As Waters Gone By Page 26

  “Before you . . . get involved . . . in something else, Hope, I have to ask you a question or two.”

  Hope stopped, mid-stride, but didn’t turn around. None of this was going to be easy.

  “The social worker said your mom has a sister. Do you know her name? Have you met her?”

  “Delia. I think she was named after a soap opera character from the eighties. Her life’s a soap opera. Why?” She turned then and caught her lower lip between her teeth.

  “Would she be your mom’s next of kin? Would she be the closest adult to . . . take care of legal things and make funeral arrangements?”

  “Aunt Delia?” Her shoulders slumped even farther forward. “I guess so. She’s got money.”

  Great. Another item for the “who should get Hope?” tally. Emmalyn didn’t have a job that paid in dollars. And her husband made eleven—no, fourteen—cents an hour in the prison laundry. Score another one for Delia. Blood related. Employed, or at least well-off by some standards. “Nice house?”

  “It’s huge. I think she makes out good, taking in foster kids.”

  Emmalyn saw something shift in Hope’s countenance. They must have been thinking the same thing. What more logical location for Hope to be placed than with a family already set up for fostering kids.

  “Where does she live?” Please say Antarctica.

  “Chicago. I think I have her phone number as an emergency contact.” She sighed. “I’ll get it in a minute.” She took the stairs more slowly than Emmalyn had ever seen the girl move.

  Emmalyn logged in to the corrections email system, managed the hurdles of the user name, password, and scrambled code, and wrote a short email to Max.

  Sad news. Call as soon as you can.

  No. If she received an email like that, it would send her into worry-mode instantly, her imagination concocting grotesque scenarios. She deleted and tried again.

  Hard news. Call as soon as you can.

  Almost as bad.

  Sobering news. Please call Hope as soon as you can.

  She hit send before she pestered the words to death. Death.

  Emmalyn called up the stairs. “Hope, I emailed your dad to ask him to call you.”

  “So did I.”

  “Oh. Good.” What was Emmalyn’s role? What part was she supposed to play? She wasn’t even officially a stepmother.

  Wait. That’s exactly what she was. Hope’s stepmother. Even if Claire had lived, that would have been true. She’d never given herself the label—the honor—before. She could use that to her advantage, couldn’t she? Ammunition for keeping Hope at the cottage, at least until Max won his freedom?

  When Claire called before her supposed trip to rehab, she’d said she had nowhere else for Hope to go. Why hadn’t Delia been the logical choice then? Hope might know.

  Emmalyn’s phone rang. First thing tomorrow, she’d search for a calming ringtone. The number showing on the screen made her teeth ache. If she let it go to voice mail, she’d have to deal with her later. Later held no promises of being better. “Hi, Mom.”

  “Emmalyn! Did you see the news? Well, our local news has it, anyway. Max’s ex-wife? The druggie? She o-ver-dosed. Killed herself.”

  “I’m not sure she intended to kill herself, Mom.”

  “You knew? Why didn’t you call?”

  “We’ve been a little busy, as you can imagine.”

  “I thought I might hear from you sometime”—she drew the words to their full potency—“since Christmas is only a couple of weeks away and you haven’t said when you’d be coming. We’re having turd-uh-ken this year.”

  “I don’t think that’s how it’s pronounced, Mom.”

  “Always correcting me. Can’t stop yourself, can you.” Her exhale could have blown out two birthday cakes full of candles.

  Hope bounded down the stairs. “Is that Dad?”

  “No, honey. He probably won’t be able to call until tonight.”

  “Who are you talking to?” her mother asked. “Who’s there with you? Did you finally decide to start dating? Well, good for you! Wait until I tell your sisters.”

  “Mom, this is a bad time to talk.”

  “I’m sure it is,” she said, adding an inflection that made Emmalyn’s skin crawl.

  “I’ll call you soon.”

  “No, you won’t.”

  I probably won’t. God, You and I will have to discuss this, won’t we. “’Bye, Mom. Gotta go.”

  Hope let Comfort in, wiped her paws, and carried her upstairs.

