SEA WHISPER

"I can feel her, laddie. Tonight she will find me..."
Damn that old man, thought Andrew as he descended the back stairs of the cottage and stepped onto the sandy beach. He yanked up his blazer collar, as icy sea air gusted and chilled him to the bone.
The sun slipped another notch towards the western horizon and dusk settled over coast. The tide gurgled outward, the ocean an endless expanse of blue-green marble clouded with veins of pearl gray.
Andrew sighed as he strode along the edge of the water, heading toward the expanse of jagged cliffs and sea-caves that guarded a two-mile stretch of shore in Dark Harbor. It was the third time this week he'd chased the old man there.
With a small jump, he climbed onto a slab of granite and peered out at the expanse of boulders and sheets of rock. The wind slapped at his trousers and moaned through the stony landscape. He went forward at a slower pace, careful not to fall; many of the slabs were slick with seawater and barnacles. Seaweed sprouted from the cracks.
A wave tumbled in and his attention shifted to the sea. A splashing arose in the water, about a hundred feet off shore, and wisps of white spray danced on the crests of turquoise waves. The ocean seemed to bulge slightly. In the distance, a mournful wailing, eerie and vague, drifted ashore with the wind. Then it was gone. He wasn't sure if he'd heard it at all.
A feeling slipped through him. Something buried deep within his soul, indefinite and haunting, struggled to work itself free. His mind clouded with misty images and sensations, none of which he could quite identify. His gaze remained riveted by the churning rhythm of the sea.
He shivered.
Andrew shook his head and inhaled a deep breath of salty air, passing it off as imagination and a trick of the fading light. Perhaps he'd been worrying too much lately, not sleeping enough.
Before he knew it, he'd be as daft as his old man. Jesus, maybe Louise was right. Maybe he should put him away. He'd be better taken care of at a nursing home, and Whispering Hills seemed like such a nice place. At least that was what Andrew had read in the pamphlet and tried to drill into his head a thousand times over. Perhaps he'd eventually believe it.
After all, the old man had worsened perceptively over the past few weeks, at times unable to control his bowels, his memory deserting him like an errant child, mind clutching at wispy things. Andrew just didn't have the time for all this, not with working the extra hours required by his new position at the firm. Most of the burden fell to Louise, and he could tell she was fed up with it. It seemed they never had any privacy, not even a moment's solitude.
He snapped from his thoughts, spotting the old man up ahead. Bony frame perched on a stone slab, he gazed out at the ocean, as if waiting, always waiting.
"Pop!" he yelled. The old man didn't move or acknowledge his call.
Sighing, Andrew clambered over the rocks until he reached the old man, then squatted beside him. He studied his father, wondering how he ever came to look so old and fragile. Where used to be sandy-blond hair were now thinning wisps of gray that stuck out from beneath the rim of a black fishing cap. Where used to be strong ruddy features were now deep lines and hollows beneath cloudy aged eyes. Where had his vitality gone?
With her, Andrew thought. With her.
The old man tugged his cap down over the tips of his reddened ears. His thin wrinkled hands went to his chest and fumbled with the wooden buttons on his woolen coat. Faintly, he began to hum Loch Lomond.
"Pop, what are you doing?" A frown creased Andrew's face.
The old man, whose name was Aaron, turned, his eyes dim torches that twinkled from deep caves. "I'm waitin', laddie." The only thing the years had not robbed him of was the heavy Scots burr. "Waitin' for her..." He nudged his head toward the sea.
"For who, Pop? For who?" Andrew shook his head and sighed.
"For my bonnie lass, of course," said Aaron, voice hoarse. He coughed a deep rumbling cough, eyes watering. "'Tis been many years."
A quiver of defeat rippled through Andrew's heart. Frustration overwhelming him, he suddenly had the urge to reach out and shake the old man. It damned near killed him to watch his father deteriorate this way, slipping further and further into senility with each passing day.
"This is ridiculous." Andrew struggled to keep his voice steady. "You told me the same story last night, and the night before. There's nobody there, Pop. Nobody. Just water, beach and wind. You have to stop torturing yourself. I know it's been hard since mom died."
Aaron turned, hurt glimmering in his soft blue eyes. "Aye, laddie, 'tis been very hard. But tonight it will be over."
"Stop it!" Andrew didn't mean to yell but he couldn't help himself. "Just stop it. Please. You know I hate to hear you talk that way. I don't have--" He caught himself.
"Ye don't have the time. 'Tis what ye would say. My own flesh and blood, my own son, no longer has time for his old man."
"Pop, don't..." Andrew's voice quaked with emotion. Why couldn't he get through to him? Why did each attempt end the same, with more hurt, more bitterness, and nothing accomplished? If only he could change it, make it different this time, somehow reach him.
It seemed they had moved so far apart over the years, Andrew climbing his corporate ladder, leaving his compassion snagged on the first rung, and the old man stagnating as old people sometimes do, withdrawing into loneliness and memories and an insane notion that somehow his wife would be reborn and returned to him in the salty breath of the sea.
"I didn't mean--"
"Ye didn't mean, ye didn't mean!" Aaron's voice rose to a shrill pitch, face flushing with crimson. "Ye never mean, do you, laddie? Ye have your own life, now. I've heard ye talking. I will not go to a skurlie home. I will not."
Andrew felt a sliver of guilt. He never realized the old man might have overheard him discussing the possibility with Louise.
"I won't put you in a home, Pop." Andrew hoped the lie didn't bleed into his voice.
"Aye, ye will. Ye will wait till I cannot recognize the scent of the sea or the whisper of the summer rain on the roof. Maybe 'twil be sooner. But 'tis what ye will do. Because ye must. Ye must. 'Tis what I did when my own father reached his ninetieth."
Andrew's head dropped, tears welling. Christ! Why was this so hard? Why was he always in such a rush, moving faster and faster on his whirling carousel of life, never any time, never any time.