As Waters Gone By

by Cynthia Ruchti

  “Husband. I have a husband in prison. He’ll be released early next summer.”

  “Oh. My mistake.”

  Actually, his mistake. Or mine. Ours. Her fingers fumbled with the combination. First try, fail. Second try, epic fail. Emmalyn shuffled to the window. “Would you mind pulling my mail out of the box? I’m having a hard time with the combo today.”

  “Want me to come out and try?”

  “Just . . . just want my mail. Thanks.”

  The flutters in her stomach reminded her of junior high crushes. Multiplied by—what was the equivalent of a terabyte? Terabillion? Tera already meant billion, didn’t it? Mail in hand, she thanked the postmistress again and focused on staying upright as she exited. The drive to the cottage would feel continent long. This wasn’t the kind of mail she dared open in a parked car in the heart of town.

  She thought breathing was supposed to be involuntary. Not today. Her lungs ached from subconsciously holding her breath. Eyes on the road, the gravel shoulders, the unknown future, she forced an even, calming breathing technique she’d read women used in the early stages of labor.

  The message in the letter could go so many directions.

  Sorry, Emmalyn. Claire reached out to me. It stirred something. I’m having my lawyer prepare divorce papers again.

  Then what would she say?

  Emmalyn, I’d asked you not to write me. It just makes it harder. When are you going to get the hint?

  Now. I’ll get the hint now.

  Well, Emmalyn, this is awkward. I’ve gotten over you, but apparently you haven’t gotten over me.

  I don’t think I was supposed to.

  She neared the elbow in the road where it turned from Big Bay to Schoolhouse. The ancient maple stood sentry as it always did, this time each bare branch covered in quilt batting. A blaze of color in the fall. Naked before the snow. Beautiful again. And in a few months, fully alive once more.

  She blinked back tears, made the turn, then another, one more, and pulled up to her sanctuary for what could well become an altar experience.

  Comfort scooted out the door as soon as she opened it, nearly knocking her over. Emmalyn glanced around the first floor for evidence that the animal hadn’t been able to hold it. “Good dog.”

  Turning up the heat could wait. Tea could wait. Taking off her coat could wait.

  She slid her thumbnail under the flap of the envelope stamped brazenly “This letter was mailed from a correctional facility.” In red. Subtle. The return address made her teeth ache. In the system, he was known by a number and who knows what kind of nickname. In the public restroom at The Wild Iris hung a rustic shutter with a stenciled quote: People know your name but call you by your sin. God knows your sin but calls you by name (Ricardo Sanchez, revised).

  Did Max know that? Would she have a chance to tell him? Could she convince him? Her own hold on the truth still crackled with newness.

  She pulled a piece of notebook paper from the envelope, blank on the backside facing out. It took fierce determination not to read ahead when she opened it, to clamor for the words at the end. She started with the first line.

  I’m a broken man.

  Emmalyn clutched the letter to her heart and slumped into the nearest chair. She rocked back and forth, eyes pinched shut, her soul experiencing his words as if they were her own. Comfort’s yip jarred her. Too cold outside for a small dog. Too cold inside for a broken woman who loved a broken man.

  She rushed through letting Comfort in, turning up the electric heat, hanging her coat, starting the tea water. “Jesus doesn’t give you strength, M. He is your strength.” Bougie had found a way to work the statement into almost every conversation. The woman had more than her share of creativity when it came to speaking wisdom.

  Emmalyn settled properly into the chair this time and reopened the letter she’d kept in her hand.

  I’m a broken man.

  Broken and mending.

  What did he mean by that?

  I’ve been worthless for anything since your note came. I don’t know what I expected after cutting you off. Stupidest thing I ever did. Yes, even more stupid than not shutting off the engine that night or steering another direction. Such a small decision with such unbearable consequences.

  Emmalyn breathed a body-shuddering sigh.

  I didn’t expect grace. Didn’t expect you would still care after all I’ve taken from you. But Emmalyn, I’m not the man you married. This place has changed me. And I’m not sure you would have written if you knew how much. Frankly, I should have told you months ago. The fact that I waited so long is tearing me up inside. I’m afraid you’ll say this is really and truly the end of the line for us.

