Carry Me Like Water (41 page)

They both looked at her.

“What?” Jake asked.

“You won’t jump off that bridge,” she said. “I’ll chain you to your bed if I have to, but you’re not taking a dive—not tonight—not ever.”

Jake stared at her. “How did you—”

“Shut up,” she said, “I’m talking. And you,” she said turning to Tom. “You will stop being angry with Jake. You will stop hating him. Tonight, we will respect the dying. All you can think of is your own grief—is that all? There’s a man in the other room—and he is dying. Why aren’t you thinking of him—of him, damnit—him! And I want a cup of coffee.”

Jake served her a cup immediately. She took a sip of the hot, bitter liquid. It was strong, she thought. She stared at the two men in the room. “I’m sorry,” she said, then smiled. No one spoke. Jake served Tom a cup of coffee. He squeezed the doctor’s shoulder.

Lizzie felt Joaquin’s heartbeat as she sat quietly drinking her coffee. The two men said nothing. There was so little to say, Lizzie felt Joaquin’s heartbeat grow weaker, felt him struggle for each breath. He thought of nothing now—only of taking one more breath. The world and the people in this room were no longer his business. Then she felt a terror, as if his body had become her body, and his body had decided to wage one final battle before retreating, run one final race before resting. She felt her own heart racing as if she were running the final race with him. He was young and he was walking
toward the edge of the river, and he was with others, and there was a woman there.
Mama.
She smiled at him, at who? At her? She was there, she could see. The river was cold and it was night and he was crossing the river—is this the end of the word?—and suddenly the waters came over him, he was sinking, his heart was racing, could no longer breathe, it was going to burst, his heart, her heart—it—they—were going to burst. Lizzie felt the coldness of the water and the taste of a snowflake in her mouth. She felt afraid, could not breathe. She had never been this close to anyone, not like this, never like this. She grabbed Tom’s arm, “What is it, Liz?” he asked. She looked sick and frightened and far away and it seemed as if she were dying.

Lizzie took a deep breath. She looked at Jake. “He’s going,” she said. “Jake, he’s going.”

Jake and Tom ran out of the kitchen, not out of any real belief in Lizzie’s words, but out of instinct. They were irrational animals running without knowing why, running because they were afraid, running because it was all they knew how to do now, and they had become all instinct. Mr. and Mrs. Sha, and Tom’s lover. Rick, who had been sitting in the living room talking and keeping vigil ran into the room after them—they too ran out of instinct like a crowd running together toward an unknown goal, something leading them in the same direction like lost pilgrims in search of an altar or anything that would pass for a shrine. Jake grabbed Joaquin from the bed and picked him up. He sat on the chair and held his fragile body in his arms. “It’s OK, J. You can let go. You can let go now. I’m here. You can let go.” Jake heard himself speak the words he had sworn he would never speak, Tom watched them, his grief too great, too heavy to allow him to move. Joaquin’ breathing filled the room. There was nothing in the house except Joaquin’s breathing, just his breathing and this handful of people who sat—motionless—motionless because movement seemed so futile, so insignificant—and their communion was delicate because the man who had brought them together was leaving them, and perhaps after his passing they would no longer belong to each other. There was nothing, nothing but his breathing, nothing else. And then there was
quiet. And no one noticed the room was dark and that the candle had gone out. There was only this silence and this darkness and then suddenly, one by one, the room was full of their sobs.

In the kitchen, Lizzie heard Jake’s words: “
You can let go now, J.”
She felt herself floating away. She saw her body sitting limp and lifeless on the chair. She felt Joaquin’s passing in her body, a nothingness with no point of reference. There could be no point of reference. There was a space within her, and yet she was nothing but space. And there was a freedom. It was not nothing—she knew it was not nothing. Tom walked into the room and touched her lifeless body. She looked up at him from her chair, “Are you OK?” he asked.

She nodded.

“I could have sworn you were dead when I touched your arm.” He shook his head and stared at her. He looked frightened.

“Tom?”

“Your hair,” he said.

