Dreaming water

by Tsukiyama, Gail

  I hear a rustling sound and look up to see Josie standing on the front step. She has tied her long, wavy hair back into a ponytail and looks like a typical teenager in blue jeans, T-shirt, and a red sweater. Her dark, darting eyes survey the garden and come back to rest on me.

  "Good morning. You're up early," I say. "Did you sleep well?"

  She shrugs. "It's already ten in New York," she says matter-of-factly, arms crossed over her chest. There's something defiant in her stance. "I don't need very much sleep."

  "Are you hungry? Would you like some breakfast?"

  "I don't usually eat much breakfast. Just orange juice." Josie shoves her hands into the pockets of her jeans. The pale white skin of her wrists gleams against the dark blue material.

  I smile. "I think we can arrange that."

  For the first time since we've met, I see a slight smile cross her lips. "Where do you go to school?" I ask, hoping to break the ice.

  Josie takes a step toward me, but the glint in her eyes has vanished. She touches a small patch of scabby pimples on the side of her face. "Lincoln Academy," she answers. "It's private."

  "Do you like it?"

  She shrugs again. "It's okay."

  "What's your favorite subject?" I feel like I'm playing twenty questions. I've forgotten how hard it is to make conversation with a teenager who isn't interested.

  "Nothing, really."

  I look up at her. "Come on, everyone likes something. I liked English."

  "Yeah, English is okay, and history, I guess." She steps closer to me, pulling her sweater tighter against the chilly morning air.

  "If you could be anywhere in the world right now" — I try another tactic — "where would you be?"

  She looks down and kicks a pinecone away from the flagstone path. "Anywhere but here," she says, kicking again at air. She glances over quickly to see my reaction.

  But I don't give her the satisfaction of reacting. I can hear the birds singing, and it's too lovely a day to have it ruined by this tall, skinny girl, even if she is Hana's goddaughter. What happened to the sweet-looking child in the photos on our refrigerator door? I think to myself.

  "Yes, I guess New York's a lot more exciting," I finally say.

  She shrugs, drops her eyes, and doesn't answer.

  I continue watering, glancing over at my rosebushes. "Do you know, I have a rose with the same name as you," I say, wondering if she'll even care about such trivia, but I keep talking nonetheless. "The Josephine rose was named after Empress Josephine, the wife of Napoleon. They say she used to carry a rose with her everywhere she went to hide her bad teeth when she laughed."

  "For real?" Josie's eyes come alive. She steps closer to look at the bushes.

  I nod, delighted finally to have found something that interests her. "That's what the history books say."

  "Do all roses have names?"

  "Plenty of them do," I say. "For instance, some royalty or movie stars have strains of

  roses especially cultivated and named after them."

  Josephine smiles, showing a row of green-colored braces. Lily, who keeps up with the latest high school fads, told me braces now come in all colors of the rainbow.

  "That's so cool," she says. "So what color is the Josephine rose?"

  I'm amazed by her enthusiasm. Who would believe this sullen girl would actually be interested in roses? "It's pink," I tell her. "A beautiful, pale pink."

  "I wish I could see one," she says, sounding like a little girl again.

  "Some wishes do come true," I say. "I'll send you a photo when they bloom."

  "Really?"

  "Tell you what, if you finish watering this Josephine rosebush for me, not only will I send you her photo in a few weeks but I'll go in and start breakfast right now." I point out the bush, and hand her the hose with instructions not to overwater my newly planted bulbs.

  "Cate?" she calls out.

  I turn around. "Yes."

  "Is Cate your full name, or is it short for something else?"

  I smile. "Caterina, with a C. My family's Italian. Why?"

  "Just curious," Josephine says. "I like names." She smiles and turns back to her watering.

  For a moment, I watch Josie's quick, graceful movements as she bends over and carefully waters the rosebushes. She sweeps her ponytail over her shoulder and out of the way, and as I watch the long, thin limbs of a healthy, growing child, I can't help but feel a touch of envy.

  HANA

  The Light of Day

  I wake up to the high-pitched trills of the birds singing in the trees this morning. It's the first time in months that I've slept so well, and for a split second, still groggy with sleep, I feel young again. The aroma of pancakes wafting in from the kitchen stirs a sudden, sharp memory in me, like Proust's beloved madeleines. I can hear Howard laughing at the comparison. "Pancakes aren't half as romantic as madeleines," he'd say. Nevertheless, they strike the very same chord of childhood, of some comfort that lingers lightly in the air.

  When I was a little girl, Max always came to wake me up on Saturday mornings, letting Cate sleep in. Then he piggybacked me downstairs to the kitchen and made pancakes for breakfast. I remember the strong aroma of coffee, the sweet, thick maple syrup that left my fingers sticky. The same warm, wonderful scent drifted up to their bedroom and eventually brought my mother downstairs. While my parents usually sat in the kitchen and read the paper together, I watched cartoons in the living room. Even now, when I think back to those precious Saturday mornings, when each of us had Max and his pancakes for a little while to ourselves, I can't help but smile.

