Dreaming water

by Tsukiyama, Gail

  HANA

  What I See

  By the time Cate and Laura help me to the dinner table, the girls are already seated and waiting. I refuse to use the wheelchair and manage with their help to make my grand entrance on my own two feet. Which may have been the wrong thing to do, since the simplest motions seem to take forever. The girls glance up, then look away when they see me enter. It's nothing unusual, but there's something inside of me that wishes for more.

  "Josie and Camille, this is your godmother, Hana," Laura introduces.

  They both look up and say hello, almost simultaneously, as if rehearsed.

  I smile. "Hello."

  My voice is high and squeaky. I try to imagine how I must look and sound from their point of view. I'm small and withered looking, just a tiny husk of a person. Look at me, I want to say to them, though they quickly glance back down at their spaghetti.

  "Hana last saw you both when you were still babies," Laura tells her daughters, though they must have heard the same line over and over.

  "I can hardly recognize you," I say.

  When we're all seated, Cate lights the candles on the table and turns off the overhead light. The room softens, and I immediately feel more comfortable. We all look much more relaxed in the flickering light. I barely touch my food, stealing quick glances at each of the girls, whose downcast eyes focus on their plates. Look at me.

  This is what I see. Josephine is thirteen, long and lean like Laura, her face peppered with pimples, some of which she has picked, leaving small red scabs. She's serious looking, but maybe evasive, and wears big, baggy jeans and a tight long-sleeve T-shirt that rises to expose her navel. There's a kind of fiery curiosity about her that I can't quite pinpoint. Eleven-year-old Camille has Laura's coloring and is softer and rounder, with the last remnants of baby fat. She definitely seems the happier of the two. Still, Josie's eyes bring my gaze back to her, as if something uncertain and fragile is caught in their darkness. I take all of this in like one cool swallow of water and wonder what Cate is thinking as she watches them.

  Cate and Laura keep up the conversation, until I clear my throat and say, "Who's ready for dessert?"

  Camille looks up just long enough from her plate to smile and say, "I'd like some."

  "Me, too," I say.

  Cate looks over at me, and I can tell she doesn't have much in the way of a dessert. It has been off the menu for a very long time, and I've lost the taste for anything sweet or rich. Cate gets up and goes to the kitchen to rummage around the cabinets. In the end, she brings back only a new jar of strawberry jam and some stale oatmeal cookies, which she has warmed in the microwave.

  "Tomorrow we go grocery shopping," she says when she returns to the dining room.

  The warmed-up oatmeal cookie with gobs of jam on top doesn't taste that bad. When Camille asks for another, I look over to see Cate smiling at me. It's a tenuous beginning, but it's a beginning. After so many months of cold, it feels as if spring has finally arrived.

  Later, when Laura is putting the girls to bed, Cate comes to my room to say good night. "You look tired," she says.

  "Lots of excitement today," I answer.

  "You feeling okay?" she asks. Neither of us mentions the accident.

  I nod.

  "Laura will be in to say good night in a few minutes."

  I look up and smile. "It went pretty well, after all."

  "Yes, it did. The dessert was a big hit." She laughs.

  "Stale cookies and jam. What kind of mother are you?" I laugh, too.

  "The creative kind," she answers.

  Cate leans over and kisses me on the cheek, her warmth against my own coolness. No fever. No bed-wetting. No more bad days.

  JOSEPHINE

  Conversation

  Hana is small and looks old and bird-like. She reminds me of a character in a George Lucas or Steven Spielberg movie — but one of the good, not evil creatures. It's hard to believe that she and Mom are the same age, or that they were once such good friends. But then I see how gentle she is with Hana, how she leans over and whispers in her ear, how she carefully pushes in her chair, and it's a different Laura Stevens I see. Not the one who's always working, rushing from one meeting to another, hardly stopping long enough to have a quiet conversation with anybody. This Laura Stevens is careful and kind, like when Camille and I are sick with a fever.

