Whitney strolled down the beach, hands in the pockets of her jean shorts, and left earbud swinging from the cord connected to her iPod, the right pumping loud music into her head. Her long blonde hair billowed out behind her whenever the salty wind blew and her pink lips pursed and moved as she chewed on the inside of her cheek. Mind reeling, she ambled along the picturesque beach and bent every so often to pick up a flat rock and skim it out over the waves. She felt a buzzing in her pocket and pulled out her cell phone. It was a call from her father. His face smiled up at her from behind the glass and he looked happier than she had seen him look in a long time. Cringing at the thought of what he was going to say, or yell at her for, she hit the 'end' button and shoved it deep in her back pocket. That was a conversation for much later, when she had everything figured out.



The waves crashed and broke along the rocky shore and every so often they would reach her toes and she would move slightly farther up the beach, not really paying much attention to it. Her mind stuck on a single thought that spun and shattered, then recollected itself and battered against her skull.

<i>Why did she leave me alone?</i>

She turned toward the ocean, and stared into its cerulean depths, heart aching and head pounding. Whitney tilted her face to the sky just as a pounding rain began. Salty liquid rushed into her eyes and down her throat. She sputtered, but then stopped, realizing she might like to drown. Opening her mouth to the sky and spreading her arms wide, Whitney welcomed death, which would be her only solace. Waves crashed around her ankles and threatened to knock her over. 'Let death wash over me in a welcome blanket,' she thought poetically as rain poured steadily into her mouth and down her neck. The cold water felt like smooth, icy fingers around her thighs.

<i>'When did it flood up that high?'</i>

The fingers pulled and tugged, finally capturing their prey as Whitney fell, arms pinwheeling, and coughing up the water that had flooded her throat. "No!" She screamed, angry for a moment when it seemed that death had cheated her, but realizing the minute her back hit the freezing water, that she may still die, as the ocean would surely swallow her.



The mighty ocean roared in her ears and she felt herself being dragged out with the tide, swept up in an undercurrent. She tumbled head over heels and soon had no idea which way was up. Her lungs burned with the need for oxygen, and she kicked toward what she felt was the surface, suddenly realizing she had no desire to die. Her heart pounded, and her head swam, much like she was struggling to do. Finally, Whitney broke the surface, the thin skin between water and air. She gulped in oxygen greedily and kicked hard to stay above the rushing current. Her hand hit something hard and colder than the ocean around it, floating just within her grasp. A glass bottle, a translucent brown like a beer bottle, slipped from her fingers and she was filled with an overwhelming desire to chase after it. As much as her limbs ached from the struggle, she had to have the bottle. Whitney kicked hard against the current and caught the bottle just between her middle and index fingers. As she curled her fingers inward to keep hold of it, her hand chilled once again due to the frozen glass. Rain poured down all around her and her wet hair slicked to her face as she pushed and kicked, arms and legs burning, toward shore. Her feet hit sand underneath her and she drug herself up onto the wet, warm, sandy beach. Whitney fell, face first, high on the beach, out of the water's grasp, the bottle still clutched in her hand.



Close to three hours later, after the storm had stopped, she felt a buzzing in her pocket once again. "I figured it wouldn't work after such a dunking," she muttered to herself, and laughed. She realized just how hysterical the thought was and burst into a fit of giggles. Now in hysterics, she reached into her pocket, and pulled out her phone, seeing her father's face.



"Yeah, dad?" She asked after hitting 'answer' and pressing the device tight to her face.


"Where are you? I have been calling you for hours!" Her father's voice was an amazing comfort and she relished in it while she played with the bottle. She found it had a cork in it, and she sat up, now eager to examine it even more.



"I'm fine daddy, if you can call what I am fine," she said through her fit of giggles, pulling on the cork until it popped out.



"Just get home! I have been worried absolutely sick about you! If your mother-” Her father stopped himself, choking back a sob.



"Yeah, well, mom's never going to say anything again, will she?" She muttered cynically as she tilted the bottle this way and that, wondering why it had had a cork in it. As she opened her mouth to speak again, a few slips of rolled paper slid out of the mouth of the bottle. She picked one up gingerly and pinched it between her fingers, searching for the edge of the minuscule roll.



Whitney began unrolling it as her father spoke again. "Whitney," he said, his voice now deflated of any and all emotion, "please, get home soon. I need you here. Whitney? Whit?!”



Whitney had dropped the phone. In her hand, she held a picture of her pregnant mother. Her mouth opened and closed, searching for any word to say. Her other hand searched for the slips of paper that came with it. With trembling fingers, she pulled the second roll apart, and her eyes wouldn't focus, so filled they were with tears. She forced herself to see, and reach the slip. She gasped and began to sob.



On the note, in her mother's curly, slanting handwriting, it read: 'Dear unborn baby girl, I have so many hopes and dreams for you. One is that by chance, you may find this bottle. Included is a picture of you and me, and my list of dreams, advice, and hopes for you. Remember baby, never let the waves break down your heart.'



It was signed, dated, and even had the location on it. 'Amber Dawson, 06/18/95, Montego Bay, Jamaica.'



Whitney sobbed as she remembered a story her mother told her. Her parents had taken a cruise to Jamaica when she was just a few months into development. Her mother had been irritable, and grew angry at her father over "such little things". The whole time, she avoided him as much as possible, and finally realized, that she needed to forgive him because he was, after all "the chef of her bun in the oven". She always used little phrases like that, some kind of funny euphemism for something she didn't want Whitney to learn about just yet.



She gathered the courage to open the third roll. She peeled it apart and was surprised by the length of the paper, all delicately written in neat print. There had to be at least sixty items on the list! Whitney skimmed over them and laughed at a few through her tears. Things like 'never get angry when a duck tries to trip you. Just be glad it wasn't a chicken' and 'always forgive your father, he knows not what he does'. One line in particular struck her in the heart.


'Forgive me for having to leave you.'



Did that mean her mother knew about her cancer, and how it would kill her? Did she stubbornly choose to not be treated? Did she know that she would hurt her only daughter in ways she could only imagine? Whitney glanced down. The same seven words were the last twenty on the list, save for the very last, which said: 'Please realize, I always want you to have a happy childhood. That's why I won't tell you. I love you, my little bun.'


Whitney stood, dusted herself off, and walked home, leaving the bottle and the last connection she had to her mother on the beach.