The Twilight Wife

by A. J. Banner

  We’re in the pass again—the dream takes me back to the rock wall, to the anemones swaying gently in the current. Another diver hovers a few yards off, filming a congregation of urchins. The current is too strong—stronger than it should be. Is it possible we didn’t time the dive correctly? Could we have made a mistake? A wave of anxiety washes through me. I begin to hyperventilate. I count, One, breathe in, two. Breathe out. Three. Why am I here? I’m not ready to dive here. The waters are too rough. Where are we? In Deception Pass? Somewhere else?

  You’ll be fine, Jacob told me. I’ll be there. I’ll take care of you. But there is no true slack current here. The current pushes one way, stops for a minute, then changes direction. My mask grows tighter, my suit heavy. I’m cold, too cold. I can’t draw a deep breath. We are not alone. A third diver swims up behind us. Another man? Is there a fourth diver behind him? Two other divers? Or only one? The water is murky now, silty. Full of shadows.

  In an instant, the current whips us away. The undertow churns up the sea bottom. A cloud passes over the sun, and my view plunges into darkness. Where am I? At what depth? Forty feet? Sixty? The loud rush of my breathing fills my ears. I have a strong urge to rip off my mask, race for the surface, and gulp a deep breath of fresh air. Don’t panic. Panic is what kills most divers. If I ascend too quickly, I’ll get the bends, deadly nitrogen bubbles in my bloodstream. But I’m running out of air. Another diver swims up below me. His eyes widen with confusion, or fear, or both. I have to help him, but I can’t fight the undertow. The sea yanks him away. I awaken gasping for breath, my heartbeat pulsing in my ears.

  I sit up, rub my forehead, trying to clear my mind. The clock on the nightstand reads eight o’clock. I slept later than usual. Jacob is already humming in the kitchen.

  I pull on a robe and slippers over my pajamas and go down the hall to my office computer. In Google, I type in “Kyra Winthrop,” “diving accident,” and “Deception Pass” again, and I click on results in only the News category. The same stories appear—two divers rescued from the pass, both miraculously alive, except for my head injury. What did I expect to find? A fresh article, sprouting from my dream, reading, Correction: our previous piece erroneously reported only two divers nearly swept to their deaths in Deception Pass. In reality, a couple of ghost divers survived the treacherous currents . . . courtesy of Kyra Winthrop’s warped imagination.

  So much for the revelatory power of dreams.

  In my email inbox, I find a message from Linny.

  Kyra,

  Did something happen? Did you and Jacob get into a fight? Why are you asking me if you argued? Tell me what’s going on!

  He was always careful and gentle with you. I’m sure he gets pissed off sometimes. We all do.

  Xoxo,

  Linny

  Well, that’s a relief.

  I sign off and go back down the hall to the kitchen. Jacob is seated at the dining table, reading glasses propped on his nose, jotting a list on a lined notepad.

  I peer over his shoulder at his cramped handwriting:

  SWEET POTATOES, MAPLE SYRUP, CINNAMON, BUTTERNUT SQUASH, PECANS . . .

  “A recipe?” I say.

  “Butternut squash pecan casserole,” he says.

  “I’m not fond of the word casserole,” I say, pouring a mug of coffee. “It’s what my dad made when he wanted to disguise leftovers.”

  Jacob takes off his glasses and smiles. “At least your dad cooked. My dad didn’t know the difference between a colander and a cooking pot.”

  “We weren’t a conventional family,” I say. “Except for the casseroles. For some unknown reason, my dad considered himself the male Betty Crocker.”

  “This isn’t a conventional casserole,” Jacob says. “Vegan, crunchy, and sweet, just like you.”

  “A sweet casserole?” I say. “Yuck.”

  “Trust me. It’s good.”

  “If you say so.” I yawn.

  “You didn’t sleep well,” he says, a note of concern in his voice.

  “I had the dream again.” I sit at the table with him, holding the warm cup in both hands. “Only it got scary. The current shifted and pushed us—”

  “Wait, you think this recurring dream is a real memory?”

  “I’m not sure, but this time there was someone else, at least one other diver.”

  His brows rise, his expression puzzled. “Another diver? Who?”

