The Memory of Water

by Karen White

  CHAPTER 25

  The fishermen know that the sea is dangerous and the storm terrible, but they have never found these dangers sufficient reasons for remaining ashore.

  —VINCENT VAN GOGH

  Diana

  I couldn’t sleep again. I’d forgotten how long it had been since I’d been able to sleep through a single night, and if I thought about it, I could probably trace it back to when I first started having the dreams shortly after Marnie’s return. In them, my feet would be submerged in water as I searched in the darkness for something precious I had lost. I would wake up with a damp pillow and dried tears on my cheeks, remembering only that I had cried simply because I couldn’t remember what it was that I was looking for. All I retained from the dream was a lingering sense of loss, like being aware of a present set high on a shelf I couldn’t reach. Sleep became a perilous journey, and I’d grown to expect spending the night in quiet wakefulness, listening to the sounds of a sleeping house.

  But last night had been different. I’d first heard Gil jump out of his bed, and then a short while later, his squeaking bedsprings told me that he’d returned to it. But then I’d heard Marnie’s door quietly open and close. I wasn’t surprised, of course; she and Quinn together was as inevitable as summer following spring. What did surprise me, though, was that I didn’t feel the expected hurt. As I’d watched Marnie walk up the path to Quinn’s cottage in her nubby pink bathrobe, I’d felt only relief. Relief and an abiding peace that covered me as unexpectedly as the incoming tide. It was as if a part of my past could finally be put away and locked with a key, and two of my biggest failures forever relegated to my distant past.

  I stayed where I was at the window, waiting for dawn, unsure what I should do next. My mural was complete and so was Marnie’s portrait. It wouldn’t be what she’d expect at all, but it was what I’d needed. As I stared at the still-wet paint, my head and hands felt heavy, as if I were pushing them through water. Looking at the canvas was like waking from my dream, except now I could see what it was that I had lost and how close I’d come to never finding it again.

  I stood and moved to the bookshelf I kept in the corner of my studio. It was filled with all the books I had ever owned. I’d never been a huge reader like Marnie, but after she’d learned to read, it was to her voice that I fell asleep every night. Even now, when I pick up Anne of Green Gables or National Velvet, I hear Marnie’s voice reading to me. I have those books still, an innocent part of my childhood I shared with my sister that I could never give up.

  My fingers skimmed over the bindings until they came to rest on the book I was looking for. It was a thick and heavy volume, its spine cracked from being held open by small hands again and again, the pages bent and yellowed. I pulled out The Hunchback of Notre Dame and flipped to chapter thirteen, skimming the lines until I’d found the passage I was looking for. I read it once out loud, then closed my eyes and recited it from memory.

  I carried the book back to my easel and set it opened at the right page on the small table next to the easel, and wondered if I would have the courage to ask Marnie to read from it again. And I thought of my grandfather and all his Bible verses and not one of them had touched the heart of the matter quite like this one. But maybe that was because I couldn’t hear them being read by Marnie’s voice.

  I studied the painting again, seeing everything with more clarity than I had experienced since before Gil’s birth. It was as if by painting it, I had become aware that keeping the truth to myself was more damaging to me than it could ever have been to Marnie. And I knew that lying beneath the truth beat the heart of the matter: Marnie had never abandoned me; I had simply let her go.

  Stretching, I stood and glanced out the tall turret window and caught a flash of yellow heading toward the path leading to the dock. I’d heard Marnie return, which meant Quinn would be up, too. Maybe he’d decided to get an early start at his office and was taking the jon boat. I yawned, amazed at how tired I felt; the completion of the painting and its revelations to me were like permission to finally rest. I lay down on the daybed and pulled a blanket up to my shoulders, then closed my eyes. And when the dream came, I was searching again. Except this time, I finally knew what I was searching for.

  Marnie

  I showered and dressed slowly, my skin feeling pleasantly sore as I slathered myself with soap, then pulled on my clothes. The clouds had completely disappeared, giving us a day that was more straight out of April than the day after Christmas. I wore jeans, and put on one of the new shirts that Diana had given me, giving into the impulse to throw a light sweater over it.