  15

  Emmalyn’s stomach churned. Whitecapped waves had nothing over the violent sloshing. The end of the line? He hadn’t communicated with her for four of the almost five years he’d been incarcerated and he thought this might be the end of the line?

  Anxiety rippled through her. She’d mailed another note since the first one. A tender note. Vulnerable. He obviously hadn’t received it yet when writing this one to her. What had she said? Her mind traced back through where her heart had been as she put the words on paper.

  “No. No, no, no! Not now, Max. Not when I was starting to hope again. Don’t you do this to me.”

  The dog twitched at her words, then settled back into a dream that had more chance of coming true than Emmalyn’s.

  His change of heart? It had to be Claire, the one who could make babies. Claire, the one who succeeded in becoming a mother. The one he’d been speaking to from prison.

  What if Emmalyn hadn’t given up after eight months of unanswered mail, of her begging him to call her so they could talk? What if she’d persisted back then rather than eventually giving up? What if she’d acted as if her heart was merely wounded, not shattered? Would it have made a difference?

  Max claimed he and Claire were over before their record-short relationship began. Their workplace romance had started to curdle almost the moment they decided to date. Within two months, they were history. She left the financial management office and their relationship on the same day. Claire told him about the baby after the fact, insisting she didn’t want his involvement in the child’s life. That lasted until she moved in with a guy who had a hard time hanging on to jobs and her newborn daughter developed an aversion to all but the most expensive brand of formula.

  Emmalyn laid her head against the back of the chair in her cottage for one. Max hadn’t asked for a paternity test. Did that make him a fool or honorable? By the time Hope Elizabeth turned three, Emmalyn stopped wondering. The little girl’s eyes, chin, lopsided dimples, and sweet temperament mimicked Max’s.

  “How did Claire do it, Max?” Emmalyn asked the empty chair across from hers. “How did she worm her way back into your life?”

  She knew the answer. They shared a child between them. The glue missing from the bond between Emmalyn and Max.

  “See, Max? I can do math.”

  If a fire had been lit in the fireplace, she would have charred the letter and eventually removed it with the rest of the ashes.

  But she hadn’t taken time to light a fire. Curiosity drove her to read the rest, if nothing else, to see how honest he intended to be.

  Where had she left off?

  . . . should have told you months ago . . . tearing me up inside . . . the end of the line for us. Claire’s been in touch. She’s going through a really rough time.

  “I understand, dear. My life is peachy at the moment.” She hadn’t voiced the words aloud, but they still hurt her throat.

  I’m more worried than ever about Hope. If Claire doesn’t get her act together, they’ll both be in trouble.

  What?

  I’ve been praying Claire will—

  Back up the truck. He’d been praying? He said it casually, as if it were a common occurrence. She skimmed the next part and got to his final paragraph:

  A lot of prisoners hav
e a “Come to Jesus” moment in places like this. For some, it’s for no more solid a reason than that sitting in chapel is better than sitting in their cell. Or that it looks good on their parole applications. They can fake “Glory, hallelujah!” during the songs, or memorize Scripture that justifies the crime that sent them here. Before you make any decisions about what our future might hold, Emmalyn, it’s only fair for you to know this is real for me. And whatever happens between us, I’m committed to seeking full custody of my daughter when I’m released.

  Emmalyn had watched incessant waves shove stones around the beach the way thoughts tumbled inside her. He wanted Hope more than he wanted his wife? He was willing to abandon Emmalyn if he had to in order to keep the daughter he’d rarely seen? And where did he expect to find the money for legal fees to fight Claire for custody? They’d exhausted most of their joint savings on—she would have laughed if it weren’t so sad—fertility treatments and Max’s defense. Plus renovating the cottage.

  Wait. He’d gotten religion? The kind her mother supported on Christmas and Easter? Or Bougie’s kind?

  She’d heard nothing from him for so long. And now, this cryptic message. If she could have texted a response to him, it would have been in all caps.

