Whose Waves These Are

by Amanda Dykes

  The wind is picking up, too, the sound of waves crashing harder against the outer walls. They’re protected in this cove, buffered by the strong arms of those walls, but the effect is exhilarating and terrifying all at the same time. The power of the growing sea, just a stone’s throw away, yet they are out of its reach. Safe.

  Blinking against the raindrops, she looks to the sky, then to Jeremiah. He is watching her. No . . . more than that. Reading her, knowing her.

  The rain falls heavier now, so intense the whole surface of the water glows, and they clamber into the canoe. He gives her a leg up, she helps pull him in, and they paddle to an overhang on the cliff wall. They are protected there, only a light mist drifting in as the rain collides onto the stone roof above them.

  He reaches back, unfolds a damp blanket, and offers it to her.

  “Thank you.” She wraps it around her shoulders, and a silence settles around them, the water lapping around their boat.

  “This sea, Annie . . .” His voice is rough, and he looks off in the distance, as if he can see straight through cliff walls, straight across the country, maybe all the way back to Seattle. “It is wild, and it is fierce.”

  He stops, but he’s not finished. She can almost hear his unspoken words, running up against a stone wall inside.

  “But . . .” Annie tries to release a rock from that wall, invite his words through.

  Jeremiah shakes his head as if it’s a truth he knows despite his long unknowing of it. “There’s more, too,” he says. “There’s light. Right there in the dark. Because of the dark.” He gestures at the single-celled wonders lighting up the frigid lagoon with blue pinpricks. “There’s courage. There’s . . .”

  “Magic,” Annie says, voice soft.

  “You would say that,” Jeremiah says, but his voice is infused with something that cuts past the sarcasm and warms Annie. “This sea of yours,” he says, serious again, “I hope it has some of that, too.”

  She swallows around an ache in her throat. What is his darkness? His sea? She wants to gather those waters up, hold them against her very heart.

  “Can I ask you something, Jeremiah?”

  Elbows on his knees, hands clasped, he looks up at her, and what she sees takes her breath away. A pleading for her to understand. But does he want her to ask? Or to not ask?

  She musters her courage, gentles her words. “Your letter,” she says, and he drops his gaze again, as if he’s going to find an answer between his feet. “Do you . . .” How can she burst into this last holdout in his heart, when he has not invited her? She switches directions. “Is it . . . magic and courage and light, like you said? Or is it the other kind of sea?” Her kind of sea. The ruthless sort.

  So much time passes that she wishes she’d never asked, begins to think he won’t answer. Maybe it’s better that way.

  “That,” he says at last, “is also something that has to be experienced.” He drops his gaze, doing battle over something. And then, a man resolute, he says, “You’d better come with me.”

  thirty-five

  Annie is up and at the dock at four forty-five. It’s her first day here all over again, only instead of flying out the front door wrapped in a blanket and hollering her head off to try and catch him . . . it’s different.

  She is to accompany him on his trek through the dark. The one he takes every day, never speaking of.

  Her stomach is doing flips, and it has nothing to do with the fact that Lobsterfest starts today. Nor Bob’s state—that impenetrable peace about his fate wraps her still, and ties her heart even more to Jeremiah’s.

  Jeremiah. That name, that man. A tumble inside has her pressing her hands to her stomach, watching for his light to come on inside the boat.

  She couldn’t sleep when they returned after the rain let up. She’d lain awake thinking of the man in the boat at the end of the dock, feeling that she was on a precipice—and falling could be glorious . . . or disastrous.

  This morning she’d showered the saltwater and plankton away, dressed simply in her jeans and boots, with her hunter green sweater long and warm around her. She’d considered putting on a dress. But this felt more her. And more him. Just . . . right. Natural.

  She had, however, spent more time than she cared to admit taming her hair with various heating tools. She didn’t know what was ahead, but she felt he was about to open that last, locked chamber of himself. And she wants to cherish it.