  Trey had called to say that he was putting the Highfalutin in the water if we were up for some sailing, as the weather forecast called for highs in the seventies and no precipitation for the rest of the week.

  We were still waiting for Diana to come around and grant her permission to allow Gil to sail, but I didn’t know how much longer we could hold out. It was obvious to both Quinn and myself that the key to unlocking Gil’s speech lay somewhere on the deck of the boat under full sails.

  I’d promised Gil a trip down to the dock to see the boat in the water and to sketch her, so I slid on my sneakers and approached his door. I knocked twice, waiting for a few moments before knocking again. When there was no response, I turned the handle, then slowly opened the door, calling his name.

  “Gil?” I stepped into the room. The bed was unmade but slept in, his pajamas lying on the floor. I picked them up and folded them before placing them at the bottom of the bed. As I turned to leave, I spotted his sketch pad on his desk and went over to pick it up. I didn’t open it since Gil seemed to consider it his private domain and hadn’t chosen to share any of his pictures with me as of yet. But I figured if I ran into him elsewhere in the house we could just leave without having to wait for him to go get his pad.

  I went from empty room to empty room, wondering where everybody was. I knew Quinn said he needed to stop in the greenhouse before he came to get my grandfather up and give him breakfast. I told him that I would take over the responsibility but he’d said no, saying that time spent with my grandfather was some of the most peaceful and thought-provoking moments of his entire day.

  The door to Diana’s studio was shut, and I imagined she’d be working and not happy about being disturbed. I figured Gil must have gone to the greenhouse to help Quinn, so I poured myself a bowl of cereal and waited for somebody to appear.

  I was putting my dishes into the dishwasher when the kitchen door opened at the same time Diana padded barefoot into the room, wearing an oversized T-shirt and rubbing sleep from her eyes. I was saved from any embarrassing conversation with Quinn in front of Diana when I realized that Gil wasn’t with either one of them.

  “Where’s Gil?” I asked.

  Diana looked at her paint-splattered watch. “It’s only eight thirty. He’s probably still asleep.”

  I looked at her in alarm. “No, he’s not. I already checked his room, and he’s not in there.”

  Quinn’s expression remained neutral. “Let me get your grandfather up and fed. Then I’ll go look around outside, see if I can find Gil. He likes to wander around a lot, but he knows to be careful. Chances are he’ll show up any minute now wanting something to eat.”

  “Make sure you look up on the hill where we planted his orange tree. He likes to go up there to think.” Diana’s fingers scratched at her bandage. “I’m going upstairs to throw on some clothes, and then I’ll help you look.”

  Diana left and Quinn followed after a discreet kiss, and I was left standing in the middle of the kitchen, alone again and unable to sit down and do nothing. Still carrying Gil’s sketch pad, I went up the stairs and into Gil’s room again in the hopes of finding some sort of clue as to where he could be, like a missing easel or even a book from beside his bed.

  Everything seemed normal and accounted for. I was disappointed to see his oil paints and brushes untouched on his easel, where they’d been since I arrived. Notic
ing his unmade bed again, I decided to make it to keep me busy. I placed the sketch pad on the nightstand and stepped closer to the bed to pull the covers up when my toe struck something hard. Stepping back, I looked down at the dust ruffle, noticing something square and solid poking out from under the bed.

  Curious, I bent down and slid out a clear plastic box, the unlatched lid catching on the fabric of the dust ruffle and sliding off onto the floor. I picked up the lid to reattach it before replacing the box under the bed, but the piece of paper on top caught my attention.

