Dreaming water

by Tsukiyama, Gail

  "Let's pick up where we left off." I cleared my throat and rummaged through my bag for the copy of Agatha Christie's Ten Little Indians.

  I didn't know what Mrs. Gravis liked to read, but her eyes appeared inquisitive and intelligent. I wanted to read her something entertaining, yet complicated enough to keep her focused and interested. I quickly realized that mysteries grabbed attention and were fun to read aloud. The more I read to Mrs. Gravis, the more I became familiar with who she was and how she thought. She stared at me, and I learned to focus on her eyes, which followed me around the colorless room and eventually began to speak to me in the same manner as words. Just by the blink of her eyes or the slow tapping of her right index finger, she conveyed her feelings. Blinking once meant yes, twice, no. One tap meant she liked the book, two, she didn't. My reading to her made a world of difference to both of us. I brought something to her closed world, and she showed me what strength and determination was. I looked forward to our time together, and I could see by the gleam in her eyes that she did, too.

  Every once in a while, Mrs. Gravis would sit up straight and tall in her wheelchair and a soft moaning sound would come from her. A secret language I slowly learned to understand. The first time it happened, I stopped reading in mid-sentence, filled with panic. The low, mooing sound emerged from her one, two, three times, a tiny line of saliva drooling from the side of her mouth. I thought she was in pain and buzzed for a nurse. Someone quickly came and helped Mrs. Gravis back to her bed, her eyes losing their light as they lingered on me. As the weeks went by, and I came to know Mrs. Gravis better, I realized she was trying to say the word move, that she had had enough of sitting in her room and wanted out. From then on, when I saw the restlessness in her eyes and heard the soft moo coming from her thin, dry lips, I put down the book I was reading and wheeled her outside to the garden. And sometimes, if she were feeling well, we even ventured down the block and into the real world.

  * * *

  Everything all right?" Cate asks, stepping into the kitchen and bringing with her the outside smells of damp earth.

  I nod and force a smile. "Fine."

  There's no need to tell her how I really feel. It would only cause her more worry. How I can't seem to concentrate on any one thing today for more than a moment, how it seems as if the rooms are closing in on me, how I feel like all the medication is making me lose control.

  "I didn't feel like reading or writing any letters," I say, "so I decided to try cooking instead."

  "Smells good," she says, lifting the lid to check the boiling soup.

  "It should, you made it."

  "You helped."

  I look up. "I hardly think measuring a half cup of barley constitutes cooking!"

  "Everything counts." My mother laughs.

  As she washes her hands at the kitchen sink, she turns toward me. "I was thinking that we'd go to the park after lunch. Get some air."

  I slice another piece of bread. For the past week, I've been fighting my mother about going out. I haven't had the energy and, with the ulcers on my feet, she'd have to deal

  with me, and the wheelchair, too, lifting it in and out of the trunk. She's not getting any younger herself. I look at my beautiful mother and feel such grief for all that I've put her through. But this morning, wheeling myself through each crowded room of the house, I felt as if I was suffocating. Like Mrs. Gravis, I feel the word move is a low moan rising out of me.

  "Sounds good," I say, not looking up to see the smile of surprise that has most likely crossed my mother's face. Instead I concentrate on placing the bread and cheese onto the plate, fanning the pieces into the petals of a flower, as my grandmother Midori once taught me.

  TWO: Mystery

  CATE

  What I Want

  Just before we leave for the park, I glance quickly into the hallway mirror. Hana is already safely seat-belted in the car when I run back in for her sunglasses. I look again, startled by what I see — a woman who has lost all trace of vanity. I shiver at the thought that this is the way Max saw me this morning, even in a dream. My eyes are dull and lifeless, my once dark hair is streaked with gray, and my pale, dry lips could use some color. I snap open my purse and dig around for lipstick, then run my fingers through my hair in the hope of giving it some kind of luster.

