Dreaming Water

by Gail Tsukiyama

  "So how's Werner doing?" I asked.

  Dr. Truman adjusted his stethoscope around his neck and glanced over at Cate as I sat on the examining table, a thin sheet of tissuelike paper wrinkling underneath me.

  "He's holding his own," he answered.

  "Tell him to lighten up a bit. I need to get rid of these ulcers on my feet and legs. Still too much I have to do, and time's running out."

  Dr. Truman laughed. "Did you hear that, Werner? Give Hana a break."

  But Werner hasn't listened. I've wet my bed for the first time. I can't walk and don't sleep well, and the tremors have gotten worse. He's been a real son of a bitch this past week.

  CATE

  Waterford, Maine — 1958

  I want Hana to know that some fairy tales do come true. However, in my story, the prince arrived not on a white horse but in a gleaming, new black-and-white 1958 Thunderbird. I met Max on a Friday afternoon in Waterford, Maine, when the roar from his brand-new, twin-exhaust convertible turned every head along Waterford's Main Street. The top was rolled down, and a young man with a cap pulled low on his head sat confidently in the white leather driver's seat. From his radio came the smooth wailing of Elvis Presley's "Don't Be Cruel."

  Waterford wasn't much of a town back then, nothing but a quaint, quiet Main Street three blocks long with a general store, a post office, small shops, the Waterford Hotel, and a restaurant. Tree-shaded residential streets in neat, square grids were lined with comfortable, picturesque white-clapboard and brick houses.

  But I was a tourist in Waterford that muggy August day in 1958, trying to calm my restlessness with a long drive. I had just graduated with a degree in English literature from the University of California at Berkeley. I'd grown up in Boston, the only child of old-fashioned Italian parents — a calm, controlled mother and a well-known lawyer father who believed that raising his voice louder than that of whomever he spoke to would somehow justify everything he said. We lived in a brownstone filled with dark, heavy antique furniture, statues of the Virgin Mary, and the lingering fragrance of garlic and oregano. I went to an all-girls' Catholic high school but convinced my parents to let me go to Berkeley; I wanted to see what the rest of the world was like. "The real world's right here," my father said, though he knew I had made up my mind and finally relented.

  For my college graduation, my parents flew out to California, where my father greeted me with a kiss on both cheeks and said, "Now you can come home where you belong." Desperate to earn a teaching credential in California, I was still trying to convince my father of the rightness of my decision when my parents boarded the plane back to Boston ten days later. Papa nodded his head slowly, pretending to understand, then said, "Boston needs teachers, too."

  "Take care, sweetie." Mama gave me a quick kiss of reassurance. "We'll see you at Christmastime," she said, pushing my father along.

  Two weeks later I was summoned home when my mother was badly injured in a car accident. Along with two fractured ribs and a broken leg, a concussion left a ringing in her ears. While my college friends were venturing out in different directions to pursue all the possibilities the world had to offer, I was suddenly right back where I started — the South End of Boston, with its indifferent, brownstone-lined blocks.

  All that summer the heat was relentless, rising from the concrete and hanging heavy in the air. I felt restless and impatient about my future, while I took care of the household and worked a few mornings a week filing and bookkeeping at my father's law office. But on Fridays, when Aunt Sophia came up from Connecticut to visit Mama, I was free to do as I pleased.

  One of those Friday mornings, on impulse, I drove up to Waterford. We had gone there on family outings when I was small, but it had been years since I'd been back. Compared with the hot, suffocating city, everything about Maine seemed fresh and new — the jagged shoreline that extended up the coast, the bobbing fishing boats berthed together, the small towns that resembled quaint villages out of books I'd read. It was everything Boston in the midst of an oppressive heat wave wasn't — a big enough draw for a young woman looking for a bit of diversion.

  I returned to Waterford, curious to see if it was still the quaint town I remembered from childhood. I wandered around Main Street and, after a tuna salad sandwich and iced tea for lunch, found myself in a shop called Foley's Pet Store, watching a pen of playful kittens. At the sudden, sharp gunning of a car's engine I looked up and out the window but quickly dismissed the sharp-looking driver as some spoiled college boy from Harvard or Yale showing off the Thunder-bird his parents had bought him.