  It was yellow and thin, as if it were part of a form that had once been in triplicate. Printed in red type at the bottom right corner were the words Patient Copy. I read the name of the company on the letterhead, running the name around in my head like a ball in a pinball machine, waiting for it to land in the right spot. My gaze drifted down the page, my eyes catching sight of a familiar name at the same time I recognized the letterhead. It was the name of the nursing home that I had been visiting with Diana and Gil. But that second name—the name on the line that started with Patient’s Name, I knew that one, too. A cold chill blew on the back of my neck, and I jerked upright, knocking the sketch pad onto the floor. A loose paper flew from between the pages, and I recognized it immediately as the missing half of the page that had been in Diana’s purse and I froze.

  In the other four sketches, the face of the third person on the boat with Diana and Gil had been obscured. But in this sketch, the face was peering out at me, leaving no doubt as to the identity of the third person. Brittle air filled my lungs as I tried to concentrate on breathing in and out, all the while thinking to myself So this is what it’s like to see a ghost.

  I ran out of the room, calling for Diana. I threw open the door of her bedroom to find it still and untouched, the room of a child long gone from a house. I backed out of the room and ran to the attic stairs. Her studio door was still shut, but I knew before going inside that I wouldn’t find her.

  The sheets had been pulled from the mural and from my portrait, exposing all to the morning light filtering in through the large windows. I stared up at the mural, at all the familiar faces of the dead, the same face in each portrait that Diana had borrowed from our mother’s photo. Of course, I thought. Gil would have known how to get in here and would have seen the mural. And his grandmother’s face…

  I walked to the end of the mural, to where Gil’s picture sat by itself, his birthdate neatly stenciled beneath it. A bit farther down the line, my picture was painted next to Diana’s and our mother’s. There was no calligraphied story beneath these last three portraits; only the years of our births were documented with a single dash to show no death dates.

  I backed away, my breath coming in heavy gasps, as if I’d run a long, long way. The room appeared to be getting smaller, and I forced myself to take deeper breaths, concentrating on breathing the air back into my lungs. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. I backed into her easel and a heavy book that had been propped open next to it slid to the floor. I managed to catch it before it fell all the way and held it up to the opened page, sure I already knew what it was before I looked. My eyes skimmed the words that I knew by heart. Do you know what friendship is…it is to be brother and sister; two souls which touch without mingling, two fingers on one hand.

  “Diana.” I said her name softly, seeing her as I had once seen her long ago as I looked at our reflections in a mirror as she braided my hair. Her hair had been as fair as mine was dark, her limbs as long and gangly as mine were small and more compact. Twins, she’d said, and for a moment, I’d thought she was joking. But when I looked at her reflection, she’d been serious. Two souls which touch without mingling, two fingers on one hand. Yes, I’d said then. “Yes,” I said aloud now in the quiet room, wanting my sister back and trying not to think of all the years and the gossamer reasons that had separated us.

  I looked down at the papers in my hand, knowing that I held part of the answers I sought, but not able to put any of the pieces together. “Diana!” I called her name loudly in frustration, not expecting an answer.

  I was about to leave to search for her elsewhere when I remembered the portrait. Turning slowly, I faced the uncovered canvas. My vision narrowed for a moment as the sensation of falling created a weightlessness in my limbs, and I wondered for a moment if this was what dying felt like. I lifted my hand, surprised to find that my fingers weren’t translucent after all.

  On the canvas, painted in rich grays and blacks, wasn’t a portrait of me; it was a portrait from a moment in my life that had forever altered me and my relationship with Diana. In the bold splashes of color, the artist had depicted a storm at sea. And in the middle of the storm, its mast snapped in two, was my mother’s boat.

  I listened carefully in the quiet room, not hearing the muffled quiet in the sunlit room, but instead remembering the sound of the howling wind through the sails and rigging. And I remembered how I’d known that the mast had broken because all of a sudden the howling of the wind had just…stopped. I closed my eyes, recalling something else, something brushing the edge of my memory the way a soft breeze teases the tall marsh grass.

  I looked at the painting again, my eyes drawn to the wheel. Where’s Mama? I remembered now, looking for her to tell her that the mast was gone, as if she couldn’t tell herself. But I’d been too shocked at what was happening to make any sense. But where was Mama?

