Walking on Water: A Novel

by Richard Paul Evans

  “I’ll bring their gifts tomorrow if you want. I’m sure there will be more by then.”

  “More baked goods?”

  “Probably.”

  “You can have them.”

  “You liked the muffins,” I said, looking at the empty basket.

  “The nurses ate them,” he said. “Have you heard from Nicole?”

  “Not this morning. We had dinner last night.”

  He moved his knight. “Is she coming by today?”

  “I think so. That’s why she’s here.”

  “She’s a good girl.”

  “That’s what you said yesterday.”

  “Probably still true.” My father suddenly went quiet as he studied the board. We played for nearly five minutes without talking. Then he asked, “What’s going to happen with her?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You and her.”

  “I don’t know. She asked me about Falene last night.”

  He looked up at me with concern. “What did she say?”

  “She asked if I had found her. I told her I had, but I hadn’t talked to her yet.”

  He went back to the board, taking my queen with his knight. “You need to be more careful,” he said.

  “Are you still talking about the game?”

  “Yes. If you want advice about women, you could do better than me.”

  “So the dream you had. Did it make you wonder?”

  “About what?”

  “If some part of it was real.”

  I expected my father to dismiss the idea, but he didn’t. “I think there might be more to heaven and earth than is dreamt of in my philosophy.”

  “You’re softening about religion?”

  “Religion? No. But God, that’s a different matter. Never confuse the clock with the time.”

  “But you’ve changed your mind about God?”

  “Maybe getting closer to the finish line does that to a man.”

  “What’s with all the references to the end of life?” I said. “You’re still young.”

  “Don’t worry about it. It’s the heart attack talking.” He took another one of my pieces. “The other day I had this thought. If you look around, there’s an order to things. The way the planets revolve around the sun is remarkably similar to the way electrons revolve around a nucleus. If science proves anything, it’s that nothing comes from nothing. Something caused those things to act. It’s not too hard to believe in the creator of that order. If you want to call that God, then maybe I do believe in God.”

  “What about an afterlife?”

  “What about it?”

  “Do you believe in one?”

  “What you’re really asking is, is there such a thing as a soul?” He looked over his move for a moment, then said, “It’s hard to believe that there’s nothing more to us than electrical impulses.”

  “Where do our souls go after death?”

  Still looking at the board, he said, “Toledo.”

  I laughed. “Toledo?”

  “Why not? It’s as likely a destination as any.”

  We played a bit more in silence. As usual, I found myself in trouble.

  “You’re too impatient,” he said. “You shouldn’t move until you know it’s right.”

  “Obviously I thought it was right.”

  “It wasn’t,” he said.

  “I can see that now.” I looked over the board. “I think I’m dead.”

  “You are.”

  “Speaking of dead, I read in your family history last night.”

  “That’s an interesting segue. How far did you get?”

  “I got to where your grandfather committed suicide.”

  He frowned. “Dead is right. It was tragic. Such unnecessary pain.”

  “Were you close to your grandmother?”

  “No; I met her only once. At my mother’s funeral. She was very old. I think she was just too mean to die. Or maybe it was her curse to see all her children die before her.”

  “Did you speak to her?”

  “I told her that I was Peter’s son. I thought it was pathetic that I had to tell my grandmother who I was. I still do.”

  “What did she say to that?”

  “Nothing. She just grunted. Her selfishness carried its own punishment. She died alone. They found her body by the smell. They guessed she had already been dead for at least five days.” He moved his queen. “Check.”

  I shook my head again.

  “You’re too impatient,” he said again.

  “It’s my curse,” I said. “Always has been.”

  “It’s not a curse, it’s a habit.”

  “Same thing,” I said.

  “Sometimes,” he replied.

  My father took a nap around ten thirty. Nicole arrived a little before noon. My father was still sleeping, so we went down to the cafeteria for coffee. She asked how my father was, but for the most part she was quiet. She looked as if something was bothering her. I finally asked her what was wrong.

  “Nothing.”

  “Want to talk about it?”

  “No.”

  “If you change your mind, I’m here.”

  “I know.”

  An hour later, we returned to my father’s room to find him awake. He looked especially happy to see Nicole.

  “Hi, handsome,” Nicole said. She leaned over his bed and they embraced. “How are you feeling today?”

  “Like a million bucks,” he said.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. But a million bucks ain’t what it used to be.”

  Nicole laughed. They talked for a long while. Twice I walked around the unit to stretch my legs. About six o’clock my father was getting sleepy again.

  “You two run along,” he said. “I’m going to rest a little. Or maybe a lot. Go to a movie or something.”

  “We’re not going to a movie,” Nicole said. “There’s nothing I want to see.”

  “It doesn’t matter what you watch, as long as it’s more interesting than me.”

  “What could be more interesting than you?” She kissed him on the cheek. “Good night, Bob.”

  As we walked out of the hospital I asked Nicole if she’d like to get some dinner.

  “Thanks, but I think I’ll just go back to the hotel.”