  “I don’t know. Did we dive alone?”

  “Yeah, just the two of us,” he says, frowning. “Why would you dream of someone else?”

  “Could other people have been diving with us?”

  “Not with us, but when the conditions are optimal in the pass, there might be other divers.”

  “Did we see anyone else?” I say.

  “We might have. Wait. We did. Now I remember. One experienced diver with a less experienced diver trailing him. But we didn’t dive with them. We nodded hello. That’s all. We were diving along the wall, and we passed them.”

  “Going in the same direction?” I say.

  “We had to have been,” he says. “They’re not going to swim against the current. You drift with the current one way, then you let it carry you back the other way.”

  I peer into my cup. I’ve finished my coffee, without even noticing. “This dream didn’t have much of the usual strangeness—you know, when the impossible happens. It felt real.”

  “It could’ve been from another time.”

  “It seemed like the pass.”

  “We dove in other places.”

  “But the dream.”

  He looks up at me. “You had a dream of other divers before, and you’ve asked me this question before. My answer has always been the same.”

  I step back, stunned. “I don’t—”

  “You don’t remember, I know.” He tears off the sheet from the notepad. “I need to gather these ingredients for the dinner. I’m going into town.” As he shrugs on his coat, I pour a second mug of coffee to kick-start my fuzzy brain. I wish I could replay the dream like a movie, know for certain what I saw.

  “I’m recording light on silver atoms,” Jacob says, snapping a picture of me in the kitchen.

  “You’re what?” I pat down my hair. I’m not prepared for another session for the scrapbook.

  “You know, imprinting your beautiful face on photographic paper.”

  “Lined with silver,” I say.

  “Absolutely. That’s how real photographs are made. Not the digital ones.”

  “Please don’t take any more pictures of me cooking.” I push my hand over the camera lens. “I can’t even boil an egg. I turn everything I touch into stone—or ash.”

  “The Medusa Touch,” he says. “With the Medusa hair.”

  “Stop,” I say, yanking the camera out of his hand.

  “Too late. Your beautiful image has been committed to film.”

  “Then uncommit it.”

  He kisses my cheek. “Not a chance. Come on. I’ll show you how to cut the sweet potatoes. But first we have to clean them.” We wash all six small sweet potatoes in cold water.

  “Show me your magic,” I say.

  “Glad to oblige.” He wraps his arms around my waist and lifts me bodily, heading for the bedroom.

  “That’s not what I meant!” I laugh, squirming out of his arms. “I meant your magic cooking techniques.”

  “Oh, that.” He feigns a look of disappointment. “Fine. The recipe calls for the sweet potatoes halved with the skin still on.” He hands me the gleaming, serrated knife. “Don’t cut yourself. I’ll cube the squash.”

  On the countertop, the pear-shaped squash leans to one side, misshapen and bulbous. We could plant our own vegetables in my mother’s old garden, Jacob whispered long ago. We would never have to leave the island.

  How lovely that would be, I said. A gorgeous burgundy sunset spilled across the sky. As that summer day left us, I felt my hopes and dreams taking leave, too. How could I possibly stay in this m
agical world of forests and birds, sunsets and beaches? The island felt uncomplicated in comparison to my life in the city. How I loved the rosy twilight reflecting off the sea, the unhurried days exploring the tide pools and quiet trails. But I had to go back to my obligations, clogged highways, and the frenetic pace of life. In Seattle, I sense that every hour was spoken for. I had no time to plant anything at all.

  “Where was your mother’s old garden?” I say.

  “What?” The knife slips from his hand, hitting the counter with a clang.

  “The last time we were here, you mentioned your mother’s garden.”

  He picks up the knife. “Over there.” He points to the south side of the house, toward the cottage. “I’ll show you when we have time. Tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow would be great,” I say.

  Look at all these weeds, he said. He kneeled in the soil to yank out dandelions, almost angrily, as if they had invaded his mother’s neglected garden on purpose.

  I place a sweet potato on the cutting board, slice down the center, splitting the potato in half. On another cutting board, Jacob slices the squash, revealing a core full of seeds.

  “Did we make food together a lot, like this?” I say, slicing the rest of the sweet potatoes.

