As Waters Gone By

by Cynthia Ruchti

“Comfort. She’s a female.”

  “I had no idea you had a dog.”

  That’s all it took? And why would it seem surprising? Had Emmalyn been so singularly focused when Hope had visited when she was four, five, six, that it was unthinkable Emmalyn would have let an animal into her life?

  Yes. The answer was yes.

  “She’s adorable!” Hope’s voice squeaked an octave higher than normal.

  Emmalyn shoved the luggage past the lovebirds further into the cottage interior. “She has an interesting personality.” When she’d arrived, the island had given her a cottage with no personality and a dog with an excess of it.

  “Everybody does,” Hope said, clutching the animal to her chest.

  And she has an uncanny connection to people in pain. That helped explain Comfort’s obvious and instant affection for a twelve-year-old homeless girl.

  “You can hang your coat there on the hooks,” Emmalyn offered.

  Hope nuzzled the dog’s neck one last time, then stood and did as asked.

  Emmalyn let the dog out. “Necessity, honey,” she said to Hope’s pout. “She’ll be back.” And then someday she won’t. No need to break that news to Hope just yet. “Let’s get you settled into your room.”

  Hope followed Emmalyn through the cottage at the pace of a glacier’s movements. “Are you okay, Hope?”

  The girl stopped in front of the French doors and pressed her palms against the wood on either side of one of the panels. “This is what you look at every day?” Her voice was no louder than the swish of waves on shore on a still evening.

  “Every day.”

  “It’s, like . . . perfect.”

  “I know.” And she did. Exile could be a good thing. Breath-stealing scenes can help clear a person’s lungs. “Come on. Upstairs. You should see the view from the second floor.”

  Halfway up the narrow stairs, Hope asked, “Did you grow up here?”

  Emmalyn thought about her answer. “Yes. But not the way you’d think.”

  Hope didn’t push for more. How much of Emmalyn’s life story did Hope know? Oh, dear. She’d likely meet Emmalyn’s mom and sisters someday. That would take careful planning and more ibuprofen than Emmalyn had on hand.

  “Your room is mostly white right now. That might not appeal to you. We can paint, if you like.” Please, nothing purple. She stepped past the doorway to let Hope enter first.

  Her gasp made Emmalyn’s heart soar. Hope ran her small hand over the bedspread, the headboard, the low rocker in the corner. She touched everything on the shelves. Her hand paused near the flop-eared chenille rabbit. “Can I . . . ?”

  That was mine.

  “Oh, look!” Hope said before Emmalyn could respond. “A perfect spot for my computer.” She smoothed her hand over the converted sewing table. She twirled to face Emmalyn. “Do you have Internet?”

  And the first real conflict. “I don’t have a television.” She waited for the fallout.

  “Yeah, that’s fine.”

  What? “But I do have an Internet connection. I want to start an online business someday. Maybe.”

  “Fun.”

  “But we should clear this up right at the start. I know a lot of young people your age are”—not the word addicted—“into gaming pretty heavily. And I don’t want you to get so hung up on it that—”

  “I’m not a gamer, Mrs. Ross. I need the Internet for my dad’s blog.”

  “Your dad has a blog.”

  “It’s his ministry thing. He talks about what it’s like in prison and what it’s like to be free even though you’re in prison. He’s funny sometimes, too. Dad doesn’t have computer privileges other than restricted email, but he sends me his blog ideas and I post them for him.”

  “Your dad has a blog.”

  “I figured you didn’t know or you would have said something.”

  Emmalyn reached for the rabbit and sat on Hope’s bed with it propped in her lap, her arms draped around it. “A blog.”

  “I’m not a gamer, Mrs. Ross. You don’t have to worry about that.”

  Emmalyn’s heart pounded. She’d kept her distance from Max because she thought that’s what he wanted. Or was it her resentment that made her justify her distance? Either way, she’d missed everything important.

  “You don’t have to call me Mrs. Ross.” Right now, the term rattles me. “You can use Emmalyn, or some of my friends call me Emi. Bougie calls me M, like the letter M.”

  “I like that. M. Kind of like Mom, but not quite.”

  Right. Not quite.