  I get up slowly. For the first time in a week, the swelling in my ankles has gone down enough so that I can stand and dress myself. It gives me hope that it'll be a good day. From my closet I pull out a pale blue shirt, with a pair of matching slacks that are now too loose around the waist. Somewhere, I know I still have a belt. How funny it is to think that my once most prized possessions — my black patent leather shoes, the much too expensive green silk blouse, my collection of hand-painted scarves — mean so little to me now. They sit in the closet, abandoned. Most days around the house, I wear a sweatshirt and loose cotton-knit pants, all bought in children's sizes. The last time we were in a department store, the saleswoman smiled at us and asked Cate, "For your grandkids?"

  I watched my mother's face stay calm as she looked at me and said, "For my daughter."

  The saleswoman looked from Cate to me in a moment of confusion, then reclaimed her smile. "Yes, well, thank you and enjoy."

  It's been a long time since I've worried about what I was going to wear and how I might look in the latest fashions. But last night the thought filled my mind with indecision.

  I change and sit down for a moment to catch my breath. From the kitchen I hear the low murmur of voices. Our house is usually so quiet, with just the two of us, that it frightens me now to think of facing Laura and the girls in the light of day.

  I close my eyes and recall the little girl I saw at the drugstore a few weeks ago, one of the few times I'd ventured out lately with Cate. The little girl couldn't take her eyes off me. While most people glanced my way only to look quickly away, the girl stood rooted in place, watching as we walked slowly into the store. She couldn't have been more than three or four years old, but she didn't appear afraid, simply curious. What do you see? I wanted to ask as I gazed back, her youth and beauty so tender at that age. She rubbed her eyes and smiled, then looked at me again from between her fingers. She was playing peekaboo. When I peeked back at her from behind my hands, she giggled sweetly. She saw not some wizened old troll that might have invaded her nightmares but someone she wasn't afraid of.

  "Got it," Cate said then, reaching up to the top shelf for her eyedrops. "Need anything else?"

  "Not a thing." I cleared my throat.

  "What are you smiling about?" she asked.

  I pointed toward the little girl down the aisle.

  "She's beautiful," Cate said.


  Just then the girl's redheaded mother turned and glanced at my mother, then looked past me as if I wasn't there. A tiny old woman. A whisper of a person.

  "You aren't that much younger than I am," I said, just loud enough for her to hear, my voice calm and even. "And I could have a daughter the same age as yours."

  The words lingered in the air. I don't know what possessed me to say them out loud. I sensed my mother standing right behind me.

  The woman glanced back at me again. Crazy old woman. "Come along," she said, reaching for her daughter's hand.

  The little girl stood her ground.

  "Now!" The mother's sharp tone and quick tug set the child moving. But as she was being pulled down the aisle, the little girl turned around for one last time and waved.

  And I waved back. It was such a simple exchange, yet that afternoon in the drugstore is a moment I'll always treasure.

  I wish it could be as simple with Laura's daughters. I want them to see past Werner to who I really am. But Josie and Camille are older, with minds of their own. I'm a stranger to them. My feeling of exhilaration just minutes ago is gone, replaced by a sinking in my stomach. What if they don't see me as that little girl did but turn their backs on me like her mother? I push away the thought, stand up and straighten my shirt, then walk slowly to the door, each careful step taking me forward.

  JOSEPHINE

  The Josephine Rose

  When I come in from watering the garden, Cate has pancakes and a glass of orange juice waiting for me on the kitchen table. "I have to get something," I say, smiling at her. I run upstairs to find Camille still in bed, her head buried under the covers, as I dig through my bag for the name book. When I return to the kitchen, Cate is sitting at the table drinking a cup of coffee. I'm just about to look up the meaning of her name when the front doorbell rings, startling both of us.

  "Be right back," Cate says. "Eat your pancakes before they get cold," she instructs with a smile.

  I lean forward in my chair and watch her walk down the hall. It's strangely quiet here, no horns honking or sirens blaring down the street like in New York. Silence is a sound that takes some getting used to. I look around the big, comfortable kitchen, with a blue-and-white-tiled island in the middle

  and pots and pans hanging from an iron frame suspended from the ceiling. Small pots of flowers line the windowsill looking out to the backyard. It's the kind of kitchen you see on television, with a happily married mother and father, their precocious children, and the family dog. It doesn't seem like real life.

  On the refrigerator door are postcards and drawings that we've sent to Hana over the years. I get up and look at them — from shaky alphabets to wobbly cursive — some dictated to my mom when we were too young to write. Baby photos and recent ones stare me in the face. The history of Camille's life and mine hangs on blue, green, and red magnets in front of me.

  I glance down the hallway. Cate is talking to a tall, gray-haired man at the door, their voices a soothing murmur so they don't wake up anyone. Mom and Camille haven't come downstairs yet, and the door to Hana's room is still closed. I walk back to the refrigerator and, one after the other take down all the cards we've written to Hana, then return to the table and begin reading them.

  Dear Hana,

  I am seven. We went swimming today and I drank pool water. Mommy says it won't

  hurt me but my stomach feels funny. Mommy says you like to swim. Maybe one day you can come and swim with me.

