H2O: The Novel Part 3

Everything went black.

Again.

"I think it's a fractured hard drive," I heard someone say. My head throbbed, and my eyes felt glued shut.

Hard drive? I wondered. What? My computer has a flash drive.

"She's with it, Hiram. Wasn't out more than a few seconds, I reckon," said a gravelly voice to my right. A large hand touched the small of my back.

I must be sitting up.

I jerked away, reflexively, and forced my eyes open. An older man, rough like a stevedore, knelt at my side.

"Miss Kate?" I heard Candice above me. No one else talked like that.

I nodded. I had to appear in control or everyone in the place would descend on me. I just wanted some privacy. When my eyes focused, I realized it was too late. I'd become the star attraction.

"This yours?" Hiram asked. He came into focus, standing above me, holding what looked like letters. Black plastic from the shattered keyboard of my only computer. His long matted hair hung down in front of him when he leaned over, a hand to my forehead.

"You took a nasty spill, Kate. That was our fault. I should have made sure Candice had that floor dry before you sat down."

I shook my head and heard Candice start to cry, repeating my name over and over.

"No. It's not her fault," I said, my tongue thick in my mouth. "I . . . I'm going to be fine."

Then I saw it. My hyperthin laptop lay under the next table, shattered. An elderly woman swept up plastic parts into her hand like she'd grabbed sc.r.a.ps of glowing metal from an alien s.p.a.ces.h.i.+p. Even with the letters on them, she had no earthly idea what they were.

I thrust out my hand. "Please. Let me have those."

The woman shrugged and I took the salvage. Seven or eight keys were missing, and an ugly crack stretched across the delicate screen in all colors of the rainbow. It was either obscene abstract art or the smashed vestiges of the lightest laptop that money could buy. Candice howled all the louder and came close, her halitosis more than I could handle.

"Let me help, Miss Kate!" she sobbed, dripping big crocodile tears on me. She fumbled with coa.r.s.e pudgy hands, failing in her attempt to pull me up.

I shrugged her off. It couldn't be any worse-humiliated at ISIP in front of the regulars, and my fifteen-hundred-dollar laptop in shambles. Gigabytes of data storage-with all of my special v-mail development code-lay scattered across Hiram's floor like broken china.

More crocodile tears dripped on me from the leaky waitress. The vertigo returned, and I had a hard time focusing on her as she stood above me. Candice leaned down, pushed her sodden face in mine while her breath knocked me back. "Miss Kate-" she started. I cut her off, turning my head for fresh air.

"Leave me alone!" I shouted, louder than I'd intended. If there really was such a thing as an "Ice Slice," I threw a few around ISIP before I crawled to my feet and stumbled out. Even Hiram's hot coffee wouldn't melt my last glares. Candice trundled to the door bawling. She tried to follow me into the night, but Hiram pulled her back inside, his arms wrapped around her.

"Kate?" he implored. I stomped out, stuffing parts of the busted computer into my bag with my good hand.

"Later, Hiram. I'm okay." I lied. My office had locked up for Friday night, and I couldn't get a loaner laptop until Tuesday. Monday was a federal holiday. I'd just lost my most valuable business tool, shattered ingloriously on a hard tile floor.

I shook my head and headed straight to a cab that waited under a dim light at Vine Street. Time to go home and get a shower. A long hot one.

Or better yet, go straight to bed.

"Did someone die?"

I turned around, surprised by the young voice. I thought I was alone. A redheaded boy, about six years of age, stood near me at the base of the Fisherman's Memorial. Clanging rigging, the caw of gulls, and occasional horn blasts made the harbor a noisy place on a Sat.u.r.day morning. I was surprised to see a little boy out by himself so early with no parent in sight.

I knelt by a bouquet of roses I'd just set at the base of the monument. My shoulder ached as I bent over, still recovering from the fall in the shower and the spill at ISIP. I looked up, twisting a sore neck to see the statue soar skyward, well above an early morning sun that rose in the east. Far above me, a bronze fisherman pulled in a huge catch atop the cylindrical stone pillar. "The roses are for my grandfather," I said, still looking up. I wished the child hadn't intruded. I wanted this to be my time.

"Why?" he asked.

