This essay is part of the Between Chapters project, inspired by the book. What chapters are you between? How did you get from one chapter to another? Share your story here.
What Chapter Are You…
Leaving:
Chaotic last year of my forties where it felt like everything was falling apart.
In:
The bold, unapologetic world of my fifties that I didn’t realize was novel worthy.
Entering:
Taking a leap into a new genre of publishing not knowing where I’ll land.
My forty-ninth year took me from feeling like the belle of the ball to the bottom of the barrel. Even the best of intentions couldn’t tame the chaos of those twelve months. There were manuscript rejections, old heartbreaks, professional disappointment, and a diagnosis I still struggle to say out loud. The only thing that made that year bearable was Rockaway Boy.
At first, he was just an FDNY firefighter I passed on my daily walking route. I could never bring myself to have a conversation with him. I’d wave, say hello, and then walk a block or two down the street before thinking of the perfect opening line. He wasn’t always there when I passed, but somehow he was there when it counted. His smile made me feel seen, as if I were worth a million dollars.
At the time, my writing career had seemed to hold such promise. But after pitching my latest YA manuscript, all nine agents who had expressed interest passed. As if staying on theme, I revisited three men from previous relationships. One admitted he went out with me out of pity. Another forgot to mention his current girlfriend. The last one ended up becoming a friend.
I was desperate for something to go right, so I applied for a temporary assignment at work I’d had my eye on for more than a decade. Armed with experience and education, I thought I was a shoo-in. I didn’t get it. As disappointing as that was, little did I know the worst was yet to come. During my annual echocardiogram, I was diagnosed with pulmonary hypertension. Two words nobody wants to hear. Two words I suddenly had to learn how to live with.
Test after test, needle after needle, dealing with my heart condition didn’t get any easier. Then winter came. The firehouse doors were shut more often, and I hadn’t seen Rockaway Boy in months. In spring, while waiting at the hospital for my heart catheterization, I scrolled through Instagram and saw a picture of him. He’d been promoted, which meant he’d be transferred. If I was ever going to say something, time was running out. So I returned to the firehouse, only to find out I’d missed him by a week. The best I could do was drop off a card, leaving my fate in the hands of his co-workers.
As my fiftieth birthday neared, I decided to take myself back to the Rockaways. It began, in part, because of him, but it quickly became something else. Water has always calmed me. Born along the Erie Canal, educated at the University of Miami beside the Atlantic Ocean, and now living in New York City, blocks from the East River, water has followed me everywhere I go. Or perhaps I have followed it.
Dark clouds blanketed the sky as I arrived. I checked into the Rockaway Hotel, bundled up, and took a stroll along the boardwalk, where the howling wind tangled my curls and grains of sand stung my cheeks. After an hours-long battle against the elements, I returned to the hotel and found Rockaway Boy standing out front.
I approached him, smiled, and shook his hand.
“Hi, I’m Kimberly,” I said.
We chatted briefly while the wind and rain continued swirling around us. When he said, “Happy birthday,” he leaned in for a hug. My chin fit perfectly on his shoulder, and I closed my eyes, refusing to step back. Knowing I might never have that opportunity again, I savored every second. When he eventually pulled away, I could see it in his eyes — or maybe I only imagined I could: I’d waited too long.
Still, the moment stayed with me. Later that year, I’d attended a live Zibby Owens podcast where her guest, Rebecca Minkoff, spoke about how she’d flipped the script when plan A failed. She’d pivoted to plan B instead. That got me thinking. My plan A was Rockaway Boy, but I struggled with plan B. I had spent so much time hoping he might rescue some part of the year for me that I hadn’t considered what it would mean to rescue myself.
Our brief moment reminded me of something a classmate once wrote in my high school yearbook: “Hey, locker neighbor. I don’t know what I’d do without your smiling face in the morning when I’ve had no sleep. Thank you for not cutting me down on those lousy days.” Little did I know that one day Rockaway Boy would do the same for me. Passing by his old firehouse won’t be the same without that smile I always took for granted. Now I’ll have to carry myself through the tough days ahead.
Maybe someday we’ll have a drink on the beach, and I’ll tell him about all the times our paths nearly crossed, and how one brief moment led me to write my first adult novel. Until then, here’s to you, Rockaway Boy. Your sweet smile and kind heart gave me my voice back.
Follow Kimberly on Instagram.
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