The fog has quickly rolled in from the ocean as I settle us back into the car, teary-eyed, muttering, "Where are my keys?" all set to drive us home when Hana says, "Please, Mom, it's all right."
"It's not all right!" I choke out, now in tears. "This is absolutely ludicrous. What was I thinking, leaving you all by yourself?"
"You were thinking we needed something to wash down our popcorn," Hana answers.
She looks at me, her face calm and serious.
Now I'm crying for real, forehead propped against the steering wheel, hot tears streaming down my cheeks. I feel ridiculous and scared and sorry my sweet Hana has to sit beside me in wet pants, and yet I'm the one who's crying.
"Don't give up on me," I hear Hana say, then feel her hand touch the back of my neck, "because I haven't."
I look up from the steering wheel, stung by embarrassment. One thing is certain, at this moment, Hana is clearly the wiser of the two of us. "I'll never give up on you," I say. "Just don't give up on me."
"No chance." Hana laughs. "Especially when I need you to drive me home."
I laugh, then reach into my pocket for a tissue. Sometimes I wonder who's taking care of whom here. I wipe my eyes, blow my nose.
"Let's go home," I say, starting the car with a roar.
HANA
Winter Bones
To see my mother cry is rare and unnerving. She maintains a brave front while caring for me, as if I belong in this life, no matter what Werner has to say about it. She hides more sorrow than any person should have to endure. Every night when she goes to sleep, I know that she hopes I'll be with her the next day. And every morning when she wakes up, I know there's a split second between dream and reality, when she wonders if I'm still here.
After my mother left to get the water, I closed my eyes for a minute against the weakening sun and listened to the wind blowing through the eucalyptus trees. Here, close to the coast, the fog rolls in so fast it's startling, leaving everything in shadows. So, for the moment, the warmth felt comforting and I thought of Mrs. Gravis and Howard and my grandfather Henry, and how they liked to be outdoors whenever they could, receiving the warm embrace of the sun, as Howard once said. Then, before I knew it, I was sitting in a pair of wet pants, watching the warm, dark stain spread down my legs.
And all the while, it felt as if my mind didn't have anything to do with my body, like I was watching someone else's body malfunction. I once overheard my grandmother Anna say to my mother that everything in the body breaks down when you get older. "Your body no longer listens to your mind. You simply can't move as fast as your mind wants you to," she said. "It's as if winter gets into your bones." The image stayed with me all that afternoon. Winter in your bones. Winter bones. The gnarled branches of trees in winter. It sounded like the beginning of a Robert Frost poem.
Lately, I've encountered all four seasons in my bones — the brittleness of summer, the wetness of spring, the cold of winter, and the dull ache of fall. With differing degrees of grace, I've dealt with the physical symptoms of Werner, everything from bilateral senile cataracts to a broken hip, from arteriosclerosis to the ulcers on my feet. But losing control of my bladder has had a completely defeating and depressing effect on me.
* * *
The first time, a little over a week ago, I woke up and felt a wetness in the sheets beneath me. My mother had just come into my room, and I didn't know how to explain what had happened as she helped me up from bed. When she saw the dark, wet shadow on the cream-colored sheet, her eyes widened in surprise before she forced a smile.
"I'm sorry" was all I could think to say. "I didn't even know it happened. I must be losing control."
She touched my cheek, pulled my blankets away. "You don't ever need to say you're sorry to me," she answered, helping me up from the bed. "It's just one little accident. Now let's get you into the shower."
As the warm water fell on my pale, bony body, I looked down at my almost flat breasts and sparse white pubic hair, the protruding ribs, skinny arms, and legs scarred by recurring ulcers. Perhaps the dark marks were the beginning of some melanoma. What next? I felt a sourness rising and vomited, right there and then. "Werner, what are you doing now?" I asked aloud, my arms braced against the shower wall. "Isn't it enough?" I began, but couldn't finish the sentence. I started to cry, the water washing the tears from my face. Lately I've spent a lot of time crying in the shower, and wonder if that's where my mother also sheds her tears. Over the years we've tried to spare each other as much grief as we could. But this was the first time I had lost control of my bodily functions, and it must be a sign of things to come. I had seen it at Evergreen, and now I was losing hold of the one thing I most wanted to keep: my dignity.
