The Watermark

by Travis Thrasher

  “Mr. Blake?”

  “Yes?” I responded.

  “Do you ever write your own music?”

  The question came from out of the blue.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I was wondering. I asked my mom the other day. She said she thought you used to do a lot of other stuff besides teach piano. Have you ever wanted to be a singer or something like that?”

  “I don’t think I’ll ever be a singer, Nita.”

  “But do you write music? Is that why you’re going to college again?”

  I rubbed my hands together. “No, not really. I never finished college. I was different than you. I never studied.”

  “But you practice the piano.”

  “That’s different. I’ve always practiced the piano.”

  “So, what’re you going to do after you finish college?” Nita asked.

  “That’s a good question. I don’t know.”

  “Will you still be my teacher?”

  “Well, I guess, if you want me to.” I paused for a second and looked down at the sprinkling of freckles covering her nose. “You’ll soon be teaching kids yourself. Or performing in concert halls.”

  “Why did you stop going to school?”

  All these questions surprised me. I wasn’t sure where they were coming from. “I needed a break from learning, I guess.”

  “Mom says it’s harder to learn if you don’t do it every day.”

  “That’s right. It is. It’s always harder to go back.”

  I thought of her original question: Do you ever write your own music?

  Years ago, I had more hopes and aspirations, more music inside me than this ten-year-old could possibly dream of. They had all disappeared in one night. A bleak night that lingered, darkening my life for so many years.

  Now maybe, just maybe, the shadows of that night were finally shrinking back enough for me to rediscover those dreams.

  After Nita’s lesson I decided to stop by my parents’ house before venturing back into the city. It was around five in the afternoon, and the only one at home was my mother, Helen Blake. I was glad to hear that Dad would be getting home late from the hospital.

  “Pearl went home for the day,” my mother said about our sixty-seven-year-old housekeeper who usually prepared dinner. “I told her Jim would be coming home late.”

  “I’ll grab a sandwich.”

  My dinner consisted of a turkey and cheddar cheese sandwich and corn chips. I ate it at the kitchen table. My mother sat across from me, wrapping a birthday present for my Aunt Evelyn.

  “Did you know that Josh and Jim are in training for the next Olympics?” Mom asked about my two younger cousins.

  “Yeah. That’s really great.”

  “They’ll all be coming over for Christmas.”

  “Wonderful. I think I’ll be ill that day.”

  “Oh, stop. You already avoid every family function you can.”

  “Maybe if I was going to the Olympics, I wouldn’t.”

  “So tell me, are classes going well?” my mom asked, changing the subject.

  “Yeah,” I replied.

  “Don’t talk with your mouth full.”

  “You asked the question.”

  “How’s your roommate?”

  I took a sip of soda. “He’s a nice guy. I told him I’d like to have him come over sometime.”

  “Anytime. Just give me proper notice so the place is clean.”

  “Mom, the place is always clean.”

  “No it’s not. So how was your practice with Nita?”

  “Fine.”

  “Gail said you guys had a fun time at the aquarium.”

  “They’re a great family.”

  “Have you been practicing much at the college?”

  I nodded my head. “As much as I’d normally practice. Hey, I was wondering about my keyboard. Is it still in my room?”

  My mother looked at me with surprise on her face. It was the first time in years that I’d mentioned anything about my Korg keyboard system. “I haven’t put it anywhere else. Why?”

  “I might take it back to the apartment with me.”

  “Are you sure? It could be stolen. You know how expensive that was.”

  I chuckled and swallowed a bite of my sandwich. “I haven’t played it in years—it’s not exactly state-of-the-art anymore. You think it’d matter if it got stolen?”

  “Of course it would.”

  “I still don’t get why Dad always discouraged me from playing with it. You’re the only reason I was even able to buy the thing in the first place.”

  “You know how your father is.”

  “Was he afraid I might actually try to pursue a career in synthesizer music?”

  “Your father was just trying to protect you. That’s all.”

  “Yeah. Well, he’s done a mighty fine job doing that.”

  “Sheridan, please—”

  “It’s okay, Mom. He’s not here. Don’t worry. I can’t get into an argument if he’s not here.”

  “Sheridan, your father loves you and—”

  “And shows it by bailing his son out of trouble. I know.”

  “Look, we’ve told you before—we just didn’t know what to do. We did what we thought was right.”

  I wiped my mouth, surprised I was reliving the past this easily with my mother. “I know that,” I said. “It’s just—I still remember, when it was all said and done, sitting there in Dad’s office. The Study. Sitting there in that ‘visitor’s’ chair of his, feeling like a student in a principal’s office. Sitting there crying and asking him to help me. And you know what he did?”

  “Sheridan, please—”

  “You know what he said? I’m baring my soul for the first and perhaps only time with Dad and he can only state how I need to grow up and abandon all these foolish notions like working with the synthesizer. As if that was my big problem.”

  “Your dad had a hard time coming to grips with all that happened.”

  “Denial isn’t a river in Egypt,” I said.

  “That’s funny,” she replied, unamused.

  I stood and threw away my paper plate. “I’m sorry for bringing all of this up.”

