Fire & Water

by Betsy Graziani Fasbinder

  “Not by blood, but sure.”

  Ryan scratched Welby’s belly. “Blood doesn’t matter. That isn’t what makes you family.”

  I smiled at my wise daughter. “No, baby. It doesn’t really matter much at all.”

  Peace washed over me. Ryan was Jake’s daughter, and I could see that she had his quicksilver mind and his eye for beauty. She had his sensitivity and his kindness. But I could see that she also had an ability—even as a child—to put things into perspective; something Jake had never had. In Ryan I could see the best parts of Jake. But I saw Alice’s resilience and my father’s wisdom, Burt’s humor, and Mary K’s love for animals. I was even starting to recognize qualities of my own in her. She was stubborn and willful. She withdrew when she was afraid. I wished I had not passed these qualities on to her. But I could also see a quiet strength—a strength that could easily be underestimated, but which emerged when she needed it most. Perhaps these were qualities I also had. She had inherited a legacy far greater than her genetic code.

  Ryan would have scars from all that had happened, but as I watched her cry, then laugh, then cry again, I knew she would not be disabled by her experiences. She would be made stronger by them. And so would I.

  Once Ryan and Welby were tucked securely in bed and sleep had pulled them both safely away, I wandered the house while Mary K took a shower. Tully had retrieved Jake’s boxes from the storage unit. Movers would come for it all the day after New Year and take it to our new bungalow on Irving Street, where I could take my time sorting through the items, selecting mementos for Ryan.

  The cloud-wrapped moon spilled light through the atrium windows. I found the box labeled “Mahogany Silver Box” and opened its overlapping flaps. On top sat the box, just as I had placed it. I stroked the smooth wood finish.

  As I opened the lid, it let out the softest whine. I paused, not quite sure of what I was seeing. Gone were the charred spoon and the lighter. Gone were the rubber tubing and the crumpled plastic bags. Gone were the syringes. The box had been relined with plush royal blue felt. The only object inside was the parcel I had placed there, rewrapped with rice paper embedded with yellow flower petals.

  The day before I’d packed this box, I went to the bank and opened the safe deposit box where I’d stored the collect of pharmaceutical grade narcotics I’d pilfered. I stuffed them into my coat pocket, looking all around me like the thief I’d become. I’d already risked my career by just taking drugs out of the hospital. The next steps would be far riskier.

  Surprising myself, I removed the ring Jake had given me. It slipped off my finger more easily than I expected. I pulled an envelope from my purse and tucked the ring inside, placing it into the safe deposit box where it would remain safe. As clear as a movie, I could see myself giving the ring to Ryan for her high school graduation. A future was beginning to form.

  With the drugs in my pocket, I drove myself to Ocean Beach. I’d walked that patch of sand countless times growing up, nearly every Sunday morning with my father. I’d fallen in love with Jake there when I’d first laid eyes on the miracles he’d created with ice and stone. Without removing my shoes or rolling up my surgical greens, I waded into the icy water, standing there until my feet and shins were numb. The sickness of my secrecy stared right at me and gnashed its ugly teeth. I imagined myself telling Alice, Dad, and Tully about the drugs in my pocket and my plan to help Jake die. I’d plead my case well. He’s suffering. Medicine has failed him. Ryan can’t live this way. Then I imagined telling Mary K and imagined her response. Have you fucking lost your mine, Murphy? And how could I ever tell Burt that I had provided his friend—his brother by choice—with the means to take his own life? Worst of all, I imagined facing Ryan when the truth of what I’d done inevitably emerged. Whether she was a child or had become a grown woman by the time she found out, there would be nothing to say to justify what I had done.

  I decided right there; Jake had to make his own choices, just as I had made mine.

  I pulled the plastic bag of drugs from my pocket and opened it. As I poured the contents of the bag, the morphine compound disappeared into the lead-colored water at my feet. Relief washed over me, confirming the rightness of my choice. My burden was lifted. I couldn’t resist romping, splashing briny water with each dancing step.