  “We need another dog,” Emmalyn said to herself as she sank into her favorite chair and reached for the throw. She held her phone in her lap, willing it to ring.

  Phones are shy, apparently. They don’t perform when watched.

  An hour later, Emmalyn got up to make a pot of tea, her phone in one hand. She climbed the stairs, rather than hollering this time, to see if Hope needed anything. Her door was open. She lay on her side, mouth open, sleep-breathing. Comfort lay tight against her chest. The flop-eared rabbit poked its head out from Hope’s armpit. She’d wound the Christmas lights around the back of her desk chair and plugged them in. The glow, oddly bunched as it was, seemed to soften the edges of the night. Hope’s phone rested on the pillow next to her head.

  I don’t know what to do for you! I can’t make this go away. I can’t even make it a smidgen easier. It’s as awful as it seems. And I have no words to make any difference.

  From somewhere in the recesses of her brain—or maybe her soul—she heard, Love her. Love is always enough for now.

  27

  When her tea reached the color of Grade A maple syrup, Emmalyn climbed the stairs again and settled into the armchair near the French doors in her room. On the distant shore, Michigan prepared for nightfall. It still startled her to think that here on the western side of Wisconsin she could catch a glimpse of Michigan to the east because of the curvature of both the Upper Peninsula and the Apostle Islands.

  Even at a time like this, the scene held beauty. A pocket of miserable surround by a sea of exquisite beauty. And those waves, endless waves. From behind the walls and windows, she imagined the sound they made, the feel of the mist they stirred, the scent of water. Relentlessly brushing the shore, wearing down the rough edges of the rocks, sweeping life’s debris farther out to the freshwater depths.

  She reached for the book on the nearby table. After four attempts at the same paragraph, she put it aside and picked up the verse Bougie had given her to memorize. It’s what people of faith did at times like this, wasn’t it? Psalm 68:6 NLT—“God places the lonely in families; he sets the prisoners free and gives them joy.”

  And sometimes Social Services and the criminal justice system change those dynamics.

  “God places . . . ” She read it again. “God places . . . ”

  The phone in the other room sang its “waiting for you” chorus. The criminal justice system was calling.

  Hope answered before the song got to the word “here.” From the silence, Emmalyn knew Hope likely raced through the sequences of numbers she had to punch. “Dad? Oh, Daddy!”

  Emmalyn cried through the entire muffled conversation. Quiet tears. Like Hope’s. The achy kind, not the stinging kind. After a few minutes, Emmalyn heard Hope move from her room to the top of the stairs and call out for her. Emmalyn opened her bedroom door. “I’m here.”

  “I thought you were downstairs.”

  “I wanted . . . to be close to you.”

  Hope pressed a fist against the side of her head. “Can you tell Dad the rest?”

  “Sure.”

  Hope handed her the phone and beelined for the bathroom.

  “Max?”

  “Emmalyn. I’m stunned.”

  “We all are.” She retreated to her bedroom but left the door open. “Did Hope mention the possibility of her being placed with Delia?”

  “That can’t happen. We can’t let that happen.”

  Emmalyn cupped her hand over the microphone s
lot and lowered her voice. “Is she a bad person?”

  “Hope would not thrive in that atmosphere.”

  Whispering now, “She somehow lived through being the daughter of an addict.”

  Max’s end of the conversation halted. He cleared his throat. “The grace of God. That’s the only explanation.”

  It seemed strange to carry on a conversation with this new man who used words like grace and God differently than he had before. Odd, but endearing.

  “Hope’s back. Do you want to talk to her again?”

  Hope signaled “no” and reached for a tissue to blow her nose. She sat cross-legged on Emmalyn’s bed. The dog jumped up and into her lap.

  “I guess she’d rather the two of us talked out the rest of the information.”

  Hope nodded.

  Max groaned. “They’re going to cut us off soon. Can we pray together?”

  Emmalyn mouthed, “He wants to pray.”

  Hope patted the spot on the bed next to her. Emmalyn joined her and held the phone between them so both could hear.