I started to laugh, remembering how Mother used to complain that I overused that word. "Why?" had been my favorite childhood question. I arranged the flowers at the base of the pillar, watching the commercial fis.h.i.+ng boats in the distance while I framed an answer to his question. I knew there would be more.

"My grandfather was a fisherman," I said. I forced a steady voice; I couldn't talk about Gramps without losing control. "But that was a long time ago."

"Why?"

I smiled. My quiet time was shot, so I figured I might as well enjoy this. "He was a fisherman on the Grand Banks, off Canada."

"Newfoundland," the boy replied, startling me. "Newfoundland, Canada."

I smiled again, in wonder at this little geography buff. "How'd you know that?" I faced him. "You're what? Six?"

"Nope. I'm eight. But people say I'm small for my age. Every fisherman knows about the Grand Banks. Commercial fishermen at least," he said, his chest swelling with the last words. "My dad's a boat captain." He pointed at the hundreds of vessels moored at Fisherman's Terminal. "Over there."

The terminal harbored a fleet of more than seven hundred vessels, most of them part of Seattle's commercial fis.h.i.+ng industry. While the tourists milled around at Pike Place Market watching the vendors throw fish, I'd come to the local source for the fresh catch, on the sh.o.r.es of Lake Union, a few hundred yards from the Ballard Locks. The plaque on the memorial that towered above me read "a tribute to the men, women, their families, and the members of the fis.h.i.+ng community who have suffered loss of life at sea." It was my favorite landmark in this town, like some kind of a portal to the Gramps I knew when I was this boy's age twenty-one years ago. A window in time back to my wrinkled, salt-weathered mentor . . . and my best friend.

I could feel Gramps' hard calloused hands wrapped around mine, big hands that had flung poles, pulled lines, folded sails in his youth, baited a hundred thousand hooks, and sliced the bellies of ten thousand fish. I drew in a deep breath, smelling him and his pungent old waxed rain gear in the salt air of the morning. I touched the smooth stone of the pillar behind the flowers, imagining that my hands rested on his hard shoulders.

"Do you like to fish?" the boy asked, cras.h.i.+ng my moment again.

I shook my head. "No. But I like sas.h.i.+mi. Do you know what that is?"

The child frowned. "I'm not stupid." He pointed in the direction that he'd motioned earlier. "We sell tuna to lots of sus.h.i.+ restaurants. Our fish is the best." He smiled, reached toward me, and took my hand. "Come on."

"Wait," I insisted, dropping his hand to pull a small wooden chain from my purse. Four interconnected links of white pine joined a tiny cage at each end with a rough marble-sized ball captured inside wooden bars. Carving a ball and chain used one of the dozens of nautical skills that Gramps taught me on cold, wet winter days in Queens.

I laid my latest carving at the base of Fisherman's Memorial with the flowers and then moved to join the boy, who walked briskly toward the docks. "What's your name?" I asked, jogging to catch up.

"Liam. It's Irish."

"Sure. My nephew's a Liam," I said with a chuckle. "He lives in Milwaukee."

"Are you Irish?" Liam asked, pulling me along once he had my hand. "You look like it. Red hair."

"Auburn."

"Auburn what?" he asked. He never turned to face me, headed someplace fast. The little fellow reminded me of Gramps before his stroke. With the smell of salt air and a sea breeze in his face, he'd soon be charting his own course, oblivious to the rest of the world.

"Auburn's a color. It's-oh, forget it. Yes. I'm Irish. Half Irish. My mother is Italian. I grew up in New York."

"Is your name O'Malley?" he asked. I wished he'd just stuck with the "why?" line of questioning.

"No. It's Pepper. I'm Kate. Kate Pepper."

"Kate Kate cuts fis.h.i.+ng bait," he said several times, enjoying his rhyme. A minute later, he skidded to a stop. "This is our boat." He pointed proudly to a long troller docked in the marina. "The St. Jude." The boat sported a neatly painted white wheelhouse with long delicate outriggers that topped a black steel hull. I didn't see a speck of rust.

"My dad's Irish, too. We're the O'Malleys." Liam jerked at my hand again and yelled a name I couldn't make out. A face peered out of the wheelhouse door near the front of the boat.

"She wants albacore, Mom," Liam stated loudly.

"I didn't tell you that!" I exclaimed, surprised that he indeed knew what I'd come for.