  What I suddenly want at this very moment is a long, hot bath with not a care in the world. I want to luxuriate in the embrace of the water, drop rose-scented bath beads in, and run more hot water every time it gets the least bit cool. I'd stay for hours and hours, reading magazines and eating chocolates, my skin turning pink and soft to the

  touch. And I long for Max's touch, for his hands on my body, stroking my thigh, my arm, his hand finding my breast, pressing his body against mine. The wanting is like a dull ache that comes to me at the most unexpected times. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, then look up and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror again. I hate myself for wishing such a thing when I know Hana is waiting for me in the car. I grab her sunglasses and am out the door again.

  What I really want is a miracle. Miracles take place every day, I think to myself as I'm driving us to the park. Cures for cancer : the AIDS virus, Werner's syndrome — all possibilities. I can even close my eyes in sleep and talk to a handsome, young Max again, press my face against his neck and ease my longing. I can glimpse what Hana would look like as a beautiful young woman. I can even stop time for just this afternoon and let myself believe that Hana will one day bury me — throw a pale, white rose into a dark hole dug into the earth : tears streaming down her healthy cheeks.

  HANA

  Mistaken Identity

  My mother and I haven't gone on an afternoon drive in months. The farthest we've ventured is to the store, the park in town, or to see Dr. Truman. At lunch she suddenly looked up and told me we were going to McClaren State Park, rather than Daring Park close by. Ever since my father died three years ago, and my grandmother Anna two years before that, we've only been to San Francisco a few times, and that was for tests. Flying to Los Angeles is too strenuous for me now, and besides, since my grandfather Henry passed away, my grandmother Midori has been too frail to have houseguests. I've tried to persuade my mother to take a few days' holiday away from me, go off somewhere and get a suntan, reassuring her that Lily would gladly stay with me, but she'll only smile and say, "There's no other place I want to be." But now here we are on the road again, and it's been a long time since I've seen her so happy.

  * * *

  When I was little, we used to visit McClaren Park on weekends. During the summer, we usually spent time at Falcon Beach and also visited my grandparents either in Boston or in Los Angeles. I loved them equally, though they were as different as day and night. My mother's parents, Louis and Anna, especially my grandfather Louis, with his large, imposing presence, seemed to fill every room they walked into. My father's parents, Henry and Midori, had the opposite appearance. They would shrink into themselves in a room full of people, staying in a corner as if that's where they belonged. I always wondered if it had to do with their internment at Heart Mountain, as if they could never really trust the world around them again. Yet, whenever we were all together as a family, my grandparents complemented each other in those strange ways that opposites often do.

  "Yin and yang." My father laughed.

  Still, I knew how much it meant to my mother and father that their parents had found a balance in each other's company.

  After my grandfather Louis died of cancer the year I turned thirteen, our lives became quieter, more serious. It was as if a certain light had gone out, and when Werner was introduced into our lives a few months later, we fell deeper into that darkness, emerging slowly with visits to my grandmother Anna in Boston and my grandparents in Los Angeles.

  The first time I rode on an airplane by myself was the summer I first heard about Werner. My grandparents asked me to come and stay with them in Los Angeles for a few weeks after the initial series of tests was over.
Before then, we had always taken vacations as a family. Two weeks seemed like an eternity, and I remember feeling like I'd finally grown up, even if it wasn't physically noticeable, since I was still a tiny mouse of a thing, no taller than a nine-year-old. At the San Francisco airport, there were crowds of people, and finally a muffled voice that came over a loudspeaker announcing my flight. My parents stood at the gate, waving nervously as I walked away from them. Even then, I couldn't understand how I could be their child. They stood so tall and glamorous, my mother with her pale, smooth skin and shoulder-length dark hair, dressed in cool beige linen, while my father's black hair was newly flecked with gray that gave him a distinguished, college professor look. I can still see the look of grief in my mother's eyes, as if she might be losing me forever. I waved furiously as my parents were swallowed by the crowds, then looked away so I wouldn't cry; after all, I was thirteen and certainly grown-up enough to ride on an airplane all by myself. A stewardess appeared next to me, grabbed and held my hand, as if I were half my age, whispering softly to me, "You'll be just fine. I have all kinds of wonderful things to keep you busy until you see your grandparents."

