At the Scent of Water (2 page)

“Lord Jesus,” she said. “Touch his heart. Touch hers. Begin right now drawing them back together with an invisible cord. Knot a thread through each one and just keep on pulling and pulling until they’re back together again. Do whatever you have to do, Lord.” She paused, waited for a minute, but no other words came. Well, when you were finished you were finished. He heard things the first time. “In Jesus’ mighty, precious name,” she said.

“Amen,” he answered softly.

She opened her eyes and met his gaze. His eyes were a little moist. She looked away to give him a chance to wipe them. Actually, she looked back to her own table. Cora was staring at her, mouth agape, and Marie was at her walker looking like she might toddle on over and join them. Ginny gave the man’s hand one last squeeze and maneuvered herself up and out of the chair, waving him down when he rose. “I’ll be praying for you,” she promised, then turned and made her way back to the table.

“What in the
world
?” Cora exclaimed.

“Were you praying over there?” Marie asked.

“What happened?” Laura demanded. “I didn’t see.”

“Let’s go,” Ginny said. “I’ll tell you later.” It took them a few minutes more to gather their things and calculate the tip. By the time Ginny had left her nine dollars and twenty-seven cents on the table, the man in the starched white shirt with the sad blue eyes was gone.

Part One

Come home, come home,

Ye who are weary,

Come home.

One

Sam stepped out of The Inn into the dusky evening. Even though it had been sunny and warm today, the mountain air still held a misty coolness when the sun began to set. Everything here seemed clean and restorative, though he knew it was a mirage, a sleight of hand produced by the Almighty. Which was ironic, as it was also His hand that was withholding what was needed. Rain. Moisture. A taste of cool water. For these mountains, as well as the rest of the state, the entire Southeast, for that matter, was in the grip of a vicious drought.

For the last three years it had not rained. Oh, they had seen the occasional thunderstorm and brief spatter of showers, just enough to make the plants rouse and send out their roots in hope, only to wilt, curl, and die when no moisture came. Last year alone the rainfall had been twenty inches below normal. The creeks had dried up, springs turned to sludge. Farmers had lost their crops and sold off livestock. Another year of this and some would lose their farms and homes. He wondered if there would be any relief. He scanned the sky now, hoping to see clouds. There was nothing but open blue blending to night’s gray across the tree-covered tops of the Smoky Mountains stretching off into the distance.

His gut churned with the stew of conflicting emotions that coming here always produced. He slung his jacket over his shoulder and walked to the bluff at the edge of the restaurant’s property. To the east was North Carolina, the place that had once been his home. He could see Lake Junaluska and beyond it Maggie Valley, Gilead Springs, Waynesville, and Silver Falls, and beyond them the lights of downtown Asheville glimmered in the dusk. Behind him to the west, just over the ridgetop, was Tennessee, the place from which he had come just hours ago. The Inn straddled two worlds, the same as he did. He took a deep breath and looked around. The woods were dense and beautiful, cool under their canopies of pine and oak, their floor a spicy-scented carpet of needles and leaves. Here and there he could see a flash of pink rhododendron shyly peeking through the green understory of leaves.

They took his breath, these mountains, and he wondered how she was able to stay away, though he supposed she could ask the same about him should he ever cross her mind to that extent. He had been an exile these five years, as well, banished to Knoxville with its speeding traffic, its sweltering highways, its gleaming chrome and shimmering heat. He felt as if some angel with a flaming sword would bar the path should he even attempt to make his way back home. But whether he acknowledged it or not, these mountains always drew him, as if they exerted their pull directly on his heart.

He gazed at the vista spread around him. The tree-covered hills of the Smokies undulated, dark green waves becoming teal and finally hazy blue in the distance. He knew their secret. It was the trees that made the hills hazy. They emitted hydrocarbons, which made the characteristic blue mist. He wished he did not know this. It bothered him. He much preferred the way he had felt about them as a boy. They were magical then, somehow, an ethereal, otherworldly place. They were not. He knew this now with certainty.

He walked a ways, pushed through some low-growing brush, and looked down at the rocky tumble that used to be Smoky Hollow Falls. It had once been a thundering cascade, pouring down granite steps to create a crooked frothing river that foamed over a rocky bed. Now there was a weak trickle and patter of water, and the river was almost nonexistent, just a sluggish stagnant ripple. It would be better if it were gone completely. Then there would be nothing there to remind him of the way it used to be. Still, he remembered the white surge, the cool blue rivulets, the splashing foam as it cascaded down the mountainside, the swirling currents as it coursed among and over the boulders in its path.