  I was happy Cate lit candles and turned off the light during dinner. The flickering candlelight dimmed the room and made everyone look softer and more relaxed. At first, I could hardly eat with Hana staring at us so much. Camille kept nudging me with her foot under the table, while I tried to concentrate on minding my own business. Still, even in the dim candlelight, or maybe because of it, I dared to glance over at Hana now and then. Once I looked, only to find her watching us. Her dark eyes seemed to pull me in. They made me want to keep looking at her and turn away at the same time.

  Even Camille stayed quiet for a change, while Mom and Cate kept the conversation going, talking about people and places we'd never heard of. I wound up a forkful of spaghetti, sipped my water, and tried to appear interested. But my thoughts were all over the place. It's really hard to believe that Cate is Hana's mother. It looks the other way around because she's tall and looks like some older actress I've seen on television.

  Then Hana's high, squeaky voice asked for dessert. And it wasn't until Cate brought in some oatmeal cookies, which weren't very good, that things lightened up.

  When Mom comes upstairs to say good night, she tells us Hana wants to spend some time with us tomorrow. Mom sits down on the side of the double bed and sighs. I don't think she realizes how much she sighs since Dad left. It's as if she's slowly letting out something trapped inside of her.

  Camille looks at her and speaks up first. "It felt kind of creepy at dinner, like Hana's trying to memorize us."

  "I believe she is," Mom says. "She hasn't seen you since you were babies. She's just trying to catch up on all that's she's missed." Laura leans over and kisses us both on the forehead. "And tomorrow you'll get to know her better."

  "What if I have nothing to say?" I ask.

  Mom stands up from the bed. "Josie, when have you ever been at a loss for words?"

  Camille laughs.

  "Now go to sleep. It's late," she says.

  Before she reaches the door, I can't help myself and blurt out, "Now I know why you moved to New York. If I had to live here in no-man's-land, I'd get as far away as I could, too."

  Mom looks at me and shakes her head. She has had to put up with my snide comments a lot in the past few months. As much as I try, I can't seem to stop myself, like there's someone else inside of me. Afterward, I regret what I've said, but it's too late to take it back.

  "You know, Josie" — she sighs again — "if you gave both Daring and Hana a chance,

  you might see things differently. I bet if you actually looked and listened hard enough to someone other than your disc player, you might actually learn a thing or two, which wouldn't be such a bad idea."

  I can hear her disappointment in me, and all at once I feel the hot pressure of tears against my eyes. In the next moment, Mom closes the door and is gone.

  "Nice going," Camille says, yawning.

  "Who asked you?" I say.

  She turns on her side away from me, and I know there's a smile on her face.

  I have a hard time falling asleep. I lay in bed, listening to Camille's even breaths, wishing I could take back what I said.

  HANA

  Change

  There's a light tap on my door, and I know it's Laura.

  "Come in," I say, just as the door opens and she's standing in my room.

  "Everything okay?" she asks, pushing her blond hair back and away from her face. She looks tired.

  "Do you always do everything you're told not to?" I ask, trying to sound stern. "Didn't I tell you not to bring the girls? How in the world can you be a good lawyer when you break the rules all the time?" I'm sitting up i
n a blue nightgown, and I must look a hundred years old to her.

  Laura laughs and sits down on the side of my bed. "Admit it," she says. "You're glad we're here."

  "It's so good to see you," I say, reaching out and touching her arm. "The girls, too."

  She smiles, and I'm reminded of the young Laura. "And tomorrow you'll get to know them better."

  "I was hoping you'd leave while we were ahead."

  Laura pauses. I imagine that's how she is in the courtroom, her timed pauses, using every beat for total effect.

  "Hana, you have nothing to be afraid of. Those two girls are much tougher than you think. Do you really think you're going to make them quiver and hide?"

  "Didn't you quiver a little, when you first saw me this evening?" I ask.

  Laura takes her time answering again. Only this time her eyes travel down the titles of the books I have on my nightstand, from Wallace Stegner's Angle of Repose to Jane Austen's Persuasion, then she returns to me with an answer.