  Movement outside catches her eye. Illuminated by light shining from above the doorway, Jeremiah emerges from his boat, looking as if he hasn’t slept a wink, either, dark circles under his eyes. But those eyes are lit with a fire she cannot name. He’s wearing a black fleece pullover with jeans and hiking boots, and she wonders what sort of terrain they are headed for.

  Taking her hand in his, he leads her aboard. A somber tone saturates every molecule around them, and it’s through this, and ribboning sea smoke beginning to rise in the pale dark of predawn, that they embark.

  North they go. Past the Weg, past the cove from last night. Up and up, north and east, the coast always in sight. They pass a few early fishermen out on their boats and he gives them a quick wave, the sort that shows these passings are a familiar thing.

  Until forty-five minutes later, he cuts the engine.

  She looks around. Ocean, ocean, and more ocean. On land, the unmistakable candy-cane striped West Quoddy Head Lighthouse stands sentinel, its beacon flashing. Out to sea, a paling sky whispers of the coming sunrise.

  “This . . . is where you come every morning?”

  He nods.

  There’s a deep gravity in the gesture, and she yearns to understand it.

  “What is it about this spot?” She asks it with care, hoping her words carry a tone that shows she will treasure his answer, whatever it might be.

  “See that?” He points over the starboard side, a yard out.

  She nods, though all that’s there is the black-blue of the sea.

  “Canada,” he says.

  She nods again, trying to follow.

  “This spot right here,” he says, “is the farthest east you can get in the United States.” He looks off to where the sky is parting around a radiating point of light, making way for the sun.

  “Stand here”—he puts his hands on her shoulders, places her at the bow—“and you’ll be the first person in our entire country to be touched by that light when it comes up.”

  “Really?” She looks out over this ordinary, unassuming spot in a sea of waves, and suddenly, it’s extraordinary.

  Jeremiah doesn’t answer. He’s got his feet planted, staring down at something in his hand. The letter.

  His grip is firm, thumb pressing it down against his fingers as if he’ll never release it. He doesn’t look up.

  “You know about Melissa,” he says at last, and finally meets her gaze.

  His wife. Feeling as if she’s been caught trespassing, she nods, heat pressing her cheeks. “A little. Bess mentioned her, once.”

  Jeremiah looks from the letter, to the spot where the sun is going to crest any minute . . . and then to her. He pulls out the pages from the envelope, opens them. He’s about to hand them both to her, but at the last moment, keeps the second page in his own callused hands as he passes the first off to her.

  Tentatively, studying him to make sure this is what he intends, she smooths the paper in her hands, knowing that somehow, what she’s about to read will change everything.

  Hey, Fletch.

  It feels as if she’s reading a note from a friend, this time.

  I know you’re not going to want to read this for a while . . . and that’s okay. I love you, is what I mostly want to say. So set this aside, stick it in your pocket, maybe, and these words will wait until the day you just want to hang out a little.

  Oh, hey. Back so soon? You always were bad at waiting. Like that night of our first date, when you showed up at my apartment door again twenty minutes after you dropped me off. You looked so sheepish
, standing there with your hands stuffed in your pockets. Your hair was sticking out from under that beanie of yours like it was trying to break free from a prison, and your words were just as unruly. “Breakfast tomorrow.”

  You said it like a freight train pushed those words straight out of your mouth. Fletch, if you could have seen your face. You looked so horrified that you’d actually said it out loud. “I mean . . . would you maybe meet me for breakfast tomorrow?”

  Fletch, I would meet you for breakfast every day for the rest of all time, if I could. I’d do the impossible: wake you before the sun, even get you on your feet and somewhat conscious, drag you out to watch the sunrise, and we’d be the first people in the whole city to see the new day. The first people in our little universe, which may as well be the whole world, if you ask me.

  Because I would begin this life again with you a thousand-thousand times, if I could. Sit by the brand-new light of each day to dream with you, be with you.

