As Waters Gone By

by Cynthia Ruchti

  “That’s the thing about messes,” Bougie had told her as they shared a quiet moment before the lunch crowd descended one day. “It doesn’t matter what caused the trouble. The answer’s always the same. Call out to God. Watch His rescue. Then thank Him.” Emmalyn doubted it was that simple. But she’d seen it at work on the island. Her exile. Her refuge.

  “Psalm 107,” Bougie pointed out. “Doesn’t matter what caused the trouble. The answer’s the same.”

  Emmalyn turned back to the journal. She let the apology stand, closed the book, and turned out the light. The excess of pillows choked her tonight as she thought about the man she’d married having no choice at all about what kind of pillow he used or where he laid his head. She threw most of them to the floor and reserved the one that felt as solid as Max’s chest. But no matter how deeply she pressed her ear into it, she couldn’t hear his heartbeat. Only her own.

  * * *

  “Did you know it’s impossible to lick your elbow?”

  Emmalyn slid a mound of scrambled eggs onto Hope’s plate. “That’s your thought for the day?”

  “See?” Hope grinned. “I knew you’d try it.”

  Emmalyn brushed at her elbow. “I had a disadvantage.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Tennis elbow. Old injury.”

  “Nice one.” Hope dug into her eggs, sun from the skylight turning her hair to the glistening molasses image from a shampoo commercial. “My real thought for the day is . . . ”

  Emmalyn scraped the rest of the eggs onto her own plate. “Go on.”

  “It’s kind of personal.”

  “Oh.” Emmalyn thought back to herself as a twelve-year-old. What would she have dubbed “personal”? Fights with her sisters. Pouting that her mother wouldn’t let her get her ears pierced. Cringing through health class. Oh, dear.

  “Dad thinks you’re his tattoo.”

  “What?” Emmalyn coughed into her napkin. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

  “It’s in his blog post for this week. You can read it if you want.”

  “I thought it was personal.”

  Hope played snowplow with her fork and the rest of her eggs. “Not the part about you. The part about me.”

  “If you’d rather I didn’t read it . . . ”

  Hope sighed. “We’re kind of in this together, you know?”

  “I guess we are, aren’t we?”

  “You work today, right?”

  Emmalyn checked the clock. “Bougie and I are working on next spring’s menu and a few details for Christmas. I’m looking forward to your meeting her.”

  “So, maybe I’ll show you the blog tonight. It’s kind of fireplace and hot chocolate material.”

  Emmalyn rested her chin in her hand and used her closed fingers to cover the smile forming. She’d found a measure of serenity in the solitude of the cottage. It’s as if the serenity had to come first before she was ready to share her home with someone else. But now, few things would be better than sitting with Hope in front of the fire, sipping hot chocolate and discovering what had happened to Max’s heart. “That’ll be great. It won’t take all that long at The Wild Iris. Do you have something to work on? Books to read?”

  “Is the library open?”

  “It might be open today. I’m not sure. We’ll take the long way in and drive past to check on the schedule.”

  “I’ll try to be quick. But . . . ”

  “But what?”

  “Books!” Hope gestured with arms extended and palms up. “Need I say more?”

  Twelve years old. Who would have thought Emmalyn’s kindred spirit would be twelve years old? With the language skills of someone much older.

  “We don’t have a strict timetable today. Libraries are for lingering, don’t you think?” Emmalyn said.

  Hope pushed her hair off her shoulders and folded her hands in her lap. “Mom says they make her nervous.”

  To press or not to press. That is the question. “Did she say why?”

  The girl shrugged, as if it didn’t matter. “Lots of things make her nervous.”

  A light lapping sound drew their attention. Both turned toward the noise. The dog slurped its water like a Columbian coffee tester. The dog that had started out as a delicate thing. It was enough to lighten the mood in the cottage. “Your turn to wipe the mess and her chin,” Emmalyn said.

  “According to my records”—Hope said—“it’s your turn.”

  “You keep a written record?”

