H2O: The Novel Part 17

When I awoke, I lay in John's arms, seated on the floor in the kitchen. His hand caressed my forehead, stroking hair out of my eyes. I could hear John before I saw him, and his voice remained subdued, as if he were speaking to someone else, or talking to himself. When I opened my eyes, he stopped the gentle speech. He cradled my head in the crook of his arm, kneeling at my side.

"Is it like this each time?" he asked. His voice soothed me. It had a strangely comforting tone, as if he were asking a question about which he already knew the answer and planned to tell me something I needed to know.

I nodded my head in his embrace, blinking.

Is this a dream?

"How long do you think you were out?" he asked.

I tried to connect with where I was standing when this all started. The memory remained fuzzy.

"You were was.h.i.+ng the fish," he said. He could read my mind.

"I . . . I don't know. I was on a boat. No. I was a boat. Maybe half an hour?"

John chuckled and his smile broadened as he looked down at me. "Thirty seconds, Kate. At the most." He ran his hand along my forehead slowly, tracing the line of my hair and pus.h.i.+ng back a few strands of my powdered bangs. His fingertips were calloused but his caress was gentle. I craved his touch and didn't want to move.

"What happened?" I asked. I knew too well, but his summary would be the best independent feedback I'd had about my fainting.

"You looked at me when you put the fish under the faucet. I yelled your name, and you got a surprised look on your face, then dropped the tuna in the sink. You remained standing, wobbling but standing, staring into the distance like you saw someone. I caught you just as you collapsed."

"I fainted."

"No. You didn't faint. You groaned and bent over like you were trying to carry a heavy load. You started leaning, then you went over like a tree falling." He paused. "What do you remember?"

The visions never faded, imprinted on me like metal engravings. But they were hard to put into words. If you'd been blind since birth and suddenly saw purple, how would you describe the experience?

"There was a boat. And a man on a sh.o.r.e, far away. I've seen him before. Always the same man dressed in a brilliant white."

"Like a recurring dream?"

"No," I said, shaking my head. I rolled toward him, putting out a hand and leaning into his arm as a pillow. I didn't want him to let me go."Not like that. I've seen this man before, but he's always doing something different. He's a gentle man. This time he told some men where to fish. With a net."

John sucked in a breath like he'd heard something that really spooked him. His arm tensed, and the coursing finger on my brow stopped its motion. He stared at me for a long moment, and then spoke with deliberation.

"Did they catch any fish?"

"The net nearly pulled me over. I think I was the boat. And they caught hundreds."

"And that's when you fell."

"Maybe."

"Is that all?" he asked, his question more clinical, as though he were quizzing me in a police station or on the witness stand.

"That's most of it. We sailed back to sh.o.r.e."

His finger began its track across my face, his gaze meeting mine in silence. No words were needed. He spoke again at last, tears in his eyes, and his voice cracking as though he spoke about a dear friend.

"After you caught the fish, did a man jump overboard and swim to sh.o.r.e?"

My face-or my gasp-gave away the answer. He nodded and put his finger to my lips, his cheeks now wet with tears, his chin quivering.

John pulled me closer and rocked me, his strong arms tight around my neck and shoulder. He held me for a very long time, whispering words to someone else, not to me, words I could barely make out.

Tearful words of thanks.

John listens. He uses his ears at least twice as much as he uses his mouth. He wants to know about me, wants to know what I think, what motivates me, and what hurts. He wants to know about my visions, every step in my journey from normal to "crazy when wet." And even though I object sometimes when he starts to talk about G.o.d, he doesn't judge me. I could open every dark recess of my heart to this man and he'd accept me just as I am. It's refres.h.i.+ng to be in the company of a person who's not consumed with "all about me!"

He liked the sus.h.i.+, too. After our "interruption," I taught him some fundamentals of slicing fish and then laughed as he butchered his first tuna. Raw fish did not qualify as his favorite, but I loved his half-inch-thick wedges-no, his hunks of fresh meat. With a little oil and some spices, his tuna had found its way into the pan before the night ended. In truth, he liked it cooked much better than raw. But I didn't mind. He had come, he listened, and he cared.

