Crossing Oceans

by Gina Holmes

  The bewilderment and disappointment on his face was unmistakable. “Jenny, stop running from me.”

  I hugged myself. “I have to run. You should be running too.”

  He grabbed my hand. “Why don’t you want me?”

  I tried to smile but couldn’t. “I do want you. Wow, do I want you.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “My flesh is weak. I’m so very weak, Craig.”

  He stood and cupped my cheek. “Marry me.”

  My breath caught. “What?”

  “It’s not a sin if we’re married.”

  A strange combination of alarm and amusement came over me. “I’m not going to marry you just so we can—”

  “It’s not just for that. I’m falling in love with you, Jenny.”

  His words hung in the air for an uncomfortably long time while I tried to regain my senses. “I like you a whole lot, but—”

  “I’ll take it.” He sank to one knee and reached for my hand.

  This was too much. My brain was already overloaded with everything else. I simply didn’t have room for another issue. I said as gently as I could, “This isn’t going to happen.”

  Undaunted, he continued as if I hadn’t already refused. “Genevieve Lucas—”

  “I’m not marrying you.”

  With a look of dejection, he stood. “What are you afraid of, divorce? If we can’t keep it together for the time you have left, we’ve got serious issues.”

  “Oh, we have serious issues all right,” I said.

  He sat down and put his feet back in the water. “Well, I tried. There are worse places to die than in my arms, you know.”

  Relieved by his good-humored tone, I laughed. “On the toilet, for one.”

  He reached up and took my hand, encouraging me to sit again. “Yeah, that would be worse, but just slightly. Behind the wheel would be a worse place too. Think of all those pedestrians and other motorists, not to mention your passengers.”

  Biting back tears I could never let him see, I took my place next to him and rested my head against his shoulder.

  Again he put his strong arm around me. “Are you letting Bella go with her daddy tomorrow morning?”

  I sighed. “I guess it’s the right thing to do.”

  “It is,” he said. “I really think so.”

  * * *

  I’m not sure how long Craig and I sat there or when we made the ill-fated decision to lie down and close our eyes. I only know that the next morning it felt muggy and uncomfortable. Mosquitoes had made me their breakfast and the hard wood of the dock pressed against my side. Craig’s chest rose and fell under the weight of my head.

  I squinted, disoriented when I saw not my ceiling fan, but the sun glaring back at me. I heard two quick blares of a car horn. By the time I registered where I was and what the sound meant, it was too late. David’s car was peeling out of the driveway.

  Chapter Twenty

  When I called David’s house to explain, I was met with an arctic “I’m done playing with you,” followed by the receiver slamming in my ear. My hand trembled as I set the phone back in its cradle and leaned against the kitchen counter.

  Craig watched with a pensive expression, his hair bending to the left like grass in the wind. His shirt lay half-tucked in and half out. A five-o’clock shadow darkened his chin and cheeks. “He’ll get over it once he realizes you overslept.”

  I ran my tongue over gritty, unbrushed teeth. “I don’t care if he does.” My words rang false even to me. Of course I cared. My daughter’s future was at stake. “This just proves why he shouldn’t be a father.”

  Craig opened the fridge and pulled out a carton of Tropicana. He gave it a quick shake, then set it on the counter next to an empty glass. “Jenny, remember the conclusion you came to last night. Nothing’s changed.”

  But it had. I’d been reminded of the Preston family’s cold, unyielding nature. This anxiety eating a hole in my stomach was not a feeling I wanted Isabella to live with for the next twelve years. “Let us have our day in court if that’s what he wants. I doubt he’ll win anyway. Friend of the family or not, no judge is going to take a child away from a dying mother.” I hoped to God I was right as I looked out the window and watched Mama Peg and Isabella taking turns smelling a stalk of lavender.

  Craig glanced at the wall clock. “I can stay if you need—”

  “Go,” I said. “I’ve made you late enough.”

  He touched his forehead to mine. “For the record, that was the best night of my life. It would have been even better if you’d accepted my proposal.”