He wondered idly what it would be like if it began to rain again. If the skies opened and poured out their life-giving waters. He abandoned himself to imagine a slight spill and trickle of river becoming bigger and more urgent until finally it ran wild, filling, churning, spilling over the dry bed. He imagined what it would feel like if that rain began to fall. He could almost feel its first hesitant drops, then the drops becoming rivulets, drenching his face, soothing his tired body, a refreshing, cooling stream.

He unbuttoned his collar and took a few deep breaths. He felt as if he were suffocating. Lately he’d been having strange sensations and at the most inconvenient times. It was getting harder and harder to carry on without the grace that used to fuel him. Two times last week, just as he was poised to press the scalpel down onto a tiny heart, he had suddenly glimpsed himself as if he were an observer to his own surgery.
What are you doing?
he had asked himself.
Who do you think you are?
And his hand had hesitated. No one had noticed except his scrub nurse, Florence, as old as dirt and guardian of many secrets. She had glanced at him quickly, her faded gray eyes cutting sharply toward him over her mask, perhaps wondering if this would be the time his hand slipped or did not move quickly enough. “Will you do it again?” she seemed to ask. They all did.

All those surgeries had gone off without a hitch, yet the incidents had troubled him greatly. He knew he had been performing by the numbers for years now. Five to be exact. Oh, he was still technically perfect if no longer brilliantly creative. But lately he had begun to be afraid. Of himself, he supposed, though he wasn’t sure exactly what that meant. Just that he felt as dry and cracked as the riverbed beneath him, and he knew he could be easily ignited if a flaming arrow hit target, no matter how calm he looked on the outside or how competently he still performed. Something vital that had protected him was gone, the well-oiled shield that used to quench those arrows, and the willpower he had used in its place was wearing out.

He put aside the troubling thoughts and turned his mind to the more immediate. He thought of the encounter he’d just had and shook his head, not sure if she’d been a senile old woman or a prophetess of God. He was leaning toward senile old woman. His heart gave an unexpected flare of grief at that conclusion.

He looked up into the darkening sky. The stars were visible here. He was far enough away from city lights to see things clearly. He watched them for a moment. They looked fixed and immovable, but he knew the truth. Things traveled. Things shifted and changed. Nothing was for certain. Nothing stayed where you put it. He looked away from them, down to the graveled path beneath his feet.

He had been coming here for five years. Praying for five years. For five years he had been leaving messages, wooing her to return to the place where he had asked her to be joined to him until death parted them. And for five years he’d been waiting.

He remembered the foolish hope that had carried him through that first year. She’d been traumatized, he’d told himself. She just needed time to recover from the events that had torn both of their hearts to pieces. He had forced himself to give it to her. Had kept himself fiercely in check, though he had not been able to keep from finding out where she was. He couldn’t bear not knowing. He had not slept or eaten until he had heard for himself that she was safe. For that was his job, was it not? To care for her? To make sure that everything pertaining to her went as it should? He shook his head bitterly, aware of how miserably he had failed.

He had hired an investigator, and it had been ridiculously easy for him to find Annie. He had located her in a matter of hours. Sam had known, even before she had called and left her terse message, that she was in Seattle, at 201 Brady Way, apartment C. He had known she had taken a job with the
Seattle Times
. That she was still driving his Ford truck.

He had stopped after that. He had forced himself to be satisfied with knowing that she was safe. That she had the necessities of life. Beyond that there was nothing he could do for her. He had left her name on all the bank accounts and had made sure each was well stocked, but she had taken nothing after that first thousand dollars.

He had waited, marking the time on his calendar, sure that she would come back. When it had been nearly a year and their anniversary came, he had seized on the date as an excuse to contact her. He had composed his speech in his mind, had rehearsed it until it was perfect. He’d been confident that he understood her. She had been sad. She had been upset. But surely she was ready to talk to him now. To readmit him to her life. He had called four times and finally delivered his speech to her answering machine. “Come home,” he had said. “Let me take care of you. Don’t stay away, Annie. Come back to me.”

She had responded in kind, leaving a message for him, calling at noon when she must have known he would be working. “All right,” she had said. “I’ll see you.” The words had opened the door between them even as her tight, fearful tone leaned against it. His hopeful heart had refused to admit the truth then, of course. But after the first few minutes that year at The Inn at Smoky Hollow, he had known she would not come. He remembered how his spirit had sunk as he had sat and waited. He had realized then how much he had underestimated her grief and pain. Her bitterness.

