Leaping (5 page)

"Knowing
this? We would have known. That's the lie. We would have known if it was
normal…and not this sick game."

"I
did know," she said. "I knew. And it made it more…not less. That made
it everything."

"You
used me. This is all about you."

"I
didn't," she whispered. "I couldn't. You're…I'm in love with
you."

He
was speechless. He could see the sincerity in her eyes, her voice, her very
posture, hands splayed on the table, one of them moving and resting on his arm.
"I love you," she said again. "How could I not?
From the first?"

He
worked to find his voice. "Have you had…help…since…
.
"

"Yes,"
she said quickly.
"All kinds.
Bombarded…actually."

"This
is some…unhealthy…."

"No,"
she shook her head, eyes closing briefly. "It's real. It's more than you
saving Seth, though that was the beginning, but now…it's more."

"You
need to go," he said standing up. He'd jarred the table, he felt clumsy.

"Don't
send me away," she said. "I want to be with you."

"I
don't trust…this," he said, unnerved. "I blame myself…we've been
intense…and physically I know…for women…and you're grieving. This is grief."
He had no idea what he was saying, why he was going on.

"It's
just one day," she said standing, her fingertips white against the table
where she leaned her weight.

"Don't…."

"It
ends in two weeks. It's over then," she asserted.

"I
have no commitment to this," he said, angry…that he wanted her to convince
him…that he didn't know how he'd stay in this house….

"But
you are involved," she said. "Just…be involved a little longer."

"What
do you want from me? I can't encourage this. I'm not irresponsible, or a
complete bastard."

"Oh…I
know that."

"You know Alisha
now. I…suppose you'll tell her all about this…and who else? I don't know
you."

"You
know me. This is us."

"Us?
No us."

"Right
now is…between us."

He
shook his head, resisting. "I'm not…I'm not…there could be
no
more…."

"Intercourse?"
she said, smiling now, but her eyes sad.

He
laughed a bit, but no joy, no ease, "No. And besides that endless talk
about…the…your family…see? It can't go anywhere. What's your goal here? What's
the point?"

"I'll
take anything," she said. "I just want to be with you. We have the
ocean. We have houses and books. We can just be. Two people getting to know
each other."

They'd
end up sleeping together again. He couldn't encourage her. She said she loved
him. She wasn't stable.

"I
can't…I need to be alone," he said. "If…I'll think it over. I'll let
you know. I don't want to be cruel. I know you're looking for connection
to…."

“Let's
make soup."

"What?"

"Let's
make soup. I haven't been eating properly, and I know you haven't either."

He
should say no. End it now. End it. "I…I have steak."

"Steak
soup?" she smiled. She seemed so normal just then. He couldn't be fooled
by it.

"Seems
a shame but….
Why not?"

So
that's what they did. They cooked together. And she told him she'd graduated
Iowa State and they opened a bottle of red wine, and they talked about books
then. He talked mostly. He couldn't shut up.
About books.
But the words didn't matter so much and when they dwindled there was food. And
when they'd eaten there was the ocean. And when they'd put on coats and walked
some there was the pier and when they walked that and stood on the end, she
took his hand then and he didn't pull away.

"I
lost my dad," she said softly, and he had to lean in, though he'd heard.

"He…raised
me. My mother left. I was six. When she came home she was dying. We didn't
know. She didn't know. But she was gone in a year. And…he'd taken care of her.
And after that…he said, just you and me, kiddo.
He said that
all the time. When I got pregnant in college…I graduated and came home to him
and he was with me, with Seth. And sometimes I'd hear him say to Seth…you and
me, kiddo. Who says kiddo?
Just your dad.
But in the
hospital…when Seth was in a coma for so many days…I said that to him…all the
time."

It
was alright then, her hand and her words, making Henry real, Seth…. The ocean
was big, and two ships out there.
Stories everywhere…just the
life in this water…the secrets.

"How…,"
he had to clear his throat, "…how long were you married?"

She
looked at him, hair whipping,
her
skin red and soft
with the salt and the mist.

"Two
years. It was…my divorce was final a couple of weeks ago but the marriage…two
years separated."

He
moved his arm around her. Years of habit, comforting…but no…this was more.

Chapter
8

They
stayed together that night. He blamed the soup, the simple delicious taste of
the beef and carrots and onions and celery and her pearl barley, not the
instant kind, but the real deal, he blamed all of that…and the feeling in his
stomach…so good he didn't know how to let it be…full.

And he blamed her, if
blame was the right word. His rational self, always his guide, told him to cut
and run. But she was an adventure. That's how she hit him, her face as she
talked away at the cutting board or listened to him, she listened…there was
something endearing about it, he didn't know what…her smile, her eyes…she kept
up contact…she seemed eager…unnerving, very unnerving…her raw need…but it drew
him.

He'd
come here to the ocean with a sense of wanting more, wanting life, and here she
was…Cori.
A whirlwind.
He couldn't fix it or figure it
or be at peace with it….

It
wasn't
chance,
or even destiny, it was manipulation
all the way, but she was an adventure none-the-less. She got to him.

So
he comforted himself with her, next to him on the couch. He hadn't allowed them
to go to the bedroom as if the couch made it less involved, but he'd held her
there again, slept little, just let
himself
be…feel…comfort, and the worry over the comfort.