It took us until nine p.m. to make it to the dessert stage. He dined on my stories, my tale of woe at the doctor and the kidney stones, and my Hobson's choice about the lack of proper hydration. He learned all about Consolidated Aerodyne and my fall from grace, about Candice and Hiram and my favorite coffee. Even about the new friend I wanted to reconnect with-little Liam, the chain-carving son of a sailor.

"This dessert isn't in the sus.h.i.+ theme," I said, lighting a tiny torch that I used to melt sugar. "But I love creme brulee." I whisked the torch over sugar atop the yellow dish of my special concoction. "The British called it burnt pudding."

He laughed. "Cold raw fish and burnt pudding. What a strange combination."

I waved the torch in John's direction in mock threat as the phone rang. I ignored the number on my iPhone and answered, cradling it precariously on my shoulder while I put a dollop of whipped cream and slice of mint on his miniature bowl.

"Kate?" the voice asked. It was a strange pained voice and not one I recognized at first. "This is your father." I heard other voices in the background, the distant wailing of women as though they were crying uncontrollably.

"Yes?" My hand fell to the counter, my own whipped cream splattering on the granite top.

"Your mother. She's-she's been very sick."

"What's wrong?" My knees were like rubber, and I steadied myself against the granite counter top. John moved toward me, no doubt concerned I might be slipping into another of my trances. I waved him off and plopped onto a counter stool.

"Your mother pa.s.sed away tonight, Kate. We're at the hospital. She's gone on. I'm-I'm sorry. It happened so fast we couldn't call. She was fine this afternoon-"

"Mother died?" I blurted out. Instantly I could see myself at ISIP, taking his last call, and her desperate request for me to come home for Christmas. A holiday that I'd spent wallowing in self-pity in my dank condo. My heart took a dive for the bottom of the pit, and I landed back in my dark cave of despair. Mother had reached out to me, and I hadn't responded when she needed me most.

"Yes, Missy. You mother pa.s.sed away a few minutes ago. Just after midnight."

I could hear Aunt Isabella, the family drama queen, bawling in the background. Others were crowding around my father, asking him when I would be home. He choked on sobs and could barely talk.

"Come home, Kate. I need you." He hung up.

I set the phone down slowly, and John's eyes met mine when I looked up. He reached across the granite and took my hand.

Words stuck inside me, a storm of emotions blowing them away before they could escape out my mouth. So much that I wanted to say, but nothing emerged. Even tears were bottled up, the shock so sudden, so severe.

I'd known that this day would come. Maybe I had even fantasized about it twelve years ago when I left home, ripped apart on the inside and with no way to go back. I dreamt of a life on my own, away from control, free of my mother and father, free to be who I wanted. Free of the dreadful memory of what died in New York in my seventeenth year.

Battles raged deep inside me, and I hoped none of that showed as John caressed my hand. There were secrets, deep pains that had never gone away, deep regrets I couldn't make over. I had estranged myself from my mother, by my own doing. She'd never known how deeply she hurt me, nor did I ever give her a chance to find out or give her an opportunity to make it right. Now it was too late.

"There's a lot-a lot you don't know about me, John." I chose my words carefully for fear that if I didn't maintain a lock on my mouth, I might spill it all, a confession for the ages to the only man who'd ever listened. The story of my frustrated youth under the thumb of parents who put church and television ahead of me, of my first boyfriend and a Valentine date that led to a pregnancy. Dreaded memories of a child carved out of me for convenience, leaving a black hole of regret that I'd never filled with any amount of stuff or success or speed. I feared I'd confess my past proclivity for hot men with big muscles and tiny brains, men who loved themselves and their careers more than they loved sacrifice or loved me. I might spill the beans about my vices, my past addictions to money, to ma.s.sages and hot bikes, to expensive coffee and fast company. In the few months that we'd known each other by web, and in the few days I'd known him in person, one thing was sure. John embodied none of the things through which I'd tried to gain pleasure in the past. Yet, he had become the greatest source of pleasure I'd ever known. I'd been chasing all the wrong priorities.

He squeezed my hand, ma.s.saging it with that same care he'd shown as he stroked my forehead. He chose his words carefully, and then spoke up, his eyes locked with mine.

