All the Water in the World

by Karen Raney

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  This book is dedicated to Summer Dale (1996–2012) and Kelly Morter

  PART I

  Eve

  1

  A lake is a black hole for sound. The wind, the crack of a hammer, the cries of birds and children weave a rim of noise around the water, making its silence more profound. When a turtle or a fish breaks the surface, the sound appears to come from within. Maddy, who is a natural philosopher, would want to know whether it really is sound, or just the possibility of sound, that issues from such breaches. I mention Maddy because to have a child is to have a twofold mind. No thought or action belongs to me alone. This holds true more than ever now.

  Every morning that summer I made my way to the dock, moving my cup of coffee up and down to prevent a spill. Some days when I arrived, the mist was a thick white lid. Some days it was lifting to expose the pan of still water. Some days I could see circles of rain popping out on the lake before the drops reached my skin. Robin never came with me. He was busy building the new room in the attic, a blank place that smelled of raw wood and glue and had a completely different light from the rest of the house. Being up in the thick part of the pines, it should feel like a tree house if it’s ever finished.

  When I reached the shore, the day I met our neighbor, the mist had already cleared. The colors were intense, almost unbearably so: sap green, white gold, blue of every kind. The dock wobbled underfoot as I stepped down, making me aware of both the mass and the instability of water. I set my cup on the low table at the end and brushed the dew off the two Adirondack chairs, whose green surface was bubbled and flaking. Those chairs needed repainting, but I knew if I mentioned it to Robin he would say in his hearty voice, “Hey, Eve, that’s a good job for you!” and I have more than enough to do while I’m here.

  Standing to face the lake, I indulged in a moment of play, as though I were on a stage with the curtain closed behind me. I swung my arms. I did fifty jumping jacks. I mimed a person singing or shouting, until I felt myself to be rising, clothed in feathers and scales, a creature that forgets everything and lives by its wits.

  I sat and sipped my coffee. Before me, the pine trees pointed up and their reflections pointed down, just as convincing as the real ones, and I allowed myself a few moments to believe in this second world.

  At the far shore, something puckered the glassy surface. A kayak, paddling purposefully in my direction. There was plenty of time to retreat, but I stayed put. Must be the newcomers who were rebuilding the house across the way. They’d painted the house yellow. It is so exposed that we think they have violated the bylaws of the lake association charter. We think some shoreline trees must have been cut down to give them a better view. This also gives us an unwelcome view of a bright yellow house. It has even found its way into the reflection. Maddy would agree the color yellow is garish for a house. Garish may not be her word, but it is perfectly apt. Tawasentha, the highest natural lake east of the Rockies, has always been, and will always remain, a no-motorboats, cabin-in-the-woods kind of place, no matter how big the cabins have become. Forty years ago, when my father bought the lot, people built their own houses. Dwellings are still supposed to be some shade of brown or gray. The world needs all the trees it can get.

  The kayak advanced toward me, dragging the shattered reflection along behind it. The occupant was a woman of about my age. She coasted alongside the dock, smiling openly. Her hair was pulled back into what resembled a reddish ball of yarn, and her arms and face were covered with freckles, which the sun had blurred but not managed to melt into a tan. The paddle across her knees was dripping from both ends. She certainly wasn’t the person I imagined would come from that house. I sat above her on the dock and waited.

  “Is everything okay? You were waving. I thought maybe you needed help.”

  “I was doing yoga,” I said, touched but annoyed to hear the word help spoken so casually.

  The stranger’s intense blue eyes passed over me. I don’t think she believed me for a minute. “I’m Norma. Your new neighbor.” She gestured with her paddle, scattering drops. “We’re doing things to the place before moving in. I hope it hasn’t been too much of a nuisance. The noise, I mean.”

  I shook my head. When I said nothing, she raised her paddle as if to lever the kayak backward. That was when I surprised myself by inviting her to join me on the dock. By the time she had tied up her boat, wiped her hands on her shorts, and sat down, I was already regretting my invitation. Our chairs were awkwardly close, but I could hardly adjust their position now. Nor could I finish drinking my coffee in front of her, or give in to the solitary pleasure of holding the mug between my hands and inhaling the steam. There was nothing to do but gaze together lakeward. Chitchat was in order. Better to get it over with.

  “You have a family?”

  “Three kids. Luke’s eight, Ben’s six.” Norma grinned. “Tanner’s forty-two.”

  “I’ve got one of those. He’s in his playroom at the moment.” I nodded in sisterly fashion toward the house, although in spite of the messy marriage he’d left behind and occasional bouts of glumness, Robin was as grown up as they come. I leaned forward to study a dragonfly shimmering on the arm of my chair. I’ve always been fascinated by the way they alight and lift off without warning.

  Looking up, I said: “I guess your house needs a lot of work.”

  “Gutting, boiling, starting over from the ground up? According to Tanner. He’s an architect. I kind of liked it the way it was.”

  “I don’t think the Gibsons had touched that place since the seventies. They kept the wood shingles. They left the shoreline trees alone . . .”

  “Rustic charm, I think it’s called,” said Norma.

  “You’ve picked an unusual color.”