  “Max, I’m putting you on speaker phone. It’s the three of us in on this.” Four, if you counted Comfort’s upturned face and alert ears.

  “Father God, we have nowhere else to turn but You. Hold Hope and Emmalyn close to Your heart tonight. And show us the next step, we pray.” His amen came long after. Pinched. Tight-throated.

  “Amen,” Hope whispered.

  “Amen.”

  The call disconnected with the final amen.

  The two sat side by side on the bed as minutes ticked by.

  “Did you know,” Hope said, her face turned toward the lake, “that when the pyramids were being built, there were woolly mammoths living on an island in Siberia?”

  “No, I didn’t.” Where does a conversation go from there? “What made you think of that fascinating fact?”

  “Something to think about that wouldn’t make me cry.”

  Emmalyn had to risk it. She reached her arm around Hope and gave her a gentle hug.

  Hope’s gaze remained fixed on the water. “Do you know what Anonymous said?”

  “Who’s Anonymous?”

  “Nobody knows. Do you know what she said? I think she’s a she. She said, ‘One day someone is going to hug you so tight that all of your broken pieces will stick back together.’ ”

  Emmalyn tightened her hug. “We need to stencil that onto pillows.”

  Hope didn’t say anything. But she didn’t disagree.

  * * *

  Delia refused to pay for the funeral. Emmalyn couldn’t. Claire would be buried by the State of Georgia. Emmalyn told Hope she’d find a way to get her there if she wanted to be present. Hope said, in her words, she “kind of did the closure thing already.” Everybody stayed home from the event except Claire.

  The call they knew was coming interrupted their first attempt at decorating the cottage for a somber Christmas. Cora was the one who’d suggested they put their tree on the porch in front of the window, so it didn’t take up floor space in the cottage. She rigged an extension cord from the back of the cottage around to the front. They tucked scroll-like pieces of birchbark, pine cones dusted with glitter-glue, and more than enough strings of mini-lights among the branches of the tree Nick had cut down for them. Ms. Drummond from Child Protective Services interrupted the “let there be light” moment.

  “Mrs. Ross, we need to set up an appointment for a home visit in order to complete our paperwork for this temporary placement.”

  Could she stop using the word temporary?

  “When would you like to do that?” Emmalyn asked, nudging Comfort away from the tower of empty boxes the lights had come in.

  “I know it may seem awkward timing, but I have family in Superior. I’ll be with them Christmas Eve and Christmas Day.”

  You have to be kidding.

  “I could drive up a day early and take care of the evaluation.”

  “December twenty-third.”

  “Yes.”

  “Two days before Christmas.”

  “As I say, I realize it’s a bit awkward. Would that interfere with your plans?”

  Not at all. I just have to find a legitimate job, prove it, keep both Hope and me from spiraling out of control during the most emotional days of the year, and help Bougie prep Christmas dinner for half the safe houses in Bayfield and Ashland Counties. “We can make it work.”

  “I’ll see you sometime early afternoon of the twenty-third.”

  “If you give me your email address, I can send you the ferry schedule.”

  “Have it already.”

  She’d done her homework. “We’ll see you then.”

  Cora, Nick, Hope, and Comfort stomped into the cottage from the porch. “Watch this,” Hope said as Nick flicked the light switch for the porch and the tree came to life. “Isn’t it magnificent?”

  “Truly magnificent.”

  Hope’s excitement faded. “Let’s not do anything more. Just the tree.”

  “If that’s what you want.”

  “What about candles?” Cora said.

  “And candles.”

  Nick nudged her. “You don’t want a gingerbread house or some droopy pine bough things on the mantel? Stockings? Something all girlie and sparkly?”

  “No. Just this.” She seemed mesmerized by the way the lights from the tree lit the path to the beach and the interior of the cottage, too. It had that effect on Emmalyn, too.

  “Fine with me,” Emmalyn said.

  “You would not be happy at my mom’s place,” Nick said. “We don’t have an inch that’s not red, green, gold, or silver right now.”

  Cora folded her arms over her chest.