  I walked back to an aisle lined with fish tanks, their soft, gurgling bubblers humming in unison. I was mesmerized by the brilliant designs in yellow, orange, red, and blue hues that defined each tropical fish. I thought that only the endless possibilities of nature could produce such a kaleidoscope of colors, but I could see my mother making the sign of the cross and hear her say, "You see, Caterina, God certainly does work in miraculous ways."

  Then, through the undulating water bubbling in the tanks, I saw the driver of the Thunderbird saunter in, dressed in a white shirt and dark slacks, his cap angled low on his head.

  "Can I help you?" Mr. Foley asked. There was something awkward, almost hesitant in his tone.

  "I'm just looking around, thank you." The young man sounded calm and even.

  It was only after he took off his cap that I realized he was Oriental, the polite term we used back then. In California, I had embraced liberal Berkeley's cultural openness. After three weeks back in Boston, which was still closed to anyone outside its Catholic and Puritan world, this Asian-looking face made me miss California even more. I watched his solid figure move slowly to the stacked cages of live animals, saw him stick a finger through one cage and stroke a sleeping kitten, let an overzealous puppy lick his hand. The mixed breed pup threw himself against the cage, whining with excitement, his tail and hind end wagging frantically back and forth.

  "Be careful there," Mr. Foley said, never taking his eyes off the young man.

  He turned around and smiled. "You've got a wonderful store here."

  Disarmed, Mr. Foley cleared his throat. "Yes, we like it. You need anything, just ask."

  "Yes sir, I will." He nodded.

  Mr. Foley cleared his throat again, then busied himself with a magazine, his eyes darting up every few minutes.

  I couldn't help but let out a small laugh. The young man looked over and smiled.

  I'll remember that smile until the day I die, his dark eyes catching mine in that first instant. People say you recall these kinds of things right before you pass on, those special moments in your life flickering before you like a silent movie, no words needed. It's one of the moments I hope for again, whether in dream or memory, and especially in death. I wish for a moment like it for Hana as much as for myself. Max had the most beautiful face I've ever seen, with a high forehead, straight nose, and slightly wavy black hair. While many of my Asian friends at Berkeley were shorter and slighter, compared with my five feet, seven inches, Max was four inches taller with broad swimmer's shoulders.

  How he happened to wander into Water-ford that weekend was just another stroke of luck. "I made a wrong turn," he explained early in our courtship, when every detail meant so much.

  "And kept going?" I wondered.

  "What can I say? You were the magnet pulling me there."

  "That's it?" I asked, secretly pleased with his answer.

  He smiled. "That's it. Fate brought us together."

  I know differently now. What brought him to Maine was much less romantic than fate. He had driven across country from Los Angeles, having just finished a Ph.D. in history at UCLA. In Bangor he visited a grad school friend, and Waterford had been simply a wrong turn on his way back. But even that wrong turn was fate, Max said, so no matter how I want to remember it, he had his point.

  Not long after her first kiss, Hana asked me, "What made you fall in love with Daddy?"

  "His k
indness," I answered. It was a quick and honest answer, but it made little impression on Hana. She was too young to understand that a little kindness could make all the difference when things became difficult.

  "What did you do on your first date?" she asked, more interested in specifics.

  "He bought me a cup of coffee."

  "That's all?"

  I laughed. "We met in a pet shop and he asked me to have a cup of coffee with him. That was pretty brazen, back in the fifties."

  Hana rolled her eyes. "What did you do on your second date? Have tea?"

  "Actually, he drove me to the beach and we sat and talked. It was very romantic," I added.

  "Uh-huh," she said, already having lost interest.

  Once in a while I try to imagine how different my life would be if I hadn't stopped that day in Waterford forty-one years ago. How fate could have been changed with a simple right turn instead of a left. No Max. No Hana. And I'm right back in the dark again — all the sudden cold fears of childhood overtaking me.

