The Memory of Water

by Karen White

  I felt a surge of tenderness for him and touched his arm. “It’s not your fault. Some things just can’t be fixed.” He looked at me and I pulled away, eager to distance myself from him and from the overwhelming sense of loss whenever I thought about our marriage. I cleared my throat. “Besides, you didn’t marry me.” A breeze lifted my hair and teased at the wound on my leg. Quietly, I said, “You married a ghost.”

  Our eyes met in the pale light. “It wasn’t like that.”

  “Yes, it was. Always. Even when we were in bed together, there were always three of us.”

  He shook his head and turned away from me. “We needed each other, Diana. At least in the beginning.”

  “No. You needed to fix me. And me, well, I’ve never needed anybody.” I stood quickly, before he could see that I was lying. I stared out to where I knew the horizon lay but saw only smudges of darkness. Rubbing my hands on my arms against the chill, I asked, “Did Marnie say anything to you about sailing again?”

  He shook his head. “No. She’s actually been pretty strong about insisting that she won’t.”

  “Yeah, well, she probably believes that. But I have a strong feeling that Gil won’t get on a boat without her.”

  He looked up at me, startled. “You’ve seen that, too?”

  “Gil’s pretty perceptive. He’s probably figured out that getting out under sail would be good for Marnie, too. They’re a lot alike, you know, always thinking of others.”

  He was silent and I wondered whether he was going to ignore the derogatory way I’d said that last part about always thinking of others. “I guess we’ll have to wait and see.”

  “If you want to wait that long. I don’t think she’s planning on staying very long, and I don’t intend to allow Gil anywhere near a sailboat.”

  Thankfully, he didn’t seem to be in the mood to argue about Gil again. He stood, brushing sand off the backs of his legs. “I hadn’t really thought about her leaving. She seems so at home here.”

  “Yes, she does. But sometimes you have to be gone from a place to realize how much you miss it.”

  Sharp eyes stared back at me. “Like the ocean?”

  “Yes,” I said, turning away. “Like the ocean. Or the desert.” I began to walk toward the path that would lead me home, and I heard Quinn following me. I swallowed thickly, trying to find whatever courage I might still have. “Speaking of Gil, I’d like to take him with me when I visit the nursing home next week. The old lady I’ve been visiting for over a year now has asked to see him.” He didn’t answer right away. Nervously, I added, “I guess because I talk so much about him, and I’m always bringing pictures of him to show her. And she’s an artist, too.” I wanted to bite back my last words, realizing they were the wrong ones to say to Quinn.

  Quinn’s footsteps stopped, and I stopped, too, turning around to face him. “I think it might be good for him. For us. To be together again alone since…”

  “No,” he said, cutting me off.

  “Please,” I said, hating the desperation in my voice. “He’s my son….”

  “No,” he said again, and brushed past me to walk up the path.

  “Quinn,” I shouted, unable to keep the anger from my voice, “you can’t keep him from being alone with me forever. I’m his mother.”

  He abruptly faced me and put his hands on my shoulders, squeezing tightly. “Biologically speaking, yes, you are his mother. But your actions say otherwise. You’ve shown me one too many times that you can’t be counted on to act like a good mother should where our son is concerned.”

  “Please,” I said again, my anger gone and only dark desperation filling the void. “I’m feeling better now. I’m taking my medication. Please.”

  He released his hold on my shoulders. “Then tell me what happened that night, Diana. Tell me why you went out on the boat in the first place and why neither you nor Gil can or want to talk about it.”

  I stared at him for a long moment before dropping my eyes to the sand beneath our feet.

  “Well, then. There’s your answer,” he said before turning away from me and walking up the path with long, sure strides.

  I stayed where I was for a long time, listening to the rhythm of the waves behind me and remembering that day in my grandfather’s library when everything had changed. And how even a mother’s love can be a very dangerous thing.

