The Other Shore: Two Stories of Love and Death

by Paul Hina

her hips in an increasingly musical way—a vaguely sexual way. Because of this, Simon is afraid to look in Laura's direction, terrified that she's judging him as harshly as the moment might demand.

  Susannah's hand finds the back of his head, and she starts to slide her fingers through his hair. A line of affection that shouldn't be crossed is being crossed. He starts to pull his head back from her, but she responds by leaning her head against his shoulder.

  They've turned enough now that he's facing Laura. He looks at her, and she's staring down at a stray pizza crust sitting on her plate. She doesn't look particularly embarrassed for them as much as she looks deeply aggrieved.

  Susannah pulls her head away from his shoulder and stops moving. She looks Simon deeply in the eyes, and he's sure she's about to kiss him.

  "Susannah, what are you—?"

  "I think I should go," Laura says, standing up from the table and heading out the back door.

  "Laura, wait," Simon says. But she's already gone.

  "What'd I do?" Susannah asks Simon. And in that moment, as she stares at him, he knows she would never have kissed him. She was just looking for something familiar in Simon's eyes.

  "Nothing. Don't worry about it," he says and goes out the back door.

  Laura is already a good forty or fifty yards away. She's jogging away from the house, toward the lake.

  "Laura!" he yells. "Wait for me!"

  She stops but doesn't turn around. She crosses her arms over her body and looks up at the sky.

  "I'm sorry about that," he says, finally catching up to her. "I know that was weird, but it wasn't what it looked like."

  "I know what it was."

  "What do you think it was?"

  "She's drunk. Her husband is dying, and you're a convenient stand-in."

  "I guess it was what it looked like."

  "It's just so sad," she says. "What's she going to do?"

  "I don't know," he says. "But she'll have us to lean on."

  "She seems all too happy to lean on you."

  "I'm not planning on making a habit of it."

  "I hope not," she says, looking at him. "'Cause that was super weird."

  "Yes, it was," he says. "And it wasn't the first time, either. Last night, after dinner, she asked me to sing 'Wake Up, Little Susie' to her."

  "I can see why. She's in a lot of pain, and it is remarkable how much you and he are alike. You even sound like him."

  "Is that what you hear when you hear my voice? Do you hear him?"

  "No, I hear you."

  "But you hear him, too."

  "It's there, yes."

  "And when you look at me?"

  "I see you, but—"

  "But?"

  "There's no denying the resemblance," she says. "At first, it was uncanny, distracting, even. And maybe under normal circumstances, I wouldn't have felt it so strongly, but now… With everything that's happening, it's undeniable."

  "Is that what draws you to me?"

  "Who said I was drawn to you?" she asks, looking back up at the evening sky.

  "So, you're not?"

  "I am," she says. "But it feels like a strange thing to have to say."

  "In what way?"

  "What are you getting at?"

  "I'm trying, in my own clumsy way, to tell you that I'm drawn to you, too," he says, and she's suddenly looking at him again, surprised by his candor. "And I want to take this job with you, but I haven't felt this much of a pull toward another person in… Well, it's been a long time. I guess, I'm a little afraid all of this—with what's happening to him and what's happening to me because of this thing I'm feeling for you—is clouding my judgment. And I need… I don't know what I need. But it would be nice to know that you're feeling something similar."

  "I am."

  "And I guess I'm trying to find out if what you're feeling could be, in part at least, a kind of transference from your relationship with him."

  "Oh, Simon. No," she says, half-smiling at him. "I love your dad. I do. But I've never thought of him as anything more than a friend and a teacher, maybe a bit of a father figure. He's always been so kind and warm to me, but there's never been any emotional confusion on a romantic level," she says. "And sure, maybe my initial attraction to you might've been how much like your father you seemed to be, but I could see pretty quickly that you're very much your own person. And even if there are plenty of ways that you and he are the same, I'm sure there are just as many ways that you are different—more than I can imagine."

  "What if I'm not enough like him?"

  "I don't expect you to be. I expect you to be yourself."

  "It won't matter," he says. "I'm more like him than I'd ever care to admit. I see that more clearly now than ever."

  "Is that a bad thing?"

