Dreaming Water

  "I know," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. I offered her another piece of cake, wondering how we'd gotten on this subject.

  She looked at me and shook her head. This was serious business. Lily never turned down a piece of cake.

  "After Max died —" she said.

  "Max was unexpected," I cut in. "Hana's different."

  Lily watched me for a moment, then said gently, "No matter how long she has, Hana's leaving will be a shock, too."

  "What should I do then?" I asked, my voice a dry whisper. I looked slowly around the kitchen. Everything was the same as it always was. I knew Lily was right. Without saying a word, I laid my head on the kitchen table like a small child who just wanted to go to sleep.

  I heard Lily's chair scrape back, then felt her hand on the back of my head, lightly stroking my hair.

  I drop my sponge in the sink and watch water swirling down the drain. All the years I've prepared myself for Hana's death and I'm still surprised at the emptiness that looms ahead of me. The thought fills me with such longing that a sharp, strangled scream rises from my throat. I cover my mouth and steady myself against the counter, wondering if the girls have heard. But other than the chatter coming from the television, all's quiet. And just then, the phone rings and my heart leaps.

  "Hi, it's me," Lily says. "What's up?"

  I sigh with relief. "I'm here screaming in my kitchen," I answer.

  "In ecstasy?" She laughs.

  "In agony," I answer.

  Thirty minutes later, when Hana returns from her drive with Laura, I can see by her expression that she's happy and feeling good. When she was a little girl and something upset her, Hana became very quiet and her lips pinched tightly together in misery. Now, all I see is a serene smile, her eyes bright and alert.

  I help Laura to settle Hana into a kitchen chair. "You two look like you had a good time," I say.

  "Not bad. We took a drive down memory lane," Hana says.

  I look over at Laura, who frowns and nods. "Only all the memories are gone. How were the girls?" she asks.

  "I hardly knew they were here," I answer.

  "Then I'd better check on them." She laughs. "All that silence makes me nervous."

  "Laura?" I ask, before she leaves the kitchen. "Would you mind going grocery shopping with me in a little while?"

  "I'd love to," she says. "Maybe the girls can stay here with Hana." She looks over at Hana, who smiles but doesn't say a word.

  "Yes, they could," I finally say.

  As Hana sits at the kitchen table, I bring her a glass of water. "Hungry?" I ask.

  She shakes her head.

  "Where did you go?" I ask.

  "Bishop's Orchard," she answers. "Or where the orchard used to be."

  "New houses?"

  Hana nods.

  Daring has grown each year. What used to be a small, sleepy backwater town is now a desirable place to live and raise a family. "Everything's changing. Laura must have been shocked," I add.

  She used to hate Daring." Hana laughs. Now she wants her charming small town back."

  "Those were the days."

  "You know," Hana says, her dark eyes looking up at me, "I'm glad Laura came, even though I told her not to. It's easier than I thought it would be to remember that I wasn't always this way, that I was young once, too."

  I want nothing more than to take Hana in my arms and hold her, but I simply pat her arm instead.

  "Will you be all right here with the girls?" I ask.

  She looks at me, not in fear but in contemplation. "I was thinking." She stops and takes a breath. "It might be nice to get to know them one at a time. That way I can see what they're really like. Do you think that would be all right?"

  I smile. "I think that would be just fine," I say. "Who would you like to spend time with first?"

  "Josephine," Hana answers, taking a sip of her water.

  I'm not surprised she chose Josie, the one who needs her most, because it's a different Hana I'm seeing this morning, one who's up to a new challenge, ready to step back into the world again. "They're both lucky girls to have you as their godmother," I say.

  Hana clutches the water glass in a thin hand marked with age spots. Coffin rust a friend once called them. She looks pale but happy in the stark morning light. "That remains to be seen." She laughs.

  I smile back. I know how lucky they are.

