All the Water in the World

by Karen Raney

  “I guess that comes from the moon itself. I’m not sure.”

  “There’s not a lot to say about the moon, is there?”

  His eye creases deepened. He looked at me. “Not really.”

  “Too much has been said about it.”

  “All of it true,” said Robin. He got to his feet and clapped his gloves together. “Want to walk on the lake?” Without waiting for an answer, he stepped down through the drifts to the ice.

  “Are you sure four inches is safe?” I called.

  “Up to you!” He looked like a friar, with his black ski jacket cinched at the waist and the hood up. “I’m going out on it.”

  I plunged through the snow after him, testing the ice first with my foot like the woman in the crosswalk. Solid enough, although the hollow grinding sound my boots made was unmistakable: we were walking over water.

  “Your dad plays it safe,” said Robin. “Especially when there’s a guest he feels responsible for.”

  “Don’t you feel responsible for people?”

  “I’m not worried about four inches. I’ve been on four inches many a time.”

  Behind us the side bedrooms were in darkness and so was the attic room, hidden up in the branches, but the front window was ablaze with light, and the four terrace lamps shone in their cages.

  “How long do you think those lamps will last?”

  “They’re supposed to be outdoor-proof,” said Robin.

  “Didn’t you put them in that first year you came up? They’ve held out for two winters.”

  “We’ll have to wait and see.”

  I turned my back on the lit-up house. Around the shore, the other cottages were mostly in darkness. Norma’s gave off a reassuring glow. I felt a pang to think of her asleep over there with her all-night porch lamp on. “Their house is even more visible in winter.”

  “Yes,” said Robin.

  “It doesn’t really matter, does it?”

  “No,” said Robin.

  “Or the color. I kind of like it now. Sometimes I get all worked up about nothing.”

  He was backlit, his whole face in shadow.

  “The ice is thinner than it used to be,” I said. “We had seven or eight inches when I was growing up.”

  “Even thicker up north. We used to drive onto the ice and fish from the seat of a pickup. I wouldn’t do it now.”

  “Have you seen that program about walrus mothers fighting for space for their pups? They’re crammed together on these little chunks of ice. They push each other off.”

  “No, but I’ve seen icebergs calving. It’s happening so fast.”

  The snow stretched out before us in long smooth scallops, ridged like bone.

  “If you’d never seen water in solid form, would you guess it would be like that?”

  “No,” said Robin. “Ice kind of makes sense. But snow is more like sand.”

  “Look at the colors!” Not only the blues, but the violets, grays, purples, and pinks read as variations of white against the dark fringe of the shore. “Doesn’t it seem impossible that all this could go?”

  “Once it goes, it goes.”

  I kicked at the snow. “Don’t think about it.”

  I could not see Robin’s face, but I could feel his eyes on me. Some things were too big to talk about. Eventually he said: “Shall we sneak Alison out here? Not tell your father?”

  “Tomorrow night,” I replied, happy to be conspirators again. “She’d love it. I don’t think she’s spent much time outdoors.”

  “You two got close in London?”

  “I don’t know about close.”

  “She admires you.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Male instinct. Though anyone prepared to be that awkward, I find a little scary.”

  “Anyway, I’m glad you like her.” I turned around and Robin turned with me. A line of boot-shaped holes led away, connecting us to the shore. “Maddy never saw the room,” I said.

  “The moon?”

  “The room.”

  “I should have finished it a long time ago!”

  After a moment I said: “It’s finished now,” and I lunged across the ice, plowing up giant petals of snow. He did the same, in another direction. We stood looking at each other. I made my way to him over the churned-up surface.

  “When was she last at the lake?” he asked.

  “In June. She drove up with Jack.”

  “Did she know it would be the last time?”

  “I hope not.”

  A giant whip cracked under our feet and lashed toward the far shore. I froze in place. I had never been on the ice when it happened. Robin reached for my hand, and, glove in glove, not daring to speak, we made our way toward the shallows, where the ice was thicker, instinctively forcing our boots flat along the surface instead of lifting them. Moving on ice was something you did either with great elegance or with great clumsiness.

