginning to turn from a deep grayish-blue to cerulean in the early light. Jaquie’s breath catches as she takes it in, the unique beauty of this place, the tranquil calm she has felt here. She rolls down her window, feels the breeze, heavy with the distinctive scent of Mallorca- salt, local herbs, sun baked soil. As the sun rises over the water, she feels a strange affinity for this island, for the sun itself, rising in the sky. It will perform its duty today, she reflects, shining down on those below, creating warmth, comfort, light. The sun could be counted upon. Every morning, without fail, it rose in the sky and performed its eternal task.

Her family, those she loves, expect no less of her, she thinks, now. They knew- no, expected, she would be there, day in and day out. Like the sun, she had always risen to the occasion, shining brightly on those around her, while those she shone upon lounged beside the pool of life, slugging down margaritas and splashing joyfully, soaking it all in. Jaquie is tired of shining from her perch in the sky. Isn’t it her turn to sit by the pool, soaking in the warmth of another’s sun, drinking as many margaritas as she damn well pleases? The thought catches her off-guard. Her cheeks redden, turn hot with shame.

Of course, she loves them dearly, she reminds herself, wants them to be happy. Heart heavy, Jaquie feels the tug of responsibility, of maternal love. She knows she will always be there when they truly need her. And they need her now. 

As they pull up to the airport, Jaquie sighs in resignation and grabs her luggage, checks in for her flight. With time to kill, she decides to have a final drink- a ‘last hurrah” at the tiny airport bar. Sitting on a small wooden barstool facing the gate, she orders her favorite, a Maker’s on the rocks (screw the time), then logs onto her social media account and begins to scroll.

Suddenly, Marcus’s face pops out from her feed, taking her by surprise. He’s grinning ear to ear, surrounded by Cub Scout Troop 48. Jaquie peers closely at the photo, expecting to see a hospital bed, but no- a “Welcome Home, Marcus!” cake sits on the counter, her son Ben cheerfully cutting slices. The other boys, his friends, are signing his cast with brightly colored markers. Jaquie is stunned. She is, momentarily, unable to breath. No one has contacted her, told her that the “emergency” was over, that Marcus was home, safe and sound, that they, in fact, did not need her, they just wanted her.

As she absorbs this, the selfishness of it, the glaring disregard for anything Jaquie herself may wish, a rage begins to grow within her, slowly at first, then, fed by the kindling of a dawning understanding, gains momentum. She pictures the future, returning to Seattle, each day of service bleeding into the next alongside Jaquie’s energy, until finally, wrinkled, old and stooped, Jaquie will die, the memory of Mallorca and its possibility lost years ago to the book of what “might have been.” This, she realizes, is her future.

Jaquie glances over at the gate where people are beginning to board. First one group, then the next, until a final call is made. She pays her bill, and, gathering her things, slowly begins to stand. As she walks toward the boarding area, body heavy with reluctance, she sees something new, something she hadn’t noticed before. To the left of the gate there is a very small office. A cardboard cutout of a palm tree sits in front, advertising “Villas for Sale in Paradise!”

Jaquie stares wistfully. As she gets closer, she peers through the office window and sees the agent within, who catches her eye and beckons her with a wave, grinning brightly. The door to the plane is now closing. “Last call,” says the gate attendant, frantically urging her forward. Jaquie stops, frozen in place. She considers the choices before her- two paths, her possible futures. Glancing once more at the palm tree cutout, her eyes follow its thick, sturdy trunk to the top, where the lush green fronds hold coconuts, high above. Seeds which will ripen, fall, and nourish when they are ready, not a moment before. Jaquie takes a breath, draws herself up, turns toward the office. Opens the door.

Kelli Short Borges is a writer of essays, short stories and flash fiction. A former reading specialist in the Arizona public school system, Kelli is a life-long reading enthusiast. She also enjoys hiking the Arizona foothills, photography, and traveling the world in search of adventure. Her work has been published or is forthcoming at Across the Margin, Wow! Women on Writing, Flash Fiction Magazine, MoonPark Review, and The Dribble Drabble Review, amongst other publications. You can connect with her on Twitter @KelliBorges2.