"Doesn't matter," the boy stated matter-of-factly. "It's all we sell. My dad catches it. He trolls all over the East Pacific for the best tuna." The boy invited me aboard the boat, and a woman approached. Probably his mom.

"Looks like you found Liam," she said with a smile, tousling the lad's hair. "Welcome to the St. Jude."

"He found me," I replied. Liam waved and took off through a hatch, headed into the bowels of the boat. His mother's handshake was strong like that of a woman unafraid of work. My mother's hands once had the same rough feel when I was very young and she held the only job of her married life-cleaning houses to bring in some extra cash. "Were you looking for fish, or did he catch you window-shopping?" she asked, her cheeks ruddy in the early morning cool.

"Actually, he's right. Liam's right, I mean. My hobby is catering fancy sus.h.i.+ dinners. I came to the terminal to get some tuna. For a party in a couple of days. I need the best. It's a big deal . . . a charity event." Surely, they wouldn't have what I needed. You don't wander up to just any fisherman and get j.a.panese-grade fish.

"I think we can help," the woman responded. She handed me a flyer. "Joe trolls for young albacore. We brain-stun them, handle them on a padded platform to prevent bruising, bleed them, and flash freeze the fish. We've got whole albacore and loins. Quarters." She turned when Liam rounded a corner with a frosty sample. He'd pulled out a chunk of tuna just for me.

"Liam. Take it back down below. I'll help Ms.-I'm sorry, I didn't get your name."

"Kate. Kate Pepper. And yes, Liam, that's just what I came for. How'd you know?"

He grinned. "She's Irish, Mom. Her granddad was a fisherman, too. On the Grand Banks." He darted back into the hold with the frozen albacore loin and left us on the deck. The wind recommenced, carrying with it spits of rain, leaving dots of moisture on his mother's face and mine. I s.h.i.+vered, despite my rain slicker and heavy liner. I winced reflexively with each drop, losing my focus with every spatter, as though looking through wet gla.s.ses.

I wiped my face with the sleeve of my jacket and felt somewhat better. "He's right. I need fifteen pounds of sas.h.i.+mi-grade albacore." I pulled out my wallet. "The boy's a good salesman."

"Like his dad. We troll exclusively for tuna. Young fish, a high fat content, and very low mercury."

"Perfect." I stuck the flyer in my purse and put a hand to the boat's railing, feeling the salty b.u.mps in multiple coats of paint. I could see Gramps standing there, brush in hand, telling me stories about chipping paint on WWII destroyers as a young man, or painting Maine trawlers in his thirties, while he paid me pittance wages to slop white enamel on his old New York harbor tug. I loved the smell of paint, the locker with a dozen half-used cans of pungent marine black, yellow, oily varnishes, and buckets of thick black grease for the anchor chain. Gramps had been a patient man, even that terrible time when I made a horrible mess of his dock cleaning brushes. Layers of paint seemed permanently ingrained in my grandfather's rough hands, like the coa.r.s.e layers on the rail under my fingers.

"Your hand okay?" Liam's mom asked, pointing at my cloth-encapsulated mitt. She handed me a bag filled with a box of frozen quartered tuna. "These are four-pound loins. Lots of fat in this catch. You'll like them."

I looked at my bandage, now a week after the slicing incident. "I made myself part of the meal last Sat.u.r.day," I said with a laugh.

"Join the crowd. It happens every time we go to sea." She flashed a bandaged thumb I'd missed when we met earlier. She took my money and thanked me, calling for Liam. "Ms. Pepper needs an escort, son. Care to help?" The boy appeared out of nowhere, clambering through some lines like he'd been born at sea. No doubt, this was a seafaring family.

As I took a step off the boat with Liam, his mom yelled from behind. "Wait!" It surprised us both. "You're the lady who does the charity sus.h.i.+ dinners, aren't you?" she asked, her eyebrows raised in realization. "Sas.h.i.+mi Kate?"

I frowned. I'd heard that nickname and despised it. Half-sloshed men at parties threw it around like I'd modeled for the naked woman painting on the nose of a World War II bomber. If Mrs. O'Malley had heard it, the slur had finally made its way out of the martini bars and Xavier's upscale wine clubs. An ugly infamy.