When I came out of the bathroom, my mother was already in the kitchen making breakfast. I smelled the coffee brewing, heard the toaster pop up with a tinny ding. I went into my room to find my shades wide open, a bright morning light streaming in, and my bed already freshly made up, everything perfectly tucked in as if nothing had ever happened.
For the nights afterward, I was afraid to go to sleep. I couldn't help wondering if I might lose control again, or if I would have to wear those grown-up diapers I'd laughed at when I first saw them advertised on television. I prayed to God that it wouldn't happen again. I had to believe what they told me in catechism, that God would never abandon me, even if I didn't attend mass every Sunday.
Days passed. Mornings came without incident, and I thought my prayers had been answered. Werner hadn't won this round yet. I woke up in a kind of rapture when I found my bed perfectly dry. When my mother saw the smile on my face, I could see the relief in her eyes. By the end of the week, I began to believe that my accident had been a one-time-only event, and I treasured that gratifying thought. Until this afternoon.
JOSEPHINE
Getting There
"There it is!" Mom says suddenly, startling the dull, stale air of the car. Camille leans forward from the backseat, and I straighten up and pull my earphones down around my neck.
"Where?" Camille asks. My sister is the type who has to be the first to know everything.
"It used to be green, but it's salmon-colored now with green trim." Mom points to a big, old-fashioned Victorian that's half lost in the fog.
"That's where you and Uncle Jake grew up?" I ask, surprised at my sudden interest.
"That's it," she says, slowing down as we pass the house. "It looks so much smaller now," she says to herself. She stops the car for a moment and stares at it.
To me, it looks old and complicated, with a bay window and an attic room at the top. It's the room I would have liked to have had if I grew up there. Back in New York, Camille and I each have our own small room. When we visit Dad, we stay in his guest bedroom, which smells new like paint, like no one ever stays there for long.
"Was that your room up there?" I ask, pointing to the attic.
"No." She laughs. "Neither Jake nor I wanted to clean out all the junk up there, even if it would have made a great room."
"Can we see inside?" Camille asks.
"No, stupid." I glance at her. "Other people are living there now."
But before it erupts into an all-out name-calling, Mom says, "Josie, don't call your sister stupid," while Camille shoots me one of her evil-eye stares.
"Well, it's simply common sense," I say, deciding it isn't worth a fight.
Mom continues down the block, slowing and turning into the driveway of a large, brown-shingled house. "And this is Hana's house," she says, turning off the engine. "Wait here."
We watch her go to the front door and ring the bell. I can tell she's nervous by the way she keeps straightening her blouse, pulling it every which way when she looks just fine. After a few minutes, she shrugs and walks back to the car.
"No one's home," she says, slamming the car door closed.
"You mean after we've driven all the way to no-man's-land, they're not home? I thought you said they're always home." I need to rub it in.
For dramatic effect, I climb into the backseat to hunker down next to Camille. Not that she'd ever take my side, she'll stay neutral, watch from the sidelines.
"So we'll wait," Mom answers. "They'll be back soon enough."
I can tell by her voice that she's not so certain, that she's getting weary of her spur-of-the-moment trip. I want to say I told you so, but it lingers on the tip of my tongue and I don't. I look out at the hazy darkness that surrounds us and wonder what we're doing here.
"What if they've gone somewhere," Camille suddenly asks, "and won't be back for the weekend?"
"Then we'll check into a motel and have a little vacation," Mom says.
"Here?" I say.
She nods. "Yes, here. Anyway, they couldn't have gone far, not with Hana in a wheelchair, unless something happened —" She stops and I can hear an edge of defeat in her voice.