  HANA

  Night and Day

  Josephine and Camille are like night and day. That much I can see just by watching them. While Josie is closed and quiet like the night, Camille is open and vibrant as day. Camille is a fuller, less complicated child — it shows on her face and in the way she moves. I can see that life will be easier for her in some ways. But she lacks the intensity, the intuitiveness of her mother and older sister. Stilly they are both smart and eager girls, and I can see traits of Laura in each of them — in Josie's penetrating gaze and in Camille's smile and fine blond hair.

  It's a warm afternoon, and after Cate and Laura have left with Camille to go grocery shopping, I suggest to Josephine that we sit on the back deck. "It's a beautiful day," I say. "Let's enjoy it."

  She nods shyly. "Okay," she says, her eyes never meeting mine.

  I walk slowly, pausing against furniture and doorways, while Josie, carrying two glasses of lemonade, turns around and waits for me. What I expect is someone angry and disagreeable. What I don't expect is that she's so courteous and polite. It all feels like a scene moving in slow motion, and I'm winded by the time we sit down at the table under the umbrella. I take a deep breath and resist the urge to cough, to appear even more fragile in Josie's eyes. We both stare at the trees and mountains in the background as I search for something clever to say to break the ice. Yet the silence isn't uncomfortable, just more reflective, as if every word we say now somehow counts.

  And then, out of nowhere, the memory comes to me. "Do you know," I say, "five birds once died right here on this deck. They committed suicide by flying into the window." I lift my hand and point to the large plate-glass window.

  "Why?" she asks, her dark eyes wide and alert.

  "They were drunk," I answer.

  She laughs. "For real?"

  "I wouldn't lie to you," I say, with a smile. "The birds ate the berries that had fermented on a bush in our yard, became drunk, and crashed into the window." I repeat the words Cate had told me so many years ago. "We buried them over there, under those bushes."

  And then another memory I keep to myself. Max once told me that when he was a boy at Heart Mountain he wished he was a bird so he could fly over the barbed-wire fence to freedom. I remember I spent all evening trying to figure out what kind of bird my father would be. A hawk or a falcon, something defiant, I thought in those days. But now I see him as a bluebird or a red-breasted robin, something proud and beautiful.

  "It's pretty here," Josie says, sipping from her lemonade. "I didn't know what to expect."

  I smile at her honesty. "I expect it's the opposite of life in New York," I say.

  Josie glances at me then and finally lets her gaze rest on my face — my pasty white skin, the wrinkles, the thin wisps of hair — but she doesn't look away this time. Her foot taps nervously against the deck. "Have you ever been to New York?" she asks.

  "I'm afraid not," I say sadly. "I've always wanted to go."

  "Not even when you were young?" she asks.

  I shake my head. "But I've been to Boston to visit my grandparents."

  "Are they the ones in the photos on the piano?" She looks down at her long, thin fingers, which wrap around her glass. Josie doesn't miss a thing.

  "That's right." I smile. "There's a photo with all of my grandparents in it. It was taken on my third birthday."

  "I saw it," Josie says, with that definite way that teenagers have.

  "Tell me about New York," I say.

  Josie looks at me for a moment, and I think she's going to shut down, tired of humoring an old lady. But instead it's as if I've
flipped a switch, and she lights up and begins to talk. "It's crowded and noisy and filled with people from all over the world. On the corner where we live, there's a grocery store that sells everything, from light fixtures and school supplies to salads and pocket bread filled with grilled lamb and onions. I like all the sights and sounds of a big city, and the way people see and don't see each other."

  Josie sparkles with intelligence and animation. It's been a long time since I've felt such youthful energy. "It sounds wonderful," I say.

  "Maybe you can come visit some —" she says, stopping in mid-sentence, as if she's said something she shouldn't have. "I'm sorry," she says.

  "For what?" I ask.

  "For asking you to come visit when, most likely, you can't." She looks at me and then away again.

  "Maybe I'll surprise you one day," I say, quickly picking up the conversation.

  Josie nods but has lost her enthusiasm. "What was my mother like when she was young?" she suddenly asks.