  When I returned to the house, the photo on Ryan’s bedroom wall that Burt had given me almost audibly called my name. I wrapped the photo that our friend had titled “The Nest” in brown paper and inserted a notecard in a small envelope. Inside I wrote, “I’ll always love you.” It was this parcel that I placed into the mahogany box. I wanted Jake to have one lasting image of the family he’d helped to create.

  Opening the rice paper wrapping, I had no idea what I might find. The envelope I’d placed there was gone, replaced with a new one bearing my name in Jake’s unmistakable flourish. I traced the letters of my name with the tip of my finger and imagined Jake’s pen making the strokes.

  With my heart pounding, I opened the flap of the envelope.

  It said only, “I loved you more.”

  Author’s Note about

  Manic Depression and Bipolar Disorder

  This story portrays a character struggling with manic depression, which today is referred to by mental health professionals as Bipolar Disorder (BPD). Many advances have been made in recent decades (after this story would have taken place), both in treatment and medication, which have helped to improve the lives of those who live every day with BPD. Many of those with this condition are able to manage it successfully through a variety of treatments, medications, and healthy living options.

  But BPD remains one of the most baffling of disorders. There is no one-size-fits-all solution for BPD. Some people withstand medication well, are helped by it, and are so dedicated to their wellness that they continually search for the right combination of practices that will help them to function and live satisfying lives. Others find that holistic health and meditation practices help them best. Still others want better lives but find the rigors of managing their condition daunting, its mysterious qualities perplexing. For nearly all with BPD, working with qualified, skilled, and insightful professionals and receiving the support of loved ones is a crucial part of the management of their condition.

  While advancements have been made, some people with BPD still fare better than others, and for some it can be a life-threatening condition. This is a highly baffling condition, and its management seems to require as much art as science. Medication, while vital for many, is not helpful to others. BPD is often misdiagnosed and under-diagnosed, and those who have it are sometimes abandoned as hopeless. Loving someone with mental illness, particularly BPD, can be heartbreaking, infuriating, and wildly frustrating.

  In no way do I intend to say that the experiences of the characters in this story are necessarily those of everyone with BPD or their loved ones. As a licensed therapist who has practiced for more than two decades, I have seen a wide range of experiences for both those who struggle with BPD and their family members. I’ve seen the frustrations, and I’ve also seen people so dedicated to having a happy life with this disorder that they do all they can to create such a life for themselves. I’ve been deeply inspired and moved by all of my clients—by both their struggles and their successes.

  What I know for sure is that if you or a loved one struggles with mental illness in any form, support and information are vital. The National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI) is at the forefront of those providing information about mental illness to individuals, their families, and mental health professionals. Their website provides a wealth of information about mental illness—in all its forms—as well as help in finding resources beyond what they provide. NAMI is available on the web at www.nami.org. Their helpline, which is staffed with amazing, compassionate people, can be reached at 800-950-NAMI.

  Acknowledgments

  I love watching the Oscars. Not for the clothes or to see the celebrities, though that’s always fun. I
love the acceptance speeches. Tightly polished or frantic, tearful or funny, I always like to witness the famous and the obscure oozing with gratitude for all who have helped them and those whom they love most. Given that I’m over fifty and can’t act, I’ll likely not find myself at such a podium with a weighty statuette in my hands, but as an author, I have this acknowledgements page. Before the music starts to play me off the stage, I have a few folks to thank.

  Every writer needs a tribe of other writers who really get what is required to get words out of your head, onto the page, and shaped into the story you want to tell. Most central around the campfire in my tribe are the other three members of my writing critique group, Bella Quattro: Linda Joy Myers, Christie Nelson, and Amy Peele. My Bellas, you are scarecrow, tin man, and lion on my journey. Each of you is so generously endowed with courage, intelligence, and heart that I’d never have found Emerald City or my way back to Kansas without you. My work may have gotten written without the Bellas, but it wouldn’t be as good, and it would have been way less fun. Grazie!