  HANA

  Mirror, Mirror

  I sit on the sofa by the living room window, my feet elevated by cushions as I watch Cate working in the garden. It's part of our daily routine — she works in the garden, while I try to read or write to my best friend, Laura, who's now a brilliant criminal attorney in New York, where she has a busy, full life with a stockbroker husband and two daughters. Josephine and Camille are my godchildren, the only children I'll ever have in this life. Beautiful Laura Stevens, everyone's dream girl with her blue eyes, long, blond hair and her tall, thin figure. We've known each other since we were babies. We did everything together, from teething to having chicken pox. Our parents were neighbors and good friends. Laura even taught me how to kiss right before I went to the junior prom with Kenny Howe. "He'll be expecting at least a kiss good night. Just don't press your lips too tightly together," she instructed. When I made a face, Laura leaned over, rested her hands on my shoulders, and pulled me closer. She whispered to me, "Relax, Hana," my rigid body loosening up as she placed her slightly parted lips against mine. They felt soft and warm and I could taste the sweetness of her cherry lip gloss. Then she pulled away and said, "If his tongue slips into your mouth, don't worry, it's all part of it." I looked up at her blue eyes, trying not to think about Kenny's tongue in my mouth, yet grateful for the quick lesson. Now, I remember it with such vividness that a sudden, painful longing to see Laura fills me, and it's all I can do not to cry.

  Sometimes, when all else fails, I listen to music — classical or jazz — Bach or Brubeck. Even in the cold, damp days of March, Cate's outside, imagining her spring garden in a few months' time, her face flushed pink from the raw wind. I shudder at the thought of such cold. Only when it rains does she stay in, gazing out the window at the low, dark sky, the grim, shadowy trees, the rainwater that runs in clear sheets down the slant of the road. Even then, I imagine it's a piece of each day that she can call her own.

  Today I can't seem to concentrate on one thing. I'm discouraged because the ulcers on my legs and ankles haven't fully healed yet, and it's been almost a week. My joints have begun to feel stiff and useless. "In a few days. Be patient, Hana," Dr. Truman told me when he was here the day before yesterday to check on me. If it were true, I should have risen today and miraculously walked again. I'm tired of getting up each morning not feeling well, a dull ache that never seems to go away. When I accidentally glanced into the mirror this morning, I didn't turn away as I usually would. Instead, I looked long and hard and saw someone small and wrinkled staring back at me, with taut, age-spotted skin, dark, hollow pockets below the eyes, and gray tufts of hair sticking out in all directions. What have you done with Hana? I asked out loud. Where did she go?

  I sit up on the sofa, then plant my feet on the cold floor, easing my weight forward as I try to stand. It takes only a moment of shooting pain in my ankles to know that I can scarcely stand, much less walk. And how will it be in a few years, when I'm confined to a wheelchair for the rest of my days? The thought circles around my mind as I fall against the sofa pillows. And, suddenly, it's Howard that comes to mind, and I can almost hear his deep voice urging me on.

  * * *

  Eighty-four-year-old Howard Rice, a onetime music teacher and violinist, was the best dancer at the Evergreen Retirement Home. With a one-to-four ratio of men to women, the ladies swarmed all over him at the weekly tea dance. When he escorted me to the front door after I'd read to him, some of the women laughed and liked to tease me with "You're giving us stiff competition, honey." Unlike the other men at Evergreen, Howard was always immaculately dressed in a white shirt, corduroy slacks, and cardigan sweater. His gray beard softened his deep-set, dark eyes and hawk-like nose. I thought how he must have been very intense in his younger days with his serious, intelligent manner. On sunny days he liked to sit outside in the backyard under the shade of a large pine tree with me, while I read to him Swann's Way or The Past Recaptured from Proust's Remembrance of Things Past.

  "Proust makes time stand still," he said to me. "Not a bad thing at my age!" He ran his large hand over his close-cropped gray hair.

  I laughed. I had to admit there was something calming about the minute details of Swann's daily life.

  We could never get through a few lines without stopping to talk. It took only a few meetings to realize that Howard was different from the rest, still deeply concerned with life around him. He hadn't given up, like so many others at the home had, and was intensely curious about everything. On one occasion, it began to rain and we scrambled inside to the community room and sat by the window.