“What?”

“It’s white.”

She nodded. “I felt him. When he died. I felt him when he died.” she said, her voice beyond any sadness. “His candle went out.” She took his arm. “Don’t be afraid.” Lizzie’s voice helped calm him, but he trembled as if he were cold. She rose from the chair and held him. She sat him down on a chair and handed him a whiskey. “Drink it,” she said. He poured down the drink. Lizzie walked into Joaquin’s bedroom, and stared at Jake sobbing into his dead lover’s body. “It’s time to give him up,” she said softly. She gently took the dead man out of Jake’s arms. Mrs. Sha was beside her helping to carry him. They placed him softly on the bed. Lizzie felt strong. She’d never imagined her body could feel this way. Mr. Sha covered him with a clean white sheet. She relit the candle that had gone out and placed it on the nightstand next to his body. She led Jake out of the room. Tom thought it odd and stupid and unnecessary to pronounce him dead, but it was his job, and somehow, despite the heaviness he felt, he called the coroner and gave him the appropriate information, the time of the death, the cause. It was official, and
yes, he would contact the funeral home. But he waited for that. He would call them later. He sat a while in his friend’s room. Of all the men he had seen die, of all the men he had buried, this one cut him, cut him deeply and he felt himself bleeding. “I’m not even forty,” he said to himself “and I have known too many deaths.” He was fighting despair, a despair that wanted to claim him—but he fought it. He fought it, and wondered why.

Tom sat and sipped a cup of coffee in the living room. His lover sat next to him saying nothing. It was as if there was so little air in the room that no one spoke in order to preserve the little oxygen there was. Jake sat on a rocking chair—close to Tom. Mr. and Mrs. Sha sat quietly on the couch drinking tea. Mrs. Sha wept silently. Lizzie thought it was odd she made no noise. Lizzie ached for someone to break the silence. Jake said nothing, just looked down at the floor. In the dim light, his hair looked darker, and he looked much younger—like a boy. Lizzie stared at him. He looked exactly like someone she knew. She stared at him for a long time, then suddenly looked at the picture on the piano. “Oh my God!” she yelled. “Oh my God! Every day in front of my nose, every damn day and I—Oh my God, Lizzie, you idiot-you’re a such an idiot!” She banged her open hand on the piano.

Tom looked up at her as if to say.
What now? Your hair has turned white, we have lost our Joaquin, we have fought with each other and ourselves and outside it is the coldest day of the new year and we are too tired to say or do or think anything. What more—is there more?
Jake didn’t seem to hear her at all.

“Jake?” she said. “Jake!”

He looked up as if to ask why she was yelling. He wore the same look as Tom. What more?

“Jake—what’s your last name?”

He stared at her blankly, “Marsh,” he heard himself say. “What a stupid question to be asking.” He looked at her strangely, almost disapprovingly. “You’ve practically lived here for months and months—and you don’t know my last name?”

“I never thought about it. We didn’t discuss your name or your life, did we? How often did we talk about ourselves? I’m such an idiot.”

He looked at her blankly. “What difference does it make? It’s just a name.”

“No, it’s not just a name.”

“What are you getting so excited about, Lizzie? I’m tired. What does it matter? If it makes you feel any better, I don’t know your last name either. You’re Lizzie, that’s who you are. What’s a goddamned last name?” He leaned over and placed his head between his hands. “Lizzie,” he said almost without emotion, “you’re hysterical. Is it our turn to calm you down? Is this your way of helping us deal with grief?”

“Edwards,” she said, “My last name is Edwards.” She smiled, then broke out laughing.

“Why do you look happy?” Tom asked. “It’s a strange time to look so happy.”

“Jake,” she said almost yelling, her heart beating as fast as the wings of a hummingbird, “I know your brother.”

“What?”

“Your brother. All this time, I’ve been sitting here—and me a seer—and I couldn’t see—I know your brother.”

“Yes, you said that,” Tom said.

They both stared at her.

