The Memory of Water

by Karen White

  Quinn’s hand gripped the stem of the wineglass so tightly that I was afraid it would snap. “When was she at the library?”

  “This was yesterday evening—right before closing, which was why I missed her, because I had to leave early for a tennis match. I’d expected her earlier—she stops by just about every Wednesday at about the same time—but she said that she got sidetracked yesterday and couldn’t get the car.”

  I put a hand over Quinn’s. “Did she say what the paper was?”

  “No, she didn’t. But she was really upset. Tally asked her if she wanted her to call Quinn to come get her, but that got her even more agitated, so she didn’t.” Kathy’s forehead wrinkled. “I hope I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “Not at all. Thanks for letting us know, and I’ll be sure to tell Diana that you and Tally did everything you could to find it.”

  “Great.” She gave us a smile of relief. “You two eat now, and I’ll talk to you later this week.” She waved a few fingers, then left to go find her party.

  Quinn’s eyes were hard. “Do you have any idea what she’s talking about?”

  I shook my head. “Not about the paper, anyway.”

  Our waiter decided that was the opportune moment to bring us bread and tell us about the day’s specials, and I looked at him with gratitude, hoping Quinn would have forgotten what he was about to say by the time our waiter left our table with our order. I was wrong.

  “What do you know about her taking the car to go to the library every Wednesday? It just occurred to me that I have office hours every Wednesday afternoon and I always take the boat unless it’s raining.”

  “I didn’t know about her trips to the library.”

  “But you did know about her taking the car when I wasn’t aware of it.” It wasn’t a question.

  I took a long sip of my wine. “Gil told me.”

  He raised an eyebrow.

  “I have a feeling Gil sees and hears a lot more than we would guess. He and I were sketching outside earlier this week, and he pointed her out to me as she was sneaking out the back door before heading for the car. I got in with her and we took a ride. To Charleston. To buy cigarettes.”

  “Cigarettes?”

  “Yes. She said that you’ve spoken to all the folks in town who sell them and told them not to sell them to her. So she’s been forced to sneak away into Charleston.”

  “Bullshit,” he said. His eyes flickered over my face. “Pardon me. I forgot your delicate Southern ears. But either way you say it, she’s lying.”

  “But why…?” I thought about the Twinkies, the art supplies, and the books in the backseat, but nothing made sense.

  He shrugged. “Who knows with Diana? However, knowing what I do know, I think it’s simply a matter of passive aggression. She can’t stand to be told what to do, so she takes the car when she thinks I won’t notice. She feels better because she’s gained a little bit of freedom, and I feel better because I’m kept in the dark and happily believing that I’m still in control of her movements and protecting Gil.”

  “Is that why you do it, Quinn? To protect Gil?” I sat back to allow our waiter to place my soup in front of me. “Or to punish Diana for something she has no control over?”

  I thought he’d be angry, but instead a smile slowly spread over his face, and the impact was enough to convince me of what it was that had first attracted Diana to Dr. Quinn Bristow.

  “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised at you sticking up for her, and I’m glad. Diana doesn’t have too many friends, and it’s nice to know she has an ally.”

  He poured another glass of wine for both of us, and I looked away from the intensity of his gaze. I focused on the deep red of the liquid as I brought it to my lips and then set the glass back down on the table. “We used to say that to each other, that we were more than sisters. We were always sisters first, but we were also allies—the two of us against the world.”

  “Well, she’s got me, too, whether or not she realizes it. She’s Gil’s mother and I owe that to her. But my first responsibility will always be to Gil, and at the moment it’s protecting him from her until she’s stable again.”

  “But she is,” I said, pushing away my almost-empty soup bowl and leaning toward him. “She’s taking her medication without complaint and trying so hard to please you.” I paused for a moment, measuring my next words. “She wants to start taking Gil with her to visit at the nursing home. She thinks it would be a good opportunity for the two of them to bond again, and it would also help the old woman she visits.”