  Feeling an overpowering urge to kiss him, I picked up the carton of orange juice, filled the glass, and handed it to him.

  He swallowed it down and set the glass in the sink. “Anything I can do for you before I go?”

  “Say a prayer.”

  “Already have.”

  * * *

  Lying on the couch, I transferred my worries about Isabella’s future and my own onto the pages of my journal. The squeal of the front door opening was echoed by my daughter’s familiar shriek. With a basket overflowing with garden flowers swinging from her pudgy arm, Isabella ran to me, leaving a trail of petals and leaves. Rolling her oxygen tank behind her, Mama Peg followed, stopping every few feet to pick up debris.

  “Look, Mommy!” Bella thrust her basket onto my belly. I set my journal on the coffee table and examined her bounty. An orange flower with petals outlined in lemon rested on top. I picked it out and held it before her. “This is called a—”

  “Marigold,” she blurted.

  “Wow, little miss smarty-pants.”

  “Mama Pig already told me.”

  My grandmother gave Isabella a strange look as she went into a coughing fit.

  “Who told you?” I asked just to hear her say it again.

  She spoke slow and loud as though I were old and deaf. “Ma-ma Pig.”

  I gave my grandmother a smug grin.

  Mama Peg furrowed her bushy brows at my daughter. “For the last time, it’s not pig; it’s Peg.” She turned around and motioned to her polyester-clad bottom. “Do you see a curly pink tail here?” Her milky eyes moved from Isabella to me.

  I chuckled. “I don’t see a tail, but your panties do appear to be in a bunch.”

  Mama Peg turned back around. “Keep it up and I’ll sic Sweet Pea on both of you.”

  “You’re the one who wouldn’t let her call you Cowpa. You brought this on yourself, pork chop.” I tucked the flower behind Isabella’s ear, placed a hand on each of her shoulders, and made a show of admiring her. “There. Now you look just like a fairy princess.”

  Her eyes widened as she looked to Mama Peg for affirmation. My grandmother nodded.

  A grin spread across Isabella’s lips. “I wanna see!”

  My heart swelled with love for her. “You’ve got a mirror on your dresser.”

  After a half second of consideration, she tore up the stairs.

  Mama Peg pointed to the afghan across my legs. “It’s at least eighty degrees. You can’t be cold.”

  I fingered the multicolored crocheted yarn, feeling unreasonable shame. “I am.”

  She waved her hand as though she could shoo my chill away. “Well, no wonder. You don’t have an ounce of insulation on them skin and bones of yours. Why don’t I make us some eggs?”

  My stomach turned. “I already had a can of Ensure.”

  She adjusted the tubing around her ears. “You can’t live on that.”

  Tired of having this conversation over and over with her, my father, and Craig, I sighed loud enough to get my point across.

  She wheeled her tank toward the kitchen. “Well, at least eat a banana.”

  I mentally test-drove the fruit on my lips and found it didn’t make me want to hurl. “I’ll try.” I pushed back the blanket and, feeling less than enthusiastic, followed her.

  She pulled an unblemished banana from the wire basket and handed it to me. “You want
some coffee with that?”

  I worked the peel. “I don’t think I could keep it down.”

  She cradled my cheek with her soft, quivering hand. “Jenny, it’s my job to fuss over you since your mom isn’t here to do it, but only you know what you need. It’s your job to stand up for it.”

  She withdrew and hit the Start button on the coffeemaker. Steaming brown liquid trickled out, along with the aroma I used to love and now could barely tolerate.

  My eyes narrowed at her. “Is that decaf?”

  She thrust her chin up defiantly. “Depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On whether or not you’re going to give me a hard time if it isn’t.”

  “Naughty girl.”

  “Don’t tell Warden.”

  “Hey, it’s my job to ask since your mother isn’t here to do it, but only you know what you need.”

  A small bulge moved under her closed lips as she ran her tongue across her teeth. “Someone’s full of herself today.” After a few minutes, she pulled the glass pot out and the brown stream stopped flowing. Glass clinked against ceramic as she poured herself a cup.