  We came to a stop on the blank place where in summer the dock juts out from the shore. Now that we were safe, I was reluctant to leave the lake. The house seemed far away, half ablaze and half in darkness.

  “It wasn’t a real crack,” said Robin. “Just the lake making random noises.”

  “I want to hear it again.” All at once the need was urgent. “I want to hear it! Anything!” I pulled off my hood and let go of him to listen. What currents were moving in the midnight air seemed to converge where we stood, waiting for the lake to declare itself. Speak! Give a sign! No sign came. No second crack, no murmuring, groaning, or clapping, no promise or hint or response of any kind. Only the two of us, breathing into the frozen silence.

  Coda

  40

  “Can you tell me when my mom’s coming back?” Yank the stranger by the chin like mothers do to drive their point home to a kid, though mine never had to. I always tried to be good and so did she.

  Her fingers gripped my chin with surprising strength. Defiant means: Don’t mess with me. What does beseeching mean, again? Please help me. I could not move or look away or press stop.

  “I’m here, Maddy! Right beside you.”

  Here was the last place I wanted to be, but I could not be anywhere else. That was the trick that had been played on us.

  Leave it to my mother to take the stranger’s place just in time. Swollen eyelids and mouth the wrong shape, but definitely hers, and her warming voice. Not the words but the music of her voice I’ve been hearing forever and ever.

  “Water, please.”

  The head was positioned. The mouth made a circle to suck.

  “As much as you want, Maddy. Just say.”

  Thirst was huge and without end. Water alone would not quench it. But for now I could ride the cool column down, past clouds colliding with their reflections, and lopsided trees where what was stunted on one side grew lavishly on the other, down to the stage where, dressed in black, they were adjusting their valves and barrels, getting ready.

  “Mama . . . ?”

  “What is it, Maddy?”

  “Go over there.”

  “I’m right here. Can you feel my hand?”

  “No, over there, Mom! By that cloud. I’ll swim to you.”

  “Feel her fur, Maddy? She’s looking at you. Does it hurt?”

  No pain. That’s all they could give us. A talented one could draw blood painlessly, regardless of the number of times or the condition of the veins. Most of them were talented in every way. Powerless, as we were, but never heartbroken by it. We were on our own now. Gently lift the cat with both hands, so soft and light, knowing nothing, and set her on the rug.

  Pressure on the shoulder, pressure on the ribs. Could have been the shoulder and ribs of anyone. Ragdoll kittens go like this. The limp thing she was fastened to came up into the air with her—let me go, Mom, I’m cold!—before being curled down again and covered. Once the wings came off they were done for, but if I carefully removed the spiderwebs the dragonflies flew away, shimmering and forgetting me instantly. I’d forgotten s
omething. What had I forgotten? Thoughts were being thought and body parts were being moved, but where this was happening and to whom it was hard to say.

  “Take that end, Eve. I’ll tuck in this side.” Wobblier voice than my mother’s, but strong underneath because of the backup she had.

  “Better, Maddy?”

  “Warm enough?”

  Warm eyes. The closer you went, the further away they got. Bravo! He was proud of me. Always had been. Wherever he was, he made me strong. Bass clefs and quarter notes perched on the wires, and the light tried to force its way in. Easy to scare them off. Any movement and up they would lift to the sky, a giant flap of marks, black on one side, silver on the other when they turned.

  “Close the curtains. Is it nighttime?”

  “No, it’s morning now. The sun’s out.”

  “He doesn’t know, Mom.”

  “Water, Maddy? Just a sip?”

  “He doesn’t know, Mom. I wanted him to love me.”

  “What’s she saying?” said Grandma with great interest. “Who?”

  The new head was way too young to laugh, but she was laughing anyway. Not Him, Rose!

  “You did it,” whispered Grandpa. His voice was smiling. I was going to give him a high five and a handshake, but I had descended so far and the pressure per square inch was so immense I was unable to move, let alone speak or open my eyes.

