As Waters Gone By

by Cynthia Ruchti

  A defense for the kind of broad education Hope could get on the island in addition to the compulsory subjects clawed at the back of Emmalyn’s teeth, but she stayed silent. “Did you know that all polar bears are left-handed?” she wanted to say. “Or that cat urine glows in the dark?” But she didn’t.

  “Your words, Hope, pushed me over the edge in my decision. The board will review my findings. We should have a final decision for you shortly after the holidays.” She stuffed her papers into her briefcase and stood.

  “Wait a minute. We won’t know anything until after the holidays?” Emmalyn felt a small hand on her knee.

  “My personal recommendation is rarely overturned,” Ms. Drummond said. “I can’t think of a better place for Hope. You’re blessed to be loved by so many, young lady. And I agree with what you said upstairs.”

  What had Hope said? Would Emmalyn hear the story?

  Emmalyn’s voice held steady. “Thank you so much for coming all this way.” No, no! Not a “remoteness” reference. “For coming right before Christmas.”

  “My pleasure. Nice to meet both of you. Hope”—she took the girl by her shoulders—“I know this is a tough, tough time for you. But you’re surrounded by people who care. That’s a gift.”

  “I know,” she said, her small voice filling the cottage.

  * * *

  Emmalyn felt like dancing. Hope remained subdued.

  “Are you feeling okay? You were out in the cold a long time.” Emmalyn stirred the tomato bisque that had become their favorite. Grilled cheese sandwiches—gryuere—sizzled on the griddle.

  “I’m okay.”

  “Anything you want to talk about?”

  “No.”

  “Anything you need to talk about?” Emmalyn tapped the wooden spoon on the edge of the pan and turned off the burner.

  “Did you know that the word typewriter is the longest word in the English language that can be spelled using only the top row of letters on a keyboard?”

  “Interesting.” Emmalyn flipped their sandwiches. “Anything else?”

  “I’m going to leave again, you know.”

  It might have been some other muscle, but Emmalyn thought it was her womb that tightened. “I’ll find you.”

  “I don’t mean run away, which for the record isn’t what happened this morning.”

  “Felt like it.”

  “Sorry about that. But I am going to leave. When I’m, like, eighteen. Unless I accelerate my studies and can swing early admittance to college.” She chewed on one fingernail, forehead scrunched.

  Twelve and twenty in the same tiny package.

  “I believe”—Emmalyn swallowed—“that will be a difficult moment for me—sending you off to college. But I think I’ll live through it.”

  “I can spend the summers here with you and Dad, right?”

  “Right.” Emmalyn blinked back tears. She had hope that Max wanted them all together as much as she did.

  Hope pulled her hair into a ponytail and secured it. “Did you agree to take me in because you thought you had to? I mean, I get it if you did. Because Dad asked you to.”

  “I didn’t give him a chance to ask.” Emmalyn slid the sandwiches onto robin’s egg blue plates. “I volunteered.”

  “Because you always wanted a child?”

  “Because God knew I didn’t need just a child. I needed to make a home for you. You.”

  They ate their supper in the living area, by the lights from the Christmas tree on the porch.

  “The Christmas Eve service at The Wild Iris should be something to see.” Hope set her spoon in her empty bowl. “Something to see.”

  “Would you like to go, Hope?”

  “Nice play on words, M.”

  “What?”

  Her beautiful lopsided dimples deepened as she said, “Hope shows up at every Christmas Eve service. It’s kind of the point.”

  Waiting for You made a timely appearance. Hope pulled out her phone. “It’s Dad!” She took the stairs two at a time on her way to her room.

  Emmalyn tried to imagine what Max had written to CPS about her. “Failed me miserably for four years, but she’s doing okay now.” “Don’t know if we can reclaim our marriage, but I guess it’s worth a try.” “She breathes nice.”

  She smiled in spite of the unknown. They had so much time to make up. And neither of them were the same as when they’d pledged forever to each other. The beginning of a new forever was five months and eight days away.