  My mother looked at me and smiled, looking so much younger than her age. “Let’s go upstairs and get that keyboard of yours. I’ll help you get it to your car.”

  That night, my conversations with both Nita and my mother echoed in my thoughts. Once again I was reminded of how far I’d let my musical ambitions slip away, and once again the realization hurt.

  I wanted—I needed—to start over. Frankly, I didn’t know where to begin.

  Why don’t you try praying?

  I ignored the inner prompting like I used to ignore my mother when she suggested something I didn’t want to do. How could I go before God and his throne after I had failed him time after time and done absolutely nothing worthy of his name? How could I dare say I was a Christian, one of his own, when all of my past actions for so many years had only indicated the opposite?

  I sat in my bedroom, knowing that Barney was in his own little world and Erik was probably in the same, somewhere in the city. I was alone.

  And yet, I wasn’t. Despite my protests, I knew that.

  I stood before God. He wasn’t on his throne so high above that he couldn’t see me. And standing there, connecting us, was his Son. I knew that too. I knew of salvation, and I believed that once you had it, you could not lose it. I knew of forgiveness, of how Christ atoned for all of our sins.

  Why then was it so hard for me to talk to the same Christ who had died for me?

  I walked over to my small bookcase, which was crammed with old textbooks and an assortment of paperback novels. On the bottom shelf I discovered an old Bible I’d used for classes, and I opened it. That had been so long ago. Years ago. Years of not listening, of not wanting to hear, of not caring.

  Thumbing through the thin, rustling pages, I felt like an intruder. The words weren’t for me. I k
new them—I used to memorize verses, and I had studied them in Bible class. I knew the difference between right and wrong. I knew what I should and shouldn’t be doing. Yet, for so many years I had chosen what I wanted to do, and those choices had been sinful. I had sinned without thought for the consequences.

  Could a Christian, someone called by the Lord’s name, fall so far away from him as to not care?

  The passages I finally opened to spoke with simplicity and honesty. They held me accountable. They made the guilt foam over like frothy milk prepared for a latte.

  I didn’t need more guilt. I needed someone to take it away. I closed the Bible and wiped tears off my cheeks.

  “Dear Father. My dear Lord. This sinner needs help. I need so much. Every time I look up to the heavens I feel nothing but shame. I only think of all the wrong I’ve done. In spite of everything I know about you, Lord, I’m stuck. Give me something, Lord. I don’t know what, but I need something. I can’t go on like this.”

  Silence. I looked at the Bible and opened it up again, this time to Psalm 102: “Hear my prayer, O Lord, and let my cry come to You. Do not hide Your face from me in the day of my trouble; incline Your ear to me; in the day that I call, answer me speedily.”

  The words came quick and fast, and I continued reading. Part of me noticed, with surprise, that the rest of me was unafraid.

  “ ’Bless the Lord, O my soul; and all that is within me, bless His holy name,’ ” I read out loud from Psalm 103.

  The words, the poetry of a man far greater than I could ever be, sang to me. I read for an hour, not realizing the passage of time.

  When I closed the Bible, I realized that my simple prayer had just been answered.

  It had been that easy, too.

  What else could the Lord do? Could I ask him for more?

  Could I possibly dare?

  November 15

  Dear Amy,

  I’ve become friends with an incredible woman who somehow crossed my path. I can’t believe I’m writing to you about her. But I have seen her a few times and have planned on actually going out with her in the next week. I’m not sure if it’s an official date. I simply asked if she wanted to go do something besides meet in the bookstore, where we’ve seen each other three times now.

  She fills me with a hope I haven’t had in years. Maybe I’ll finally be able to move on with my life.

  I still think of you every day, though. It’s hard not to. I sometimes feel if I do begin to move on, if I actually find some happiness in my life, that I’ll be doing something wrong. Yet whenever I’m around this woman, she fills me with so much joy I can’t help myself.

  It’s probably really stupid to wonder whether you would approve. But somewhere deep inside me I do wonder.…

  Sheridan

  seven

  I wasn’t sure what to call the upcoming night.

  It wasn’t an official date—even though I had asked Genevie out for an evening on the town. It had been an idea that just popped out the last time we had been talking in the bookstore, right after she told me she wasn’t dating anyone.

  “What about the soccer guy?”

  “Matt?”

  “Yes, Matt. I thought you two are—”

  Genevie had laughed at that. “We’re what? Going out?”

  “Whatever you want to call it.”

  She continued laughing, as if the very idea was ludicrous. “We’re good friends. I have lots of guy friends.”

  And I’m one of them.

  “After I saw you two at the Shedd Aquarium, I just naturally thought you were a couple.”

  “He’s too young,” Genevie said. “Besides, I told him I might not be around here that long anyway.”

  “So that’s deterring you from going out with guys?”

  “I haven’t been asked out by a guy for a long time.”

  This conversation took place at the end of our third bookstore chat that ended up closing the place down. I had felt more comfortable being myself, grinning more than I usually did, and probably revealing more about my feelings for her than I wanted to.