  "I sure would've thought so a couple days ago. But, no, I don't think it is."

  She's staring at him, and, held in her eyes, he feels so much clarity, so much comfort, that he begins to believe he'll love this woman.

  "So, are we going to do this?" he asks.

  "Which part?"

  "All of it."

  "I'm not sure we could do the job and deny everything else."

  "I don't think so, either."

  "So, we should just embrace it, let it happen?" she says.

  "I like the sound of that," he says, placing his hand on the small of her back.

  She turns her body toward him, leans into him, and they kiss, softly, slowly. And then he stares at her, his thumb moving by her jaw as if he were painting onto her face. He lets the want in her eyes sink into him, and feels a compassion deeper than anything he's ever known. And when they turn back to the water, they stay just as they are, body against body, close as close can be, and watch the light ride the water's easy current like thousands of electricities rolling their way.

  The sound of a car door shutting in the distance, near the house, pulls them back to reality. It's probably Maggie. Laura stands up straight again—away from him. He immediately misses the weight of her body against his. He moves his hand from her back, and looks at her profile in the evening light. A slight breeze is blowing in from the water, and her hair is flowing ever so slightly behind her. It couldn't be a more perfect picture if he were conjuring it.

  He'd like to remember her in this moment forever.

  "You think we should go back?" she asks.

  "Probably," he says and turns back toward the house.

  He can hear her footsteps behind him, and he slows a bit to let her catch up. She wraps his hand in both her hands and squeezes. He can't help but smile at this, almost laugh at the happy jolt she's sent through his body with her easy tenderness.

  As they reach the stairs of the back entrance of the house, he asks, "You think she finished off that bottle of wine?"

  "I just hope she hasn't started in on a new one," she says, entering the kitchen.

  Music is still playing from the speaker on the counter, but there is another sound coming from deeper in the house. Laura looks back at him, and he knows immediately that something is wrong.

  Laura moves toward the living room.

  He recognizes the sound now as the sound of crying, but it's a different kind of crying than he's heard over the last few days. It's more painful, more pleading.

  He follows Laura through the living room and into the hallway, and the rhythm of the world has suddenly slowed down. His senses are hyper focussed on what he's seeing and what he's hearing. That earlier jolt he felt with Laura is replaced with a different sensation—a cold, scared thing that slips soundlessly over his skin. And he knows that it's all over now but the seeing.

  As he enters the room, he sees Susannah splayed out over his dad's body. She's wailing, and the sound seems muffled, like he's hearing it through water in his ears. Then the sound of her crying becomes clearer, rushes over him like a siren, and he moves to the bed, sits down beside her.

  "Susannah?" he says, placing his hand on her shoulder.

  Sh
e turns toward Simon, and there is a look of sad recognition on her face as she sees him—a profound disappointment.

  "He's gone," she says before gasping for air and falling back on Sy's body, pouring her grief on what's now gone.

  He sees the nurse for the first time standing in the corner, sheathed by shadow. She puts a phone to her ear and leaves the room. He looks at Maggie and Laura. They're both standing against the wall on the other side of the room by the door, and they both look too stunned to move.

  "What happened?" Simon asks Maggie.

  Maggie looks at him, and after a second, as if she'd just registered the words he'd said, says, "I don't know. I just got here. I walked in and Susannah was in the kitchen doing some dishes. I went in to say hello and the nurse called for us. He was like this when we got here."

  "I should've been here. I should've been with him," Susannah says, looking at Simon. "I was too scared."

  "Susannah, he was comfortable here," he says. "What more could you've done? I'm sure he was resting and just drifted away."

  She sits up and is close to Simon now, looking him straight in the face. Her eyes are red and a little crazed with uncertainty. But something else is different about her eyes. There is a darkness where there was light before.

  "I'll never know for sure," she says, looking back over at Sy. "I'll never know if he was looking for me, or if he said my name."

  Simon looks at Maggie and Laura again. They're both looking at him now.

  "What do we do now?" Maggie asks.

  His dad is dead, and as he drives through the city toward Maggie's house, he so desperately wants to feel something. He watches the streetlights swing by and it seems like he's viewing the world through the flicker of a movie screen, almost as if he's more observer than participant. There's a vacancy