  “She won’t drink,” said Robin. “Yesterday she couldn’t get enough.”

  “She will when she needs to.”

  “What if she doesn’t?”

  “Rub my neck,” said my mother, greatly weary.

  “There?” said Robin.

  “No, there.”

  “Shall I sing to her?” Grandma started at the descant, my favorite part, in her silvery voice. “ ‘Soft the drowsy hours are creeping . . .’ ”

  “Can she hear us?” said Robin.

  “They can always hear.”

  The applause went on and on and on. The joy on her face was something to behold. Pain at the center of me flared out in savage waves. The time had come. Say something. I can’t hear you!

  “ ‘Hill and dale in slumber sleeping . . .’ ”

  “Where did that lullaby come from?”

  “Her mother used to sing it to her.”

  Grandma’s mouth half opened, Grandpa’s quivered shut; Robin left the room; my mother stared through rips in the paper. The faces were changing, one into the other, each into itself. But not Jack; he had come and gone already. The little brick house had its carriage lamps lit, and the ironwork on the door was like long rounded knives. That’s where I was going to live, Mama. Forever and ever! I loved that purple door. Mounted on the wall, the green man shook his head. Such a long, long, long day. Carried through all the corridors. Prodded and punctured at every turn. I am impressed by how much you’re doing. How do you fit it all in? Don’t roll me. Let me get up and walk. I want to walk! So much to remember. So much to do—

  “It’s okay, Maddy. Shhhh. Just lay down. Lay back.”

  She was turning the key at the port on my chest. Coolness spread through my arm and up my neck into the tiniest branches and the stars trapped in them. Expertly she prodded the strings, pressed my forehead, and brought her hand to rest on the slope of the wood. Breath whistled in and through, in and through. Listen and forget. Listen and forget. Who I might be hurting, who I was leaving out or leaving behind. Would she know where to look when the time came? Tuck your chin or you’ll hurt your neck. Relax and roll, relax and roll down the hill into the arms of the cello, shedding all my bright drops.

  My mother was murmuring and holding my head. For her I made the effort to take back my lips, haul my voice up from the deep, and force the syllables out one by one.

  “Remember, Mom . . .”

  I can move stones. Cry and the milk comes.

  “What is it, my darling?”

  In my hands the curve of her grown-up head, its openings closed long ago, its pelt starting to grow back. Why come into my life if you’re going to leave? Go! Go if you have to. I’m not going to end this life inside me. I refuse! Stroke the surface one way and then the other. Short and soft. Soft and short.

  “Squeeze her hand, Evie, so she knows we’re here.”

  “She knows.”

  “ ‘I my loved ones watch am keeping . . .’ ” sang Grandma, pausing for suspense. “ ‘All . . . through . . . the night.’ ”

  It was my turn. Had I told them before or only Jack? Only Jack. This was the funny part. It would make her cry. She was crying already, my head tight between her hands, my mouth stretched wide around the bulging words.

  “Anything good happens to you? It’s me!”

  Crack of laughter. The ice groaning.

  It’s me, Mama. It’s me.

  Acknowledgments

  My deepest gratitude goes to Lynne Neufer Dale, who has shared her experience with me in such an openhearted and generous way. I am grateful to all of Summer’s family; Al Dale and Jordan Dale; Marna Neufer; Paul Neufer; Dave Neufer; Nancy Neufer; Holly Batchelor; George, Paul, Will, and Emily Batchelor; Cynthia Gentry and Charles Williams for their support of this book.

  I am indebted to my fabulous and formidable agent, Clare Alexander, and to everyone at Aitken Alexander in London, especially Lesley Thorne, Lisa Baker, and Anna Watkins. I am very grateful to Kathy Robbins in New York.

  Enormous thanks are due to my editor, Valerie Steiker, for her tireless and insightful editing and sharp attention to detail, and to Nan Graham for essential editorial guidance and support. I am indebted to the entire Scribner team: Roz Lippel, Colin Harrison, Kara Watson, Ashley Gilliam, Kelsey Manning, Sally Howe, Jaya Miceli, Abigail Novak, Laura Wise, and Susan Brown. I am grateful to Lisa Highton at Two Roads, and to my other publishers and translators.