  “So, then… let’s go out,” I had said.

  “You mean, like on a date?”

  “No, of course not,” I replied quickly. “It doesn’t have to be considered anything. Just one friend going out with another. Like going to the aquarium.”

  “I’ve already been to the aquarium,” Genevie joked.

  “Well, then, I’ll surprise you with something else.”

  And so happened an unlikely date that wasn’t even officially a date—though both of us knew better.

  It had been more than seven years since I had gone out with a girl—and it felt like even longer. I only hoped that in an eager attempt to make up for lost time, I wouldn’t blow my chances with Genevie and scare her away.

  All I told Genevie beforehand was to dress up and be ready at a certain time.

  “How dressy?” she had asked.

  “Fancy. Nicer than church.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Good question. I haven’t actually spent much time in churches lately.”

  “Somewhat formal?” she asked.

  “Do you mind? We don’t have to if you don’t want.”

  “No, I like dressing up. It’s just—I don’t want you to go to any trouble.”

  Seven years. Seven long years.

  “Don’t worry.”

  Everything had been planned—as carefully as I had planned anything in recent years. My first date in over half a decade should have occurred without any problems. But sometimes no amount of planning can compensate for life’s unfortunate mishaps.

  The first bad sign was a phone call I didn’t pick up right before I left my apartment. I almost did, thinking it might have been Genevie or Erik. It was neither.

  “Blake, you there?” said the familiar voice on the machine. “Please pick up. PLEASE. I’ve gotta talk with you. All I’m asking for is a simple meeting. That’s all. Please call me. I’m getting sick of leaving these messages.”

  The gruff, older voice of Mike Larsen left a number and hung up. The frustration in his tone sounded stronger than ever, as if each message angered him more. I erased the message without taking down the number, just as I always did.

  What if he shows up during my date tonight?

  It had been a while since his last call. I had hoped that he would eventually give up and leave things the way they were. But it sounded like he was far from doing that.

  What good would it do to see him? What words could I possibly say that hadn’t already been expressed in my letter years ago? Seeing me in person would only dredge up the past.

  I put on a black sport coat that hadn’t been worn in months, along with a medium blue shirt and coordinating yellow tie. I examined this ensemble in the mirror one last time and then left the apartment, ready for a memorable evening.

  I had no idea how truly memorable it would be.

  I’ve often dreamt of being the sort of debonair gentleman who would arrive at the doorway of his beautiful date and have exactly the right thing to say to capture the mood and her magnificence. Yet reality has often found me silent, fearful of not knowing exactly the right words to say.

  And no matter how comfortable I had felt around Genevie before I arrived at her dorm, nothing could have ever prepared me for seeing her stride up to me in the first-floor lobby and smile.

  Is this the same girl in glasses I first met in the theater not long ago?

  To simply say Genevie Liu looked beautiful would miss the essence of the moment. I was standing there in the lobby and a totally unfamiliar woman greeted me. Her hair was pulled sleekly up and back, tucked and nestled perfectly so that only a few charcoal-black strands caressed her soft cheeks. She wore a long and fitted black dress, with slender heels on her feet that made her eyes inch up closer to mine.

  “Is this too much?” she asked me.

  Her high-boned cheeks were accentuated by full, round lips that p
arted into the hint of a smile. Her expressive eyes waited for my response.

  I think I can’t breathe anymore. What I said was, “You look very nice.”

  Moments afterward, I would hate myself for this four-word noose I had looped around my tongue. Very nice didn’t begin to say it. It was like saying the Titanic had sprung a little leak—or the sun was just a little bright to stare directly into.

  Sheridan Blake was still not debonair, nor would he ever be.

  “I feel overdressed,” Genevie said, pulling a soft gray wrap around her shoulders.

  “You’re not,” I breathed. “Trust me. So, are you ready to go?”

  Genevie nodded and we left. We almost made it to our destination.

  In my car, the conversation seemed a bit awkward. I wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was because Genevie didn’t know where I was taking her, or maybe it was because we were so dressed up. Maybe it was because I hadn’t felt this way since my high school prom. We talked like complete strangers, eventually landing on the topic of weather. I knew I had to put a stop to the unease.

  “Are you okay?” I asked Genevie.

  “Yes, why?”

  “Do you realize we were just talking about what the weather is going to be like tomorrow?”

  “Well, I was curious…”

  “Weather is what strangers talk about.”

  “I’m sorry,” Genevie said, with a tinge of nervousness in her voice that I had never heard.

  “Remember, this is just another aquarium visit. I know we’re dressed up, but I don’t want to make this night weird or anything. I want you to be as comfortable as you are in the bookstore.”

  “I’m usually not wearing heels,” Genevie replied.

  “Well I just love wearing ties. And I wear one all the time, too,” I said with a smirk.

  “But it’s not dressing up, really. I’ve actually only worn this dress once before. I’m glad to be wearing it. No, it’s just—I don’t know what my problem is tonight. I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry for what?”

  “Sorry for acting goofy.”

  “You’re acting fine. Just remember who you’re with. You don’t have to worry about what I’m thinking.”