  I found my Bellas among the Fourth Street Writers in San Rafael, California. The other four of these fabulous women are Lum Franco, Colleen Rae, Kathy Rueve, and Barbara Toohey. Ladies, all of you helped me to find my voice and feel that my stories might just be worth sharing. Plus, you’re a blast! Guy Biederman, thank you for being the writer’s Pied Piper and the one we followed to find one another.

  Early readers of this story endured it when it was a couch potato of a book—flabby, out of shape, and needing to drop quite a few pounds. Joan Keyes, your kind support and keen eye proved invaluable, and I’m so glad that a love of words brought us together and made us lifelong friends. Dianne Grubb, you shared the reactions of your heart and let me know which parts rang truest. Eileen Rendahl, you shared your vast experience with writing and publishing books, and told me the things that are brave to share and absolutely golden. Mark Schatz, you gave me the much-valued guy’s perspective. Thanks for telling me that men would like the story too, and for encouraging me to ditch the girly title. Sorry the Stanford section didn’t make the cut. Suzie Zupan, when I was lost and thought I’d have to scrap the whole thing, you used your brilliance and your candor to help me restructure, reshape, and rebuild the entire story into something that ultimately proved to be the shape of the book. I’m so grateful that it aches. Elizabeth Appell, no one could ask for a better writing role model or a more enthusiastic cheerleader than I’ve found in you. Julie Valin is a woman of such vast kindness and generosity that I can’t believe it can be contained on just one person. Julie, not only did you give me your critique of that flabby draft, you have become a partner with me in launching this book. To top it off, you shared your beautiful family with me while I lived far away from mine. I love every layer of our friendship, darlink!

  Brooke Warner, it’s impossible to fully express my gratitude for your masterful editing, your insight into the essence of this story, and your sheer wizardry. It seems that, once again, my writing life has brought me not only a fabulous resource in you, but a lovely friend as well. I look forward to our next chapters.

  Thank you to the readers and the audience members of the Women’s Writing Salon in Nevada County, California. Every time I watch a new writer shakily unfold her story and share it with the audience, I’m newly empowered. The audiences of the Salon have taught me that stories become three-dimensional only when they’re shared, or, as I once heard the awesome author Dorothy Allison say, “The words rise to glory when I give them away.” Thank you to Patricia Dove Miller, who co-produces the Salon with me and is kind enough to praise my stories when I am brave enough to read them. To my students of memoir writing (more teachers than students, and therefore I shouldn’t charge you a dime), your bravery has encouraged me to stretch beyond my comfort zone, not just in writing, but in everything I do.

  The first pages of this book were nurtured in the cozy living room of author and writing teacher Jessica Barksdale Inclan. Thank you for supporting the story in its natal form. Heather Donahue, thank you for your kind support. I’m inspired by your ballsiness and willingness to “go there” in writing and in life. I think I’ll try me some of that. Deep appreciation for Sands Hall, who is not only a skilled word wielder and a champion of writers but who has written an absolute bible of resources in Tools of the Writer’s Craft, which helped me to finally understand point of view. Kim Culbertson, I thank you for your instant willingness to support this book. You are a force, girl, and I’ve been watching you and learning for a long time. Verna Dreisbach, thank you for nudging me toward that last round of edits. I thought I was too tired to go there.

  I’d like to offer a special thanks to the fabulous artist Andy Goldsworthy. I glimpsed photos of his work many years ago, and that was the seed of inspiration for the art of Jake Bloom in this story. After I’d completely written the book, I allowed myself to look at more of Goldworthy’s books and to watch Rivers and Tides, the documentary about his work. I was happy to find that he was a tranquil, peaceful man—quite different from the character in whose hands I placed his artistic genius. I only hope one day to see his creations in their real locations. It would be a thrill.