Then something shifts inside of me, like something hard melting right below my heart. It makes me feel so sorry for her that I say, "No, you're right. They should be back any minute now. I can feel it."
Mom turns around and smiles at me. Even in the fading light, I can see how much she appreciates what I've said. "Thanks, Josie," she says.
It's not so hard to say something nice, I think. I want to say something more but the moment's gone. What I'm really feeling again is that it's so stupid for us to be sitting in a rented car thousands of miles from home, waiting to see our mysterious god-mother, who has some kind of old-age disease, when my mother's obviously having some kind of nervous breakdown.
CATE
Underwater
I drive home with my eyes glued to the road, my hands gripping the steering wheel tightly as the fog comes in, thick and swirling. It feels as if we're in the middle of a cloud. Halfway home, we can barely see the road in front of us, except for what my headlights illuminate through the haze. The towering pine trees are lost in the gauzy white mist. I watch the yellow markers in the road, glancing at Hana every once in a while to make sure she's all right. She looks small and fragile, staring out the window at nothing. I want to take her in my arms and hold her, tell her everything will be all right, though I'm not so sure it will be. And right there and then a sudden sinking feeling fills me, like I'm drowning, even as I breathe in great mouthfuls of air.
"Are you okay?" Hana asks.
I take one more breath. "I'm fine," I exhale.
* * *
When I was six my father tried to teach me to swim. We were at his private club in Boston, where they had an indoor swimming pool. It was a long, Olympic-size pool, divided into lanes for members who swam every morning. I remember how muggy it felt in there, the smell of chlorine stinging my eyes. My father jumped in with a big splash, the dark hairs on his wide chest rising in the water.
"Come on. Angel, jump in," he urged.
I stood at the edge of the pool in my brand-new cobalt blue bathing suit, dark spots of wet where the water had splashed on me, and couldn't move. I was terrified the water would swallow me up.
"Daddy's right here," he said, waving me in. "You have nothing to be afraid of."
I looked down at him in the water and wanted more than anything to jump in, knowing he would save me. So I jumped, holding my breath with my eyes squeezed shut, sinking into the cold, quiet void, only to feel my body suddenly buoyed back up, my father's large hands holding me out of the water, saving me.
I want to save Hana in just the same way, but recently I feel her slipping from my grip.
HANA
Details
I stare out the car window and watch the fog become thicker and thicker, like white tissue paper hiding a gift beneath. It happens right before my eyes, houses and trees losing their definition, their edges blurring so quickly I blink and they're no longer there. I feel the same about Werner lately, only going in the opposite direction, aging my body in sudden, devious ways, a surprise around every corner. The symptoms are overlapping, taking over. One day I know Werner will rise up with the final blow, a seizure or organ failure, just when I think everything has balanced out.
The last time I saw Howard at Evergreen, he began talking about putting his life in order, so that when he was gone nothing would be left undone. He looked tired and distracted.
"Are you feeling all right?" I remember asking.
He looked down at me and smiled. "I'm a bit preoccupied this afternoon," he said, stroking his beard. "There's a number of things I need to put in order."
"Can I help?"
"I wouldn't bore you with all the details." He laughed. Howard had a deep, solid laugh, which I loved. In the two years I knew him, he never again asked why I volunteered at Evergreen, he simply enjoyed our time together. "Just clocks to be set and letters to be signed before the day ends."
"Shall I read?"
Howard shook his head. "I'd rather talk for a moment."
I nodded. "What about?" I asked, knowing that music and books were his favorite topics.
Howard smiled. "About something I want you to have." From a bag beside his chair, he took out a recorder, made of rosewood, he said, which his father had given to him. "When I was a boy and first heard the sweet notes coming from it, I knew that music would be my life."
"I can't take this," I said, holding the reddish brown recorder. It felt light and smooth in my hands.
"Of course you can. I can't think of anyone else I'd rather give it to. So wherever you go, dear Hana, you'll always have music close by."
I felt tears pushing against my eyes.
"You will leave Evergreen?" he asked.
I nodded yes, which seemed to make him happy.
