Walking on Water: A Novel

by Richard Paul Evans

  “It’s just a bruised ego,” I said.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “At least I don’t have to worry about you disappearing on me again.”

  “No, you don’t,” she said. She leaned forward and kissed me on the cheek, then sat back down. “So what are you doing today?”

  “Details,” I said. “My father left me a checklist. This morning I need to call the mortuary and set a date for the viewing.”

  “They beat you to it,” she said. “They called an hour ago. I wrote the number down next to the phone. What day is the viewing?”

  “I need to decide. I don’t even know what day it is today.”

  “It’s Tuesday.”

  “Maybe we should have it this Friday.”

  “Friday would be good,” she said. “That should give the mortuary enough time.” She looked at me for a moment, then said, “Then what?”

  “After I take care of everything here, I’ll go back out.”

  She looked a little surprised. “You’re going to finish your walk?”

  I nodded. “It’s odd, but there’s a part of me that feels like I need to finish the walk as much for my father as for myself.” I took a bite of the pancake, then asked, “What about you? What’s next?”

  “I was planning on staying until the viewing. Then I need to get back to Spokane to check on things. I talked to Kailamai last night, and she said one of the tenants was complaining about her plumbing. Sometimes I forget I’m a landlord.” She sighed. “What do you need from me?”

  “Just you,” I said.

  “Do you mind if I read your family history?”

  “No. I think that would please my father.”

  Nicole was quiet a moment, then she said, “You need to call Falene.” When I didn’t reply, she said, “You need to call her today. She needs to know about your father. You need to share this with her.”

  “I know,” I said.

  Neither of us spoke for a moment. Then she said, “I think I know why you haven’t called her.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s because deep inside you’re afraid that she might have moved on. Sometimes it’s easier to live with the uncertainty than to confront the truth.”

  I thought over her theory, then replied, “Maybe you’re right.”

  “Call her,” she said again. “Today. She deserves to know. So do you.”

  “All right,” I said. “I’ll call her.”

  CHAPTER

  Twenty

  I have found Falene only to discover that I have less of an idea of where she is now than I had before.

  Alan Christoffersen’s diary

  After breakfast I returned the call to Beard Mortuary. As my father had told me in the hospital, he’d taken care of every possible detail—everything except the date of his viewing and the writing of his obituary. I scheduled a viewing at the Beard Mortuary Chapel for Friday evening. Then, with Nicole’s help, I wrote my father’s obituary.

  Robert Alan Christoffersen

  1953–2012

  Robert “Bob” Alan Christoffersen, husband, father, and friend, unexpectedly passed away of heart failure on November 2, 2012, at the age of 59. Bob was born in Denver, Colorado. He was drafted into the Vietnam War, where he saw combat and was a highly decorated lieutenant of the First Air Cavalry. He returned from the war and enrolled at the University of Colorado in Boulder, where he graduated in accounting. He married his high school sweetheart, Kate Mitchell, in 1974. In 1979 Kate gave birth to their son, Alan. Eight years later his sweetheart passed away from cancer, and he never remarried. Bob was a skilled CPA and worked eleven years for Peat Marwick of Denver before moving to Pasadena, where he opened his own firm. Bob was a good man with impeccable integrity and will be missed by all who knew him. He is survived only by his son, Alan Christoffersen. A viewing will be held at the Beard Mortuary Chapel at 396 Colorado Blvd. on Friday night from six to nine p.m. He has requested that in lieu of flowers, donations be sent to the American Red Cross, Los Angeles Region, at www.redcross.org or the American Cancer Society at https://donate.cancer.org.

  Nicole read it over. “Do you need to put in the Web addresses?”

  “It was my father’s idea,” I said.

  “Then it’s perfect,” Nicole said.

  I took a deep breath. “It seems so inadequate.”

  “I know,” Nicole replied. “How do you condense someone’s life into a couple of paragraphs?”

  While Nicole went shopping for a dress for the service, I sat down to read over my father’s checklist.