  But, well . . . I won’t say it again, since you’ve already had to hear it from the doctors. I always said I never wanted to go anywhere without you again. And now . . . the biggest journey of all. Yet it’s as close as a heartbeat. And even though it’s so hard I can’t breathe sometimes, there’s this peace in it, too. Hard, so hard . . . but good. Because I know Whose you are, and I know you’ll be okay.

  Leaving you is the hardest thing of all. It’s funny, the little things that make my heart hurt. Random things. Thinking of that unruly hair of yours, not getting to run my fingers through it. Thinking of the way you would wrap your arms around me and say something ridiculous and we’d laugh right into each other. I don’t like the thought of that laughter stopping.

  So I want you to promise me something, Fletch. Don’t let the laughter go silent too long. Don’t miss the sunrise too much. I mean, I know you love your sleep, but just once in a while, would you meet the new day for me? Meet it. Be the first one to see it, if you’re feeling really crazy. And remember that it’s not over yet. This beautiful, messy, hard, glorious life is not over for you, and I’m so thankful. The world needs you, Fletch.

  I’ll be waiting for you, sitting in the light of a different Son. And He’ll meet you at sunrise, even when I can’t.

  Breakfast tomorrow?

  Yours, always.

  Mel

  Annie reads it twice, and the ache in her chest deepens to a burn, a widening chasm. She can see it, almost. Jeremiah—this man who is, as Bess so rightly said, all in—having to let go.

  A warm tear rolls down her cheek, and before she can stop it, it drops onto the paper before her. Paper softened by a thousand readings.

  She goes to wipe it with her finger, horrified. To mar something so sacred to him—she blows on the wet spot left behind, apologizing in between breaths.

  “Oh, Jeremiah. I’m so sorry.” For what the letter held. For going and clumsily dropping her own tears on something so precious. For all of it, and so much more.

  Her hands fly to her temples as she bows her head, mortified. Heartbroken. For him losing such a woman. For Melissa not getting more time with him. For what she sees can never be, after a love like that.

  “This is why you come out here every day.”

  He nods. “To keep a promise.”

  Of course. The sunrise. Her heart soars and shatters at the same time—for him to move clear to the far corner of the country, just to be closer to the sunrise. To be the man who first greets it each day, all for a love like this . . .

  That is a devotion for the ages. One that should not be infringed upon.

  And then he has her. His hands around hers. Taking the letter. Folding it up, pressing it against his chest to flatten it. Another tear comes and this time, a different hand rises to catch it. His. He cups her face in the warmth of his palm, slides his thumb over her cheek, taking the tear with it.

  Slowly, silently, he hands her the second page. It’s as if it contains his very lifeblood, so careful is he with it.

  She reads.

  P.S.—Fletch. I mean it about the laughter. When you find someone who can laugh right into you and who sees every layer of you and loves you, you’d better promise to not let her go. It’s going to happen. It’s easier than you think to fall in love with Jeremiah Fletcher.

  I should know.

  So don’t let her go, okay? Promise me that, too. Go get her.

  Annie’s breath catches. She can’t bring herself to look at him. She traces her thumb under Melissa’s words—It’s easier than you think to fall in love with Jeremiah Fletcher.

  Oh, that truth.

  Eyes swimming, she finally lifts them to his.

  “Postscript,” he says.

  She waits. He’ll explain, she has come to understand. Blurt first, explain later.

  “The p.s.—it comes after you thought the whole story was over.”

  Her heart feels as if it’s going to burst from its cage, the way his voice rakes over his scars and tumbles into a tone of hope.

  “Sometimes . . . it’s a story all its own.”

  Jeremiah Fletcher takes a step closer. She can feel the warmth of him, the strength.

  “And sometimes . . .” He tucks a tendril of her hair behind her ear, runs his fingers down it. “You start to hope it will never”—his hand comes up behind her neck, thumb under her jaw—“ever”—his free hand meets hers, entwines with her fingers—“end.”

  Blinding gold light pours over them, the sun climbing from its blue depths. He lowers his lips to hers, hesitates, and then, as if someone has pulled the foundation stone from the wall around his heart and every last stone falls away, his lips meet hers.

