Carry Me Like Water

by Benjamin Alire Sáenz

  “But you didn’t know him,” Eddie said to Lizzie.

  “Does that mean I shouldn’t go?”

  “That’s not it,” he said, “I think it’s grand that you’re going. It would be awful if no one went. It’s just that it sounds so strange for you to refer to him as your brother.”

  “Was he less of a brother because I didn’t know him?”

  Eddie said nothing. “You’re right,” he said, and then he seemed to go away from them.

  Maria Elena knew he was visiting with the memory of his brother. Too much of him would be missing until she found him. She thought of Diego, tried to keep his name from entering the room. Too much of her was missing, too.

  Lizzie thought of Salvador, repeated his name to herself, felt his touch on her palm. “You have a gift.” She thought of the two men, their names, Jacob and Joaquin. She knew she would go and find them and that their names would become as meaningful, as significant, as painful as Salvador’s. She knew Joaquin would die, the image of him on his deathbed became as real to her as the smell of Maria Elena’s apple pie. She felt she was at the beginning of something and she knew that the two people in this room would be a part of whatever was coming—and so were the two men. She could still picture the blond Jacob holding the dark Joaquin. She wondered how it could be that these men’s names were already holy on her lips. She did not know them. How could she love them? But she did love them, already, loved them almost as much as she loved Maria Elena and Eddie.

  They ate dessert in silence. They were all a little tired. And a little sad.

  Eddie got up and served more coffee. “It was a nice weekend,” he said.

  “It was lovely,” Lizzie said.

  “Lovely,” Maria Elena repeated.

  Maria Elena dipped her hand in the holy water font and crossed herself as she walked into Mission Dolores Church, She breathed in the years of incense that poured out of the walls. She lit a candle and whispered a prayer from her childhood. Lizzie followed behind her in silence. She was glad Maria Elena had come with her, and now that she was in the church, she wondered why she had been so afraid of it, but wondered, too, why it still looked so familiar. She was beginning to believe she’d had a former life. When Maria Elena finished her prayer in front of the image of Our Lady of Guadalupe, she took a seat in the third row. Lizzie nudged her as they sat down. She pointed at a man who was sitting alone. “There’s nobody else here.” She looked at her watch. “It’s ten o’clock sharp.” As she spoke, an altar boy and a priest robed in white moved toward the altar. Maria Elena stood up, and Lizzie mimed her friend’s actions. The priest kissed the front of the altar and lit the Easter candle. It went out almost immediately. He tried to light it again. It stayed lit for a moment, flickered, then went out again. He shrugged his shoulders. He then faced the empty pews and the three people in the congregation.

  “He’s handsome,” Lizzie said.

  “Shhh, it’s a church not a bar.”

  “You sound like an old lady.”

  “Priests are celibate.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “Good morning” the priest said. He had a nice voice, Lizzie thought. Maria Elena nodded. “Let us begin this memorial Mass in thanksgiving for the life that has been bestowed upon us in the name of the father and of the son …” He crossed himself as he spoke.

  I hate words like “bestowed,” Lizzie thought.

  She noticed a brass urn sitting at the foot of the altar.