"You don't have to share secrets, Kate. They're yours. But I'll be here for you when you need to talk."

"Will you go with me?" I said, tears finally starting to form. I knew I had to get my words out quickly before the water imagery hit me. This was one flood I wouldn't be able to stem. "Go to New York?"

He clutched my fingers with one hand and lifted the other to wipe away my tears. His calloused fingertip sucked the pool from the corner of my eye like a sponge. John nodded, then took my hands in both of his as he spoke.

"Yes, to New York. When do we leave?"

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

TWO DAYS LATER.

I THINK THAT the guy I read about in USA Today-the one who only drank c.o.kes for fourteen years-must have been nuts. I've been at this "water avoidance" thing for what? Four months? And it was killing me. If getting wet didn't sp.a.w.n such nightmares, I'd drink a swimming pool. As much as I love coffee and juice, there's a point at which only water will slake a thirst. Denying that fact simply made me want water more.

My insides were killing me. The pain was intense deep in my lower back. Dr. Hunt said to "drink a gallon a day, half of it at night, to pa.s.s that kidney stone." Try doing that with orange juice. You turn into a walking acid drum. And with coffee? You can't sleep for a week. I needed water. But I refused to drink it. Walking hurt, but sitting was worse, and I'd been seated in an airplane or a cab for the past eight hours. The only good thing about this day, as I headed to my parents' house in Queens, was being with John. Having him with me made it all tolerable.

"You okay?" John asked as he helped me out of the cab in front of our old brownstone in Queens. The pain in my back made me grimace, but that hurt less than this sudden return to a place I used to call "home." Twelve years ago I'd vowed to never come back. I left here on a tearful July day as a post-abortive seventeen-year-old girl determined to strike out on her own. That muggy summer morning seemed so very long ago. I nodded at John and let him give me a tug, glad to be free of the old Yellow Cab. It reeked of cigarette smoke and cheap people.

We stood together in silence on the sidewalk, and I pointed out the house-115-53 122nd Street in Ozone Park. Nothing fancy. Two bedrooms. Two baths. Brick. Over sixty years old. A little over a thousand square feet, half the floor plan I had in Seattle. A depressing place, and unchanged since I'd left.

"Can we just stand here for a minute?" I asked John as he paid the cabby and returned to my side.

"Long as you want," he replied, infinitely patient.

"Isabella or someone else will eventually see us out here and come running. Before we get caught in that weepy crowd of old gossips, I wanted to tell you something."

He took my hand where we stood side by side on the old cracked concrete sidewalk. Despite January's brutal cold, John didn't flinch. Muddy lawns between the street curb and sidewalk were worn down to dirt. Neighbor's yards overflowed with the stuff of kids. Plastic trucks and bikes, plastic slides and dollhouses. Old cars jammed the curb and left no place to park. Nothing had changed; it was just different trash in the yards and mounds of unmelted dirty snow.

I struggled with the words, unable to form them easily. I feared that if I didn't get this out now, someone would tell him my story when we went inside. Perhaps it would be Isabella, the family mouth. Or one of her children who'd grown up just like her. I wanted John to know my dark past on my terms, and I'd procrastinated through an entire flight across the United States without telling him, on the threshold of the big family event. I hoped beyond hope that my revelation-an emotional cancer that I carried inside me-wouldn't scare him off.

"I made a terrible mistake many years ago." There. I had said it. At least the start of it.

He squeezed my hand again and moved to face me. "Kate, I told you before that you don't have to share any secrets. I like the Kate you are. I'm not here to judge the Kate you were."

"Either way, it's Kate."

"We've all made mistakes. We've all fallen short."

"I fell a long way, John."

"As did I."

"I got pregnant, John. And scared. I took what I thought might be an easy way out, and I've lived with that memory for twelve years-a nightmare that comes without the water. I can't ever forget it. Coming back here"-I waved my hand at the old brick homes-"Coming back here drags it all back up for me." I pointed down the block. "He lived over there."

"Kate. Do you understand what forgiveness is?"

I looked at him. What did he mean by that? Was it an opening to one of his spiritual lectures? Yet, part of me craved just that, words of wisdom that poured refreshment on a dry soul. I nodded. I understood forgiveness, at least in my head.