  I’ve heard horror stories of people settling their parents’ estates, but they didn’t have my father watching over them. He knew I wasn’t good with money, so he had pretty much taken care of everything.

  When I first started making a decent salary in Seattle, I went to him for financial advice. He was explaining the pros and cons of different types of IRAs and investment funds when finally I stopped him and said, “Hold on, I have no idea what you’re talking about. Explain this to me like I’m ten years old.” A minute later I stopped him again. “Explain it like I’m five years old,” I said, which is exactly what he did. And he was still doing it. Each document was accompanied by a page with step-by-step instructions, contacts, and phone numbers.

  Financially, my father had left me more than I even knew he had. I didn’t know that he was a millionaire, but that shouldn’t have surprised me. He once told me that most millionaires don’t live like millionaires—that it is usually the faux millionaires who go for the show: driving expensive, depreciating cars and living in oversized homes mortgaged to their rooftops. (At the time I suspected he was trying to make a point, as McKale and I fit his description.) My father was industrious, a skilled money manager, and religiously frugal—a combination that pretty much guaranteed financial success.

  Nicole was gone less than two hours. After she returned we went over my father’s funeral list. There was a spreadsheet listing the names of his friends and clients with their contact information. At the bottom of the list he had added, And anyone else you would like to invite.

  Nicole looked up at me. “Did you call Falene?”

  “Not yet.”

  “You should do it now.”

  “I’ll get to it.”

  “Now,” she said.

  “Why are you suddenly so interested in me calling her?”

  “Maybe because I suffered enough over not having you and I want at least to know it wasn’t in vain.”

  “All right,” I said. “I’ll call.”

  I went to my room and found the note Falene had written me when she left St. Louis.

  My dear Alan,

  Sometimes a girl can be pretty deaf to the things she doesn’t want to hear. Or maybe it’s just easy to ignore the answers that are shouted but never spoken. I should have heard your answer in your silence. I’ve asked you twice if I could be there when you arrived in Key West and you never answered me. I should have known that was my answer. If you had wanted me there, you would have answered with a loud “yes.” Forgive me for being so obtuse (I learned that word from you). But there’s a good reason I ignored the obvious. The truth was too painful. You see, I love you. I’m sorry that you had to learn it here, so far from me. I looked forward to the day when I could say it to your face. But I now know that day will never come.

  I love you. I know this. I really, truly, deeply love you. I first realized that I had fallen in love with you about two months after I started working at the agency.

  Of course, I wasn’t alone. I think all the women at your agency had a crush on you. Why wouldn’t they? You were handsome and funny and smart, but most of all, you had a good heart. Truthfully, you seemed too good to be true. You were also loyal to your wife, which made you even more desirable.

  Up until I met you, I thought all men were users and abusers. Then you had to come along and ruin my perfect misandry. You are everything a man should be. Strong but gentle, smart but kind, serious but
fun with a great sense of humor. In my heart I fantasized about a world where you and I could be together. How happy I would be to call you mine!!

  I know this will sound silly and juvenile, like a schoolgirl crush, but I realized that your name is in my name. You are the AL in FALENE. (As you can see, I’ve spent way too much time fantasizing about you!) But that’s all it was. Fantasy.

  When McKale died I was filled with horrible sadness and concern for you. I was afraid that you might hurt yourself. Seeing the pain you felt made my love and respect for you grow even more. Please forgive me, but the afternoon of the funeral, when I brought you home, I believed, or hoped, for the first time, that someday you might be mine. I didn’t feel worthy of you, but I thought that you, being who you are, might accept me.

  When you told me you were going to walk away from Seattle, I was heartbroken. I was so glad that you asked me to help you, giving me a way to stay in your life. Then, when you disappeared in Spokane I was terrified. I didn’t sleep for days. I spent nearly a hundred hours hunting you down. I’m not telling you this so you’ll thank me, I just want you to finally know the truth about the depth of my feelings.