  “Absolutely not. It’s only been three months since the accident, and I still can’t seem to get a clear answer from her as to what happened. I do think it was an accident—but it was still her fault because of her bad judgment. How will I know when she’s past making bad judgment calls at the expense of our son?”

  “Then let me go with them,” I said, not sure if I’d had the thought before. “I don’t think Gil will get better until he’s mended his relationship with his mother. Maybe this is the way to do it—for them both to have something together. And I can be there for both of them.”

  “No,” he said, shaking his head as if to convince himself, but I’d seen the wavering in his eyes. “If you’d only known the terror I felt when I found out where they’d gone…”

  I reached out my hand and touched his. “But I do, Quinn. Except you were lucky—they never did find my mother.”

  Our main courses arrived and we both sat back in our chairs, our eyes locked until the waiter had moved away.

  “I…I could stay. Until Gil is better. If you let me do this for Diana, I’ll stay as long as I’m needed.”

  He raised an eyebrow as a half smile creased his face. “I could make sure that’s a very long time.”

  I felt my cheeks flushing. “She’s my sister,” I said, trying to convince myself of my reasons as much as convince him. I kept seeing the image in my mind of the three of us in the water, and I could feel my mother’s arms pushing me away and then swimming toward Diana. It haunted me as old ghosts do, and I knew that Diana would be the only person who could explain why I was remembering things now that were perhaps better left on the ocean floor.

  “All right,” he said, his eyes never leaving my face. “But you have to promise me that you will not let her go off with Gil on her own.”

  “I promise,” I said, taking another sip of my wine, and I wondered how it was still possible to taste the ocean in your mouth after so many years.

  Quinn

  The marsh at night has an ethereal feel, where the lush smells and throaty sounds creep under your skin and into your blood, so that you become a part of the saltwater creeks and estuaries, an arm reaching out to the ocean where all things eventually flowed. I wondered if Marnie knew this—knew that if you were born by the ocean, you were destined to return to the place that nourished you. Before there was a Diana and a Gil for her to come back to, there had been the ocean, biding its time, waiting for its prodigal daughter.

  We didn’t talk on the ride back, each of us content to listen to the marsh music. She didn’t object when I took her hand to help her out of the boat and didn’t let it go. When we reached the fork in the path that determined whether we would go up to the house or down to the beach, I pulled her toward the beach and she resisted.

  “Come on,” I said gently. “The moon’s out and I won’t let go of your hand.”

  She stood still, not answering.

  “It’s not only Diana and Gil who need to face their fears, Marnie.”

  She hesitated just for a moment before allowing me to lead her down toward the beach.

  “Are you afraid of anything, Dr. Bristow?”

  “Lots of things,” I answered carefully. “Of making a mistake with one of my patients. Being late with my taxes. Walking into a room with my fly down.”

  She bumped into me. “No, really. I’m serious. I’m talking fear as in the fear of speaking, or the fear of the ocean, or the
fear of not knowing what your brain might tell you to do.”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “Because if I know that you’re a real human being with real fears, then I won’t be ashamed to let you see mine.”

  We had reached the bottom of the steps, the short expanse of beach splayed before us like an open fan as the ocean waited beyond the sand like a chained dog. “I’m afraid of heights,” I admitted.

  Her hand trembled within mine, and I gripped it tighter as we continued to move toward the water. She kept talking as if the words would keep her fear at bay. “Because of your brother’s accident?”

  “Yes, I think so. Before he fell, I’d never had a problem with heights. There was something about sitting high in a tree and looking at the rooftops around you. At least there is until you watch your brother slip on the branch below yours just as he’s reaching for your hand.”

  We’d stopped walking, still safely on the soft sand that the encroaching tide hadn’t yet claimed.