He asked himself now why he had continued to come year after year, and he knew the answer. It was the only link left. To let it go would be admitting all hope was gone.

He stared into the empty river gorge and thought of a play he’d seen once about a woman who stood every night at the doorway calling her dog. Finally, at the end, she’d come to a realization. Little Sheba wasn’t coming back.

And neither was the one he waited for. The finality of it hit him like a blow. He felt a flare of anger, though, not the dull resignation he would have expected. The fresh memory of the old woman’s message came back to him. “Now is not a good time to stop praying.”

He cast it off with a violent shake of his head. She wasn’t a messenger of God, just a lonely old woman who’d been watching his little drama and thinking she heard from the Almighty, but it was just her own wishes she was putting words to. Besides, it was too late. He had already stopped praying. He couldn’t remember when, exactly, but some time since he’d stood here last year this time, he had quit asking God for what was never going to be given.

It was over. It was time to move on. He had been a fool to wait this long. The realization had a hollow, bitter finality, but at least things would be settled now. He was finished. He wasn’t ever coming back here again. He stared into the darkness thinking about the mistakes he had made, and after a moment he took off the ring he still wore on the third finger of his left hand. He reached into the breast pocket of his jacket, took out the small velvet box that contained his wife’s wedding rings, set his own inside with them, and snapped it shut. Then he took out his keys and walked to his car.

****

He drove, keeping his mind as blank as he could. He crossed the North Carolina-Tennessee border. When he neared the interchange for his apartment in Knoxville, he kept going, continued on past the city limits to the small suburb of Varner’s Grove and followed a familiar route. He had come here every day at first, watching, hoping, praying for some slight change, some shift in condition that would signal a reprieve from the crashing disaster, the wall of unthinkable error that had fallen down upon him from every direction. It had been to no avail. After a while he had begun coming once a week. Then once a month. Part of him wanted to put it behind him now. To forget. But he could not do that, for like a cold shadow it trailed him wherever he went. It was a ghastly reminder that once the hand slips, the mistake cannot always be repaired.

He drove into the silent parking lot, empty of all but a few rows of old worn cars that belonged to the staff. He parked his own car, suddenly ashamed of its newness and comfort. He clicked it locked, heard the electronic chirp, and walked up the concrete entrance walk, past a concrete pot full of brown-tipped coleus and cigarette butts. Rosewood Manor was a state-run extended-care facility. It was a sprawl of brick and concrete, of worn linoleum and scarred paint. It smelled bad, and it was where Kelly Bright had spent the last five years of her life.

He walked through the automatic doors, past the empty reception desk to the nurse’s station. He recognized the charge nurse as one of the kind ones, fifty or so, overweight, hair and skin drained to the same shade of sallow.
Helen,
her nametag said. He greeted her and introduced himself.

“I remember you,” she said, and he tensed, but the eyes she turned on him were compassionate.

“How are you, Dr. Truelove?” She set her glasses on the mountain of charts before her.

“Fair to middlin,” he answered, keeping his jaw locked tight against the truth. “How is Kelly?”

She tipped her head, considering the answer that she was under no obligation to give. “Would you like to see her chart?”

“No.” The answer was out abruptly. He felt horrified at the thought.

“She’s doing very poorly,” Helen admitted, her face sober. “She has pneumonia again. And she has another urinary tract infection. Dr. Evers has her on antibiotics, but so far she hasn’t responded. And she’s still got the decubitus on her buttocks and heels, but those are the least of her problems.”

Sam received the news, heavy, unremitting though it was. All three conditions—pneumonia, urinary tract infections, and bedsores were the bane and result of Kelly’s comatose state. Kelly’s body continued to pump air in and out, receive nourishment, excrete it, and her heart and vessels performed beautifully, the final success of his repair a testimony to the exquisite cruelty of God. But her brain had gone silent and still, deprived of crucial oxygen while he fumbled. It had been in that state of suspended animation for just over five years.

Sam walked down the scuffed hallway toward her room, his legs feeling heavy as lead. An ancient woman in a wheelchair barred his way.

“Where is Donald?” she snapped. “Have you seen him? I told him to come straight home, and he’s not back yet.”

“No, ma’am, I haven’t seen him,” he answered truthfully and detoured around her. He passed a few more residents, nodded in greeting. A few greeted him coherently, and those were the ones he pitied most.