  “And I love living there,” Nick added. He’d ditched the girlfriend who had kept his mother awake at night talking to God, and the young man seemed infinitely happier. His easy big-brother friendship with Hope filled some gaps.

  Hope remained at the window when the other three headed for the kitchen to make popcorn. Emmalyn snapped a picture of Hope silhouetted against the window, the tree, the night.

  “I heard that shutter click,” she said.

  Emmalyn smiled. “It’s for your father.”

  Nick pulled out his own camera, never far away. “Let me get a shot of the both of you. He’d like that, I bet.”

  Hope turned. “Just take one of Emmalyn. I don’t want any popcorn. I think I’ll go upstairs.”

  Emmalyn leaned against the island. She slid her arms forward and laid her cheek against the cold stone surface.

  “What did I do?” Nick asked.

  Cora put her arm around her son. “Nothing. Come on. We can make popcorn at home . . . in our over-the-top Christmas village extravaganza.”

  Emmalyn didn’t raise her head. “Thanks for the help, guys.”

  “You’re welcome.” They exited quietly, leaving Emmalyn in her stretched-out version of the fetal position, draped over the island.

  She laid like that, feeling the coolness of the stone seep deeper into her skin layers. “Max, I have an itch in the middle of my back. Would you scratch it for me? Thanks. Oh, and your daughter can’t decide if she hates me or likes me. Could you take care of that, too?”

  28

  Did you know that all polar bears are left-handed?” Hope called into the kitchen from the dining area of The Wild Iris.

  Emmalyn looked up from the crust she was pressing into muffin tins for mini-quiches. “No, I didn’t, Hope. Biology homework?”

  “Weird fact.”

  “I’m checking your biology homework in twenty minutes.”

  “It’s done.”

  Not a bit surprised. “Can you help with this project, then? Wash your hands, please.”

  “Actually,” Bougie said, “I need you for another purpose for a while, Emmalyn. Hope, do you have enough to keep you busy for a few minutes?”

  “Not a problem.” She pulled a library book from her backpack.

  Bougie draped a flour-sack towel
over the crust and pointed to the alcove at the back of the kitchen where Bougie did the bookwork. Emmalyn spent a few moments at the sink, washing the dough from her fingers, then joined her. “What’s up?”

  Bougie slid a piece of paper toward her. “I’d appreciate your signature on this.”

  “What is it?”

  Tucking her skirts—multiples—to one side, Bougie sat on a corner of the desk. “I’d like to go back to school.”

  “That’s great. Where?”

  “UMD offers a business administration and management degree.”

  “Duluth? That’s quite a commute. Ninety miles?”

  Bougie held Emmalyn’s gaze an awkward moment before speaking. “That’s why I’d like to make you part owner of The Wild Iris.”

  “What?” Emmalyn felt as if she’d swallowed her gum, but she hadn’t been chewing any.

  “I need to know I have The Wild Iris to return to after I get my degree. I don’t want to lose this place.”

  “Of course not. It’s all you, Bougie.”

  Her face lit. “Then you’ll help me out?” She slid the contract closer.

  “I don’t have any money to invest in a business.” Emmalyn’s thoughts swam circles around the island as the two talked.

  Bougie clapped her hands together. “I thought of that. So I had my lawyer draw up the contract for a one dollar purchase price for forty percent ownership.”

  “Bougie!”

  “I realize forty percent doesn’t seem like much, but the profits during the tourist season should hold you most of the year, with careful budgeting.”

  “A dollar?”

  “If that’s a problem,” she said, “I’m sure there’s enough change in the Jesus Jar to cover a small loan.”

  Dumbstruck. Dumbfounded. Speechless.

  “Are you interested, M? You’re what The Wild Iris has needed. What I’ve needed.”

  Emmalyn would have laughed if it wouldn’t have drawn attention from others in the kitchen. How could Bougie not realize how lopsided their relationship was in the “needed” category? “I don’t know what to say. I love this place.” The truth of her response spread over her like ganache.

  Bougie tented her fingers, as if praying, but tapped the fingertips together. “That’s a good start. I’d need your decision by today.”