  The man who when he gives himself gives all that he is, encircles her now with his arms. He is strength and goodness, fire and safety. Maddening stubbornness and unsettling sight, seeing her soul, drawing her close, asking her deep, deep into the water, into this life. Every second that kiss lingers is an offering of his very heart, an asking of hers.

  Static breaks from the VHF radio, and a voice breaks through. Jeremiah cups the back of Annie’s head, leaning his forehead on hers as he listens.

  “Glad Tidings, Glad Tidings. This is Bess. Suggest channel sixty-eight. Over.”

  Annie stiffens. “Bess?”

  Something’s wrong, for Bess to call from shore. Jeremiah wastes no time in getting to the radio and finding a free channel.

  “Bess. Everything okay?” The concern etched on his face says he knows it’s not.

  A beat of silence, and Annie is beside him.

  Bess’s voice breaks in, two words. “It’s Bob.”

  thirty-six

  Annie paces the waiting room, itching for something to do. She’s been here all day, all night, since Bess’s call on the radio—that Bob was showing marked improvement . . . and might even be waking up.

  Something in her leapt to life at those words. She and Jeremiah had rushed to the hospital, only to be told that this would likely be a long process. The nurses let her and Jeremiah stay in the room long after visiting hours ended. Talking to him, playing a tune, watching with bated breath every time his eyes slowly opened, praying this would be the time they would focus.

  And at last, he began to track, to fix in on Annie. Flickers of life, a squeeze of the hand.

  It was good. Very good, the doctor said. His motor and eye responses were promising, though his verbal response had a long way to go. The only thing he’d uttered was what sounded like worm. Three times he’d said it through the night, the nurse explaining it was probably a vivid dream, that coma patients had to fight through all sorts of imaginings on their way back.

  The door opens behind her, and Jeremiah enters, handing her a lidded cup of coffee. He leans against the window, the early morning sun casting shadows over his face. He hadn’t left, not for a moment. Had it been only yesterday—a mere twenty-four hours ago—that he wrapped his arms around her? And here they are, a world away. She longs for the safety of that embrace, the hope of that mo
ment. And so much more.

  Comfort and peace—life—for Bob. Healing for him, and for Dad.

  She checks her phone again, willing there to be something from her parents. They were supposed to be home by now. She’d called and called, but their phone just beeped and beeped, a maddening busy tone.

  The click of the door sounds as a nurse in scrubs enters.

  “He’s doing well,” she says. Her name tag says Gina, and her black ponytail is perky. There must have been a shift change, or it would be Shirley giving the update. “Rest is so important for him right now.”

  Annie nods. “Of course. What can I do to help?”

  Gina looks compassionately at the two of them. “Rest is important for you, too. After all the progress last night, he’ll be asleep most of the day. Please, get some rest. We’ll be sure to update you the moment anything changes.”

  Rest. Her body aches for it, but her heart and mind will have none of it. Gina disappears between the double doors, and a hand comes around Annie’s side—Jeremiah, smelling of pine and warmth.

  Leaning her head on his shoulder, she hears the memory of Bob’s rasping voice during the night. “Worm.” Stretching it, trying to shape it into something more. Wo-orm.

  William.

  “I’ll take you home,” Jeremiah says.

  And in that instant, she knows exactly what she must do. Yes, she must go home. But not to the one Jeremiah’s thinking of.

  thirty-seven

  Storm’s comin’.

  There’s a steady beeping sound coming from nearby. Light out there beyond the red of Bob’s eyelids. Something is weighing them down so he can’t open them. He’d opened them before . . . hadn’t he? His throat burns, parched.

  Storm’s comin’. The thought comes again, like a persistent nudge to wake him up. Just like it has ever since that storm when he and Roy were ten, the old elbow aches to the marrow when the ocean and air are about to tangle and let loose a blow to ground them all.

  He opens his mouth—or tries to. It’s like trying to summon life from parched desert land.