  I smile at the question. "She was popular and lively and as beautiful as she still is now," I answer without thinking.

  Josie watches me, then asks, "Were you ever jealous of her?"

  Her question catches me off guard, and it takes me a moment to answer. I try to think back to a time when I was jealous of Laura, but only silly, adolescent scenes come to me. None of it matters anymore, though I can see how much it means to Josie to know more about Laura. "Every girl in Daring was jealous of your mother," I say, "including me."

  "Me, too," she says softly. "Sometimes." Her eyes glance up at mine. "Not really jealous, just envious, maybe."

  I wish Josie knew just how much I can understand what she feels. And for a brief moment, I too feel envious, for even now Laura's upstaging me. "You have nothing to be envious about," I tell her, "as smart and pretty as you are."

  She smiles shyly. "Did she have many boyfriends?"

  "She went steady with a boy named Greg in high school, and another named Charlie in college," I answer. "Your mom could have had as many boyfriends as she wanted."

  "How about you?" Josie asks.

  "Things were much more complicated for me," I say, sipping from my lemonade. It tastes both sweet and sour. "I wasn't exactly what you'd call stunning. How about you?"

  "Me, either." Josie drops her eyes and blushes. "Boys don't much like me."

  I watch the tall, thin, awkward young girl hunch over the table and wish I could reassure her that her journey is just beginning. "There'll be plenty of time for boys in your life. No need to rush things," I say.

  Smiling, Josie looks at me, then pulls the rubber band off her ponytail. With a quick shake of her head, she sweeps her long hair back and lets it fall to her shoulders.

  "So tell me what your mother's like now."

  At first Josie stays quiet, licking her lips. I sit back in the chair, my back stiff and aching. I can't tell exactly where the ache is coming from as I shift uncomfortably.

  "Sometimes I wonder why she ever had us," she says. "All she does is work. She says it's to provide for us, but I think it makes her feel better thinking it does."

  Josie's voice is high and raw as the words pour out of her in one hurried breath. I lean forward to touch her hand and she doesn't pull away and her gaze doesn't leave me. She appears younger and sadder to me. "She loves you both a lot. There are no two people in the world who have made her prouder."

  "But she doesn't love my dad anymore."

  I swallow, thinking of the right words to say. "Sometimes married people grow apart. It doesn't change what she feels about you and Camille."

  Josie taps her fingers on the glass tabletop, draws little circles with her fingertips. "Everything's changing," she says.

  "Change is part of life, but what doesn't change is how much parents love their children." I say this with such fervor that Josie looks up at me, and I remember something I once heard my father say. "Don't count backwards," I tell her. "Count forwards now."

  After a long pause, she asks, "Can I ask you another question?"

  "Anything," I say.

  "What's it like to grow old so fast?"

  I look up at Josephine and take my time answering. I watch a blue jay fluttering from one privet bush to the next. It's such a simple question, but for a moment it still surprises me, like something vinegary and tart on my tongue. "It's no fun at all," I say lightly at first, then, after a pause, I tell the truth. "I've had to learn to let go."

  Josie looks at me, serious and determined. "How?" she asks.

  "It's hard," I say. "But I let go of all of the meanness and spite first. No use carrying around useless baggage. Then I let go of the things I love, like swimming in the ocean, eating pizza and burgers, and buying new clothes to wear. Now I'm dealing with the hardest part, letting go of all the people I love."

  Josie looks up at a squirrel running along the ledge of the house, then lets her gaze meet mine. "It must be impossible," she says, her voice rising then falling again.

  At that very moment, I know I love this girl, this goddaughter of mine. "Well, you do get to keep some of the most important things," I say. "Like listening to music, reading a good book, talking with friends like you. That's what you learn from life, Josie. It's never long enough, no matter how many years you have. And it's always a gift, so don't waste it." I stop then, not wanting to preach too much.

  But rather than scoff, Josie watches my every move, hangs on every word. She nods. There's the faraway sound of a motor runnings a power saw or a lawn mower.

