Water's End

by Jessica Deforest

  Charlie pulled up under the port cochere and parked, opening the car door for Anne. He helped her out of the car, up a couple of stairs, and through the front door.

  Although it was her first visit to Charlie's house, she was too exhausted to do more than glance around, amazed that she could be so tired after doing so little. Charlie steered her down a wide hall with marble floors and into a comfortable, paneled room, where she sank onto a sofa and immediately fell into a deep sleep. It was late evening when she finally awoke to find Charlie's two golden retrievers, George and Beau, curled up next to her.

  "Hey, Sleeping Beauty" Charlie said. "You had a nice nap." His voice came from somewhere behind her. "It's cook's day off, so I'm rustling us up a little meal." A pan banged. "I'm right here. Just turn around."

  Anne looked over her shoulder and realized she was in a family room that opened onto the kitchen, with a long granite-topped island dividing the area. Charlie stood before the stove, stirring something in a red Dutch oven. The sight of the Hollywood leading man in an apron struck her as funny, but she couldn't quite muster up a laugh, only a weak smile.

  "I don't think I can eat anything," she said.

  "Oh, yes you can. You're not going to starve yourself on my watch," he said. "You'll need every ounce of strength you have these next few days. Now come on and sit on one of those," he gestured to the barstools in front of the island, "while I fix you a plate."

  Whatever he was cooking smelled wonderful, she had to admit, and she was shocked to find she was hungry. In fact, she felt as if it had been days since she had anything to eat. Charlie's stew, served over a slab of sourdough bread, was delicious farm-style cooking.

  "Mmmmm," she said after a couple of bites. "It's delectable. You must have cooked this meat for hours."

  "You slept for hours. I had to have something to do. It's nothing fancy, just plain old country cooking like my mama's." He gazed wistfully toward the ceiling. "Now, that woman could cook. She thought nothing of fixing a meal for twenty farmhands or putting on a spread for an additional ten or fifteen workers when the wheat harvest came in."

  Anne remembered harvest time and the carloads of wheat that rolled along the railroad from western Kansas to the flour mill in her hometown, spilling small golden mounds of grain along the tracks.

  "I had no idea you lived on a farm," she said.

  "Don't you know everyone in Kansas does?"

  "Not me. I'm a townie."

  She ate everything on her plate and asked for seconds. Although she couldn't quite finish up the extra helping, she ate a good deal of it. She was pleasantly stuffed.

  "For somebody who wasn't hungry, you sure cleaned up that plate. Looks like I won't even have to wash it."

  "Ohh, that stew is sublime," she said. "Will you make it for David and me sometime?"

  The words were out of her mouth before she realized what she said, and a sinking feeling descended upon her, dragging her down into sadness again.

  "It's okay," Charlie said, walking around the counter to pat her back. "Our minds just haven't caught up with reality yet. It takes time."

  Anne nodded, tears spilling down her cheeks. "I don't want to believe he's really gone."

  "It will take some time until your brain can handle all of this." Charlie dabbed at her face with a napkin and patted her hand.

  "We still have to see about getting you home when there are no reporters at your house," he said. "Let's hunker down here for a while. Why don't we try to nap until two or three o'clock. At that hour, we should be able to sneak into your house the back way without being seen."

  Charlie found an old movie on TV, and they sat there, pretending to watch it, but she knew their minds were elsewhere, still trying to wrap some reason around what had happened. Before long, she fell asleep with her head on Charlie's shoulder.

  With a start, she awoke sometime in the middle of the night as Charlie touched her arm and smoothed the hair out of her face. "It's three o'clock," he said. "Time to go."

  His plan worked perfectly. The streets were empty as they drove back to her house, and there was no one in the alley. Anne pressed the button on her remote, and the back gates opened quietly and closed behind them. They drove into the garage, shut the door behind them, and went inside.

  "I'll see you in the morning," Charlie said. He hugged her, brushed her forehead with a kiss, and went off to the guestroom.

  Anne went on to her room but felt chilly, so she opened the camelback trunk at the foot of her bed to retrieve a spare quilt she kept there.

  That's when she found the letter.

  Chapter 29

  With trembling hands, Anne opened the envelope, addressed to her in David's handwriting.

  When you read this, I will be gone. I'm writing this because I have left too much unsaid. First of all, I want you to know that you were always the love of my life. Long ago I ruined our future by pulling away from you after we became engaged, and I'm sorry. It wasn't your fault; it was mine. I was just too scared.

  I was afraid that all women, including you, were the same as my first love, Sharon. After she married someone else, I was terrified of being hurt again. That's why I couldn't get too close to you. I tried, but something always stopped me. It was fear of having my heart broken again. Instead, I broke your heart and ruined my own chances of ever finding love again.

  It would only be natural for you to wonder why I was so close to Mark. I promised my mother I'd never tell anyone the truth as long as I lived, and I've kept my promise, but now I can tell you. My mother had an affair with Mark before he met Dom. She tried to make Dad believe I was his, but he knew better. Mark was more than a friend; he was my father. Forgive me for not telling you, but I couldn't break my promise.