  The ritual was simple, stark, serene. The light through the windows made Maria Elena think of the cathedral in El Paso where her mother had taken her to church as a child. Lizzie imagined what it would be like to be a believer. Somehow, she couldn’t picture herself as a believer. Still, she was moved by what was happening before her—the light, the incense rising as the priest blessed the book, the candles burning all around them. It would be a great place to make love, she thought. The priest was graceful and sincere. He was around forty and he seemed a very calm man. When he read from the book, his voice was neither dramatic nor perfunctory. He enunciated each word clearly. When it came time for him to preach a sermon, he said very little: “I did not know Salvador Aguila …” He continued talking but Lizzie’s mind wandered. She remembered feeling Salvador’s strong hands on her palm, the sound of his voice in her body. She thought of her mother and suddenly she was sorry she had not told her about this Mass—her mother would have come. She would have wanted to be here. But maybe, she thought, it would have been too painful. She remembered what she said—that she had been in love with him, wanted him more than she had wanted her. As she thought of her mother, she stared at the statue of a Virgin with a bleeding heart. She placed her hands over her mouth and trembled. “I know this place.” And then she remembered what she had been unable to remember—the dream—the dream she’d had—a terrible dream that had frightened her. “J didn’t have a body, I couldn’t touch my mother … and there was a man, a man.” She stared up at the priest who was pressing his mouth together, and placing his finger on his temple. “God only breathes through us. I believe this. I believe that God’s breath in the world changes with each death, with each birth …” His voice seemed good and warm, but she wondered if anything he was saying had anything at all to do with her. Did his life—this priest—did his life have anything at all to do with hers? She saw the priest sit down and bow his head. “Jacob, the man in my dream was Jacob.” Everything in her dream became more vivid than the present. “… And the sun was setting—or maybe it was rising. God, I hope it was rising. Yes, it must’ve been ris—” She felt herself coming out of her body. She willed herself back. Willed herself. Lizzie focused on Maria Elena’s hands folded in prayer until she was certain she would not float away from herself. She took a deep breath. She wondered about this thing called “prayer”—what was it? Why did people do it? She smiled. There was a tingling in her body. She tried to ignore it. She wondered about the life her brother had lived, what kind of man he had been. He seemed to think of himself as selfish—but people were often very hard on themselves. Maybe he had been a very kind man—maybe he had been decent and generous. Maybe he had loved deeply. Maybe he had been lonely—maybe he had been many things. But he had given her his gift. He could have died without giving it away; he could have taken it with him to the grave. He could not have been such a bad man, and she was certain he did not deserve to die as young or as painfully as he had. No one deserved that. Not her brother. She felt tears in her eyes and then a certain numbness. She didn’t want to feel anything. Why should she feel anything for this stranger, this brother who was now even more unreachable than he had been when he was alive. Then, as if from nowhere—or perhaps from a less conscious place in her memory—something that resembled rage began to run through her, and her heart began to beat faster and faster, racing, raging like a tuna caught on a hook. It was as if her father was in her—and she wanted to kill him—even if she had to kill herself to do it. “I hate you. I’m glad you’re not my father.” She had the urge to leave her body again. If she left—just for a moment—then she could escape the rage. “Free, look I’m—” She was floating in the church just as she had been floating in her dream—it was exact. She was as light as the incense, as light as the words of the priest, as light as the colors streaming through the stained glass windows. “It would be so pure to live like this—to be nothing but being, no longer obsessed with becoming.” At last she was perfect. She stared down at Maria Elena. She felt bad that her friend was burdened with a body. She saw Maria Elena reach for her arm—her body’s arm—not her arm—she had no need of an arm. In the dream, she had been afraid, but now that fear was gone—absent, banished. She heard Maria Elena’s voice. “Are you OK, Lizzie?” She sensed her friend’s panic. She entered her body again—for Maria Elena.

  “Are you OK?”

  Lizzie smiled at Maria Elena and nodded.

  “Did you go away, Lizzie?”

  She nodded and tried to focus on the priest
. The hatred she had felt for her father passed like a tornado that had touched down, then went on its way. Now, she only felt the exhilaration of having left her body behind. “I can control it. I can.” She felt happy and rested. She smiled to herself and touched Maria Elena’s hand. Lizzie watched the young priest closely as he motioned through the rest of the Mass, the ritual cleansing of his hands, the words he whispered, half to himself, half to God, “Lord, wash away my iniquities, cleanse me of my sins.” She wondered about his sins. She wondered why he poured a drop of water into the wine. She looked up at the Host as he lifted it, and jumped at the sound of the bells the altar boy rang. When the Mass was over the priest and the altar boy disappeared down the aisle. Maria Elena and Lizzie sat in stillness for a moment. Suddenly, Lizzie felt as if she were about to leave her body again. She held on to Maria Elena’s arm. “Pull me back,” she gasped.

  “Lizzie—what’s wrong?” The sound of her voice was enough to keep her from leaving her body.

  “I almost left again,” she said.