"Good," he said. "This isn't the place for someone like you. Go out in the world, and live in the heart of life, and think of your old friend Howard once in a while."
Then I laughed. "Yes, sir."
"I mean it," he said.
"I know."
Howard died a few weeks later without ever knowing about Werner. I've kept my word as much as I could. The heart of my life takes place here in Daring with my mother, and every time I play his rosewood recorder, I think of Howard, much more than once in a while.
Lately, I've begun to think about putting my own things in order, the many details Howard spoke about. Despite what most people would think, it's not as depressing as it sounds. Like a wedding, I want my death done right — the music, the flowers, and all the people who are invited. I don't want Jell-O molds and sponge cake; I want sushi and crème brûlée, exotic and exciting. These thoughts come at the most unexpected times. A few weeks ago. Mom and I had just finished lunch when I had another revelation.
"I've been thinking," I said seriously, "that I'd like to be cremated, not buried in the ground."
We had yet to speak of this, and I know it was unfair of me to blurt it out. My mother sat back in her chair as if the wind had been knocked out of her. "But then how would I...," she said, and her voice trailed off.
I knew the first thing that came to her mind was where would she put all the lovely flowers she'd bring to my grave?
"You know how claustrophobic I get," I said lightly, trying to extract a smile from her. "All you have to do is sprinkle me around your garden, instead of bringing flowers to the grave. I'll be surrounded by them every spring," I said, in a silly, light-hearted banter. I really meant it.
A sound came from her, more of a cry than a laugh.
I reached over and said, "It's what I want."
She nodded.
Howard was right, there are just as many details to dying as there are to living.
JOSEPHINE
While Waiting
I stare out at the murky light, watching the eerie shadows of the trees dance back and forth as nightfall begins to settle in on Daring. It's not only cold but also kind of creepy waiting in the dark in this driveway. Mom grips the steering wheel with both hands as if she's driving, staring out at nothing, while Camille plays with her Game Boy, the light from the flickering screen catching my eye over and over a
gain.
Only the thought of missing a few days of school makes this all bearable. I wonder what Annie will think when I don't call and I don't show up on Monday. What will she think if I don't return at all? Last year, quiet Kristin Miller went away with her family to Thailand for a year, and when she returned she was a different person, sporting spiky, cropped hair and a tattoo on her left upper thigh. She bragged that her parents never knew she'd gotten it. Tattoos were cheap in Thailand, and with the help of her soldier boyfriend, who thought she was eighteen, Kristin had an eagle tattooed on her thigh. She showed us in gym class, lifting her shorts as the girls gathered around. "It hardly hurt, except for here," she pointed to the dark, beady eyes. "Now when I look at it, I forget all about being back in this shithole," she said, letting go of her shorts as the blue material covered it again.
What if the same thing happened to me? I think. My life could change like Kristin's, right here and now in Daring, California. It doesn't seem likely, but I still smile secretly at the thought. It might not be something as permanent as getting a tattoo, but change comes in all shapes and sizes. It doesn't matter how I change, I think, as long as I return to New York as anyone but myself.
Camille reaches into our sack of goodies and rips open a bag of potato chips and I can hear her crunching, even with my earphones on. I pull them down and I'm just about to suggest we go find the closest diner for a burger, then the nearest motel that has HBO and call it a night, when a car slows and pulls into the driveway behind us. The blinding headlights fill our car with light. Camille and I pop up from the backseat as my mom turns around and says, "She's here."
CATE
The End of the Day
By the time we return home, a thin veil of mist still keeps everything just out of focus. It's already dark and we're both exhausted. My only thought is getting Hana bathed and into some dry clothes. I can't imagine how uncomfortable she must be, but she doesn't let on. She's so quiet it frightens me. In fact, there's a strange serenity to our drive home, blanketed in the fog, the hum of the radio filling the car and Hana smiling into the whiteness. The restlessness she felt all morning has disappeared. Going out to the park seems to have brought her some calm, despite her accident.