  Once I was strapped into my seat, the stewardess returned and squatted beside me with crayons and a coloring book of animals from around the world, a deck of cards, and a pair of captain's wings that she pinned onto my white sweater. "There you go, sweetie, that should keep you busy for a while."

  I looked at her and smiled. She had no idea how old I really was. "Thank you," I said politely as she patted me on the head. I felt a rush of irritation move through me but had learned that it was simpler to play the role rather than explain that I was older than I appeared. It took years before I finally let people know the mistake they were making.

  "You're such a well-mannered little girl." She smiled. "Just press this button if you need anything. This one right here." She pressed a gray button on the armrest, and a tiny overhead light flickered on and then off again with another click.

  I nodded that I understood, and she smiled as if she'd accomplished her mission. "Just start coloring and I'll be back to check on you before you know it."

  I knew she meant well, but I couldn't help myself. "Oh." I said politely, "I'm allergic to crayons."

  She looked at me, puzzled, then reached out to take back the box of crayons. "Well. let's see what else we have."

  I watched the stewardess hurry down the narrow aisle, touching the tops of the seats to balance herself. I leaned forward and dropped the coloring book into the slot in front of me. then took out the copy of Gone With the Wind that I was reading, and couldn't wait until we landed in Los Angeles.

  When I walked off the plane, refusing to hold the stewardess's hand, my grandparents were waiting. They stood to the side. my grandmother waving when she saw me. calling just once. "Hana!" They hugged me carefully as if I might break and looked at me with sad. loving smiles, unable to believe that something might be wrong with me.

  And even though I knew my life had changed, I was too excited at having flown all this way alone to feel anything but happiness in seeing them.

  But it was my grandfather Henry who made a special point to spend more time with me. He had always been a small, slight man, grown shorter still in his later years, his shoulders and back stooped from all the hard work growing his beloved flowers. He had often looked up at my father and asked him proudly, "How did you get so tall?" Yet, although he never said a word about my condition, I could see the grief on his face, the secret glances that came my way, as if making sure I hadn't disappeared right before his eyes. So, ironically, it wasn't until I began taking all the tests that our time together took on a different quality and we became closer.

  "Come along," he said, as he led me out to the greenhouse each night that I visited. He knew how I loved staring up into the night sky, hoping to see stars, inhaling the humid warmth and dank smell of earth mixed with the sweet fragrance of the chrysanthemums. He brought out two wooden chairs and dusted them off with his rough, callused hand, and we sat in the doorway just outside the glass house, our backs to the dark forest of blooming flowers. Then he switched off the lights, and in the moonlight we could see the entire night sky above us. The stars glimmered in the darkness and crickets chirped through the silence. It was our special time together and sometimes we wouldn't exchange more than ten words all evening.

  "This is one of the moments in the day that I love best," he said one evening. Leaning back, tilting his head, he looked at the sky.

  "Me, too," I said, copying his every move. That evening my grandfather was unusually talkative.

  "It goes on forever," he said, staring upward. "Life is a mystery."

  "Yes," I agreed again.

  "We have to accept life as it's given to us." He reached over and took my hand. "Right, Hana?"

  "Yes, Ojī-san," I answered easily. I had learned a few stray words of Japanese over the years, but whenever I visited my ojī-san and obā-san I wished I knew more. By their example, my grandfather and grandmother had taught me the meaning of respect and diligence, the strength to persevere.

  "No need to be afraid, ever."

  "No Ojī-san."

  My grandfather stood and stepped back into the moonlit greenhouse. He clipped a yellow chrysanthemum from one of the long boxes and presented it to me. "For my flower," he said, bowing to me.

  I stood up and accepted his gift, then bowed low back to him, just as my father had taught me.