  * * *

  Emmalyn cracked a small branch across her thigh, splitting the wood into roughly one-foot lengths. She picked up another and busted it into smaller pieces. She tented the smaller pieces—teepee style—over a wad of dryer lint she’d scavenged from the automatic laundry in LaPointe on her last run. Someone—Cora?—told her dryer lint made great kindling. One match and the lint flamed up, lighting the shredded paper egg carton and eventually the twigs she’d tortured.

  As soon as the fire took well enough to add wood thicker around than her thumb, she’d toss in the letter. She’d reread it enough times to reproduce it if asked. But holding onto it, letting it live under the same roof, the same skylight, seemed emotionally destructive, a penned roadside bomb that could detonate if she stumbled over it in the dark.

  She fed the fire a small birch log and watched its curled bark flame. Another minute or two . . .

  A tap at the door can elevate a person’s heart rate faster than a double espresso, she discovered. She replaced the screen on the fireplace and followed Comfort to investigate.

  “Bougie?”

  “Surprise!”

  “What are you doing here?” Emmalyn stepped back to allow Bougie in through the narrow back entrance.

  “I forgot to have you sign a W-4.” Bougie waved a manila envelope.

  Driving out that far? At this time of night? “Couldn’t it have waited until the next time I come in?”

  Bougie shrugged out of her Red Riding Hood cape. “Could have. For some reason, it seemed like a better idea to bring it to you. That and the leftover double chocolate mousse.”

  Her nerve endings at war again, Emmalyn both wanted Bougie there and wanted to be alone. Chocolate mousse won the day. “Great idea. And”—she looked over her shoulder at Max’s letter on the coffee table trunk—“in the nick of time.”

  She grabbed two small, square bowls and two spoons. Bougie scooped healthy portions for both of them from a large ramekin. They each claimed a chair near the fire.

  “I expected the snow to melt by now. The first couple of snowfalls usually disappear pretty fast. Doesn’t bode well for what kind of winter we may be facing.”

  Emmalyn ate her mousse in miniscule bites, both to prolong the enjoyment factor and to give herself time to think. How much did she want to divulge to Bougie? “It’s warm.”

  “I should have brought whipped cream. Wouldn’t that have just put it over the edge?”

  For some reason, Bougie chose edge rather than top, as most would have when talking about pudding. Instead, she’d used a word that related to the place where Emmalyn’s emotions clung. Over the edge.

  “I heard from Max today.” The fire spit its opinion of her flat statement.

  Bougie pressed her eyes closed and took two deep breaths before responding. She put her dish and spoon on the coffee table, obviously avoiding the open letter with both the dish and her eyes. “I would be smiling, but you aren’t.”

  A raw tooth too close to a metal fork. That’s how Emmalyn could describe how she felt. “I’m not sure how to take it, but it appears he’s telling me I don’t matter anymore.”

  The younger woman opened her mouth twice to speak before anything came out. “Words translate poorly from prison.”

  How did she know these things? Or assume them?

  “The distance,” Bougie explained. “The lack of personal contact. The missing elements of facial expression, tone of voice, the ability to correct a misunderstanding instantly. The paper shortage.”

  “Paper shortage.” A snort stopped just shy of escaping. “He could have called. He’s allowed phone calls.”

  “How personal is the letter? Can I read it? Or do you want to read parts of it to me? Maybe I can help lend another perspective.”

  Emmalyn reached for the letter. Two options: the fire or her friend. “I’ll have to tell you the latest about Claire first. And Max’s daughter.”

  With a lap full of Comfort, Emmalyn started at the beginning, more details than she’d shared before. Bougie listened as she always did, an expression both serene and concerned. Only she could pull that off. It was as if she listened with her own lap full of comfort.

  Emmalyn thought the ugly details would sting if voiced. And they might have, if it hadn’t been Bougie on the receiving end.

  When Emmalyn finished all she needed to tell, she handed her friend the letter. Naked in a snowbank. That’s what it was like having a friend find out your husband’s first love is someone other than you. And that she’s back again.

  Bougie’s eyes glistened by the time she finished. Emmalyn didn’t blame her. Sad and mad circled each other in Emmalyn’s stomach like wrestlers waiting for a sign of weakness.

  “Priceless.”

  “What?” Sarcasm wasn’t Bougie’s style. What did she mean?