"Yes, I guess that's me." Poor Liam looked puzzled.

His mom jumped off the boat and thrust a business card at me, wrapping her arms around me in a quick but awkward hug. "Come back soon. Please? We've heard about your charity work. That fundraiser you did for the children's hospital? We'd like to find some way to help, too." Her hand lingered on my forearm for a long time, her eyes connecting with mine. They were a curious combination of green flecks and gray that radiated peace. I felt this twinge, like we had some connection, far back. Maybe a common relative in the family tree back in Ireland, or we'd crossed paths at a coffee shop more than once. After all the strange events of the past days, that electric connection bothered me. But in a good kind of way.

She had tears in her eyes, the same tears I'd seen in the eyes of many parents who came to that charity dinner for hundreds of kids with cancer a few months ago. I didn't press her, sure there was a story there. For a moment, I wondered why the tears of patrons at that dinner hadn't affected me, yet hers pulled so strongly at my heart.

Why now?

Reflexively, I wiped at my face again, at the damp film of sprinkles covering my cheeks. As soon as I did it, my vision improved. I could see her tears so much more clearly, and something deep snapped again. Like with Xavier over the dinner, but different. This time I felt angst. Compa.s.sion. It was a deep pain, but the loving kind. Not the rage that drove my knife through albacore a week ago.

What's happening to me?

I hadn't cried in public in years, but the part of me that welled up inside threatened to gush out in a torrent. I thought I'd bottled that up for good yesterday in the executive washroom, but here it came again. Like a fight that raged inside me, the poetry writer and gra.s.s-skipping flower-lover screamed to be set free. I fought it back, closing my eyes a moment to regain my mental balance.

Focus!

I took a deep breath, seeing her talk when I opened my eyes but somehow not hearing.

Get control, Kate.

I wiped at my wet face again and that seemed to help. I resolved not to fall out on this dock like I had in the kitchen, the shower, and in the coffee shop.

Get a grip! Whatever it takes!

I heard her voice once more, unsure what she'd said while I bottled my old self up and shoved it away.

"Maybe-" she began, wiping at her eyes with a quick nod toward Liam, "maybe we could get together sometime . . ." She hesitated. "I know Liam would love it if you came to visit again. You've got a fan club." She smiled, waiting on an answer.

I nodded, unsure what to say.

Her wet cheeks sparkled in the morning sun. "You've done more than you realize, Kate-for so many people. You may not have heard it, but your support with those special dinners at the hospital has changed lives." She looked back toward Liam. "Including the life of our son. Thank you."

I shriveled on the inside. When I did that fundraiser, I didn't have any connection with the cause, just the sponsor-Xavier and Consolidated Aerodyne. Charities had never been my pa.s.sion because I had no connection with the needy-until now. Liam, this little ball of energy, was a cancer survivor, and his ebullient mother was an emotional saint.

She reached out and took my good hand, her cool fingers gripping mine with a confident strength. The connection energized me, and I didn't want to let go, even if the soft, weak part of me escaped forever from its emotional jail. I'd never had this kind of connection with another person and I wanted more.

She squeezed for emphasis with her last words.

"We need you, Kate. And if you ever need anything, we want to be there to help." She held on for a long time. "We all struggle sometimes. Please . . . don't face that struggle alone."

CHAPTER FOUR.

CANDICE KEPT her distance, her tattered rag in hand, standing like a squat blue pillar in the midst of Hiram's noisy coffee shop late on a Sat.u.r.day morning. She usually ran to embrace me, but now remained stiff as the stone column I'd just left at Fisherman's Terminal. She feared me-Kate, the hotheaded woman with a heart of lead.

How could I have done this to her?

Much as I dreaded the confrontation with her lettuce-wilting breath, and much as I wanted to be alone, I had to patch up our relations.h.i.+p. I put out a hand when she started to retreat, her trademark cotton wiping rag raised like a s.h.i.+eld when I approached.

"Candice. It's okay. I'm sorry I was so mean." I extended my hand again. "Friends?"

Candice didn't shake hands. Come to think of it, I'd never seen her shake hands with anyone before. In an instant, she wrapped me in a tight damp hug. Soft pudgy arms gripped me hard.

"Yes, Miss Kate! Friends! Friends for life!"