The Second Part of Our Mexican Vacation, In Which We Return To Our Haunted House

We crossed the invisible border. Everything appears bone dry. An intake of breath, not in exhile, but an excitement to be closer to our house, the one we built on the beach, too close to the high tide line, then filled with comforts and trinkets and dogs. I take a pill and wait. The scrubby trees and shabby concrete cottages are all the same. It seems brighter because I have a ticket back to Maine. I don't know if it's Ativan or autonomy, but I am happy to be here; the sky above Chelem is saturated blue. David, the caretaker, is sweeping the concrete patio like a Mexican-Jain wraith. Or more accurately, like the ghost of Mac Bedell. I feel sick. Tripod! She smiles with her entire stupid albino body and I get down on the ground supine so she can lick me like a spazz. It's all a dream. It's like Pompeii. It's aftermath and unconsciousness. I know where there are small steps down and how to turn the lock in key precisely. All the things that were once my entire world, chosen tiles and closet doors built to our height and standard, are at my fingertips. Renovation was a wedding gift we gave ourselves. But it never felt like home. This made my husband resentful; our first year of marriage was the worst in a decade. I went back to make amends and reclaim. I was meant to acknowledge the blameless and faulted. I forgave everyone, including myself, crying, walking, figuring out what to do with all this beach and freedom of movement. Going for a swim in the primordial Gulf.