  Mug in hand, she turned around, made her way to the table, and sat beside me. “It’s nice to see your smile again.” She dipped her spoon in the sugar bowl and withdrew a heap. “I heard David’s infamous two-horn beep this morning while you and Romeo were asleep on the dock.”

  I nodded but said nothing.

  She stirred her coffee. “He peeled wheels out of the driveway.”

  “I know.”

  “You should also know that he’s not going to let this go. You sure you don’t want to reconsider letting him raise her?”

  I broke off a piece of banana and popped it into my mouth. “I’m not sure about anything.”

  “I can’t say I think you’re making the right decision.”

  I broke off another piece. “I’m not asking.”

  Her eyes didn’t leave me as she sipped from her cup. “Fair enough.”

  We sat in silence a moment, I finishing my banana and she sipping on java. Finally she asked, “What happened with you and Craig out there, or don’t I want to know?”

  A smile besieged my lips. “He proposed.”

  She peered up from her coffee.

  “Why don’t you look surprised?”

  She set her mug down on a closed book of crossword puzzles. “That boy’s clearly in love with you. Too bad he didn’t realize it a few years ago.”

  “It wouldn’t have mattered anyway,” I said.

  Her face scrunched up in obvious disgust. “Of course not. You were so blinded in love by Horny Horn Blower, you couldn’t see the forest for the trees.”

  “Horny Horn Blower?”

  Her laugh, even mixed with hacks, was a melody to my ears. Always had been.

  “So what did you say?”

  I reached across the table and cradled her warm cup in my hands. “I said no.”

  “Why?”

  “It wouldn’t be fair to make him a widower, for one.”

  She opened her mouth to say something, but I kept on. “Besides, I like him a lot, but love takes time, which of course I don’t have.” I let go of the mug. “And anyway, look at all the confusion over Bella’s custody. If I married him, he might be able to throw his hat in the ring. The waters are murky enough.” I paused. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “I’ve never seen your face turn the same shade as a pomegranate before, that’s all.”

  I had nothing to say in my defense, so I simply oinked at her.

  She shook her head and pried her cup from the flimsy book cover. It left behind a ring of brown.

  “What are you going to do today?” I asked.

  She looked out the window. “I thought I’d teach my great-granddaughter about roses.”

  I remembered her leading me through the same garden decades earlier, explaining the difference between a hybrid tea rose and a polyantha. The thought of Isabella getting the same loving lecture brought me unspeakable joy. “Thanks.”

  She laid her hand on mine and gave it a gentle squeeze. “My pleasure, kiddo. What about you?”

  “I’m going to visit Mom.”

  She took her hand back and cradled her cup. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news . . .”

  “Very funny,” I said. “Will you be okay with Bella for a while?”

  “Sure, but do you think she might like to go and see her grandmother’s grave?”

  My chill returned. “I’m not ready to talk to her about death.”

  “Jenny, you’re going to need to soon.”

  I pushed up from my chair. “I will, just not today.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Arlington Cemetery was located at the end of a wide road lined with magnolia trees. My car tires crunched over their giant seedpods as I slowed to a stop and parked to the right of the colossal iron gate.

  I’d told Mama Peg that I was here to visit my mother’s grave. That was the truth, but not the whole truth. The main purpose was really to visit my own. I didn’t know if it was normal to want to see where my body would ultimately rest, but normal or not, I was curious to lay eyes on the plot I’d purchased for myself.

  Even if the visit was a bit morbid, it did force me to get outside, which I figured wasn’t a bad thing. Fresh air might lift my spirits and give me a shot of the energy I desperately needed. Plus, I reasoned, sunshine was supposed to be a natural antidepressant. Even if it didn’t make me feel any happier, it would leave some healthy color on my cheeks, which might at least lift my family’s spirits.

  I shut the car door and turned around. It seemed I was spending more time these days trying to appear well than actually feeling that way. I had anticipated eventually having to mask the severity of my illness for Isabella’s sake, but never did I dream I’d be faking it this early on for my grandmother’s and father’s benefit. I wondered how often my mother had done the same.