  Hope stayed in her room long after the phone call ended. Emmalyn eventually let Comfort out and watched her like a hawk until the dog came back in. She washed the supper dishes, fed the sourdough starter Bougie had given her, and turned out the lights. When she passed Hope’s bedroom door on the way to her own, she paused. The chalkboard sign Emmalyn hung on the door a few days after Hope arrived had been doctored.

  At one time it said Hope’s Room.

  Hope had asked for a piece of chalk shortly before the CPS representative arrived. Emmalyn guessed she now knew what it was for. The sign read: Hope Lives Here. Even Here.

  The door swung open and the sign clattered against the wood. “Hey, you’re here,” Hope said.

  Emmalyn feigned nonchalant, as if her world hadn’t tilted in the last moments.

  “Is it too early to exchange gifts? It is, isn’t it.” The eagerness etched on Hope’s face would have made a great advertisement for the joy of Christmas.

  “I wasn’t sure if you’d—”

  “Want to?”

  “Be here. I wasn’t sure you’d be here, Hope.” How hollow this night would have been.

  “The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away,” she said, digging something from under her pillow. “And sometimes He just giveth and giveth and you wind up with an almost teenager whether you want one or not.”

  “Oh, Hope!” Emmalyn sat at the foot of Hope’s bed. “Isn’t it a strange time? I feel like celebrating that you get to stay. But, your mother . . . ”

  Hope nodded. “I’m thinking of becoming a vegetarian.”

  “What?” Was this another version of “Did you know . . . ?” “Any particular reason?”

  “Because for the last couple of years, my mom made mostly unhealthy choices. And I don’t want to live like that.”

  “We’re going to figure this out together, aren’t we?”

  “So, do you want your Christmas present or not?”

  “Mine for you is downstairs.” Emmalyn turned to get it.

  “That’s okay. I can wait for mine,” Hope said.

  Emmalyn smiled. “I should refrigerate it then, if you’re waiting until Christmas Eve.”

  Hope’s curious dimples deepened. “What is it?”

  “I don’t know if you’ll want it anymore.”

  “M! What did you get me?”

  “Bacon.” Emmalyn slid farther onto the bed and rested her back against the wall.

  “You did not!” Hope poked at her knee. “Did you? Because, that whole vegetarian thing? That was a metaphor.”

  “So you’re still into bacon?”

  Hope sat cross-legged at the head of her bed, her mouth twitching with a barely suppressed giggle. “Is it going to be like this forever?”

  Emmalyn’s pulse locked into a sweet, smooth rhythm. “I hope so.”

  “Did you know . . . ?” Hope stopped, lower lip caught between her teeth.

  Oh, that opening could lead to so many conclusions. How many atoms can fit on the head of a pin. The greatest number of skips ever recorded in a rock-skipping contest. The square root of . . .

  A single, sweet, solemn tear slipped down Hope’s cheek. She smiled through it.

  “Yes, Hope. I know.”

  * * *

  Bacon played a key role in their Christmas Eve meal. Bacon-wrapped water chestnuts, a treat new to Hope. Bacon-wrapped, goat-cheese-stuffed Medjool dates, which Hope pronounced a waste of good bacon. And bacon-flavored roasted brussel sprouts, which Hope decided were close en
ough to the life of a vegetarian for her.

  “You know that little shed in the back?” she said.

  “Yes. What about it?”

  Hope slid onto the stool by the island. “We need to paint it, don’t you think? It looks kind of . . . forlorn.”

  “Forlorn? What have you been reading, Hope?”

  “Lots of stuff.” She snatched a chocolate-covered strawberry from the platter of dessert options. “I think if we painted it, and maybe fixed the windows, Dad could use it for a man cave when he comes home.”

  Emmalyn set a glass cup of hot cider in front of her. “You don’t think he’ll appreciate the all-white and robin’s egg blue décor we have going here? Even the dog’s white.”

  “With a brown face.”

  “Right.”

  “Do you think it would work?” Hope exercised her puppy-dog pleading face to the max.

  “You know, your father has a lot of decisions to make. And one of them is where to live when he’s released.”

  Hope leaned closer. “Yeah, but you two are getting along a lot better now, so . . . ”

  Emmalyn felt at her throat for the agate necklace Hope had given her.