  But, like I said, a girl can be pretty deaf sometimes. I wanted to hear you say that you loved me and cared about me as more than just a friend. It was a stupid dream. Yesterday, when I saw how close you are to beautiful Nicole, my heart was breaking. I realized that I had already lost my one chance of being yours. And there I was with nothing to offer. Not even my apartment in Seattle to go to anymore.

  I didn’t tell you, but I took the job in New York. I needed to get out of Seattle. I failed to save my brother. I failed to save your agency. I failed to make you love me. I’ve failed at everything I’ve hoped for.

  I’m sorry I didn’t finish the task you gave me. I gave all your banking information to your father. He’ll do a better job than I could anyway. I’m so sorry to not be at your side in your time of need, but it is now obvious to me that you don’t need me. I’m just noise in the concert of your life. And this time I need to be selfish. I have to be. The risk to my heart is too great. They say that the depth of love is revealed in its departure. How true that is. I’m afraid that I’m just learning how deep my love is for you, and it’s more than I can stand. I love you too much to just be a bystander in your life.

  Well, I guess I’ve finally burned the bridge. I couldn’t help myself. Please forgive me for being so needy. Please think of me fondly and now and then remember your starry-eyed assistant who loves you more than anything or anyone else in this world.

  I know you will reach Key West. I know you’ll make it and that you’ll be okay. That’s all I need. It’s not all I want, but it’s all I need—to know that you are okay and happy. Damn, I really love you.

  Be safe, my dear friend. With all my love,

  Falene

  I took out my phone and listened to Carroll’s message for Falene’s phone number. I took a deep breath, then dialed.

  Someone answered on the first ring. “Pronto.” There was loud music in the background, and I couldn’t tell if it was Falene’s voice.

  “Hello? Falene?”

  “Hold on a minute, please. I need to step outside.”

  A moment later the voice said, “Hi, sorry about that. Who is this?”

  I recognized her voice. “Falene, it’s me.” When she didn’t respond I added, “Alan.”

  There was an even longer pause. “Alan. How did you find me?”

  “It wasn’t easy.”

  “Are you in Key West?”

  “No. I’m in Pasadena.”

  “You’re still sick?”

  “No. My father had a heart attack.”

  Her voice softened. “Oh, Alan. Is he okay?”

  “He passed away yesterday.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  For a moment neither of us spoke. I finally broke the silence. “How are you doing? How’s New York?”

  “It’s not Seattle,” she said. “But it’s good.”

  “Are you modeling?”

  “Yes. Full-time.”

  “How’s it going?”

  “It’s going well. I did a shoot for Maxim last week. It’s not a cover, but it’s good just to make the magazine, you know. And I have a contract with a new energy drink company. We start shooting next week.”

  In spite of my pain I felt happy for her. “Congratulations.”

  “Thank you.”

  After a moment I said, “I miss you.”

  She hesitated, then said softly, “I miss you too.”

  “You left without saying goodbye.”

  “I just thought it would be best . . . under the circumstances.”

  “What circumstances? That I had a tumor?”

  “No,” she said, angrily. “Have I ever left you in need?”

  “Not until now.”

  “That’s not fair,” she said.

  “I’m sorry; you’re right.” More silence. I felt stupid. I was stupid. Why would I attack her when I was trying to get her back? I waited for her to say something, but after a moment it didn’t seem that she would.

  “I saw your brother.”

  “You saw Deron? Where?”

  “In Seattle. He’s in jail.” I regretted the words as they came out of my mouth. More pain. I was surprised that she didn’t just hang up on me. “I’m sorry.”

  “I haven’t heard from him since May, when he started using again,” Falene said. “How did you find him?”

  “I was looking for him.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “I was hoping he could tell me how to find you. You did a good job of disappearing.”

  “You went to all that work to find me?”

  “Of course I did.”

  She was quiet a moment, then asked, “When is your father’s funeral?”

  “It’s just a viewing. It’s this Friday.”