  “Again? Jesus—”

  “Let’s get some air.”

  As soon as they stepped outside, Maria Elena looked Lizzie over. “Well, you look fine—never better.”

  “I’ve never felt better.”

  “Well, if you feel so good, then why the hell are you trying to leave yourself?”

  “If you could do it, you’d do it, too—it’s why I’ve never felt better. It does wonders for your complexion.”

  “Don’t be a smart-ass, Elizabeth.”

  “We’re at church.”

  Maria Elena was about to scream at her when she noticed that the only other person who had attended the Mass seemed to be waiting for them at the bottom of the steps. Maria Elena nudged Lizzie and they both looked at him. He was tall and thin and had fine, light brown hair. He hadn’t shaved, and he seemed very ordinary until he smiled. His teeth were even and white, and Lizzie thought he was very beautiful. She smiled back at him. She walked up to him. “Did you know him?” she asked.

  He nodded. “I’m his executor,” he said—then laughed. “He didn’t leave much. He was lucky: He had insurance. He held the urn in his arms. “It paid for his cremation. He said he had a sister. Are you his sister?”

  He nodded. “Can you prove it?”

  “That’s nice and friendly of you.”

  “Sorry. I don’t mean to be a hard-ass. I knew Sal for a long time. We were good friends. He was good to me. He wasn’t good to most people—but he was good to me. He helped put me through law school. I owe him. And I won’t have him ripped off after his death.”

  “If it’s about money I don’t want it.”

  “No, don’t say that. If you can prove you’re his sister, it’s yours. It’s not very much—ten thousand dollars. He said if you didn’t turn up in a year, then I could keep the money. But he said you would. And he said you’d be wearing long earrings. And so you are. He had a gift—”

  “I know,” she said.

  “I didn’t get a chance to see him when he went into the hospital. He died before I got there. I’m glad. He was very sad at the end.”

  She nodded. “I know. I met him in the hospital. I’m a nurse at St. Mary’s. A strange and lucky coincidence.”

  He didn’t seem surprised. “Not a coincidence. He knew.”

  Maria Elena stood next to them listening. She felt a chill run through her.

  “I’m Lizzie,” she said. “Well, my birth name was Maria de Lourdes Aguila. But I’ve known myself as Elizabeth Edwards for most of my life—until I met Salvador.” She reached out to shake the man’s hand.

  He smiled as he gripped her hand. “I’m Daniel—Daniel Murphy.”

  “And this is my friend, Maria Elena.”

  They shook hands and nodded at one another. “Nice to meet you,” Maria Elena said, “you look familiar.”

  He stared at her for a moment. “Yes,” he said, “you do, too. Did I meet you at a party or something?”

  “Maybe? I can’t remember. I’m certain I’ve seen you. I can’t place where.”

  “Are you married?” He looked at her stomach. “Sorry—it’s none of my business.”

  “Yes,” she said, “I’m not offended—it’s not good to make assumptions.”

  He nodded. “Maybe I know your husband—maybe we met somewhere through your husband. What’s his name?”

  “Eddie Marsh.”

  He laughed, “Eddie Marsh is your husband?”

  “Yes,” she said. “What’s so funny about that?”

  “Nothing—I’ve known Eddie for years. We’ve probably met before at some function or other. I handle all of your husband’s legal matters.”

  She smiled, “It’s a small world.”

  “Yes, it’s very small, and very mean,” he said.

  “Well, if you’re a lawyer, it’s mean,” she said.

  “Ahhh, yet another admirer of our profession.”

  Lizzie laughed. “My father wanted me to be one of you people.”

  “Stick with nursing,” he said. “It’s better for your soul.”

  “Yes, well, I’ll trade you the condition of my soul for the car you drive and the house you live in.”

  He smiled—then laughed. “I get your point.” He looked at Maria Elena. “I think I vaguely remember meeting you. You weren’t pregnant, though,” He smiled. “I see your husband often. Actually, we’re pretty good friends.”

  “Well, Eddie doesn’t mix business and pleasure.” She smiled at her own response.