  She waved at her kayak, moored below. “First thing we did. I have a thing about yellow. My mother’s favorite color.”

  I did not mention the bylaws. Instead I steered the conversation toward the goings-on of the association. Any pause I filled with a question. Was she native to Pennsylvania or a transplant? How had they come to buy the lot? Did her husband’s practice give him much time with the boys? I learned about Tanner’s loopy business partner and Ben’s tantrums. I studied Norma’s face as she recounted her children’s foibles in tones of high bemusement, as if motherhood were a hilarious accident that had happened to her while she’d been looking the other way.

  She stopped talking and frowned into the sun. Under the freckles her skin shone as if lit from within. I felt a longing for the easy company of women. I know my smile is an unnerving thing these days. Still, I smiled at her when she turned, and she reached out and put her hand under mine, making me jump.

  “Classy,” she said, meaning I did not look like the kind of person who would paint my nails. Purple this week, with diagonal white stripes. I snatched my hand back. What on earth was she doing here? How much did she know?

  “I do it for Maddy,” I said.

  Norma held my gaze. “Who is Maddy?”

  Maddy

  2

  Just say. For the sake of argument, just say it was true. How would it work? One hundred and seven billion individuals right back to the cavemen—a hundred and eight on some websites—each one still remembering who they are? I lie on my
side, stroking Cloud. I do my best thinking this way. I can think whatever I want. I can even tiptoe into places that are totally, strictly off-limits for someone with a mother like mine. Under the fur I could feel my kitten’s skull and the buttons of her spine. So tiny. Breakable. She stretched and opened her toy mouth and closed it again, and into her ear I whispered, “Even the cavemen?” until I felt her tongue scraping my face. Soft on the outside, grainy on the inside. Well, maybe it’s not like here at all. Maybe you can dissolve in and out. Be yourself when you want to be, or just disappear into the soup.

  I got up feeling not supergood but okay. I put on my dream-catcher earrings with the little hanging feathers. Holding my door open at least a foot, I told Mom it would be a pajama day. She was fine with that. She had an article to write. But she still stood there, needing something.

  My mother’s hair has grown back. She shaved it off in solidarity after my first round of chemo. There’s no point in both of us being bald forever. It’s in a pixie cut now, which I think really suits her, even with the little shoots of gray coming in. She thinks it’s completely unfair that Grandma has almost no gray whatsoever, and neither does Uncle Chris. The way genes go together and create a person is totally random. I think about that a lot.

  She put the back of her hand on my forehead and then my cheek. I let her step inside and hug me, and smell my orange-flower body spray, a present from Fiona. My mother has always liked sniffing me. She says it starts with smelling your baby’s head and then you just keep on doing it.

  “Is your kitten with you?” She wants me to have company because she can’t stay with me every minute of every day, though she tried to at first.

  “Right here, Mom. Where she always is.” She got Cloud for me during my last treatment. Ragdolls are the most adorable cats in the universe. Blue eyes, white fur, pug-type nose, and the best personalities ever. Cloud will stay next to me the whole day, even when I’m throwing up or lying on the floor for a change of surface. She sleeps on the fleece blanket I got for her because it’s the color of the sky. When I pick her up, she droops as if someone’s removed her bones; that’s the Ragdoll in her coming out.

  When my mother left, I put Cloud on my stomach and went back to reading To Kill a Mockingbird. They’re having me work my way through the tenth-grade syllabus, but I only want to reread books I already love. If I had a father I would want one like Atticus. He always does the right thing even if he has to pay for it, which he almost does with the lives of his children. Whenever I read anything nowadays, I skip to the end to see how it comes out. This story, of course, I know how it ends. Scout and Jem get out alive, though Jem has his elbow broken, which he doesn’t care about as long as he can pass and punt. After the arm was put in a cast, Atticus sat by his bed, and he would be there when Jem woke up in the morning. I know it might not be fair, but I always wanted to ask my mother: Do you like having a father? Didn’t you think I might want one?

  After I had my little cry about Atticus it was hard to go back to the courtroom scene. There are some words that make me feel physically sick. I could not get the line “Ruttin’ on my Mayella” out of my mind, like it was the title of some awful country song. The accused man, Tom, is so polite and soft-spoken I know he would not be capable of anything as cold as that.

  Going to see Jack Bell tomorrow, I texted Fiona. For Science. Checked my watch. Fourth period just started. She might look at her phone in forty-five minutes. Fiona and Vicky come after school every other day; they feed me chicken nuggets if I’m eating, and all the gossip. Though I have to say, after five months, high school is starting to seem like some extraterrestrial place that I know about in perfect detail but could never actually visit.

  I folded over the page at the part where Scout stops them taking Tom from the jailhouse. Because she was a small child and reminded the ringleader he was a father, Mr. Cunningham took the lynchers away and they did no harm. Atticus must have been smiling to himself at the courage of his daughter. Though if you ask me, courage doesn’t come into it, because Scout didn’t understand what danger she was in. I wish I could be that innocent.

  How can any live creature be so silky? Why is it sad the way kittens squint up at you when you pet them? Like they’re thanking you for giving them everything they ever wanted.