  “He gives you flowers.” Hope reached for a petal of one of the white baby roses in the antique tea cup in the center of the island.

  “Yes, and I’d like to know how he pulls that off from prison. Are you sure you have nothing to do with that?”

  “I swear,” she said. “Not in a Jesus Jar kind of way. You know what I mean.”

  “It must be Bougie, then.”

  Hope shook her head. “Not her either. Must be magic.”

  “It’s not magic, but it is sweet. I’ll find out.”

  “In five months and seven days?” Hope glanced at the countdown app on her phone.

  “Lots of winter between now and then.” Emmalyn finished putting away the leftovers and grabbed a chocolate-covered strawberry for herself.

  “Did you know that the daylight hours are already getting longer? For, like, three whole days now?”

  Emmalyn chuckled. “You’ve noticed the difference?”

  “I’m sensitive that way,” Hope said, craning her neck, nose in the air.

  They agreed to take the platter and their cider into the living area to take full advantage of the lit tree, the fire in the fireplace, and Emmalyn’s real gift to Hope—portable speakers for her phone. When Max called, they’d share the news about Ms. Drummond’s decision together.

  After the fire died down, the apple cider was drained, and the platter of desserts had been given more than enough attention, Emmalyn gave voice to reality. “Hon, it looks like he’s not going to be able to get through tonight. Who knows why? One of the hard things about life in prison.”

  “It’s Christmas Eve.”

  “I’m sorry. I have another present for you. Out in the back entry. A new pair of boots. Your size. When you’re ready for them.”

  “Thanks.”

  Hope took her cup to the kitchen. She stayed at the sink with her back to Emmalyn for much longer than it would take to wash one cup.

  Emmalyn nudged Comfort from her lap. “I’m on my way to read and then bed. You?”

  “I’m going to work on Dad’s blog. I’ll send him an email to tell him about what happened yesterday with the CPS lady. Anything you want to say to him?”

  Emmalyn’s thoughts traveled the long highway of miles and a ferry crossing that separated them. “Tell him we’ll be right here, waiting for him.”

  30

  ~And after every winter, a spring.~

  The bike ride to the Town Park exhausted them even more than kayaking from the park’s picturesque beach landing and lagoon. The mosquitos vacationed elsewhere this warm day late in May, allowing them an itch-free excursion on glassy water.

  “Your nose got a little sun,” Emmalyn said as they prepared for the ride home, donning helmets, shouldering their backpacks, and adjusting the straps.

  “Yours, too. Smell that?”

  “What?” Emmalyn looked around the area where they’d left their bikes.

  Hope posed like Kate Winslet in Titanic. “How can air smell sweet, like honey?”

  Emmalyn mimicked Hope’s pose, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. “New leaves. Wildflowers. Moss. Water. Pine. Cottonwood. Piña colada.”

  “Piña colada?”

  “My hand lotion. Are we racing home or touring?”

  Hope climbed on her bike, the helmet Emmalyn’s mother had sent her perched low over her eyes. “I want to ride so slow we can see the thin veins on the butterfly wings.”

  Emmalyn readjusted the strap on her matching helmet. “You’re working on your poetry unit for English, aren’t you?”

  “How’d you guess?”

  “Open book, Hope. You’re an open book.”

  And just like that, the book closed. Emmalyn didn’t know if her sudden descents into quietness were the normal fluctuations of an almost thirteen-year-old, or of a young girl who’d recently lost her mom, or solitary ponderings about getting her dad back in a few weeks, if all went well.

  Emmalyn had her own pondering moments, most of them late at night. Life was about to change. Again. She and Max had conquered a few long-distance marriage maintenance techniques. They no longer wasted valuable phone time on trivial disagreements or discussions they couldn’t complete. They consulted each other as they would have if separated by a hallway rather than a long stretch of highway. They filtered out the bad but never the truth.

  How would they function as a couple in an 800-square-foot cottage with a built in pre-teen and a dog that was one-paw-in, one-paw-out?

  She reached up to adjust her helmet. What would Max do for a living? Work at The Wild Iris? Take Pirate Joe’s place when he left for Florida? Create a business he could manage online, since Emmalyn didn’t plan to anymore? Become a stay-at-home dad?