  And then I remembered. I saw her just as clearly as if she’d been standing in front of me. She’d brought Diana out of the cockpit, and they were both at the deck rails at the side of the boat near the shrouds. Mama had her hands on Diana’s shoulders, and Diana was grabbing Mama by the forearms as if she were fighting her. The wind pushed seawater into my eyes, and I blinked them shut. And when I opened them again, Diana was gone.

  The wind and ocean knocked the boat into a semicircle, and I turned around to see if I could find Diana in the angry arms of the ocean. The next thing I remember was my breath being knocked out of me as the boom hit me square in the back and pushed me into the white-tipped waves.

  I struggled to stay atop the waves as a chilling thought crept into my brain: Where were our life jackets? And then Mama was in the water and swimming toward me, and with relief I fought not to sink. When she reached me, she drew me into her arms as if in a hug, and she said something in my ear that I couldn’t hear. And then she pushed me away from her.

  I studied the painting again, noticing the abstract swaths of color that only hinted at what the objects depicted were, the boat being the most recognizable. But then I saw the figures in the water. My face was white against the dark sea and my hair, and I was floating on top of the seat cushion from the cockpit. Yes. I remember. Somebody must have thrown it to me from the boat.

  I stepped back, trying to get a better grasp of the painting. And when I did, I think I stopped breathing. There, almost hidden by the black waves and swirling rain, were two figures struggling to reach a single life preserver. Both were long-limbed and blond, and I couldn’t tell them apart. All that remained unclear was who eventually reached the life preserver.

  Tears fell down my cheeks in the empty room as I finally recognized the heavy weight I’d carried around all these years. The feeling of my mother’s hands slowly letting me go had haunted me as much as any ghost, its whispered words and ethereal footsteps following me until I’d gone to the desert and was able to bury it in the sand. Until now.

  I raced out of the room and down the steps, stopping in the kitchen, where Quinn was helping Grandpa with his breakfast.

  I knelt in front of the wheelchair. Grandpa’s hand reached out to me, wiping the tears I wasn’t aware I was still crying. “You knew,” I said, surprised that I felt no anger toward him. “All this time, you knew.”

  His eyes met mine, but he made no movement, not even to reach for the Bible that lay closed and silent in his lap.

  I stood as Quinn removed the plate from in front of Grandpa. “What’s going on, Marn
ie?”

  “I don’t know yet. I just need to find Diana.” I felt myself close to panic, as if time were running out.

  “I heard the back door slam about thirty minutes ago. I thought it was you going out to look for Gil.” I made to leave, but he held my arm. “What’s wrong? What can I do to help?”

  I touched his face, warmed by his look of concern. “I’ve got to fix this myself, okay? I need to find Diana. If you see her or Gil, call me right away. I’ll have my cell phone.”

  He held my arm for a moment longer, then reluctantly let it go. “Call me if you need me. I’ll be here.” He pulled me to him and kissed me quickly.

  I looked from him to my grandfather, surprised to find them wearing matching expressions of love and concern. “I’ll be all right,” I said, more to reassure myself than anybody else. Then I grabbed my purse and keys and ran from the house, letting the door slam shut behind me.

  CHAPTER 26

  And the sea shall grant all men new hope, as sleep brings dreams of home.

  —CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS

  Marnie

  When I reached the carport, I realized that Quinn’s car was gone. I began dialing my cell phone to call Quinn to let him know, then slowly hung up. I was haunted still by what I’d seen in Diana’s studio and needed to talk to her before Quinn intervened. And now that she was finished with the painting and the mural, I knew that there was only one place she would go.

  I jumped in my rental car and headed out toward Highway 17 toward Charleston, remembering the route I had followed before with Diana and Gil. I pulled into a front spot in the parking lot of the nursing home, only one of ten cars or so; another of them was Quinn’s.

  When the nurse at the front desk greeted me, I lost my courage for a moment, unsure of myself. When the nurse asked again if she could help me, I forced a smile.