  The short time you and I had together was far from perfect, and I wish it could have been different. In spite of everything, I was happier with you than in all the other years of my life put together, because of your fearless, loving heart.

  Thank you for everything you have done, and for your kindness, steadfastness, and unselfishness in the face of an impossible situation.

  Most of all, thank you for loving me.

  See you in the stars—

  David

  Drawing on reserves of strength she didn't even know she had, Anne survived that awful week, all the while wishing she could die. David's publicist notified the press that a private funeral would be held that Saturday morning and asked that the family's privacy be respected.

  The children arrived the day before the funeral, filling the house with life again, regardless of how sad they all were.

  Once more, Anne's blessed numbness returned, and she was her usual efficient self, making the arrangements and accepting the condolences of David's friends. Charlie went with her to help in the dreadful task of selecting a coffin. As if in a trance, she chose the first one she saw: simple, unadorned mahogany as elegant and understated as David himself.

  Throughout those soul-draining days, everyone remarked on her strength and how well she was holding up as she woodenly carried out the many tasks of burying a loved one.

  Much as she wanted to, Anne found she simply couldn't cry. David's friends cried in her stead, many of them sobbing out loud during the service at St. Mark's Episcopal Church. Charlie escorted her, clutching her waist and supporting her throughout the day.

  The eulogy he delivered in his rich, trained voice was a beautiful portrait of David that touched her to the core, ending with a quote from Wordsworth:

  What though the radiance which was once so bright,

  Be now forever taken from my sight . . .

  We will grieve not, rather find

  Strength in what remains behind . . .

  In the faith that looks through death . . .

  The funeral was just as David would have wanted: a starkly simple closed-casket ceremony with no flowers except for a nosegay of coral roses from Anne. She saw that he was interred in Forest Lawn Cemetery, as he had wished, next t
o Mark in the Wharton family mausoleum.

  On the marker, below his name and year of birth and death, she had added: And he will make the face of heaven so fine.

  Charlie stayed on after it was all over, watching over her, encouraging her to eat, and holding her hand. One night he told her about his wife of twenty-five years. "She died in my arms. Breast cancer. That was four years ago, and I've never stopped missing her. She gave me two beautiful children, and she lives on through them. They've grown into fine people just like their mom."

  Putting her arms around him, Anne held him close.

  After a week, she sent him home, knowing he was scheduled to start a new film soon. "Thank you so much for all you have done. But you can't take care of me forever," she said. "Now you have to get on with your life."

  Charlie put his arms around her. "If you need anything, all you have to do is call. Take care of yourself. I'll be in touch."

  He kissed her cheek. "We have to keep David's name alive, darling. When you're over all this, we'll work on it."

  She nodded dumbly, wondering if she would ever be over it. The worst part had been the cemetery: the finality and truth of it. On the way home that day, she had realized he really was gone, and he wouldn't be coming back, ever.

  Every night she lay awake in bed, replaying the awful tapes in her head for hours, praying to forget their final day at the beach and wishing she could have stopped time the day before it all happened.

  If only I had followed my instincts and refused to go to the beach. No, she told herself, I’m not going to accept any guilt in this.

  Remembering his unbearable pain, she knew exactly what he had done: He had carefully planned and carried out his own death, even making it look like an accident so she could collect his huge insurance policy, originally taken out with Mark as beneficiary.

  Although she was exhausted, she was afraid to fall asleep. Ever since David had disappeared, she'd had the same dream: David swam and laughed, motioning for her to come into the water with him. When she did, she sank under the surface all the way to the bottom, her hair waving above her like that of the girl she rescued. In her dream, Anne knew she was drowning, and she was happy about it.

  The tears still wouldn't come, not that day, not that week, not that month. Nor could she fully accept that he was gone. Everyone believed he had been caught in an undertow, but Anne knew better. He was a strong swimmer, even when he was sick.

  Something nibbled at the edges of her mind: his lighthearted mood the day before he died. All that week he seemed sad and in deep thought, suddenly brightening as if he had come to a decision of some sort.

  Looking back, she thought she knew what that decision was, and it was about more than going to the beach. Making love to her was his last goodbye. The picnic, when he had uncharacteristically gorged himself, had been more than just a meal. It had been their last meal together. Indeed, it was David's final meal.

  Dry-eyed, she picked through his belongings and gave most of them away, just as she had taken care of Mark's things.

  The next day, she drove down to the Palm Desert house and disposed of David's clothes there, wondering what she would do with the house.

  Everything she touched reminded her of him, stabbing her through and through with new anguish, yet she couldn't cry. She held his sweaters and shirts to her face before she packed them. Although they had been washed, they still smelled faintly of the man she had loved all of her adult life.

  It was too soon to think clearly, so she left boxes for charity on the front porch and decided to simply close up the house and think about what to do later. She hired Maggie, David's maid in Palm Desert, to house-sit.

  The house in Laurel Canyon, now hers, was far too empty. At night she slept on David's pillow, clutching a smelly T-shirt she had found in his clothes hamper, with Taffy at her side. The poor dog never stopped missing David and ran to the front door every time she heard someone drive by. Most days she moped in the foyer.