  Hope tapped her temple. “It’s all up here. But that’s not a bad idea.” She pulled her phone from her pocket and whipped through a sequence of keystrokes. Then she caught Emmalyn’s gaze and winked. “I’ll do it.” She slid off the high stool and grabbed a doggie rag. “Comfort,” she told the dog, “you’re wonderful, but you can be messy.”

  Emmalyn watched as the girl worked and the words sank in.

  “How much longer will you need before we can leave, Hope?”

  “Gotta brush my teeth,” she said, tossing the rag and giving Comfort one last snuggle. “Once a week, whether I need it or not.” She didn’t turn to check Emmalyn’s reaction until she reached the foot of the stairs.

  “Good one.”

  Within seconds, Emmalyn heard the water running in the bathroom sink. She couldn’t wait for Hope to meet Bougie. She put their dishes in the kitchen sink and ran a slow stream of water over them while she reached for the dish soap. And Pirate Joe. Could be an interesting morning.

  21

  Technically, the library wasn’t open, but Cora was on the premises, putting up Christmas decorations, so she let Emmalyn and Hope explore the rooms while she worked.

  Emmalyn had kept the introductions short. “Cora, I’d like you to meet Hope Elizabeth. She’s staying with me for a while.”

  “Welcome to Madeline Island,” Cora had said, her hands busy untangling tiny Christmas lights for the miniature tree on the main desk.

  “Thanks,” Hope had said. “Nice to meet you.” In the time it took to say “meet you,” Hope had zeroed in on a rack of new arrivals on the far wall.

  “Niece?” Cora asked when the two adults were relatively alone.

  Emmalyn braced for the first of how many times she’d have to tell the story. “Max’s daughter.” With Cora, she could share more. “Her mom’s in rehab for a few weeks, or months.”

  Cora handed Emmalyn the balled-up section of the string of lights. “Nick’s dating someone I’m not sure I approve of. Gas went up five cents over the weekend. And I haven’t heard from Wayne in weeks.” She shook her head. “But you take the prize for complicated. Hands down.”

  “It’s been . . . good.”

  “How long as she been with you?”

  “Two days.”

  “Uh huh. Beautiful.”

  “A stunner, as they say. She’s a smart little girl.”

  Cora glanced Emmalyn’s way. “She lets you call her a little girl?”

  “She wants it clear that she’s more mature than she looks. And in many ways, she is.” Emmalyn watched Hope slide one book after another from the shelves, deciding within seconds if it was a book worth opening.

  “Max’s daughter? I cannot imagine the gall it took him to ask you to—”

  “He didn’t ask. I volunteered.” Emmalyn fed Cora another length of untangled lights.

  “That doesn’t sound like you.”

  “I know. Against Max’s better judgment, too.”

  Cora looked at Emmalyn without turning her head. “How in the world—?”

  “And . . . I may homeschool Hope. Also against Max’s better judgment.”

  The end Cora held dropped to the floor. She reached to pick it up and positioned herself facing Emmalyn with her back to Hope, as if shielding Hope from stray bits of the discussion. “Can you do that?”

  “She doesn’t want to take the ferry into Bayfield every school day, come in right before the semester break, and then be gone again as soon as her mom’s released. I
don’t blame her.”

  “I mean, do you have a legal right to do that?” Cora’s eyes looked huge behind her glasses.

  “Way to throw that little detail into the mix, Cora. I have no idea.”

  Cora fiddled with the string of lights. “And Max is against it?”

  “I think he’s concerned about what it will mean for me. I don’t really know all that’s behind his objections. We haven’t had a full conversation.”

  “Emmalyn!” Cora turned to see if Hope had heard that last bit, whispered as it was. No change in the girl’s intense connection with the shelves of books.

  “We will,” Emmalyn said. “We’ll talk. It’s not easy.”

  “Trust me. I know. But—”

  “Not to worry. I’ve already repented a dozen times—on paper—for not respecting his wishes. But you have to admit that sometimes you have to do the right thing against the objections when your mate is out of contact range or doesn’t have the whole story.”

  “Huh.”

  “Huh, what?”