  Marnie

  I sat on the porch across from Gil, watching him furiously scribbling in his sketch pad. His golden head was bent over the pad in his lap, and the intensity of his concentration reminded me so much of his mother. I still had not been able to coax him into painting with watercolors again. I knew he enjoyed it, and was good at it, too. Quinn had shown me some of Gil’s framed paintings he’d hung on the walls of his office, and I’d been awed by Gil’s use of color and delicate brushwork. Still, though, he could not be persuaded to hold a paintbrush.

  While Gil and his affliction remained an enigma to me, I hadn’t made much progress in breaking through to him at all. I admit that he did seek my company and enjoyed being with me while I talked about art. But all of my hours in the classroom and all the textbooks I’d read dedicated to teaching the special-needs child didn’t seem to apply to my nephew. And sometimes, when I looked in his Maitland eyes, I would see such understanding and intelligence that I wondered if I should be the one to be silent and instead learn from a nine-year-old child.

  Always, though, his silence brought my thoughts back to the night he stopped speaking, and made me wonder if knowing the answer to that question was all we needed to bring Gil’s voice back.

  I glanced around at the whimsically painted chairs and brightly hued flowerpots, trying to picture the morose Diana painting them in her studio with the paint-splattered furniture and the unseen paintings facing the wall. And then I remembered the stack of beautiful pictures that had also been painted by Diana, and once again I wondered at the discrepancy in ability between the two. Without thinking first, I asked, “Did your mother really paint all of these chairs and pots?”

  I looked at Gil when he didn’t answer, then silently chastised myself when he raised his golden head and stopped drawing. Slowly, he nodded.

  Standing, I walked to the blue-and-white polka-dotted pot nearest the front door and picked it up to look at the bottom, not really sure why. Diana’s initials and a date were scrawled on the bottom, and I did a quick mental calculation as I slowly placed it down on the porch.

  “It’s a year older than you are, Gil,” I said, smiling. He didn’t smile back.

  “Are you ready to show me your drawing?” I had been talking about the intricate fretwork that framed the porch and studying the way the sunlight changed the look of it depending on where you were standing and where the sun sat in the sky. I was eager to see his interpretation and maybe, if I even admitted it to myself, to see if his talent surpassed his mother’s at his age.

  In response, he drew the pad to his chest as he had done before and shook his head.

  I forced a smile. “That’s fine, Gil. You’ll show me when you’re ready.” I returned to my seat, more hurt than I cared to admit. I glanced back at him again and saw that he hadn’t returned to the drawing but was staring down at the pad in his lap. I remembered his silent laughter in the car to McClellanville, and I realized that I hadn’t seen him laugh or even smile much since that trip. I leaned back in my chair and studied him through half-closed eyes. “Do you want to hear a story?”

  He shrugged, reminding me that he was approaching adolescence and had to show me that a story was too young for him but he’d humor me anyway. I suppressed a smile and closed my eyes, recalling the mobile of the planets on the ceiling in Gil’s bedroom, and the fact that he’d grown up without pets, despite the fact that his father was a vet.

  “Once upon a time,” I began and was rewarded with a roll of his eyes. I pretended to frown at him and began again. “Once upon a time, there was a nine-year-old boy named George. And all he had ever wanted hi
s whole life—more than anything—was a puppy.”

  I settled in to my story, making it as outrageous as possible and culling on past stories told to a classroom of students and to a younger Diana, who had once believed that she needed me by her side before she could paint.

  I was rewarded several times with the twitching of a cheek and once with a full smile. So I upped the stakes and went full-out for the end of the story. “And when George finally held that little puppy in his arms, he realized that through all of those years of pining for a dog, he had never once thought about a name for him.

  “Well, being a smart little boy, George was obsessed with science and with outer space and the planets of the solar system in particular. He even had a mobile with each planet made of a different-sized Styrofoam ball. But his favorite of all the planets was the little blue one called Uranus. He wasn’t sure why, only that blue was his favorite color and that was the color he’d chosen to paint that planet on his mobile. And that is how he decided on the name for his new puppy.