  To the members and organizers of Sierra Writers, California Writers’ Club, Sacramento Valley Rose, the Women’s National Book Association, and countless writing conferences, I thank you for providing me with more resources than I’d ever have imagined existed, for bringing me together with other wordslingers, and allowing me the opportunity to meet and get to know some of my rock-star author idols.

  Every tribe needs a keeper of the flame. The amazing women at She Writes Press are doing just that. The publishing industry is currently gasping and coughing, contracting and consolidating. A lot of naysayers say, “The book is dead.” Unless you’re an author with an established track record, you’ve won American Idol, slept with a celebrity, or birthed eight babies at once, it’s hard to get a book published these days. I’d like to thank the truly visionary women of She Writes Press. Co-founders Brooke Warner and Kamy Wicoff didn’t just bang their high chairs about the frustrations of the publishing industry; they decided to create a new model for helping authors—in this case women authors—to share their books with the world, and to do so with a perfect combination of power and femininity. They are pioneers. I’m honored down to my bones that they’ve allowed me to be among the first-year littermates of this revolutionary indie publishing company. Krissa Lagos, thank you for keeping me from sharing my comma addiction with the world. Kiran Spees, thanks for the book’s interior design. Sheila Cowley, thank you for your patience and collaboration while working with me on the cover design. I just love it.

  I am blessed in my life to have friends who feel like family, and family members I regard as the best of friends. Dianne Grubb, your heart and your love have always been my anchor. I’d most truly have lost my way a thousand times without you. You are so much more than a sister to me. Jim Grubb, you could not be more brother to me if we shared DNA. I thank you for your burst of enthusiasm when I told you this book was coming out. I can’t remember ever being so touched. I have stolen shamelessly from your prosaic profanity and bawdy humor, finding some of your words coming out of my characters’ mouths. Keep up the good work. I’ve got another foul-mouthed character in my next book. Matthew Grubb, your photograph proved the perfect background for this cover. I love you for your imagination and your heart. Love overflows for Megan Shell, whose playful and delightful blogging nudged me into the cyber world. (Check out Megan’s blog, Gourmet or Go Home. Fun!) Michelle Verity Colvin, child of my heart, I love you ever and always. Linda High, for your authenticity, your generosity, and your big laugh I love you more each day. Richard Day, friend of my youth, we’ve weathered a few storms together. How I wish you were nearer. Gary and Sally Bauman, Tom Cline, and Curt Carnes, thanks for the music and the laughter. My next book features a musician; I’m going to be calling on you guys. To those friends and family not mentioned by name, ple
ase know that you are woven into the tapestry of who I am. I am beyond grateful.

  My husband, Tom Fasbinder, is a man of few words—about twenty-six a day unless he’s had a few beers. But Tommy, you have taught me in these decades of loving each other the value of demonstrating love through simple and quietly generous acts. You gave up your dream shop and moved to where I got a writing studio. You show me love in your steadfast honesty, simple devotion, and tender touch. I hear you, Fas, I really do hear you. Max and Sam, mothering you has caused me to grow new chambers in my heart to accommodate love bigger than my former heart could hold. As boys you delighted me. Watching you become men fills me with such massive love and pride and gratitude that I feel I will burst.

  My favorite of Oscar speeches are the ones that go too long and now I know why. I am grateful to many more, for much more than can be said in this rare opportunity to gush.

  Oh, and I’d like to thank The Academy.

  About the Author

  Fire & Water is Betsy Graziani’s debut novel. She has been published in journals and anthologies and four of her fiction and memoir pieces have been produced as Readers” Theater in the historic Miners’ Foundry Theater in Nevada City, California. Betsy lives nestled in the soft hills of Marin County, California with her husband, one son on the launch pad, and one out on his own in a neighboring town. Her Golden Doodle, Edgar is her faithful writing companion.

  You can find Betsy at the following social media sites:

  Website: www.betsygrazianifasbinder.com

  Twitter: @WriterBGF

  Find her under her full name on Goodreads,

  LinkedIn, and Facebook.

  photo © Tom Fasbinder

  Table of Contents