  “Isn’t this priceless?” She laid the letter on the coffee table and placed her hands over it as if blessing it.

  Emmalyn picked up the piece of paper. “Did you read the same letter I did?”

  “He’s seeing things differently.”

  “He’s not the Max I married.”

  “No. Better.”

  Emmalyn narrowed her eyes. “What am I missing? He’s reconnected with Claire. He’s worried about her. And whether I like it or not, he’s going after Hope Elizabeth when he’s released.”

  Bougie pulled her stockinged feet underneath her. “M, he loves the God you’re learning to love. He wants to be the dad he should have been all along. And he’s invited you into the journey.”

  Invited her in?

  “M, you’re not Leah. You’re the Rachel in this story. The loved one.”

  Whatever that meant.

  Bougie laid her head on her shoulder, eyes closed again, her hand in Pledge of Allegiance position. “You’ll appreciate its beauty more if you figure it out for yourself.”

  “I’ll appreciate being able to sleep tonight if you just tell me.”

  Bougie stood, crossed to where Emmalyn sat, and bent to hug her. “Genesis, M. Genesis.”

  She closed the door behind her before Emmalyn could ask, “What about the W-4?”

  The envelope remained on the kitchen island. She’d left the ramekin of chocolate mousse, too. Emmalyn tucked the dish into the fridge, washed their dishes and spoons, and banked the fire. The night promised endlessness. That’s all it had to offer.

  Well into her third cup of tea, she folded Max’s letter and slid it into its envelope. Her Bible, part of the vignette of items on the table in front of the window, felt cool to her touch. The fire would fight drafts all winter, no doubt. She opened the Bible to Genesis, just a few pages in, and tucked the envelope there.

  “Come on, Comfort. Time to go out.” She held one h
and on the doorknob until the dog reached her. “Don’t waste time out there, okay? I want to go to bed.”

  She avoided using the word sleep. That was too much to expect.

  16

  Three a.m.

  Her best and worst ideas came at three in the morning. Too much tea forced her out of bed and across the hall to the bathroom. The dog blocked Emmalyn’s return to the bedroom. Comfort sat in the doorway, face lifted expectantly.

  Emmalyn raised a knee high to step over the dog who then scooted across the hallway floor toward the top of the stairs. She ran down two, then up one. Down two.

  “Please don’t tell me you need to go out.” Emmalyn leaned against the doorjamb, yawning, rubbing her arms for warmth. “I should build a doggie door.”

  She grabbed a sweater to throw over her pajamas, stuck her feet into flats, and followed Comfort down the stairs.

  A sliver of moon on snow etched the room in blue-white shadow light. She didn’t need to turn on a lamp to see well enough to let the dog out. But the silly animal kept her distance from the door. “Seriously? You either need to go or you don’t. Make up your mind.”

  Comfort whined. She never whined.

  “Are you hungry, girl?”

  Whined again, but didn’t head for her dish.

  “Are you just being a dog, or is there something wrong with you? Because I can’t afford to lose any more sleep and I sure can’t afford a bill for pet therapy.”

  Comfort padded across the room and jumped into Emmalyn’s favorite chair.

  “Let’s not start that. It’s by invitation only, critter.” Emmalyn picked up the dog, sank into the chair, and hugged the animal against her chest. The warmth of her little body felt good in the middle of the night. “Have I told you lately that I appreciate having you around?”

  Comfort sighed and settled onto Emmalyn’s lap.

  “And that one of these days”—Emmalyn stroked along Comfort’s spine, behind her ears, under her chin—“like it or not, you’re going to need another bath?”

  Emmalyn rested her head against the rounded back of the chair. Her eyes drifted shut, then popped open. She was up with a child in the middle of the night. Minus the child. She’d imagined the scene more times than she could count. But it was never like this. The thin slice of moon, the utter quiet, the warmth of the small body, the embraceable chair were the same. But in her dreams, it was an infant, not a dog. She hummed lullabies as she stroked a doe-skin forehead. And she had a husband-warmed bed to return to, not a husband on a thin mattress with a thin blanket in a cell block hundreds of miles away.