  * * *

  Comfort split her time evenly between their laps. Hope preferred the couch. Her petite size—small for her age—and lithe legs could curl into all kinds of configurations Emmalyn could no longer manage. Emmalyn guessed Hope hadn’t crossed the puberty bridge yet, but wasn’t about to tackle that subject. Unless she had to.

  “Will you be hungry for supper soon?” Emmalyn set aside the knitting needles and project Cora had talked her into. You don’t knit because you have too much time. You knit to create. Emmalyn added, Or to avoid discussion without seeming anti-social.

  “Can I cook?” Hope’s face brightened.

  “You like to cook?”

  “I’ve pretty much done all the cooking at home. Lately.” She dragged her teeth across her bottom lip.

  “Mind if I help?”

  “What do you have in the pantry?” Hope hopped off the couch and padded to the kitchen. She didn’t drag her feet as she had in her boots.

  “Lots of stuff. Except no pantry. You can check the fridge and the cupboard to the left of sink. And the lower cupboard on the far side of the island, opposite the stools.”

  Again, the girl didn’t shuffle her feet like she had when wearing her boots. “Hope?”

  “Yeah?” The girl answered with her head in the fridge.

  “Are your boots the right size for your feet?”

  She closed the refrigerator door and looked at it, not Emmalyn. “They’re Mom’s. She wasn’t going to need them for a while.”

  “Are they hard to walk in? They seem like they might be a little bigger than you need.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  God of all heaven and earth, what do I do now? I don’t know how to do this. “If you’re sure you don’t mind, that’s fine, then.” Anything else, Lord? “If you ever decide they’re uncomfortable that way, just let me know.”

  The girl’s shoulders gave away her sigh. “Thanks.”

  “So, did you find anything workable in the fridge?”

  “Do you ever—?”

  “What? Just say it, Hope. You don’t have to tiptoe around me.” A few months ago, maybe. Not as much anymore.

  “Do you ever do, like, pancakes for supper?”

  “No!” Emmalyn answered, her hand over her heart as if she’d been shot. “Not without bacon. You’ll find it on the second shelf.” She winked.

  Hope’s laughter floated through the cottage, lighting the shadowed corners. No matter what age, a child’s laughter changes things.

  * * *

  “What do you think?” Emmalyn waited for Hope’s response.

  “How do you know this stuff? Candied bacon?” Hope said, sliding her fork under another bite of pancake. “It’s délicieux.”

  “How do you know the French word for delicious?” Emmalyn chuckled. “Never mind. Online classes, right? I’m . . . I was a caterer. And . . . chef. Once.”

  “And clarified butter. Who knew?”

  “Simple pleasures.” Pleasure like finding a pre-teen who gets excited about clarified butter. Just wait until Emmalyn introduced Hope to Bougie’s crème brulee.

  “I don’t supposed we can have candied bacon every morning?”

  “Uh, no.”

  “But I bet this place will still smell great in the morning.”

  Emmalyn would wake in the morning to the smell of tonight’s bacon and the warmth of the conversation still radiating through her chest. “Have you given any
thought to what you’d like to do differently with your room?”

  Hope tilted her head. “I don’t want to change anything.”

  “Okay.”

  “I probably won’t be here that long.”

  She said it so casually. Did she believe it? Emmalyn searched Hope’s eyes for a clue. The girl focused her gaze on the dog at her feet.

  What had that child been through? What kind of scenes had she witnessed? Abused? No visible scars. That didn’t guarantee anything.

  They cleaned up the dishes together. Emmalyn half-expected Hope to object, but she handled herself in the kitchen like a seasoned pro. Without complaint.

  Hope poured herself a glass of artesian water and added a twist of lemon. Emmalyn did the same before the two retired to the living area again. Emmalyn bent to start a fire in the fireplace. When it was well established, she sank into her chair and picked up her knitting needles and wool.

  “What are you knitting?” Hope asked.

  “Stitches,” Emmalyn said, then cleared her throat.

  “I know that much.”

  “Just stitches. I’m learning.”

  “At your age? Sorry. I didn’t mean it that way.”