"I forgive you. And He does too," he said, pointing into the sky. "If you'll ask Him."

I shook my head. We'd already had this conversation more than once. It made no sense to me that someone I couldn't see would forgive me for something I deliberately chose to do and could have avoided. It seemed too easy a path out of perdition-the ultimate cop-out.

His words finally registered. "You forgive me?" I asked. "I don't understand."

"You're sharing something with me that I have no right to know. The fact that you're telling me shows there's something about your past that you hope to make clean. I want you to know that, if there's something I need to forgive, then it's done."

I took a deep breath and watched his expressive face. Not the boyish smile but the serious one, the "I'm on your side in this battle" look that I'd seen him wear more than once on this trip. Like when I snapped at a waitress after she tilted a cup of water in my direction.

"It's that easy for you? Poof, and my past is past? Slate wiped clean?"

He nodded.

"You don't think less of me for what I did?"

"No."

I shook my head. "I never thought the day would come when I'd meet someone who could say that." Deadly tears began to form, in part due to the blowing wind, but mostly because he'd just lifted the tar-like burden that I'd carried for twelve years. Since my abortion, I'd dreaded the day I'd be forced to face my past with a man I cared for. I never thought it could be done. Yet, confronting my ghosts at the front lawn of my old home, I'd found a man who accepted me for who I was and forgave me my past with no strings attached. What manner of man does that kind of thing? John must be a saint. That's what Mother would say.

Mother.

I looked up at the house, squeezing John's hand and pulling him toward my old home. "It's time to find my father. You'll like him. His name is Norm." I thought about it, then added as an afterthought, "And he's probably watching television."

My parents' house looked a wreck. Not dirty but jammed. Filled to the brim with relatives, neighbors, and about a dozen men from the paint shop at subway maintenance where my father worked for the city. Food had been set everywhere, in a combination of an Irish wake and an Italian wedding. Isabella saw me first; her wail would have earned her a job at the firehouse.

"Kaaaate-uh!" she said with a feigned Italian accent. She was all Jersey but put on the Italian airs when she came to the city. The old family way.

I waved sheepishly as the entire ma.s.s of Irish-Italian humanity went silent and turned to face me. I felt like I'd pulled the emergency stop cord on the commuter train. My father rushed out of the crowd to embrace me.

John shoved a handkerchief into my hand as my father reached me, closing my fingers on the cloth with rough warm hands. John knew what I faced. If I cried, I'd immediately lose contact with reality. But this would be a cry fest for the next three days. I had to hold back my tears, which made no sense. Until I had fallen into this water problem, I never cried. Now that I needed to, even wanted to show emotion, I dared not. Nothing made sense anymore.

We hugged. My father felt bonier than I'd remembered as I pulled him close. He gave me a long bear hug, and then pushed me back to take a good look. Not until he'd held me at arm's distance did the hens start clucking. Every aunt on both sides of the family commented. "She's skinny!" "Look at those legs!" "Have you ever seen clothes like that?" "How long did she intend to wait before she came home?" "It's about time." My father didn't seem to notice. Maybe he didn't because he'd listened to it for so many years. Or perhaps it didn't bother him. Either way, the stream of whispers infuriated me.

"You're so grown up, Kate," he said. "You're-you're beautiful!"

My father had never said those words in seventeen years of parenting. My heart melted and the first tear ran. I daubed it away.

"Your mother would be so proud of you," he continued. "It happened so fast, you know? A little wheeze one day, a cough the next, and then-then she's gone." He choked and his own tears ran. "She never suffered, Missy. Strong to the end."

That was Mother. A stoic's stoic. No complaints, no pain; even if she'd suffered some problems in her life, she'd never tell my father. She had her own way of maintaining control. Pain meant weakness, and she never showed either, a perspective I'd inherited from her.

I couldn't look at him crying, so I pulled my father closer. I never remembered hugging him like this; it's impossible to hug a man in a recliner. But it felt good and he needed me. We connected.

At last, he separated and turned to John. "Who's this, Kate?" My father's smile looked worn and weak, but it rivaled John's in size. For some strange reason, he seemed genuinely glad to meet my friend.