  “Sometimes. I cooked, you helped.” As he chops the squash, he drops the cubes into a measuring cup. The countertop shimmers and changes color from pale granite to cerulean blue. The kitchen cabinets elongate. They were different, a lighter oak color. I’m seeing our old kitchen on the mainland. The sink had a two-handled faucet, unlike this one with a single handle. The house felt large, empty. I’d left the lasagna to cook too long. The top had burned and dried up. I was in a panic.

  Jacob strode in. He took one look at my stricken expression and rolled up his sleeves . . . I’ll fix this, he said.

  It’s ruined, I said. I can’t do this. I never should have tried.

  Allow me. An incredible feeling of relief washed through me.

  The kitchen morphs back into the cottage kitchen. I wrap my arms around his waist, pull him close.

  “What’s this?” he says.

  “I’m just appreciating you.”

  “I’ll take a few orders of appreciation to go,” he says.

  “I was remembering something. Did our old house have light oak cabinets and a blue countertop?”

  He gives me a look of shock, which quickly melts into a grin. “You’re close. The countertops weren’t blue. They were leaning more toward green.”

  “Funny, I remember them as blue,” I say.

  “In what context?” He turns on the oven to preheat to 400 degrees, pulls two large baking sheets from a high cabinet.

  “You were cooking . . . and I was upset. In anguish about having burned lasagna. Someone important must’ve been coming over . . . and I wanted to impress.”

  He frowns. “Burned lasagna, let me think. That must’ve been the night Professor Brimley was coming over for dinner.” He’s arranging the squash and sweet potatoes on the baking sheets. He drizzles them with coconut oil and slides the baking sheets into the oven.

  Something more happened that evening. Aiden walked in while Jacob was cooking. I see Jacob wearing an apron, holding a spatula. He turned to face Aiden. Hey, buddy, he said.

  My heart leaped at the sight of Aiden with his tie askew, his hair a mess. He must’ve been coming from work. But I hid what I felt. Why? Had he come over expecting to find me alone? Was Jacob supposed to be away?

  I’m interrupting something, Aiden said, looking uncomfortable. The air was charged with tension.

  You’re not, Jacob says. Drink? Something you need to discuss?

  No, it can wait, Aiden said. He placed a Tupperware container on the table. I was in the area, thought I would bring this back. He turned to leave. I wanted to run after him, but I stood rooted to the spot. The memory recedes into shadows, large pieces missing.

  “Fifteen minutes for the squash,” Jacob says, setting the timer on the stove. “The sweet potatoes will take longer.” He empties the bag of pecans onto the cutting board and begins chopping them into smaller pieces.

  “Aiden’s a good friend of yours, right?” I say, watching him work.

  “Yeah, why?”

  “You haven’t talked to him since we’ve been here.”

  “I called him yesterday while you were walking on the beach.”

  I nod, leaning back against the counter. “Should we invite him to visit? I mean, we liked doing stuff with him, right?”

  He looks thoughtful, his eyes distant. Then he smiles. “Yeah, we could. I have to go back to the city next week, to check on things, remember? I’ll talk to him then.”

  “Did you tell me you had to go back?” The familiar prickle of anxiety sneaks under my skin.

  “You don’t remember.” The pinch of irritation returns to his voice. “I’ll have to go back now and then to keep an eye on the company. Shareholders’ meetings, board meetings.”

  “Aiden didn’t work with you? He worked at your company, right?”

  “He’s a manager in IT,” Jacob says. “Engineer. I gave him a job. We didn’t see each other every day.”

  I’ll always be grateful to Jacob, Aiden told me. I have to be careful. I don’t want to alienate the guy. Alienate him how? And when?

  “You were friends before that, right? In college?”

  “Yeah, he was a brilliant scientist. Good programmer, too. We both love the outdoors.”

  “We hiked together a lot. Did we dive together?”

  “A couple of times.”

  “In the pass?” I say.

  “No, we dove in the pass only that one time.” He gives me a curious look. “Why all the questions about Aiden?”

  “I remember him stopping by unannounced, that’s all.”

  Jacob nods slowly. We’re quiet for a moment.