  Emmalyn faked a scowl. “It’s a wonder I have any brain cells or memory left, but yes. I’m learning something new. I think it’s a scarf. Sometimes you don’t know what it is until you see what it becomes.”

  Her marriage. A stitch at a time. What would it become?

  “Did you know,” Hope said, brandishing her phone, “that a group of geese on the ground is called a gaggle, but if they’re in the air, they’re called a skein? Like a skein of wool? Who makes this stuff up?”

  “I’m sure that tidbit will come in useful in your educational career.”

  A cloud moved across Hope’s flawless face. “About school. We should probably talk.”

  “We have a couple of days to figure that out. And Christmas break isn’t all that far away.”

  “Exactly.” Hope studied the ceiling. “Which is why I was thinking . . . ”

  Emmalyn could feel her eyebrows creep closer to her hairline. She worked to soften her expression. Was she ready for this conversation? “Thinking is good.”

  “I don’t want to go to a new school right now. I don’t want to ride the ferry every day.” Her forehead creased. The dimples disappeared completely. But there wasn’t a trace of a whine in her voice.

  “You’d rather not go to school at all? I’m sure the State of Wisconsin won’t have any problem with that.” She smiled.

  “No!” Hope sat up taller and gestured with her hands as if pleading for understanding. “I love school. I mean, I love learning.”

  “I resist it sometimes, Hope.” Way too often. “But for the most part, I love learning, too.” She held up her knitting project for emphasis.

  “Can’t I learn here?”

  Emmalyn felt her heart muscle shift uncomfortably in her chest. “Hon, the LaPointe school only goes through fifth grade.”

  “I know. We talked about that.” She tapped the floor with one stockinged foot. “Here. In the cottage. Did you ever homeschool anybody?”

  Oh, good grief.

  “It wouldn’t be hard. I’m self-motivated.”

  “I imagine you are.” Probably more self-motivated than I’ve been for the last few years, until coming here.

  “I’m already ahead of where I should be, according to academic standards.”

  Good. Grief. “I have to work, Hope.” Why was she even entering this debate? “I have a job.” That’s what she’d call working for Bougie part-time. A job.

  “I could do a lot of it online. I can stay here by myself while you’re at work.”

  “No.”

  “No to staying home alone? I’ve done it a zillion times.”

  Claire! Why do the people least equipped to raise children have so little trouble giving birth to them? A familiar ache—one absent for a few brief hours—returned.

  “It’s no big deal.”

  Hope would make a great Toastmaster speaking candidate. She punctuated her persuasive speech with hand gestures to drive her point home. For “no big deal,” she waved her hands in opposite directions in front of her.

  Emmalyn struggled to control the pace of her breathing. “It’s a big deal, Hope.”

  “I’m mature for my age.”

  “I’m not.”

  Hope blinked. “What?”

  “Maybe it shouldn’t, but it would bother me. I told your mom I’d take care of you.”

  Hope’s face contorted. Her lips twisted into an uneven line. A hitch in her breath, then, “Do you know who took care of her? Me.” She pushed herself off the couch and crossed the room before Emmalyn got fully turned around.

  “Hope!”

  To her credit, Hope didn’t pound up the stairs. And the door to Hope’s bedroom wasn’t slammed shut. The soft click seemed all the more heartbreaking.

  Emmalyn grabbed thick handfuls of her hair and tugged. It didn’t make her any smarter. She’d been pseudo-mom for less than twenty-four hours and already had blown it. This was never going to work.

  It had to. Hope had no other options.

  Is this what motherhood was like? Her heart a ping-pong ball slammed from joy to pain, the child’s sanity and her own at stake? A small crisis, in the scheme of things. But it crushed her. Logic wouldn’t give her an answer. Some questions have no answers.

  She wasn’t a homeschool mom, no matter how you define it. She wasn’t even a mom.

  She was a shelter.

  Okay. Shelter. That, she could do.

  A door opened above her. Another opened and closed. Emmalyn heard the water running. And running.

  Choices. One after another. She’d commit to making one right choice after another. If only she’d had a flash of that kind of wisdom four years ago. Maybe farther back than that.