  “In Pasadena?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you mind if I came out?”

  “I was hoping you would.”

  “We can talk then,” she said. “There are things to be said.” Her voice was laced with sadness.

  I breathed out slowly, wondering what she meant. “Okay,” I said. “We’ll talk then.”

  “I’d like to contact my brother. Can you tell me where he is?”

  “He was in the King County jail in Seattle.”

  “Thank you. And thank you for looking for me.”

  “Like you did when I disappeared in Spokane.”

  She didn’t reply.

  “Call me when you’re in town,” I said.

  “I will. Bye.”

  “Goodbye,” I said.

  I hung up the phone. The call hadn’t gone the way I’d hoped it would. Actually, I’m not sure what I’d hoped for—except that she would sound more excited to hear from me. Or that she would tell me she still loved me. Instead, it sounded as if something had changed in the time we’d been apart.

  Nicole was in the living room reading the family history when I walked in. She set the binder down. “Did you call?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did it go?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?”

  I shook my head. “No. But she’s coming out for the viewing.”

  CHAPTER

  Twenty-One

  Kailamai is back. Fortunately she brought her jokes with her.

  Alan Christoffersen’s diary

  The next two days were busy, which was a blessing, as it kept my mind from all the things I would rather not think about, including my conversation with Falene. Something had clearly changed. Still, she was coming out. That had to be significant.

  I systematically worked down my father’s list. I decided that until I knew what I was going to do after I finished my walk I would just keep the house. Maybe I would live in Pasadena for a while. Maybe forever. At this point anything was possible.

  Kailamai flew in from Sp
okane on Thursday night around six.

  Kailamai was the young woman I had rescued from a group of men just outside of Coeur d’Alene, Idaho. She had run away from her foster care family just before her eighteenth birthday. I had connected her with Nicole, and the two of them now lived together.

  We went directly from LAX to dinner, a little sushi restaurant in Pasadena called Matsuri. It had been more than six months since I’d seen Kailamai, and she had changed quite a bit. Her appearance was different. She looked like a student. She wore a Gonzaga college sweatshirt and purple-framed glasses. She had taken out her nose piercing and wore only one pair of earrings. But the more significant change was less tangible. She seemed . . . domesticated. After we had ordered our meals Kailamai said, “I’m so sorry about your dad.”

  “Thank you. He was a good man.”

  “Nicole said that all the time. She’s going to miss him.”

  “We all will,” Nicole said.

  “So how’s school?” I asked.

  “It’s going really well,” Kailamai said.

  “Straight As,” Nicole said.

  “And I met someone.”

  Nicole’s eyes widened.

  “Someone?” I asked.

  “His name is Matt. He’s also prelaw. He’s pretty special.”

  “This is news,” Nicole said.

  “Well, you’ve been gone like two weeks. Things happen fast with me.”

  “Apparently,” Nicole replied.

  “You’ll meet him when we get back. If you ever come back.”

  “I’m coming back,” Nicole said.

  Kailamai turned to me. “How far have you gotten on your walk? The last I heard you were in Alabama.”

  “I made it to the northern border of Florida—a little town called Folkston.”

  “Are you still going to finish?”

  “I’m planning to.”

  “And we’re planning on being there when you arrive in Key West,” she said. “So just make sure you don’t do it around any of my finals.”

  Nicole rolled her eyes.

  After we had started eating, Kailamai said, “So a woman is sitting in a bar when someone says, ‘Hey, you’re really hot.’ She looks around but can’t see anyone looking at her. Then she hears, ‘Is that a new blouse? You’re lookin’ good, girl.’ She suddenly realizes that it’s the bowl of pretzels in front of her that’s talking. She tries to ignore it and orders a Chardonnay. The pretzels say, ‘Hmm, Chardonnay. You’re one classy babe.’ The woman says to the bartender, ‘Hey, your pretzels keep saying nice things to me.’ The bartender replies, ‘They do that. They’re complimentary.’ ”