“I can’t take this, Lizzie,” Jake said. “Don’t do this—”

She stuck out her hand and pointed her open palm at Jake. “Wait,” she said. She grabbed his picture. “I kept staring at this picture—he looked so familiar. Of course he’s not this young anymore—he’s thirty. And nobody calls him Jon-Jon, and nobody calls him Jonathan. I didn’t know his name was Jonathan. I know him only as Eddie. Eddie Marsh—the sweetest man I’ve ever met.”

“When’s his birthday?”

She knew why he asked. She smiled knowingly. “November 22, 1963. John Kennedy.”

“John Kennedy,” he repeated softly, Jake clenched his teeth. The thought occurred to him that he had lost his mind, that he had died
along with Joaquin, and had gone to hell and Lizzie had become the devil and would tempt him with news of his brother forever. But he knew he was sitting in the same room he had sat in for the last ten years. He wanted to ask Joaquin what to do, he wanted to tell him: I have found my brother, I have found him. He is alive—but Joaquin was not there, Joaquin was not alive, could not hear, could not see the great reunion. Was this true? Was this strange woman telling him the truth? Who was she? Where did she come from? He knew nothing about her, really. Could it be? After all this time, was this woman sent to bring him his brother? He was lost now, he knew he had gone completely mad. He remembered reading about his parents’ death in the newspaper. He had felt like this, devastated and elated all at once, and all he wanted to do was wander outside and live as homeless and confused as he felt, and be away from anybody who even pretended to treat him like a human being. A human being? What was that, anyway? He stared at his skin. Joaquin had told him that his skin was everything. “
It’s white, Jake, and it will always be white, and mine is not, and that is what we are,”
but he had spoken those words in anger because someone had called him a spic, and he had been hurt. Joaquin? Joaquin, why are you dead? He was suddenly cold and he wanted to be warm and yet he felt he would never be warm again; who was hot enough to thaw his frozen skin? He knew sounds were coming out of his mouth because he fell something, his own sounds, but he was not speaking a language. He looked at Lizzie. He had known her less than a year and yet he believed in her compassion, had grown to rely on it, He kept his eyes on her, and they calmed him and so he felt himself stop his screaming. But he wanted to yell more, yell and yell and yell in grief for his dead Joaquin, the only person who had ever made him shake like a leaf in the wind out of pure love, and yet he believed what this woman had said, believed she had found his brother, and so he wanted to shout “I have found him, I have found him,” Lizzie grew dim, he couldn’t see her. It was as if he was looking through a windshield in a rainstorm. He heard himself howling, he felt the noises he was making. He could not stop the howling that came from within him.
Jake felt Tom’s arms around him. He did not have the strength to push him away. He was unable to speak for a long time. Finally, he found the words, and speaking them he felt he had regained his intelligence. “Call him,” Jake said softly. “Tell him his brother needs him.”

10

T
HE DETECTIVE
at the morgue uncovered the body and looked at Diego. “You know her?” His voice was as aggressive as his movements.

“Yeah, he knows her,” Mundo answered. “I already told you that, man, can’t you speak English?”

The detective ignored Mundo and continued staring at Diego. Diego looked up at the tall, graying man and nodded.

He stared at Diego with straightforward gray eyes. “What’s her name?”

“I already told you that,” Mundo said. “Goddamnit, her name’s Mary.”

Diego grabbed Mundo’s shoulder and put his finger on his lip. “Her name’s Mary,” he wrote. “I’m deaf.”

“Yeah, I told him already,” Mundo answered.

“Mary what? Does she have a last name?”

Diego thought a minute. “Ramirez,” he wrote.

Mundo stared at him.

“Ramirez?” the detective asked. “She doesn’t look Hispanic to me.”

Mundo clicked his fingers, “She ain’t Hispanic, man, she’s a Chicana, you know? A Chicana—what the fuck’s a Hispanic?” He clicked his fingers again and did a dance.

The detective stared at him. “I’m talking to your friend. And this is a morgue not a dance floor.” He looked at Diego again. “She doesn’t look Mexican to me. Does she look Mexican to you?”