  I let Cloud go to sleep on my stomach and lie back, hands under my head. I once sneaked a tube of croissant dough to my room, not realizing—duh!—that you had to bake them first. To split open the tube, I whacked it on my dresser so hard that the dough circles flew up and made a grease mark on the ceiling. Mom just laughed. The stain stayed there all these years because interior decoration is not our thing. And Mom gets busy, especially since Robin moved in. It’s a joke between Fiona and Vicky and me, because the stain is exactly the shape of a you-know-what, though I did not notice that at the time. I was only eight, but how naïve can you be! We laugh about it almost every time they visit. Vicky, who I’m sure has seen lots of them by now, laughs the loudest, in this croaky guffaw that I love to hear.

  One thing I wonder is: Can you make new friends there? Or are you stuck with the people you already know? I have to say that would severely limit my friendship group. Does anyone even talk? It’s possible talking is irrelevant in a way that is only obvious once you get there. If I made friends with a cavegirl, for example, I could stroke her fur and she could brush my hair like Suzy does when I babysit.

  Used to. Suzy used to brush my hair.

  I frowned, noticing that I assumed I’d have my hair back. But forget hair! What if you can’t even figure out where to draw the line between humans and everyone else? Do you draw the line at monkeys? Rabbits? Where? The more I thought about it, the more unbelievable the whole scenario became, even allowing for what we might not know or understand until it happens. Okay, Mom: you win. It’s all a story. No world without end. That’s when I got this choking feeling of being sealed up in a place where nothing could get in or out.

  I stood up so suddenly I banged my shin on the bed frame. Cloud jumped to the floor, astonished and possibly insulted, but she did her Ragdoll thing when I lifted her back on the bed and I was forgiven. At the window I watched Robin get into his VW and grin like a chimpanzee in the rearview mirror to check his teeth before driving off. He is more vain than Mom, who is one of the least vain people I know. I’m always catching him in the hallway mirror, pulling faces. If he sees me he laughs and shouts, “Hey! Can’t a person have any privacy around here?” Maybe it’s because, no offense, he is quite ordinary-looking and not very tall. It’s obvious to anyone that he is not my real dad. Don’t get me wrong: I like Robin. He is a Good Thing in Mom’s life, especially now.

  I went to my dresser and picked things up. The charm bracelet Grandma gave me when I was ten. I love the little scissors. They even cut. The picture of me and Mom at Cape Cod. She’s in a black one-piece, holding both the hands of this bald munchkin who is turning around and screaming because the waves are on her feet. How weird is that? I know it’s me, but I don’t really believe it, as in really know it to be true in the way that I know I am standing at my dresser holding this frame, which has silver flecks on it, and I know my fingernails are painted half red and half pink. I did them last night before bed. I am absolutely, one hundred percent certain that I am in my bedroom looking down at my nails and they are half pink, half red, with black spots on the pink side. Whereas in the frame, that could be any cute kid.

  Who would have guessed that heads are so glossy underneath? And that I would ever be seeing mine?

  Wink at the reflection. Tuck chin. Do that pistol-fingers thing. Give him the come-on smile. Click fingers of both hands twice, high in the air. Olé, suckers! Flamenco señoritas are the queens; those ruffled men stomping around them are necessary but, let’s face it, somewhat ridiculous. Anyway, this is my parentage coming through, and you can’t get away from that.

  My hand is always going up to touch my head. It’s a shock every time, like reaching for my kitten and
finding a reptile there instead. People say how stunning I look, that I have the perfect bone structure for it. Not everyone has the right bone structure. My mother, for instance, discovered after she shaved her hair off that unfortunately she doesn’t have the right bone structure. She looked like one of those aliens in the Roswell Incident. Onion head, enormous eyes. I think they were actually crash-test dummies. I’m only saying this because Mom admitted it herself and kept telling me how beautiful I looked compared to her.

  I guess mothers don’t mind if their daughters are prettier than they are. Maybe they have some special hormone that makes them want this to be the case. Come to think of it, maybe that’s why my mother wears those clunky shoes and leaves her shirts untucked. One of the reasons, anyway. The other reason is that she is a truly unique individual who does not care what people think. Biology is amazing. You can be an individual, or even a feminist, while at the same time this mothering hormone gives you a kick out of not upstaging your daughter.

  Knock on the door.

  “Come in.” She has read the books and knows you don’t enter a teenager’s bedroom without asking.

  “Come in!” What does she think I’m doing in here?

  My mother stood in the doorway, looking shy. “Just taking a break. Just wanted to check in.”

  I’ve been hearing that voice forever. Musical, slightly nasal, very warm. By the way, Mom, explanations are not necessary. I know why you’re knocking on my door! I read somewhere that babies, before they’re born, can recognize their mother’s voice, and even their father’s, if he’s around. If the family has a dog, the kid is born wanting to be near that particular breed of dog. Which means I have a built-in love of golden retrievers.

  My mother handed me a spiral sketchbook and a box of pencils. “If you get bored,” she said. “Just an idea.” When she speaks in that overly casual way, you can be sure she has been planning the thing in question for days. “Drawing can be relaxing, you know.”