  "I've been just as nervous at the idea of seeing you as you were about seeing me," she says. "I was afraid I wouldn't recognize you. Let me rephrase that, that I wouldn't know you anymore. That you wouldn't know me. Ten years is a long time. People change, and in more ways than one. But all it took was to talk to you again to realize that even though you've changed on the outside, you're still the same Hana on the inside. I see it in your eyes, in your smile. You can't fool me."

  I don't know what to say. I turn my head, and my eyes drift away from hers so she can't see the tears filling them. How can she be so beautiful and so wise? I finally turn back to her and smile. "So what took you so long?" I ask.

  Laura has kicked off her shoes and is lying on my bed next to me. "What's this button for?" she asks, pressing the blue one, which raises us forward into a sitting position. She quickly presses the red button and it stops. There's only the slightest scent of her perfume now, along with the faint remnants of wine. I can't recall the last time I had a warm body so close to me, except for my mother's.

  "So how have you been?" I ask. Now that Laura is right next to me, I want to know everything.

  She looks at me and then away again. "There's lots of time tomorrow for us to catch up."

  "How's John?" I ask, realizing his name hasn't been mentioned once all evening, neither by his wife nor by his children. A tall, good-looking, self-absorbed guy is how I remember him from the funeral of Laura's parents. Josephine looks a lot like him. Laura had met him in New York, and he was the youngest son of some old money Philadelphia family. I imagined she'd gotten everything she always wanted. If I ever felt envious, it was not because of Laura but because of everything I'd never be able to have.

  Laura swallows, shifts on the bed, and turns on her side to look me straight in the eye. "John's moved out. We've been separated for the past nine months. Looks like we're headed for the divorce courts."

  "I'm so sorry" is all I can think to say. Since childhood, I've imagined nothing could go wrong in Laura's life, that;, like some fairy princess, she only had to wish for something and it came true. Yet not only were her parents killed tragically but now her marriage is breaking up.

  "It's okay," Laura says, lying back and closing her eyes for a moment. "It's been a long time coming. I'll explain more to you tomorrow. You better get some sleep. I better get some sleep," she says, opening her eyes again.

  "Are the girls all right?"

  "Most of the time they are," she answers, her voice low and tired. "And some of the time they aren't, especially Josie. She hasn't been doing very well in school lately, or everyday life, for that matter. She seems angry with everyone, especially me. But that's another story."

  Laura slowly rolls away from my side and stands up, putting an end to my questions. I immediately miss the warmth and weight of her body next to mine. She smiles and leans over to kiss me on the cheek. "Don't be mad at me, Hana. I'm the one who needed to see you."

  "I'm not mad," I say, thinking how much we sound like two kids. I want to tell Laura how happy I am she came, how I felt like giving up this afternoon after the second accident, how glad I am she didn't listen to me. I feel strangely alive just having her lie next to me, as if I'm a real person again, not someone who has become a mere shadow, someone simply waiting day after day to disappear completely.

  "See you tomorrow then," Laura says, walking away from me toward the door.

  "Yes, tomorrow," I whisper. A new mystery as to what the day will bring. Today has been like a dream I'm afraid I'll wake up from. A dream of what a normal life would be like, all the scents and colors of the park, followed by the voices and laughter of Laura and the girls. I wonder if it's too late to let myself hope a little. See what it might be like actually to get to know Josie and Camille.

  I suddenly wish Laura were in a sleeping bag next to me again like when we were young, listening to music and talking into the night. Only this time I'd reach out and take her hand, close my trembling fingers around hers just before we drift off to sleep.

  After Laura leaves, I pick up the recorder on the nightstand and play a short melody Howard once taught me. "It's basically just six notes repeated," he told me. "The simple power of music." It soothes and comforts. Afterward, I lean over and turn out the light. Under my blankets, I slowly rotate my left, then right ankle in small circles, as Dr. Truman showed me, the dull pain slowly easing. Upstairs, a door softly clicks shut. Then I listen in the darkness for the familiar sounds, knowing everything has changed.