  I set out down the snaking asphalt road. As I wound about various graves, I squinted against the glare of sunlight, trying to make out the dates on the tombstones, some as old as the town itself. It occurred to me for the first time that I would soon be in the presence of Christians who had lived throughout the ages. My gaze fell on a row of old, white headstones lined up like dominoes. Within months, I could be sipping tea with Queen Esther and Mary Magdalene while one of these Confederate soldiers recounted his life story to us.

  I smiled before remembering what my mother had to endure before reaching heaven. Like her, I would first have to suffer physical death. Heaviness settled over me as notions of how it would feel to have my soul ripped from my body whirled through my imagination like a tornado, making my heart beat faster and my head swim.

  Closing my eyes, I succeeded in shutting out the death surrounding me. After a moment, I was able to divert my thoughts back to why I had come. I gazed across grassy knolls in the direction of my mother’s grave. The trek there would give me a chance to clear my head and consider the many possibilities of stone markers, urns, and inscriptions I had to choose from.

  I wanted my epitaph to say something profound, different—but not too different. Something that would make people who read it know that I had loved and had been loved. Something to indicate I had been a real person with hopes and dreams. Most importantly, something to point to the God in whose hands my soul would ultimately rest.

  I wanted beautiful, poetic words, but a writer I was not. Mama Peg could come up with something exceptional if I set her to the task. I hadn’t told her yet that I had bought myself a spot as close to Mom’s as possible, but still not as close as I would have liked.

  As I trudged along, I came upon something I’d never noticed before—a family plot guarded by a miniature replica of the larger fence surrounding the perimeter of the cemetery. It was an odd sight, this graveyard within a graveyard, and I stopped to consider it.

  Countless winters had taken their toll on the black metal fence, but
the peeling, weathered surface only added to its mystery and charm. Within these iron slats lay four tiny graves, each marked by a stone angel.

  Elizabeth Munroe, 1876–1877

  Jonathan Munroe, 1878–1880

  Julia Munroe, 1884–1884

  Caroline Munroe, 1881–1885

  With a heavy heart I read the dates again and again, trying to absorb the magnitude of this family’s loss.

  As I pushed open the small gate, remnants of spiderwebs tickled my fingertips. The hinges screeched in protest at their thrust from hibernation, while flecks of rust sprinkled the ground. Part of me wanted to leave this morbid parcel and erase the misery contained here from my memory, but something drew me forward.

  I traced the grooves of each child’s engraved name, grieving as if I’d known them. I wondered what could have caused such catastrophic loss within one family. A genetic disease for which we’d since found the cure? Surely it wasn’t related to financial hardship. Their parents obviously had money to afford such elaborate markers.

  The cherub statues watching over each small grave were more than mere tributes. They were masterpieces of art. One blew an intricate horn, announcing the child’s arrival to heaven. Another raised his chubby arms as though releasing his charge’s soul. The third held a dove above his curly head, encouraging it to take flight, and the last angel simply clasped his hands together in mournful prayer.

  In the center of the four plots lay a carved angel collapsed upon the ground. Her stone arms lay draped over a headstone, her face scrunched and sobbing in utter defeat. Though the artwork was amazing, the sight itself was wretched. I moved in closer to read the words engraved upon the grave of Betsy Anne Munroe, 1858–1902.

  Here lies the mother of four deceased children. No woman has known as much misery. Her existence was filled with nothing but heartache. Her husband died in a foreign land. Four of her six children were taken from her before their time. Death was the only mercy God ever showed her.

  I stood dumbfounded. I’d never read such a dark epitaph. Surely there had to have been some joy in this woman’s life. God was not so cruel. What of her two remaining children? Besides their love, she must have experienced the beauty of autumn, the splendor of a sunset, or the sweetness of a kiss. I felt the clutch of her depression clawing for me and I fled. When the latch of the gate clicked shut, relief filled me.