  Madeline Island had worked its way into her bones and sinews. What if Max didn’t have the same reaction to this place? What if the maple tree on their property was just a tree to him? The elbow of road just a curve? The sandy/rocky shore any old beach? The water—clear and bitingly cold even now—a lake, not The Lake? What if his first decision as a live-in husband was, “Let’s move. Let’s start over somewhere else”?

  She breathed harder as her legs worked the pedals. Hope ahead of her wasn’t biking slowly enough to trace butterfly veins. Emmalyn strained to keep up.

  She’d found love and fulfillment, healing, friendship, here in this unexpected place, in unexpected ways, among people and crises she wouldn’t have chosen for herself. She’d watched the water carry the storm debris of her life far from shore.

  How could she leave now? But what if staying kept Max from his heart’s desire? He hadn’t tasted the air of freedom in five years. How could she chain him to the cottage?

  Emmalyn said, “The cottage needs a name, Hope. It still needs a name.”

  She turned her head and called over her shoulder, “You didn’t like my last suggestion?”

  “We’re not naming it The Cottage.”

  “I had other ideas.”

  Emmalyn pulled her bike closer, leaving a safe enough margin between them. “Not going to do The Tame Iris. Not going to name it Used to Be Broken, although that does have metaphorical merit.”

  “Did you know that a duck’s quack doesn’t echo and no one knows why?”

  “And this applies how?”

  “In case you were thinking of naming the cottage Duck Echo Cottage. Because that would be impossible. But quirky.”

  “Hope?”

  “Yes?”

  “I love you.”

  “I know.” Her young legs dug in and she shot forward, putting a good twenty feet between them.

  Emmalyn shouted, “Slow down! I thought of a name!” It had come to her at three in the morning, like all good thoughts. Menopause insomnia, she assumed. Her doctor told her it wasn’t uncommon. Just because her perimenopause was premature
didn’t mean she got to skip any of its wonders. She’d gotten up and sat in her bedroom chair for a while in the dark, listening to the waves and watching the stars attempting to outshine each other. Eventually she’d picked up her Bible and flicked on the small reading lamp. She turned the fragile pages randomly, enjoying the sound and texture as much as the hope she’d find something new to chew on.

  She did. A verse in the book of Job she couldn’t remember seeing before.

  Hope pulled onto the wide, sandy shoulder at the edge of the property near the maple tree almost fully leafed out. She hopped off her bike and leaned it against the tree. Emmalyn followed.

  “So,” Hope said, “what name?” She started toward the beach.

  They did their duck walk to get through the soft sand. “As Waters Gone By.”

  “Sounds Native American.”

  “Much older than that.”

  “What’s it mean?” Hope stood near the water’s edge looking back at the cottage as if ready to test the name on the building like a mother would gauge a name against the look of her newborn.

  “Job 11:16 NIV. ‘You will surely forget your trouble, recalling it only as waters gone by.’ ”

  The waters that had called to her, comforted her, lullabied her many a sleepless night, impressed upon her heart a truth she could hold onto. She couldn’t undo what had been done, couldn’t call back the waters that had slipped past her while she watched.

  But she could anticipate a day when her troubles would be a memory, like waters gone by. She could let the waves washing against the shore of her pain round the sharp edges of her disappointment. And Hope’s loss. And Max’s sentence. And their regrets.

  Hope crossed her arms across her budding chest. “Hmm. I like it.” Her voice disappeared like wisps of fog.

  “I thought you might.”

  “I think Daddy will like it, too.”

  Like the cottage. Like the name. Like the concept. Like the life we’ve built here. Yes, please, Max. Like it all.

  * * *

  Bougie’s winter/spring semester at UMD had ended. She returned to the helm of The Wild Iris as the tourist season ramped up. Memorial Day weekend promised an influx of weekenders and the beginning of three nonstop months of customers. Their new menu stood at the ready. Emmalyn and Bougie worked well as a team. But Emmalyn thanked the Lord every day that Hope’s studies let up for the summer when life at The Wild Iris got crazy. Crazier.