  “However, it wasn’t very long before he realized his mistake when George’s mother first called out the back door, ‘George! Get in here and feed Uranus.’”

  I saw Gil’s lips quiver.

  “And then the next day, his father said, ‘George, we need to take Uranus in to get a flea shot.’”

  Gil’s eyes were clenched tight and his head was shaking with quiet laughter.

  I continued. “But the last straw came when the cute little girl from next door came over to see George’s new puppy. ‘I want to see Uranus,’ she said, innocently, only realizing what she’d said after George’s face turned beet red. She ran home crying, vowing never to set eyes on George again, lest she be reminded of her embarrassment.

  “And that is the story of how a puppy became named just ‘U,’ since George’s mother didn’t want to have to buy new monogrammed blankets for the puppy and they couldn’t think of another name that started with ‘U.’”

  Gil’s mouth was now open in silent laughter, and I laughed out loud, pleased at my mission accomplished.

  Quinn opened the screen door. “Lunch is ready. Come on in and wash up, Gil.”

  I saw Quinn do a double-take at the flushed skin and wide grin on Gil’s face and then turn and look at my matching smile.

  I watched as Gil picked up his pad and clutched it to his chest as he walked past his father into the house. I stood to follow, but Quinn stopped me with a hand on my arm.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  I didn’t have to ask for what. “You’re welcome,” I replied, then followed Gil into the house.

  My grandfather was already in his spot at the head of the table, but I was surprised to see Diana in the seat next to him, where I usually sat. In the weeks since I had been home, I had stopped expecting her to join us at the table for meals.

  “Diana,” I said, watching Gil choose the seat farthest from his mother.

  “Yes?” She looked at me with bored eyes, as if seeing her at the table wasn’t anything out of the ordinary nor was having one’s young son avoid you as if you had poison ivy.

  “It’s good to see you here.” I took the seat on the opposite side of the table, next to Gil, who had remained standing until I sat down.

  “Is it?” she asked.

  I ignored her barb as I helped Gil place his napkin in his lap.

  Grandpa held out shaking hands and bowed his head. Diana hesitated for a moment, then took his offered hand while I did the same on his other side. I waited for someone to say the blessing and when none was forthcoming, I said, “Thank you, Lord, for these and all your many other blessings. Amen.”

  I lifted my head and glanced across the table to find Diana looking at me, and I wondered if she had bowed her head at all. I squeezed my grandfather’s hand and let go.

  I looked down at the soup in front of me and tried to think of something to say. “Did you make this, Quinn? It smells wonderful.”

  “Thank you,” he said, taking a taste of his, while glancing at Diana over his spoon as an antelope at a watering hole would glance at the nearby pack of lions. “What brings you to the table, Diana?”

  Her soup sat untouched in front of her. “I was hungry.”

  Quinn concentrated on his spoon. “I’m glad you could join us.” He took another sip, avoiding her eyes.

  After several moments of silence, Quinn sat back in his chair and cleared his throat. “I’m going to go inspect the damage on the Highfalutin tomorrow to see what needs to be done to make her seaworthy again. Would anybody like to go with me?”

  The silence that followed might have been laughable if I’d not seen Gil’s expression. I stared at him for a long moment before I recognized with painful familiarity the look on his face. It was the face of a person who had lost the one thing that mattered most and who had no idea how to get it back.

  Diana snorted. “Gee, don’t everybody answer at once.” She glared at Quinn. “What did you expect? If you’d bother to look around, you’d notice that all of us except for Grandpa here have very good reasons not to ever get aboard a sailboat again. Especially one with the name Highfalutin.”

  To my amazement she picked up a spoon and began feeding our grandfather, her hand shaking almost as much as his. I watched as she fed him and avoided looking at me.

  Quinn continued. “She’s in dry dock and nowhere near the water. I’m going to need help fixing her up, but I thought maybe Marnie and Gil would like to get a look at her before we start the repairs.”

  “Hire a carpenter, Quinn. There’s no need for you to subject Gil to the torture of seeing it the way it is.”