  Cora folded her arms. “Two things. You called Max your mate. And ‘the whole story.’ Yes, I have to make decisions without Wayne’s input sometimes. It’s never ideal.”

  “Well, no.”

  “But isn’t it up to me to give Wayne the whole story, to the best of my ability, when we disagree on a plan of action?”

  “You’re going all logical and morally sound on me.”

  Cora chuckled. At that, Hope looked up and pressed one finger against her lips. She’d make a fine librarian someday.

  Emmalyn nodded over Cora’s shoulder and returned to the conversation. “I already know I have some backtracking to do. And some renovation on burned bridges. But I also have a trunkful of questions about how to do this. Nick was a minor when he served time.”

  “Tried as an adult,” Cora reminded her.

  “Still, it’s different. What if Wayne weren’t overseas but behind bars? What’s the spouse’s role then?”

  Cora took the tangled mess of Christmas lights, a small percentage smooth and useful. “Honey, if you can figure that out, you can give seminars to a whole bunch of confused spouses.”

  Emmalyn let herself get tugged away from the conversation. What if Max had intentionally tried to hurt someone, or done more than “significant bodily injury”? What if he hadn’t been repentant? What if he’d thumbed his nose at the law and cursed his way through prison rather than finding his way? How would Emmalyn relate to him then? Where would they be?

  “You still with me?” Cora asked her, giving up on the lights and turning her attention to repositioning the artificial tree’s branches.

  “Still with you.”

  “I read something in a magazine the other day. Or maybe it was on social media. Could have been a talk show.”

  Emmalyn glanced at Hope, wondering how much time they had before she wandered over. How did women with kids ever finish a discussion? “What did you read? Or hear?”

  “This couple decided they could solve a lot of the tension between them if they saved all their head-butting disagreements for a specific day of the week.”

  Joining the branch-straightening, Emmalyn looked at Cora, urging her on.

  “So, for instance, if things got heated in a discussion about finances, they tabled it until, say, Wednesday. They kept a running list of tough subjects that needed to be addressed, or negative comments they wanted to make, and refused to give them voice until Wednesday.”

  “Let me guess. By the time Wednesday arrived—six days later, three days later, one day later—they could tackle the subject without anger. Because they’d given themselves some distance?”

  Cora smiled. “Like you and I don’t have enough ‘distance’ between us and our men the way it is. But I have a feeling most of the hot topics on their list weren’t even simmering anymore. When you make a plan to discuss something, you’re not firing from the hip. It’s intentional. Laid out logically. Researched, even.”

  Hope approached, a stack of books in her arms with one open on top. “Did you know a polar bear’s skin is actually black, to help absorb the sun’s heat? Talk about dark roots.”

  Cora put a hand to the part in her hair. “I had my roots done last week,” she fake-whined.

  Hope looked at Emmalyn for a clue whether or not it was appropriate to laugh. Hope smiled. “Can I get a library card?” she asked the librarian/decorator.

  “Sure, sweetie. Put those books here”—she cleared a spot by blending two piles into one—“and I’ll get you the application.”

  “She can put her books on my card,” Emmalyn said, instantly regretting the offer when she saw the look on Hope’s face. “On second thought, everybody deserves their own library card.”

  Hope’s expression brightened. “Thanks. Did you know there’s a library in Indiana that sinks more than an inch every year because the guys who designed it didn’t figure in the weight of the books?” Hope shook her head, grinning, her dimples dancing. “Didn’t think about the weight of the books!”

  “I did know that,” Cora said, as if thrilled to find someone else in the world who considered it more than a little amusing.

  “Let’s see what books you chose.” Emmalyn turned her head to read the spines.

  “You’ll approve,” Hope said, a tinge of defensiveness in her voice.

  “I have no doubt.” Emmalyn checked the titles anyway. “This one looks like fun.”

  “I thought I should probably know something about the fur trading history of the island.”

  “Self-motivated student?” Cora asked.

  In sync, Hope and Emmalyn answered, “Yes.”