  “I grabbed the cuff of his T-shirt, then heard it rip. It happened so fast that all I could do was stare at the cuff in my hand and wonder where Sean had gone.” I looked up at the unforgiving moon, all light with no warmth. “My parents weren’t home and the neighbors lived too far away to hear me shout. I waited up in the tree, holding that damned cuff and seeing my brother’s body on the ground. There wasn’t a thing I could do. I was absolutely powerless. And even now I wonder if it’s the fear of being powerless and not of heights that keeps me on the ground. Because I can still feel how wonderful and freeing it is up on a mountain, or skydiving, or even up on a ship’s mast. But I think I can run away from the fear by putting myself in control of every aspect of my life.”

  “By solving other people’s problems. By fixing them.”

  “Pretty much,” I said, aware of how her skin glowed in the moonlight. “But I think I’m beginning to understand that running away from fear doesn’t make it go away. It’s still there, waiting around the corner, and I figure one day I’m going to catch up to it and finally face it.” I touched her cheek with the tip of my finger, feeling liquid moon. “Like you running to the desert, Marnie. Sooner or later, you were bound to find the water again.”

  Her hair blew softly in the night breeze and reminded me of what I had been about to tell her at dinner. But the moment had passed and I had lost my courage. And then she’d mentioned Diana, and I realized that I would probably never tell Marnie the truth about me and Diana. As she had told me herself, they were sisters, and that one word carried an ocean of meaning, which I couldn’t cross.

  She looked at me, her eyes luminous, but she wasn’t seeing me. “The night of the accident, we saw Saint Elmo’s fire. It was sudden, just these ghostly blue flames that appeared like magic and lit the mast like a candle. And I wasn’t scared—because Grandpa had told me that Saint Elmo was the patron saint of sailors and that when he appeared I’d be safe.”

  The tide moved up and an incoming wave teased our legs with warm droplets. I still held her hand and felt the trembling there, but she didn’t step back.

  “But the rational part of my mind also told me that if I was seeing Saint Elmo’s fire, then there was a bad storm approaching.” She turned away toward the water, as if trying to see her boat, to call it home. “I told Mama, but she ignored me. She acted as if she hadn’t even heard me.”

  Marnie bit her lip. “The funny thing is, I’ve never remembered that part about Saint Elmo’s fire until now. And I wonder…” She stopped, looking down at the wet sand at our feet, the water reflecting the moon’s intense gaze. She looked up at me again. “And I wonder if it’s because of what you said, about running from my fear. Maybe it’s not the water I’m afraid of. Maybe it’s remembering what really happened that night that I’ve been running from all this time.”

  I stepped closer to her, and I thought I could smell the sun on her skin. “Whatever it is, Marnie, you don’t have to face it alone.”

  She tilted her face up to mine, and it was the most natural thing in the world for me to pull her closer and press my lips to hers. She tasted of wine and salt air, and in my arms she felt just like the girl I’d seen all those years ago with the wind in her hair and defiance in her eyes.

  Her arms came around my neck as she pressed her body close to mine before pulling her head away. “In the restaurant, you were about to tell me something. Something you were saying you should have told me before.”

  “I don’t remember what it was,” I said, pulling her closer to me again as the waves crept even closer, encircling our feet like the fire of Saint Elmo, dancing and leaping until finally retreating from where it had come.

  CHAPTER 19

  Wide sea, that one continuous murmur breeds

  Along the pebbled shore of memory!

  —JOHN KEATS

  Marnie

  Autumn in the Lowcountry comes slowly, its inhabitants usually notified of the changing season by the appearance of migratory birds from the north and the disappearance of the blue crabs as they seek the warmer waters off the ocean floor. I watched as the strong winds plucked the tussocks of straw-colored seeds off the tips of the cordgrass, painting the marsh yellow until that faded, too, as winter robbed the marsh of all its color, leaving only dried browns and pale greens to remind you of the vibrant life that once teemed there. It was as if the marsh were in mourning, waiting for its rebirth. I think that was why I made my daily pilgrimage down to the dock to witness this hibernation, feeling as if something inside me was also waiting—waiting for the spring rains to unfurl the parts of me that had remained shriveled for so long.