  JOSEPHINE

  Out of the Blue

  Last night, I thought Mom would be angry with me for skipping ballet, but out of the blue she announced we were going to fly out to California this weekend. We had just eaten dinner and were clearing the table when she said, "As soon as you're finished, I want you both to go upstairs and pack. I was able to get us last-minute tickets and we're going to see Hana tomorrow morning for the weekend."

  "To California?" I asked, in disbelief.

  Her high laugh sounded slightly nervous. "That's where Hana lives."

  Camille swept her blond hair away from her face and stood by the table, looking a little stunned.

  "When did you decide this?" I asked. I still didn't believe her. My mother's never done anything like this before. Most of the time, we can't go see a movie without weeks of preparation, especially when she's working on some important case. Then we can barely speak to her.

  "This afternoon," she answered. "Just this afternoon," she said again, as if convincing herself.

  Then I believed her. There was something about the tone of her voice that suddenly made it real, a tinge of weariness I hadn't noticed before.

  "We're going to California," Camille piped up all of sudden, as if it were a line from a song.

  "Pack light." Mom smiled. "We're going to be on the move."

  I wanted to laugh because it sounded strange, like we were on the run, that somehow our lives would never be the same.

  "What about school?" Camille asked. "Are we going to miss any days?"

  Mom looked up a moment, her thoughts apparently already on to something else. "A day or two. You can both make it up when we get back," she said.

  It was certainly all right with me, but I never thought she had it in her, to leave her precious job and let us skip school, even for a few days.

  "Does Hana know we're coming?" I asked.

  Mom licked her lips. "It's a surprise," she answered. "Now go pack. We have a very early flight."

  It feels like we've been traveling for days, getting up just past dawn, then going to the airport to catch a plane, which we nearly miss because Camille forgot her hairbrush and we had to find an airport shop to buy one. "Well, would you rather have her complain about it for our entire trip?" my mom asks, as a form of explanation. Then, after we arrive in San Francisco, we wait in a long, slow line to rent a car so that she can drive us three hours to a place where the trees are taller than the buildings. Daring, California. I ponder the name, but I'm too tired to dig the name book out of
my bag. I wonder if Daring is someone's name or if, back in the Gold Rush days, it required a certain daring to scale its rough terrain, thus acquiring its name.

  "Let's go, Josie," Mom says, waking me from my daydream.

  We make one stop at a corner market for yogurt, candy bars, and potato chips for the drive up. I beg Mom to stop in San Francisco for even an hour longer, but she refuses. "We've come all this way and we can't even see San Francisco," I argue. "It's so insane!"

  "We didn't come to see San Francisco," she says in her calm lawyer's voice, which I hate sometimes. "I want to get to Daring before dark." End of conversation.

  While I sit up front with Mom, Camille is in the backseat and has already closed her eyes again, her head tipping to the side.

  "I wish I'd stayed home," I mutter like a spoiled child. It isn't true at all, but lately I either clam up or can't seem to contain the words coming out of my mouth. Everything makes me want to scream. It's like I have this volcano inside of me that erupts all the time. Sometimes things are fine, and at other times I look for ways to give my mom a hard time. Lately, I haven't seen my dad enough to throw any tantrums, so my poor mother gets the brunt of them. Sometimes I feel bad, sometimes I don't.

  "Sit back and enjoy the scenery," she says, unfazed by my outburst. "Breathe in the fresh air, it's good for you." She reaches down and adjusts the radio to a classical station.

  I roll down the window, and a blast of cool wind fills the car. I exaggerate taking a deep breath of fresh air and blowing it out again. And even though I know she has a point, I put on my earphones, pick at a pimple on the side of my face, and don't say another word.

  CATE

  At the Park

  We drive north about twenty-five minutes to McClaren Park, complete with picnic areas, a carousel, a lake where you can go rowing, a small animal farm, and a rhododendron garden that blooms with the most amazing white, pink, and purple flowers in early summer. It feels as if we haven't been here in years, instead of months. The scent of eucalyptus reaches us first, sharp and pungent, on the cool breeze. The long, curved leaves crackle under the weight of the wheelchair. In the distance, a blanket of fog hovers over the ocean.