  Emmalyn climbed the stairs and talked through the bathroom door. “There are some really nice bath salts in the cupboard by the window, Hope. You’re welcome to use them. If you want. They smell like”—her volume disappeared off the charts—“baby powder.”

  She crept across the hall, through the open door, and pulled the floppy rabbit from the shelf above the bed. It looked comfortable propped on Hope’s pillow.

  19

  Sullen Sunday.

  Bougie texted mid-morning to ask how things were going. Emmalyn texted back, “I totally missed the notice that it’s Sullen Sunday.”

  “Love neutralizes sullen,” Bougie’d replied.

  It took Emmalyn an hour of pondering that statement and another cup of coffee before she could answer. “If I didn’t already know I wasn’t cut out for this, I’d think I wasn’t cut out for this.”

  “U R. Jst need more practice.”

  Hope refused breakfast and stayed in her room until almost ten. When she did come downstairs, it was for a glass of orange juice. It didn’t help that the sky sported its own version of sullen. Gray, flat, low, and spitting.

  At eleven, Emmalyn called up the stairs, “Hope, I’m going for a walk on the beach. Want to join me?”

  A voice called back through the closed door. “It’s ugly out there.”

  “It’s ugly in here, too. Let’s take it outside.”

  The door opened. “Can we bring Comfort?”

  “Oh, I hope so. Yes. Ten minutes?”

  “I’ll be ready.”

  They traded time in the bathroom. Emmalyn could still smell remnants of the baby powder fragrance of the bath salts from the night before. She noted Hope’s towel had been hung neatly on the rack. More surprises. Her toothbrush and toothpaste stuck out of the top of a small zippered bag. Hope didn’t plan to stay long.

  The young thing beat her down the stairs.

  Did Emmalyn dare break the uneasy, three-minutes-past-the-Cold-War truce? She had to. “Do you have gloves or mittens?” she asked as Hope zipped her jacket.

  Was that the smallest of smiles on her porcela
in doll face? “I guess I’ll have to learn how to knit.”

  Emmalyn breathed deeply of the fragile moment of peace. It smelled like spring. “That would be fun. I know I have a spare pair of gloves you can use. Comfort, are you ready to go for a walk?” The dog didn’t need to be asked twice.

  * * *

  Where the small stones were deepest on shore, they wobbled as if walking in a roomful of flattened marbles. The crunch of their boots as they dug footprints in the stones blended with the swoosh of waves and wind through barenaked trees and stiff-branched pines. Conversation seemed unnecessary, until Hope threw an arm across Emmalyn to stop her forward progress.

  Emmalyn looked to where the girl pointed a dozen yards down the beach. The yearling deer, or one of its cousins, stepped out of the woods and paused, head alert, ears twitching. Its eyes wide and curious, it dipped its head, then lifted it and assumed a statue’s pose. Hope bent slowly and picked up the dog, which acted unaware of the scene’s tension.

  Poor deer, Emmalyn thought. It probably thinks Comfort is an ordinary dog, the kind that chases and barks.

  When the yearling retreated into the safety of the woods, Hope said, “That . . . was . . . awesome!”

  Excitement on a child’s face—priceless.

  “One day, the doe walked right up to the porch of the cottage. I’ve seen tracks since then, but haven’t caught it in the act.”

  “I would love to see that.” Hope’s awe replaced her previous angst.

  “Maybe you will. You never know.”

  Hope turned her attention to the water. “Can you swim here?”

  “Sure. It stays pretty cold, even in the summer. If you don’t mind shivering . . . That small little dock isn’t stable, though. It’s pretty rickety. So stay away from it, okay?”

  The drizzle ended. The sun worked hard to bore through the gray clouds, without success. Hope and Emmalyn traded vocabulary words to describe the breeze.

  “Bracing,” Emmalyn said.

  “Invigorating.”

  “Brain-freezing.”

  “That’s two words.”

  Emmalyn picked up a stone. “Hyphenated counts. Is this an agate, Hope?”

  “I’ve never seen an agate except in a book. Is an agate valuable?”

  “It depends on how beautiful you think it is.” Everything traced back to her marriage. Everything. Emmalyn didn’t know if she should be annoyed or should listen better.