  The repairs on the Highfalutin were going well, with most of the outer work completed. We still hadn’t been able to convince Gil to go on board, but Trey had managed to move Gil’s work space closer and closer to the boat so that now he was near enough to touch it. He didn’t cling to me anymore or shrink back from the boat when we entered the work area, although I noticed that he never put the boat behind him. It was as if he needed to keep an eye on it, unsure of when it might pounce.

  Gil still hadn’t spoken a word since my return, although I noticed the absence of words less and less. It was as if he had honed onto methods of communication that made clear his intentions without drawing attention to the fact that he hadn’t uttered a word. He continued to sketch in his pad but as yet hadn’t shown anything to me, and I still hadn’t convinced him to return to his watercolors. Occasionally I would find the torn pieces of paper that had fallen from the spiral wires at the top of his pad, and I assumed these pictures went under the door to his mother’s room. I never saw them, but once in a while I’d find the telltale scraps of white paper clinging to the carpet on the floor outside her studio.

  As for Diana, we kept to our wary truce. She continued to paint my portrait, but not let me see it, and she’d added more ill-fated couples and their children to the Maitland mural: a soldier of the Civil War who’d made it home only to succumb to scarlet fever within a month, taking three of his four children with him, and a steamboat explosion that had taken a father and pregnant mother away from the only surviving child who’d been left at home. I had to admit that the sheer number of tragedies that had befallen our family did leave me with second thoughts about scoffing at the Maitland curse, but, as I futilely tried to explain to Diana, the last three centuries were centuries without antibiotics, fire alarms, or air bags, and higher mortality rates weren’t exactly unexpected. Still, when she wasn’t looking, I’d read the carefully calligraphied words and feel the goose bumps on my neck, as if a cold breath had blown against my skin.

  We talked more now, but there were still things that were off limits: the night of our accident and the circumstances surrounding her last breakdown. And when I’d asked her about the piece of paper Tally Deushane had searched for in Diana’s library books, I’d received a blank look of such innocence and confusion it made me wonder if Diana had missed her true artistic calling. But I’d seen her rans
acked armoire, and I knew without a doubt that she was lying. I couldn’t help but wonder if I really wanted to know the truth after all.

  I wondered, too, if our truce had somehow been fortified by the fact that I’d secured Quinn’s permission to have Gil accompany Diana on her nursing home visits. What neither she nor I had factored in, though, was Gil’s resistance to the idea. Even though I promised I would be with him, he still refused to go. As with the boat, I knew it would take time, but hopefully before summer, when I’d been given my last ultimatum to return to my job or lose it forever. I suppose that was why I continued to keep the rental car, although I rarely used it. It was nice to know I still had the option of leaving.

  I looked up at the gray October sky and shivered, pulling my sweater closer as I walked away from the dock to the greenhouse. We didn’t have a designated meeting time, but Quinn always seemed to be waiting for me after my morning walks.

  I tapped on the glass before entering, noticing the new grow lights that were placed about six inches from the plants, then tipped down toward the pots. A fan blew a gentle breeze through the small space to discourage insects and bacteria, and I stepped out of its direct path to avoid any kind of wind. Despite the cloudy day, it was brighter in the greenhouse since Quinn had removed the shade cloth that covered the greenhouse in summer to prevent his orchids from frying in the hot sun.

  My years in the desert had made me forget the changes in seasons. As much as I hated the chill and damp of the Lowcountry winters and the cold blow of the nor’easters, I’d missed the cooling of the summer’s end and the changes of color. The desert had made me forget that everything changes after a while.

  Quinn stood at the large sink, filling his watering can. He looked at me and smiled as I entered, causing an uneasy jump somewhere between my throat and stomach.