  "Before you begin reading today," Howard said, laying his large hands on the table in front of us, "tell me something about your life." I'd been reading to him for about two weeks, enough time for his curiosity about me to find its way into words.

  "What would you like to know?" I asked him back.

  Howard stroked his beard and looked at me closely before he said, "What's a vibrant, young woman such as you doing here at an old folks' home?"

  I laughed. "I thought it might be a good experience," I said. "It's just temporary," I added.

  "You should be out in the world, sharing your charms and meeting people your own age," he said, his dark eyes waiting for an explanation. "That's surely where I'd be if I were your age again."

  There was no use complicating our new friendship with details about Werner. Other than being small in stature, I could still keep my secret. I didn't have the heart to tell him that being at Evergreen was just as much for myself as for anyone else. I was curious after the cataracts. I needed answers to questions I didn't even know yet. I wanted to know what to expect in the not so distant future, to see firsthand some of the mysteries of growing old.

  "I met you, didn't I?" I said. "Some of the ladies here aren't too thrilled about my invading their territory."

  Howard laughed. "Some of the ladies here can't remember what's their territory!"

  Then I laughed.

  "So you won't answer my question?" he persisted.

  I looked into his gray eyes and saw kindness. "It's important that I be here now," I said, my voice turning serious.

  Then both of us were quiet. I waited for him to continue, but he didn't, I knew Howard had never been married and had spent much of his life teaching the violin and traveling the world. He came to settle in Daring to be close to his niece, he told me, and to contemplate his remaining years among the redwoods. He entered Evergreen two years ago, when he fell and broke his collarbone, not wanting to be a nuisance for his niece and her family.

  Howard smiled and changed the subject. "You're Japanese on your father's side, right?" he asked.

  I nodded, flipping through Swann's Way and noting that we'd barely made a dent in the book in the past few weeks of my reading to him.

  "Was he interned?" Howard asked.

  I looked up at him. "Yes, he was. At Heart Mountain in Wyoming."

  Howard shook his head. "I was proud
to have fought in the Second World War, but I was never proud of what we did to our own Japanese Americans."

  I tried to imagine Howard as a young man, tall and dashing in his uniform, as he fought for freedom and democracy, while my Japanese American father, who was still a boy, had lost the very thing Howard was fighting for.

  "My father teaches history at Brandon" was all I could think to say.

  "Totally understandable." Howard leaned back against his chair and closed his eyes, as he often did when I read to him. "He's still searching the past for answers."

  I nodded. "He loves everything about the past and how we've come to where we are today."

  "Perhaps he should pay Evergreen a visit. Lots of old relics right here in Daring."

  I laughed.

  "For whatever reasons brought you here," Howard then said, "I'm eternally grateful."

  I smiled. "So am I."

  Howard stood up and went over to click on the radio. A soft, sweet melody filled the room as he came back to me. "Shall we make the old girls jealous?" He held out his hand to me. "May I have this dance?"

  And though the top of my head only reached his chest, I felt tall as he swept me across the floor with ease.

  Cate looks up and sees me sitting by the window, raises her gloved hand, and waves. I smile and wave back. She still moves around like a much younger woman, kneeling for long stretches at a time, planting flower bulbs, watering the delicate roots until the day she sees the green shoots pushing through the ground, each a small miracle. My mother has always been the most beautiful woman I've ever known. More so because she isn't aware of it. I've heard Lily tell her, "Cate, I swear you must have blinders on, not to see how gorgeous you are." Then Lily would touch her own full head of frizzy, dark hair, look down at her own solid figure. "I'd kill to have your straight hair and even twice your waistline!"

  Cate has no idea how often people are struck by the way she looks, turning and taking a second glance to see if their eyes are deceiving them under the bright fluorescent lights of the supermarket aisles or in the dark, quiet corners of the library. She may think it's me they're staring at, which is something we've both had to live with, but I know better. Through the years I've come to realize that their furtive gazes begin with me — the four-foot-eight, bird-like creature — only to linger on my mother — the fair-complexioned, dark-eyed, auburn-haired beauty who's a full foot taller than I am.