  I looked at her quizzically. “Are you sure? You’ve got to eat.”

  “I’m sure. Good night.”

  “Good night,” I said. As I watched her walk to her car, I wondered what I had done.

  I stopped at Vons grocery store on the way home and picked up a stack of TV dinners, some fruit and nuts, and a case of bottled water, something I never would have done had my father been home. (He couldn’t understand why someone would pay for water when you could get it for free.)

  When I got home there was a plate of sugar cookies on the doorstep. I heated up one of the dinners in the microwave, ate, then went to my room and continued reading from the family history.

  II

  Peter Christoffersen

  My father, Peter, was a lanky, quiet child. Some called him withdrawn. He was known for having a fierce temper and was in more than a few fights with boys often much older and bigger than him. Considering the circumstances in which he was born, it’s no surprise that he was of such a temperament. He was ten years old at the time of his father’s death—old enough to recognize his mother’s hand in it. To his dying day he never forgave her.

  Nine weeks after Finn’s death, Genevieve sold the store in Butte and, with the five thousand dollars she received from her husband’s insurance, moved the family to Denver, Colorado. For a while, they lived a life of relative ease and prosperity. Peter took an apprenticeship with a local print shop setting type, but soon found he didn’t have the patience for the work. For a time he also sold newspapers.

  In 1941, when Peter was fifteen, Genevieve married a man named Winton Clark, a worker at the local Eaton Metal Products Company. Winton was a violent man who drank too much. He
frequently beat Genevieve and the boys. One November night Winton came home late from work, drunk and belligerent. Finding his dinner cold, he began beating Genevieve. When Peter tried to intervene, Winton beat him so severely that his life was only spared by his mother’s pleading.

  Several hours later, after Winton had fallen asleep, Peter washed the blood from his face, packed a knapsack, said goodbye to his brother and sister, then struck Winton over the head with a heavy cast-iron skillet, emptied his pockets of $1.43, and left home for good.

  Peter took a bus to a Denver army enlistment center, where he lied about his age and signed up to fight. The tide of the war was already turning as the Axis powers were stopped in Stalingrad and Midway. Peter was enrolled in the infantry and was eventually sent with the Allied troops to Utah Beach, where he saw the sand run red with blood and foam. His battalion pushed on to liberate France, then saw action in the Battle of the Bulge. He marched with the 99th Division in Moosburg as they freed the POWs. In his own words:

  It was war, and I saw and did things that must change a man for the rest of his days.

  Peter was honorably discharged thirty-six days after V-E Day (1945). He returned to Denver to see his brother and sister. His mother was still married to Winton, who had boasted that he’d beaten Peter “within an inch of his life” and vowed to “take him the final inch” should he ever “show his sorry face” in the home again. Unfortunately for Winton, Peter was now not only larger and stronger than him but battle hardened and trained in combat. He had killed men in war whom he had far less reason to dislike than Winton.

  After taking a sound beating from Peter, Winton, who ironically was saved when Genevieve intervened, locked himself in his room and threated to call the police if Peter ever returned. The last thing Peter said to Genevieve was “Congratulations, Mother. You have found a man of your own quality.”

  Peter learned that his sister had married and moved to Pueblo, Colorado. His brother, Thomas, had also attempted to enlist in the army but, looking much younger than Peter, was rejected. Instead, he followed his grandfather’s trade and went to work in the Kennecott Copper Mine in Bingham, Utah. In a cruel twist of irony, Thomas had been killed in a mining accident, thousands of miles away from the war.

  Postwar America was a place of unbridled consumerism, and Peter got a good-paying job managing a downtown Denver appliance store, where he worked for several years. On October 17, 1947, at the age of twenty-one, he married Sara Krys White, a pretty waitress at the Rise’n Shine Diner, where he stopped every morning for coffee and pie. Sara baked her own wedding cake, and their wedding consisted of a brief ceremony held at the diner. That same day, Peter learned that his stepfather, Winton, had been killed in an automobile accident. Peter said it was the best wedding present he got.

  He didn’t attend his stepfather’s funeral, though he later said he regretted not being there. “Not that I wished to pay my respects to the louse; rather, I wished to see the man in a state he most decidedly deserved.”

  I put the book down. I never knew my grandfather, but I could see how his temperament had influenced my father. Still, in many ways, my father was nothing like him. My dad had always been strict and serious of nature, but he wasn’t violent. He had never spanked me and he rarely raised his voice. My father had done a lot to cultivate our family tree.

  CHAPTER

  Ten

  My father is wiser than I’ve ever dared give him credit for.

  Alan Christoffersen’s diary

  The next morning my father was in the best mood he’d been in since I’d returned. I again cleared off his breakfast tray and set up the chess set.

  “You got more cookies last night.”

  “From who?”

  “I don’t know. Does it matter?”

  “I suppose not,” he said.

  “I also read more in the history.”

  “How far did you get?”

  “To just before you’re born.”

  “You’re just getting to the good part,” he said, smiling.