  Quinn sent a glowering look toward Diana but addressed his words to Gil. “Remember how we agreed with your aunt Marnie that this was something you wanted to do? And that your doctor thought so, too?”

  Gil only paused for a moment before nodding.

  Quinn continued. “Dr. Hirsch suggested that it might be reassuring to you to see the boat, to see that she’s hurt but can be fixed.” He reached a hand out to cover Gil’s on the table. “Just like you, right?”

  Again Gil nodded, then slowly slid his hand off the table and held it in his lap.

  Grandpa waved his hand at his food, indicating that he was done, and Diana let the spoon fall to the bowl with a clatter. Grandpa then began to grunt and point his chin in Quinn’s direction. Quinn nodded as if he understood what the old man was trying to say.

  “I think your grandfather would like me to quote from the Bible a passage that he recently shared with me.” He cleared his throat. “‘If thou faint in the day of adversity, thy strength is small.’”

  Diana flopped back in her chair. “What the hell is that supposed to mean? That if at first we don’t succeed in dying, then try, try, try again?”

  Angrily, I turned on her. “You know that’s not what he’s trying to say, and you’re only succeeding in further alienating your family and frightening your son. Do you think you could try, just once, to think about somebody beside yourself?”

  She went deathly still as I watched the color drain from her cheeks. “Oh, believe me, Marnie. I know lots about thinking about others. I’ve done nothing else for the last sixteen years.” Her eyes flickered over to our grandfather. “Haven’t I, Grandpa?”

  His eyes met hers in an unflinching gaze until she turned away from him. Resigned, she sat back in her chair again, her previous energy gone from her like loose sails on a windless sea. “Fine, then, Quinn. Do what you like. But can I ask that you hire a real carpenter to supervise the restoration? I won’t worry as much about Gil working on the boat if I know he’s with a professional.”

  Quinn nodded. “That’s a good suggestion, and I was planning on doing that anyway. I thought that while I was in town today I could do some asking around for recommendations.”

  A mischievous grin teased Diana’s lips. “I know a great carpenter. He’s actually a shrimper, but in the off season, he runs a woodworking shop, where he make
s and sells furniture and stuff like that. He’s also worked down at the marina ever since I’ve known him, helping with boat repairs and renovations.”

  I felt heat flush my cheeks again and I looked down at my half-eaten soup.

  Quinn asked, “Anybody I know?”

  “Yes, actually, you do. Trey Bonner. We were just talking about him recently, remember?”

  I saw Quinn shoot a quick glance at me, and I mentally flinched, wondering what all Diana had told her ex-husband.

  “Great,” he said through thinned lips. “I’ll see if I can reach him today.”

  Eager to leave, I glanced over at Gil’s plate, happy to see an empty soup bowl and only crumbs remaining of his sandwich.

  “Gil and I have plans to go sketch down by the marsh. So, if you’ll excuse us…”

  I didn’t wait for anybody to speak but stood before helping Gil retrieve his sketch pad from under his plate and pulling out his chair. I kissed my grandfather on the cheek and ushered Gil from the room.

  We had made it to the front porch when I heard Diana call my name. I felt Gil’s shoulder stiffen under my hand before he ducked behind me as I turned to face her.

  She pretended not to notice her son’s aversion to her presence, but I could read the hurt in her eyes. In the years since our mother’s death, she had learned to hide her emotions from the outside world. But I knew her like my right hand knew my left, and I reached to touch her arm, knowing before I did so that she would shake it off.

  “Yes?” I asked.

  “I’d like to paint your portrait.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Not right now, but while you’re here. If I could get you to sit for a few sessions, I’m sure I’d have enough material to paint a full portrait.”

  I thought about the girl who looked like me and who appeared in all of her paintings but said nothing. This was the first overture she’d made to me since my return, and I didn’t want to rebuff her attempt, regardless of how suspicious I might be.

  “Are you sure? Aren’t there enough people around here for you to paint?”

  “Yes. But only one sister.”