  Charlie phoned and stopped by often, but Anne wasn't good company. Other friends called too, yet no matter what she did, she drowned in grief. No tears would come. She was empty inside, and there was no way to fill the void. It was David's heart beating that had made her live, just as seeing herself through his eyes had brought back her self-esteem. If she had ever felt beautiful, capable, or smart, it was because of David.

  Although he was unable to give her the kind of love he thought she deserved, he had given her far more than most people ever knew their whole lives. Agape, the Greek philosophers called it: the highest form of love possible, truly unconditional and selfless, untainted by lust or self-interest. Perhaps she hadn't, as Joan said, had it all, but what she had with David was more than enough for her.

  Tension built within her until she felt she would explode and leave nothing behind but a trail of smoke. She needed to feel the release and cleansing only tears could bring, but each time she thought she might be able to break down, the numbness got stronger. It was as if she were in a crystal box, fighting to get out, able to see everything around her, but unable to break through.

  Anne was shocked to find that David had left everything to her in a living trust. His estate was much larger than she had imagined, and she would never have to worry about money again. The irony was that she no longer saw the point in living. She would give it all just to have him back. Smothered by loss, it was all she could do to take another breath. She stopped sleeping except for short naps.

  Despite being awake almost around the clock, she had lots of energy. Too much, in fact. But it was hard for her to concentrate, and her thoughts were scattered. She worried because she was getting so absent-minded, and she staggered about like a maniac, constantly moving, fidgeting, and darting from one task to another.

  The only pleasure in her life came from Charlie's frequent calls and visits, which made her feel better for a little while.

  The day she walked out of her slacks as she stepped out on the porch, she realized she needed help. The scales read 105 pounds. Looking in the cheval mirror in her room, she noticed for the first time how thin she was. Her collarbone stuck out above a washboard chest where the bones poked against her thin skin. Her breasts had nearly disappeared, and her pelvis and hipbones jutted out sharply.

  Something was wrong with her tongue, which was raw and hurt when she moved it. She simply couldn't remember to eat. Lord knew she wasn't ever hungry. Now she was thinner than in her runway days. Giving in to common sense and self-preservation, she went to see her doctor.

  "This sounds like situational depression," Dr. Velez said. "After hearing what you've been through in the past few months, I'm surprised it took this long for you to have symptoms.

  "Too much stress burns up brain hormones," he said, "so I'm going to give you an antidepressant. Nothing strong. It will restore your chemistry to normal, and you should begin to feel better, although it may take several weeks to start working.

  "Your tongue is raw from lack of vitamins. I want you to take multiple vitamins and a balanced-B complex," he said. "Most important, get some exercise and sunshine. They're the best antidepressants. Exercise is especially important because it burns up the toxins that stress produces."

  She took the pills and vitamins, and even sat by the pool in the sun. Once she started jogging, she felt better, but it was several days before she began to sleep again. Then it was as if she couldn't get enough. A ten- or twelve-hour night was not unusual at first.

  As she slept more, some of her energy came back, and with it her spirit. David, she knew, would want her to live, fully and joyously. It seemed a natural progression to recognize that she could help him live through her. Thinking about the Wordsworth quote from David's eulogy, plans for a David Hawkins Foundation began to bubble in her brain.

  One morning she got up, looked at the calendar, and realized he had been dead exactly three months. Something snapped inside her, and she was flooded with emotion. She was angry. Angry that nothing could be don
e medically for this dear man, angry that she couldn't save him, and angry that he had died and left her.

  First she raged and stormed about the house, screaming as loudly as she could. Fortunately, Penelope and her husband had the day off, so they weren't around to witness her nonstop rant.

  The next day she cried. Before, when she was unable to cry, she was obsessed with the need. Now, once the tears finally came, she couldn't stop them. All the emotions she had stuffed away deep inside came gushing out, unbidden, unwelcome.

  She got to the point where she was utterly sick of it all; her nose and eyes were so swollen she looked like a prizefighter who had just lost a match. She wondered why she had ever thought crying would be a good idea.

  Charlie called, but she told him she didn't want to talk and didn't feel like seeing anyone. Then she hung up and cried some more. Still, she was glad to hear his voice, and she was thankful for his friendship.

  One day she thought she was done crying and tried to go to the supermarket, but she wasn't even out of the car when she started sobbing. Wearing sunglasses, she wept as she went through the drive-in window at the bank. Just when she believed she couldn't cry another tear, more torrents would break loose.

  Finally, she had to be through with it. Thinking she needed to wallow and get it out of her system, she did everything possible to make herself grieve. She pored over the photo albums, including all of the old ones on the library shelves, flipping through pages filled with pictures of Mark's and David's friends, many of whom she knew.

  As she looked through the last album, a large, sepia-tone photo fell out. It was fragile and tattered around the edges. At first, she thought it was David, until she saw the autograph: Best Wishes, David Wharton. It was Mark's father, the silent-movie star. Filled with excitement, Anne ran to the encyclopedia and looked up his name.

  Finding an article about him, she came across one line that made her heart quicken: "Wharton was known for his hypnotic amber eyes, the rarest of all eye colors, which earned him the nickname Ojos de Lobo, Spanish for eyes of the wolf."