  “What’s next in the recipe?” I say, taking a deep breath.

  “Heat the pecans and add the magic ingredients. Coconut sugar, maple syrup, cinnamon, salt.”

  “I’ll help. Should I—?”

  “You go on.” He gives me his I’ve-got-this expression. “I’ll take it from here.”

  “Move over, Angelina Jolie,” Jacob says, looking at me as he drives up to the Phelpses’ farm on Dream’s End Lane. “Kyra Winthrop’s in the house.”

  “But where is Brad?” I say, grinning.

  His face falls. “Damn. We’re history.”

  “Anyway, you’re way better-looking than Brad Pitt.”

  He smiles. “My name is better, too.”

  Twilight spreads across the horizon in a strip of bright orange. I’m in jeans, black boots, a soft beige knit sweater, and simple silver earrings. When I emerged from the shower, Jacob had laid out these clothes on the bed for me. I’m holding the casserole in a glass baking dish warming my lap.

  “Seriously, am I fancy enough?” I say. “I mean, I love the sweater you chose for me, but . . .”

  “You’re perfect. What about me?” He’s a step up from casual in gray flannel trousers, black turtleneck sweater, and black shoes.

  “Perfect,” I say. “Better than Brad, like I said.”

  As he drives up to the garage, the sweet smell of freshly cut grass fills me with a deep ache of nostalgia. I’ve been here before, smelling the grass, gazing through the trees at the welcoming lights of the farmhouse.

  As Jacob parks beside Van’s truck, Nancy comes out onto the porch, waves at us, and descends the steps, holding her fuzzy white sweater close around her. Van strides out after her in a black T-shirt and jeans, surrounded by two leaping black Labrador retrievers.

  Jacob lifts my hand to his lips and kisses my wedding ring. He squeezes my hand, the way he squeezed my hand on the deck of the ferry as the island came into view. I remember now. There was no wind in the harbor. It was early summer. He took my hand and slipped a wedding band on my finger, made of hammered gold.

  What’s this? I gasped in delight and bewild
erment.

  To replace the one you lost.

  Jacob . . . Tears of joy and confusion blurred my vision. The ring was gorgeous but a little loose.

  You used to be a six, he said.

  Only a half size off. I turned my new gold wedding band around and around on my finger. I was brimming with hope, worry, and trepidation. I thought our wild trip to the island might be the biggest mistake of my life.

  “Kyra, come on.” Jacob is standing next to the truck at the Phelpses’ house, waiting for me to get out. Nancy rushes down the porch steps, and the next few minutes pass in a haze of hugs, greetings, and the dogs weaving around our legs, their tails wagging. Nancy introduces them as Salt and Pepper.

  In the house, the dogs flop on the rug in front of the woodstove in the corner, their tails thumping.

  In the spacious living room, Van’s tending the fire. He smiles at me, his expression betraying nothing of what we discussed when he visited. Nancy disappears into the kitchen and returns with a plate of deviled eggs and raw veggies. “Appetizers. Help yourselves.”

  “Wine?” Van says, putting a bottle of white on the table and popping the cork. Wine? Red or white? He asked me here, in his house. Nancy and Jacob were standing outside on a warm summer evening, admiring the ocean view. I said, White, and he poured me a glass. This is the first time I’ve had any alcohol in months, I said to him. Feels warm going down. We both looked out the window at Jacob and Nancy, chatting about some childhood secret, no doubt.

  Cheers, then, he said, and we touched our glasses together. Here’s to good friends.

  Good friends, I said. Should we let them in on the toast?

  Nah, leave them to themselves.

  I felt it then, the twisting corkscrew of jealousy beneath my ribs. I knew Van felt it, too. No, let’s go out there and talk to them. I went outside onto the porch. Jacob and Nancy sat in wicker bucket chairs. The evening sunlight glinted off Jacob’s glass of beer. Nancy’s wineglass was empty. Jacob was nearly doubled over with laughter, Nancy giggling uncontrollably. Jacob summoned me to sit in his lap. I obliged, the setting sun in my eyes. Let’s get out of here, he whispered to me, holding me close. Nancy gave us a look. Then she got up, staggered over to Van, and fell into his arms.