  Love, Josie

  Dear Hana,

  Camille and I went skiing this weekend. We're not very good but I like the feeling of flying down the hill as if I'm out of control, then pushing the tips of my skis together and slowing down. It took Camille forever to get down the hill and then she didn't want to go back up again. You'll have to come with us one day.

  Love, Josephine (Age 11)

  I sip my orange juice and bite into the stack of pancakes Cate has made for me as I read. Each card brings back a memory of the time and place — all the holidays and family vacations. I swallow and feel suddenly sad. Not just for me, seeing all our happy family holidays, but for Hana. Almost all of the notes tell her to come and visit. Both Camille and I had figured out it was an easy way to end our notes quickly. You'll have to come and see. I'll show you when you come to visit. Can't wait to see you. Thinking back, I can't remember if I ever really meant for Hana to come.

  I drink down my orange juice, then stick each card and photo back on the refrigerator door just as they were. I step back and look at the collage of notes, drawings, and pictures. Only now do I realize that Hana understands so much more about us than we do about her. The few things I've learned about Hana come quickly to mind. I remember from all the cards she has sent us that her handwriting is small and uniform, as if it took hours to get it all perfectly lined up. I also know that Hana means "flower," and that she's like a small and fragile bloom. Then, for the first time, I feel that spark of curiosity about why Mom wanted us to visit Daring and meet Hana. Change does come in all shapes and sizes, I think to myself again.

  What I've learned so far is that there's a rose named after Empress Josephine. I think of the soft, silky petals against her lips, the sweet scent beneath her nose as she held it in front of her mouth when she laughed. It's a story I already love. How a flower shielded her from the world. I pick up my name book on the table and turn the pages slowly, only to be pleasantly surprised when I find Caterina and, next to it, the one-word meaning: pure.

  CATE

  Comfort Food

  I didn't expect Miles to drop by so early this morning. I open the front door to find him waiting on the step, his pale blue eyes still tinged with sleep, gripping his black medical bag. He's kind enough to stop by the house to check on Hana's leg ulcers and swollen feet. Sometimes I don't know what we would do without him. It's another one of those reliable comforts in life, like Lily's macaroons that she dribbles chocolate on top of and brings over two or three times a year, just before she's ready to go on another diet. "Just the thing you need," she says, "before going off to battle."

  "I'm sorry," Miles apologizes. "I know it's early, but I won't be able to stop by later in the afternoon."

  "It's fine," I say, opening the door wider.

  He smiles. "I thought I'd come to the wrong house at first," he says, gesturing at Laura's rental car parked in our driveway.

  "Hana's old friend Laura Stevens, who used to live down the street. She's visiting with her daughters," I explain. Just saying it makes me feel as if it's something that happens all the time.

  Miles steps inside. "Mary and Jack's daughter," he says. "It's been quite a while since she's been back."

  "Over ten years."

  "Maybe this isn't a good time to check up on Hana. I just wanted to see if the swelling has gone down." He takes a step back.

  "The swelling went down some yesterday," I say. "She started to get up and around a bit last night." I can't bring myself to tell Miles about Hana's wetting herself again at the park yesterday. For just today, I want things light and hopeful. "Have you had breakfast?" I ask.

  "Coffee," Miles answers.

  "Then join us. We're having pancakes, with lots of butter and syrup," I tease.

  "Just the way I like them," he says.

  I usher Miles into the living room, where we sit and I update him on Hana's ulcers and our unexpected outing to the park. I hear doors opening and closing upstairs, footsteps on the stairs and down the hall to the kitchen. "Let's go have breakfast," I say to Miles.

  The chorus of voices startles me at first, as if I've stumbled into someone else's kitchen. Hana is sitting at the table between Josephine and Camille, while Laura is at the stove flipping pancakes. I smile to see that Hana has dressed herself, and she catches my eye and smiles back — her pale, tired face lighting up — letting me know that everything is fine. And then, right in front of me, a medley of life — the voices and laughter of the girls, the clinking of forks against plates, the gurglin
g of the coffee-maker, as we all sit down and eat pancakes like one big, happy family.

  Before I know it, the girls are in the living room watching cartoons and Laura stands up and announces that she and Hana are off to visit some of their old haunts. "I'll have Hana back in a little while," she says.

  It all seems so astoundingly ordinary that I'm the one who's tongue-tied. But what if, I want to say, though the words catch in my throat.

  "It'll be good for you two to get some air," Miles says. "It's a beautiful day. Let me help you to the car," he tells Hana.

  "We can take the wheelchair," Laura adds.

  "No wheelchair," Hana says emphatically.

  "I'll be fine." She slowly stands, balancing herself against the table. Her eyes catch mine again and she says softly, "I'm fine, really," to reassure me. Only then does she reach out and take hold of Laura's arm.

  After Hana and Laura leave, I'm alone with Miles in the kitchen. I feel a small stab of panic. The girls are watching cartoons, their short spurts of laughter and the fast-paced music seeping in from the living room. We are sitting at the kitchen table like normal adults having a conversation when it strikes me that we're talking not about Hana or Werner but about our favorite old movies, like Some Like It Hot and The Great Escape. Miles grins, then takes another bite of pancake. I've never really noticed his smile before, a bit crooked in that boyish sort of way.