  We started playing. A few moves in I asked, “Remember that time we went to that dude ranch in Wyoming?”

  “Juanita Hot Springs. I mention it in the book.”

  “Was that your idea or Mom’s?”

  “Your mother’s,” he said. “I remember a horse almost ran away with you. You never liked horses after that.”

  “I didn’t like them before,” I said. “I like them less now.”

  He frowned. “Of course. McKale . . .”

  “Did Mom know she had cancer then? During that trip?”

  He nodded. “That’s why we went on the trip. She wanted to create as many memories for you as she could.” His voice became thoughtful. “You were the sun, moon, and stars to her. The last thing she said to me was ‘Take care of our boy.’ ” He paused for a moment, then looked me in the eyes. “Did I?”

  “Did you what?”

  “Take care of you.”

  “Of course you did.”

  “I wonder sometimes. I didn’t do the job that she would have. That wasn’t going to happen. When we got married I warned her that I wasn’t good with children.”

  “What did Mom say to that?”

  “You know her, hope springs eternal . . .”

  “No, I didn’t know that about her.”

  “No, I guess you wouldn’t. But she was the most hopeful person I have ever known. She said we’d just learn together. She told me that the most important things a parent could give a child were roots and wings. She said she’d provide the roots and I could teach you how to fly. I figured I could handle that part. I just didn’t expect that she wouldn’t be around.” He frowned. “You spent most of your time with McKale anyway.”

  “Did that bother you?”

  “No. I figured you needed the feminine interaction, and she filled the void.”

  “Did you ever think we would end up together?”

  “No. Those things don’t usually work out. But I thought it was good for you in the meantime.” He went back to examining the board. “So what are you going to do with the rest of your life after your walk?”

  “That’s a good question,” I said.

  “Does it have a good answer?”

  I looked up at him. “Lately I’ve been reconsidering things. I’m thinking that maybe I’ll go to work in-house for an advertising agency. It doesn’t have the growth potential of opening my own company, but it would be okay. I’d get the satisfaction of creativity without the pain of bill collecting or hassling with clients . . .”

  “Or having someone steal your clients?” my father said. His gaze leveled on mine. “You’re too talented to limit yourself, Al.” He lifted one of the bishops he’d taken from me. “The past makes a good bishop but a poor king.”

  “What does that mean?” I said.

  “It means that it’s good to take counsel from the past but not to be ruled by it. Otherwise we end up using today to fight yesterday’s battles and miss tomorrow’s promise.”

  “That’s pretty profound,” I said.

  “So what are you going to do with the rest of your life?”

  “Stick around and find out.”

  “I’m planning on it.”

  Hearing him say that made me feel good.

  “Is Nicole coming by today?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. I think being around me is hard on her.”

  “Maybe.” He frowned. “Be good to her.”

  “Of course I will.”

  “Did you call Falene?”

  “No.”

  “What are you waiting for?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’d better figure it out.”

  CHAPTER

  Eleven

  It’s a shame that hearts don’t come with manual overrides.

  Alan Christoffersen’s diary

  My father was asleep when Nicole arrived at the hospital that afternoon. She looked as upset as she had the day before. “How i
s he?” she asked.

  “Good,” I said. Then I added, “He looks better than you do.” She just kind of shrugged. “Do you want to talk?”

  She slowly breathed out. “Okay.”

  We walked out of his room. The ICU waiting room wasn’t crowded and we sat in a vacant corner.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  She looked down for a moment, then slowly shook her head. “This is hard.”

  “I know how much he means—”

  She looked up. “I don’t mean your father, I mean us. Do you have any idea how hard it is to love someone who doesn’t love you back?”

  “I do love you.”

  “I don’t mean like that,” she said. “I don’t know what I was thinking, coming here. I thought I could ignore my feelings, or that maybe they would just go away. But they’re not.” Tears welled up in her eyes. “They just get stronger. I love you too much to just be friends.”

  I didn’t know what to say.

  A tear rolled down her cheek. “Maybe I should just go home.”

  “Do you want to go home?”

  She shook her head.

  I took her hand. “I’m grateful that you’re here. For both of us. But if it’s too hard, I understand. So will my father.”

  For a moment she just sat there, wiping her eyes. Then she said softly, “I don’t want to go.”

  “I don’t want you to go,” I said. “But I don’t want to hurt you, either. I do love you.”

  “I know you do.”

  I kissed her forehead. Then I put my arms around her and held her. I felt like such an idiot. Why didn’t I love her?

  CHAPTER

  Twelve

  It’s hard to believe that my mild-mannered accountant father was a warrior action figure.

  Alan Christoffersen’s diary

  When Nicole had regained her composure I walked her to my father’s room and left them alone. My heart ached for her, but I knew that her being with my father would help. He was good for her. They were good for each other.

  After I got home I thought about what my father had said about calling Falene, but I couldn’t do it. Especially not tonight. It felt like I would be throwing salt on Nicole’s wounds. Instead I did some laundry, ate another one of my TV dinners, and lay down on my bed to read about my father.