“Sure.” He grabs the car keys and starts to the front door, but turns back. “I feel so useless,” he says as he runs a frustrated hand through his thick hair. “It’s impossible to help him. There’s nothing to do. There’s nothing to say.”
I nod. “No. There’s not.”
We stand there in the hallway, both filled with guilt, and frustration, and devastation. Neither of knows how to react whenPatrick shows up, all pretending to be happy to go out. Everything feels fake. But RobBob takes him out like it’s just a normal trip to the market.
After I grab the shovel I left out before my guests’ arrival, I make my way down to the water, roll up my pants, and strip off my shoes and socks. I walk the shore and dig for a bit, excitedly finding some clams. Those little bubbles that pop up through the sand when you’ve hit the right spot are pretty fun.
When they get back, RobBob yells from the deck, “Piles of seafood secured! ”
“Patrick! Get down here!” I demand.
Patrick walks slowly down to the beach to meet me.
“What, Diana?” He is annoyed
I march out of the water and grab him by his shoulders. “We’re clamming! I got us licenses to dig for clams, so we get to stomp around and find clams.”
“I don’t know what that means, but okay.” He’s confused when I hand him a shovel. “What? I don’t know what to do.”
I know he means this in more ways than one.
But I make him half undress and then wave him into the wet sand. “Plod around by the shore and look for bubbles. Then dig just ahead and scoop up clams.” I show him the bucket with my findings. “Dig and scoop, okay? We’re clamming.”
“Okay. We’re clamming.”
So, he and I trudge through sand and dig and scoop. At first, he just swears when there’s nothing, but then he yelps, “I got one!” After that, every few minutes, I hear, “Woo-hoo, another one!”
It’s like listening to a kid finding Easter eggs.
“Isn’t this the best?” I yell out over the sound of the waves.
Patrick’s smile is the greatest. “It really is.”
We are smelly, and wet, and sandy beyond reason, and we both laugh when we emerge from the sea.
“You have to post about this,” he demands while breathless and all smiles. “People need to clam.”
I’ve taken video because this was all so sweet, but it’s new for him to ask me to post, so I raise my phone again. He actually makes a show of waving at the camera and hollering about how fun clamming is. There’s no doubt that my followers will love this content because Patrick is more than endearing, and maybe we’ll encourage more people to try foods they think they wouldn’t like.
After we wash off ourselves and the clams in the outdoor shower and change into dry clothes, I start dinner. A New England boil—complete with potatoes, corn, and a whole pile of fresh herbs and garlic—is always good for the soul.
We all devour the pots of food I boiled up, and we fill up a garbage bag with shells.
“That fresh bread you found in town was made for dunking,” I say.
RobBob nods. “I am always good for finding a good dunk. And with that? I am off to bed!”
Patrick snags us a few beers from the fridge. “Sit outside? Maybe on the dock?”
“Sure.”
We take the short boardwalk over the sand and cozy up with our feet dangling over the water.
“That was nice,” he says. “Today. Tonight. I needed it.”
“Good.” I take a swig from the bottle. “How are you? How is Katrina?”
“Shitty. And shitty,” he says with a mild, sad laugh. “I don’t know that we’ll survive this. Most relationships don’t.”