  Cora lifted one book and turned its cover toward Emmalyn, but addressed Hope. “Honey, I don’t know about this one. It might be a little . . . raw for you.”

  Emmalyn took the book from Cora. Loving the Addict: When Love Isn’t Enough. Another fissure formed in her heart. “It’ll be okay, Cora. We’ll read it together.” Emmalyn looked into Hope’s misted eyes. “Won’t we, Hope?”

  Hope’s breath was hinged in the middle, as if broken in two parts and patched together. “I guess.”

  “We need to get moving,” Emmalyn said after the awkwardest of pauses. It occurred to her she’d told Hope earlier they had no timetable to keep. But getting off the subject of addicts and mothers seemed like reason enough for a deadline.

  Cora finished checking out the books with Hope’s new card and said, “I’ll see you two around. A pleasure to meet you, Hope.”

  “You, too.”

  “Emmalyn, don’t forget to cash in that gift certificate for a free shoulder and neck massage one of these days.”

  What gift certificate? Oh. The one Cora gave her that moment, silently, with the look in her eyes. The stress-reliever massage. The tension-busting neck massage. “I’ll be sure to do that. Thanks.”

  They exited through the add-on entrance of the converted Victorian home. The entrance was filled with carts of used books for sale. A quarter apiece. The two looked at each other.

  “Another day soon?” Emmalyn asked.

  “Great idea.”

  As soon as Hope had her seatbelt buckled, she turned to Emmalyn. “M?”

  “Yes?” Lord, please let this be a question about something other than addiction, abandonment, neglect, or prison sentences.

  “Do you decorate? For Christmas, I mean.”

  “I used to do more than I have lately.”

  “You know, it can be very educational to make homemade decorations. Origami uses, like, geometry. How many lights does it take to sparkle a ten-foot tree . . . ?”

  Emmalyn pulled out of the library parking lot. “We can’t fit a ten-foot tree in the cottage.”

  “Hyperthetically speaking.”

  Maybe Hope hadn’t made a mistake with her pronunciation. Maybe the idea really was hyper-thetical. An excess of theories. “We’ll look into it. Living on a budget . . . ”

  “I get that. One year Mom
and I decorated the whole tree with tissue paper roses. And we got the tissue paper from some lady’s baby shower. I wish I had a picture of that tree. It was something.”

  The phrase “baby shower” only stuck out in a sentence for pregnant women, new moms, and those who would never have a baby shower. The effort of reining in her thoughts exhausted her. Would it always be like this? The wild swings between disabling not-a-mom thoughts and crippling can-he-love-me-again thoughts? Then settling again into a middle ground that almost felt like peace? “We’ll see what we can come up with. Something in keeping with the cottage’s décor.”

  “Can I do my room however I want?”

  “Does your plan involve beavers or chain saws?”

  Hope giggled. “No.”

  “Then, okay.”

  Hope pulled out her phone.

  “Texting your friends about it?”

  “Addicts’ kids don’t have many friends, M.” As soon as the words escaped, Hope stiffened. Like a soldier who’d let her guard down, her body language showed she’d heightened her alertness because of the breach. Mouth pinched. Eyes darting, then still.

  The last fissure hadn’t completely healed over when a new one developed in the muscles of Emmalyn’s heart. She grieved not having thought about the friends Hope left behind in her exile to the island. She grieved that there weren’t any.

  “I’m taking notes,” Hope said, her voice lacking the animation of moments earlier. “Decorating notes.”

  Emmalyn parked in front of The Wild Iris before conversation deteriorated any further. “Grab your things, Hope. We’ll be here a little while.”

  In high school orchestra, Emmalyn had been taught to pay attention even when the music didn’t require her to play. She was taught to count through the rests, always on alert. Always engaged.

  Parenting or pseudo-parenting had a lot in common with that counsel. As easy as Hope could sometimes be, living with her, caring about her, meant staying alert even during the pauses. Emmalyn needed to both relax and to watch her every tone of voice, every word, her casual action as if she were counting through the rests. So she didn’t miss anything. So she didn’t break anything.