  I am grateful to the Goldsmiths Creative Writing MA, my tutors, Francis Spufford, Blake Morrison, and Maura Dooley, and fellow writers (2014–16) who nurtured the book in its early stages.

  Thanks go to United Agents for awarding the novel the 2017 Pat Kavanagh Prize when it was still a work in progress, and to Ventspils House in Latvia for the writer’s residency in January 2018. Thanks also to Selma Ancira for walks by the frozen Baltic Sea and her stunning photographs of water, and to Ribbons and Taylor Café in Stoke Newington, where a great deal of rewriting took place.

  So many people have, directly and indirectly, had a part in shaping this book. I am extremely grateful to: Miriam Robinson for constant close reading and invaluable discussions; Francis Spufford for creative and practical advice throughout; Lindsay Clarke for long-standing counsel and comments on a late draft; Teresa Thornhill and Sue Goss for decades of conversation and writing camaraderie; Mandy Hetherton and Oliver Shamlou for generous and perceptive reading; Kelly Morter and her friends for being teen consultants; Nick Manning for comic inspiration and insight into Dupont Circle, Fallingwater, and life in general; Ron and Christopher Hopson for their knowledge of Washington and environs; Mimi Babe Harris for the history of her table; Dr. Bradley George of Atlanta, Georgia, for medical advice; and to the numerous friends, colleagues, students, and my London book group, who provided encouragement and dialogue along the way.

  I am grateful to the Neufer and Raney families for a lifetime of summers at the lake, a place that has worked its way into my imagination more deeply than I knew.

  Finally, special thanks to my husband, Greg Morter, for his original views and unending support, and to my daughter, Kelly, without whom this book would never have been written.

  A Scribner Reading Group Guide

  All the Water in the World

  Karen Raney

  This reading group guide for All the Water in the World includes an introduction, discussion questions, and ideas for enhancing your book club. The suggested questions are intended to help your reading group find new and interesting angles and topics for your discussion. We hope that these ideas will enrich your conversation and
increase your enjoyment of the book.

  Introduction

  Maddy is sixteen. Smart, funny, and profound, she has loyal friends, a mother with whom she’s unusually close, a father she’s never met, devoted grandparents, and a crush on a boy named Jack. Maddy also has cancer. Living in the shadow of uncertainty, she is forced to grow up fast.

  All the Water in the World is the story of a family doing its best when faced with the worst. Told in the alternating voices of Maddy and her mother, Eve, the narrative moves between the family’s lake house in Pennsylvania; their home in Washington, DC; and London, where Maddy’s father, Antonio, lives. Hungry for experience, Maddy seeks out her first romantic relationship, finds solace in music and art, and tracks down her father. With voices that range from tender to funny, despairing to defiant, this novel is an unforgettable portrait of the mother-daughter bond, and the experiences that change us forever.

  Topics & Questions for Discussion

  1.On the first page of the novel, Eve looks out over a lake and observes that “to have a child is to have a twofold mind” (page 5). How does the structure of All the Water in the World reflect this idea?

  2.From the lake house to Frank Lloyd Wright’s house Fallingwater, places play an important role in this novel. What does the lake house mean to Eve and to Maddy? How does each of their relationships to it change over the course of the novel?

  3.The reader first meets Maddy in the coziness of her room. In the scene when her friend Fiona drops by, how do Maddy’s surroundings and preoccupations reflect those of a healthy teenage girl, and how are they different?

  4.Like many mothers and teenage daughters, Eve and Maddy are unusually close. How do they express their affection for each other? What about their annoyance? Does their intimacy make Maddy’s ordeal easier or more difficult to manage? In what ways?

  5.Compare the parent/child relationships in this novel: Maddy and Eve, Eve and her parents, and Maddy and her grandparents. To what extent are their dynamics shaped by their individual personalities, and to what extent are they shaped by the circumstances of Maddy’s illness?