  "You know, you don't look that old," Josie suddenly says. "Camille was afraid of you at first."

  "But you weren't?"

  She hesitates for a moment. "It seemed kind of creepy at first, that you were young and old at the same time. Like in some movie."

  I laugh out loud. I like Josie for her honesty. She says what she thinks, which is one more trait of Laura's that she's inherited. "You remind me a lot of your mother," I say.

  Josie smiles widely. "No one ever seems to think so."

  "They will, as you grow older," I say. "You're perceptive, the same way she is."

  Josie pauses in thought. "I guess that's how I can see that you're still young inside," she says.

  "How can you see that?"

  "Your eyes," she answers. "When I look into them I see someone young."

  I lean closer to Josephine and wish I could hug her, press my warmth against hers, but the fear of frightening her stops me. "Thank you," I whisper instead, as if we're sharing an intimate secret.

  JOSEPHINE

  Games

  When Camille and I were young, we used to play a game called switch-it, which was completely made up by me, so the rules could change at my whim. It would drive Camille crazy when she did everything right but was still wrong. "That's why it's called switch-it," I said. Now, when I think back to those times, I feel bad. Camille was a sweet six-year-old, and I couldn't help feeling jealous that she so easily captured my parents' attention. There were lots of other things I did to torment her. But talking with Hana reminds me now that Camille is my sister, my only sister.

  "What are you thinking about?" Hana asks.

  "Nothing," I say, as if I've been caught doing something wrong. I still feel terrible about telling Hana to visit us in New York. When will I get it? I ask myself. Only this time, I really meant for her to come.

  "You're not under investigation." She

  laughs, then sits back in her chair with a wince.

  "Are you all right?" I ask. "Do you need anything?"

  Hana smiles. "Everything I need is right here, right now," she says.

  And then I relax and sit back in my chair. "Do you think any drunken birds will come crashing into your window this year?" I ask.

  Hana shakes her head. "I cut down that berry bush a long time ago. But if you give me a hand, I'll show you where we buried the birds."

  In the next moment, I'm beside Hana, helping her out of her chair. She seems so light and fragile, like
she'll break if you pull too hard. So I carefully offer my arm and she holds on and leans against me, which feels warm and comfortable.

  "This way," she says, as we slowly walk across the grass. She stops for a moment and so do I, looking up at the mountains. "They're something," she says softly. "Have you ever heard of Heart Mountain?"

  I shake my head.

  "It was an internment camp."

  "Like Manzanar?" I ask.

  Hana smiles. "Exactly like that, only in Wyoming. It's where they sent my father and his family when he was a boy."

  I nod. Heart Mountain, I think to myself, could there be a more ironic name?

  "There, at Heart Mountain, the mountains frightened him. He felt they were always watching him. I've always felt the opposite, that they were somehow protecting me."

  Then we continue on to the far side of the yard, where a mass of thick green shrubbery has grown. "Right here," Hana says. "This is where we buried them."

  "Under that?" I ask, wondering how anything could be buried beneath such dense covering.

  Hana laughs. "The year after we buried the birds, that privet bush began to grow, and it hasn't stopped since. We call it our miracle memorial. Every spring the most beautiful white blossoms bloom."

  We stand there, with Hana holding on to my arm as we gaze at the shrubbery, and I try to imagine the five small birds from which the plant took root and began to grow. It amazes me how something so beautiful can bloom from something terrible.

  CATE

  Satisfaction

  The house is quiet when we return from grocery shopping. I walk in first, all ears, not knowing what I expect to hear. It seems ages since I last saw Hana. I've felt afloat all morning, sailing down the supermarket aisles without her to anchor me. Once, when Laura and Camille had disappeared down another aisle, I felt completely alone among rows and rows of food items that blurred past me. Again I thought, this is how it will be when Hana's gone. And then out of nowhere came blond, blue-eyed Camille, who waved from the end of the aisle and said to me with a smile, "We're over here," and for the moment I felt saved.