  THREE: A Gift

  CATE

  One Fine Day

  I wake up early this morning and push the curtain aside to see that the fog has lifted and the sky is bright and clear. Another day, already different from yesterday, I think to myself. For the first time in so many years, the house feels full and there's something sweetly satisfying about it, like quenching a thirst or feeding a hunger.

  I dress and make my way downstairs, where I pause in front of Hana's door. I gently turn the doorknob and peer in, relieved to find her still asleep. Quietly I stand by her bed, studying the once sweet face, now creased and furrowed. She's thirty-eight, not even forty, I remind myself, and sorrow like a sharp pain moves through me. Her life will end when most are just entering their best years, when wisdom softens the hard edges of youth, when life can finally be enjoyed to the fullest.

  But I should consider myself lucky. Unlike those who lose a child suddenly in illness or in an accident, I've been given the gift of time together. I've had years to prepare myself for Hana's leaving, but still it feels like a brand-new hurt each time I look at her. I watch my daughter sleeping like a small child under the covers that rise and fall with each breath she takes. Her head lies lightly against the pillow, her lips parted as if in mid-sentence. I lean over, and my fingers barely touch her cheek. Its warmth immediately puts me at ease. Stay with me, I say silently to myself.

  When Hana turned four, she began to come into our room every morning before dawn and crawl into bed between Max and me. No matter what we did, we couldn't break her of the habit. As time wore on, we began to stumble through each day from lack of sleep. Finally, I explained to Hana that we couldn't get back to sleep after she woke us up so early and that, even though it was hard, she had to sleep in her own bed. "It's not that we don't love you, but Daddy needs to sleep in order to go and teach." She looked at me with her dark eyes and nodded her head in understanding. The next morning we slept until the alarm clock rang, waking with Hana nowhere in sight. We both assumed she had slept through the night in her own bed. Only after we'd risen did we see Hana sleeping soundly on the floor at the foot of our bed. Her lips were parted in just the same way as now, and I remember bending over her small body and feeling the warmth of her cheek.

  I close her door quietly, then go to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee before slipping out to the garden. I'll have enough time to water before the others wake and the new day begins. I put on my jacket and gloves, step quietly out into the sharp morning
air, and take a deep breath of the rich, sweet fragrance of pine. It looks as if it'll be a beautiful, mild day.

  In our front yard is a huge redwood tree that I've always admired. During the summer it shades us from the heat, and in winter its thick, full branches ward off the rain. I touch the solid trunk as if it's something spiritual, like a totem pole, and maybe it is, because I draw a sudden strength just standing by it. Long after I'm gone, it will still be standing here. I look down our quiet street to the green house that's now painted a salmon color where Laura's parents, Mary and Jack, had lived since Hana was a baby. Their deaths ten years ago were so sudden and unexpected that we were all in a state of shock. Now that hollow feeling of loss returns. Killed in a train accident on their way to New York to visit their grandchildren, they left Laura and her brother, Jake, suddenly without parents, without foundation. I can't imagine it being anything other than fate. Fate reaching out its hand, picking and choosing, deciding who will live and who will die. I kept hoping Jack and Mary never knew what hit them when the train derailed, that their last moments were happy ones as they sat in the dining car eating, drinking wine, and toasting the long-planned trip. Their eyes might have locked onto each other's at the sudden shrieking sound of the brakes, but they never knew that a car had been parked on the tracks by a young man who had just lost his girlfriend and was waiting for the 7:42 to end his misery. Sometimes I wish for the same, a quick and mindless death. By the time you realized what was happening, it would be over.

  I unreel the hose and turn on the water. Laura came home with both little girls for the funeral. She had finished law school, gotten married, and had two babies within six years. Josie was barely three years old, and Camille was still a baby. Her husband, John, had come too. They were the perfect family standing there at the cemetery, and I remember that I couldn't help feeling jealous seeing them and knowing this was something Hana would never have. I still feel bad thinking about it now. Laura had just lost her parents and I was grieving for Hana. I wanted to reach out to Laura then, tell her that Hana and I would always be there for her, but even in tragedy she seemed so self-assured that my mumbled sympathy sounded hollow as I gave her a hug.