"Be
content," Bill used to tell him, "to let things be a mess. The best
things come that way. Birth is a mess."

In
his work, he'd learned to do that…until a mess came that was so big, so
consuming…it broke him.

Now
he had her.
Life in the beige Petri dish…Cori Weston.

Cori's
declaration of love…it shocked him like…new love…neon love.

Laura
claimed to love him. He wasn't boasting, but he was a good catch…good
material…for marriage. He knew that. Women noticed him and he'd wondered about
himself more than once, why he didn't feel excited…why he couldn't reciprocate
when everything looked right.

He
knew now…he was starting to get it. When it came…love…not that it had, but she
claimed it had and he could see how powerful, when a woman like her just came
at you with
an intensity
…and so captivating….

There
wouldn't be another like her. It wouldn't be possible. Born out of tragedy…this
kind of bond…this kind of…love?

He
needed…help. He wanted to be told how to think. Not what. But how, and that was
often the case. He looked for the boundaries in which to think.

His
normal boundaries were tried-and-true and past finding out. He'd chosen those
high and lofty ones, or they'd chosen him. But the incident…it had expanded
those ancient boundaries. It had made them huge. Death, pain, tragedy were
everywhere, but so was God, so was love, so
was
extraordinary compassion, and mercy and kindness and tears and grief and joy
and empathy and heroics…and surprises…and soup….

Personally,
he hadn't won by matching James, by trumping him with might…and right. His
personal victory lay in becoming more like what he believed and less like James…by
not allowing James to infect him and
conform
him to
his distorted image.

That
was the battle. If he stayed bitter, human life was diminished. Look at the way
he'd been treating Cori.
His sister.
Everyone.

The
victory was in not giving up on who he was and what he was called to do…and
what he believed.
And who he believed in.

The F word.
Forgiveness.
Always the ultimate victory cause it took God, the real God, not the version of
him he created or shunned so he could control him, but the real God of
Scripture, the Forgiver, it took Him to even make forgiveness a consideration….

"Oh
shit," he whispered. He was having his revelation, finally. He was moving
in the womb of his seclusion, his head aligning with the birth canal and he'd
had no more to do with this birth than the others, the one where he'd come
screaming forth from his mother, the one he'd found that night in college,
kneeling at his window grieving her.

The
call was always the victory. He had to forgive.

He
eased from her, but not before kissing her forehead.

He
looked down on her as he stood beside the couch now. She was still asleep, her
face, he saw it then, etched in the beauty, the slight trace of suffering. He
felt it then, in a new way, her honest and bold need of him, he faced her
generosity, the way she'd given…from the first, the widow's mite,
the
gift of all she had…he saw it then, he felt it.

Oh,
the crash of discovery. Too much was coming at once now. He had to tear himself
away from her. He wasn't worthy yet. There had to be something backing any promise
he would make, any conclusion he might make regarding one so beautifully frail…so
angelic.

He
crept from the room, from the house, into the cold night, and the rowdy
movement of the Leviathan that roiled the ocean. He got to the water and he
walked in until it was to his waist, and he plunged under and quickly stood,
gasping and flipping his hair back.

He
would leave it here in the ocean…James…in God's hands now…beyond them all. He
would let the sea take the infection from him, and he steadied his feet in the
dwindling sand and eyes to the sky and just quiet and small and cleansed.

He
said two things when he finally spoke, two words that typified every prayer
that didn't ask for help. He thought of the revelation, and he thought of her,
the embodiment of God's offer, his second chance…to live. "Thank you."

And
in response a hand, gripping his as it
ruddered
through the water.
She stood beside him in the cold, the shocking cold, of course she'd come right
in. He looked at her…and he wondered before…was she real?

She
smiled at him, then a wave hit them hard and she laughed, and he did, and he
scooped her up and trudged awkwardly onto the beach, and he kept going, toward
the house, but he couldn't stop looking at her. He wouldn't.

"You're
different," she said softly, her arms around his neck.

He
smiled at her. And they reached the porch stairs and he hurried up and into the
house and he took her all the way in and he hefted her higher in his arms and
she laughed, and he took the stairs then, the sand on the soles of his feet
scratching at the wood, and down the hall to his room, and once in there he
took her to the bed and set her there and he went to his drawers for warm
clothes and found these and gave them to her. "I'm turning the shower on,"
he said.
"For you."

"What about
you?" she said, always focused on him.

"I'm
fine," he said. She took the clothes and looking at him, she waved a
little before closing the door.

The
animal side of him wanted to go after her, take her there,
grind
into her.

He
found more clothes and went down the hall. He got in the hot shower and quickly
washed. In five minutes he was dressed and back in his room just as she was
coming out of his bathroom. Steam followed her, and her hair was long and wet
and she smiled.

He
put one knee on the bed and said, "Come here."

And
she did. He settled them under the blanket and he had his arms around her.

"Are
you okay?" she said softly, stroking his arm.

He
nodded then, and he resituated them, and entangled with her that way, he slept.

In
the morning, there was no question that they would stay together. He couldn't
conceive of her dwelling so far down the beach.