  “Smart man.” He turned his attention to the urn he was clutching. He handed it to Lizzie. “He’s yours,” he said.

  She stared at the urn she was now holding. “Aren’t you going to find out if I’m really his sister?”

  “I’m satisfied. He told me his sister would have light brown hair with red highlights and that her name was Maria de Lourdes—and that she would go by Lizzie. I’m satisfied.” He handed her his card. “Call me about your brother’s will.” He laughed self-consciously at himself. “I sound like a lawyer.” He laughed again.

  “You always laugh at yourself?”

  “Always.”

  Lizzie tugged on her earring, smiled, then looked directly at him and tried to read his face. “You’re not surprised by any of this, are you?”

  “I knew your brother for a long time—nothing that ever happened while he was around surprises me—nothing.”

  Lizzie nodded. “I don’t want his money,” she said. “Can’t we just give it away?”

  “Anything you want,” he said.

  “Just give it to someone who needs it.”

  He nodded. “And his ashes—”

  “His ashes? Did he want them scattered somewhere?”

  “He went to high school in El Paso, Texas. His parents moved there—they had family there or something like that. Anyway, he said there was some kind of holy place—Christ the King—on some mountain. He said he wanted his ashes spread there. Something happened to him at that place—he was pretty vague about it.”

  “El Paso,” Maria Elena repeated, “small world.”

  “Huh?” he asked.

  “El Paso—it’s my hometown,” she said.

  “You know the place Sal talked about?”

  “Yes,” she said, “I know the place. People go on pilgrimages there.”

  He looked at Lizzie. “Your friend here will help you take care of it, then.”

  They nodded. He shook their hands and started to walk away, then turned around and watched them. “Did he give you his gift?” he yelled.

  “How did you know?”

  “Just a hunch.” He smiled. Lizzie heard his voice inside of her. Use it well, Lizzie. She smiled back at him.

  11

  October 9, 1984

  Dear Jacob—

  Today I was walking down the street, and I saw this guy who looked like you. I opened my mouth to call your name but nothing came out. That’s him, I thought, that’s my brother. Jake. But whe
n I looked closer, it wasn’t you—it wasn’t you at all. He was big, blond, and he had this heavy walk and he had a very serious way about him. He caught me staring at him. He gave me a dirty look. I got kind of nervous. He followed me down the street, grabbed me, and told me he didn’t like faggots. I just looked at him. I wanted to say something to him. His hate was so pure it was almost holy. I thought he was going to kill me, beat me until I was nothing but a torn-up rag. He dropped my shirt collar, and then grabbed me by the neck. Everything became instinct, and we were both animals. I kneed him right in the balls—just a reflex. He doubled over. I wanted to hurt him. He was bent over trying to hold himself up. “I don’t like blonds,” I said. I think he was surprised. Surprise—that’s always the way to win. That’s how Dad won with us, wasn’t it? He just came to my room one night to tuck me in, and then—well, surprise! Hell, I didn’t even know what the hell was going on. Except that I understood pain—and I have understood pain for a long time. I sometimes see men that look like Dad, and my mouth gets dry, my hands tremble, my back aches. I used to want to run. Now, I want to hit them. Maybe that’s better—I don’t know.

  I seem incapable of getting close to anyone. I’ve only had sex twice in my life—and I can’t say I enjoyed it very much. I just wanted it to be over with. Yesterday, this guy in one of my classes tried to put the move on me. I wasn’t offended. I was in his apartment—we were studying. We had a beer. He put his hand on my thigh. He tried to kiss me. I started laughing. I didn’t feel anything. Nothing. I wanted to feel something. I wanted to feel what he felt. I didn’t feel anything. I just laughed like an idiot. Anyway, we’re still friends. He’s a nice guy. There’s this girl I know. She’s pretty, beautiful. Really beautiful. I catch myself watching her, studying her body, wondering what she feels like, wondering if I could love her. I want to get close to her, I want to hold her and memorize the pores on her skin. I don’t know how. I don’t know anything about being close to people. It wasn’t something we learned in our family, was it?