Faithful (27 page)

The windows were black, now, the lake invisible. But I felt it. The water drew me, like a deep longing, like the ocean as restless as Mama’s soul. For all this time, a year almost, I’d clung to the belief that she was out there. I’d tucked that belief into my pocket like the picture of Ghost and carried it everywhere. Her cameo was my talisman; the green dress was a magic garment meant to draw her to me; she was alive, she would keep her promise and return, she’d be there for me in the season of my womanhood. That’s what I’d believed.

No. She would not. Water, deep and wild and uncontrollable, had taken my mother from me. I wanted to conquer that water, those black and bottomless depths. I wanted to take my mother back.

I’d closed my eyes for some minutes; now I opened them and looked across the lobby. There was a sign on a stand by the door. It advertised boat trips on a steamboat, the
Zillah
, out to Dot Island in the lake so that tourists could see the buffalo and elk that were kept in pens there up close. I remembered Tom talking about the animals, the bison on the island. An island. I could perhaps find privacy. Make my peace. I rose and went to the desk. “I’d like to book a boat trip,” I said, pointing at the sign.

The man at the desk looked at me with a faint smile. “Alone?” I knew what he was thinking: I was not a respectable young woman.

“No,” said a voice beside me. It was Kula. “I’ll go, too.” Kula stared at the clerk, daring him to question her as well.

The clerk looked at us, eyebrows raised. First I consorted with employees; now with an Indian, and a servant at that. I didn’t care what he thought, what anyone thought anymore.

I narrowed my eyes at the man, feeling a quiet fury. Who was he to judge me? “Two tickets, please. For me and my friend,” I said, emphasizing
friend
. I paid for the tickets for early the next morning, and then turned away from the desk. I could feel the change in myself already.

“Why do you want to go out there?” Kula asked, gesturing toward the lake.

“I’m looking for something.” I’d called her a friend; but she wasn’t, and I couldn’t tell her my heart. I stared out the window into the blackness. Kula had been right about one thing. I had to fight for what I wanted. Mama was gone. I was alone. And now I needed to find out who I was by myself.

The next morning dawned clear and windy. The still-wet trees glittered in the early light. I’d asked Mrs. Gale if I could borrow the camera, and Kula and I avoided Graybull, sneaking off to the docks without breakfast. I didn’t let Kula in on my plan; I wasn’t sure of my plan. All I knew was that I needed to find my way to the water.

We boarded the boat and I stood in the bow, clutching the camera to my chest. The steamboat chugged away from shore, turned, and plowed through the rough water toward the island. Kula stood silent, her black braid snaking down her back, so like Mama’s, wisps of hair lashing her strong cheeks.

I took off my hat and, as the boat gathered speed, pulled the pins from my hair and stuffed them into my jacket pocket. I gripped the rail, letting the breeze whip my hair loose. It was risky, leaving without word. The water gave up no secrets: It was opaque, inky, racing beneath the boat. I held the rail so tightly my knuckles were white.

We docked, the bright sunshine throwing sparks off the water. The wind whipped the women’s scarves into banners. Men pressed their fedoras to their heads.

I touched Kula’s arm. “I’ll be along in a minute. I want to get a picture of the lake.” It was a lie meant to protect us both. I wasn’t really sure what I was going to do, but I had to do it alone.

Kula looked at me curiously. “I’ll come.”

“No. I need to go alone.”

Kula’s dark eyes met mine, and she regarded me, suspicious. “What are you planning?”

“Did I ask for your help?” I was abrupt. She would only get in the way.

Kula’s gaze grew sharp. “Mr. Graybull told me to keep an eye out. Not to let you go off wandering.”

“Mr. Graybull is not my master.” My throat was tight. Then I looked away from her. “Anyway, it’s only for a picture.”

“Whatever you say.” Kula shrugged and turned away.

I picked my way along the shore away from the steamer. I needed to find a place out of sight of the tourists, the steamer, the buffalo pens. It wasn’t easy going, as the underbrush grew thick and tangled right to the edge, and there was only a rocky shelf. Several times I slipped into the water, soaking my feet. My stockings were heavy cotton, but my shoes were thin, and the cold penetrated to my bones.

I found my way to a small inlet that faced the vast expanse of the lake. The blue sky was reflected in the water that rippled in the strong breeze. Mountains ringed the lake; snow glowed white in the morning sun. I set up the camera. The image, upside down, made me dizzy: water at the top. I glanced back toward the boat, just out of sight around the spit of land, and made up my mind.

Until that moment I’d thought I was only here for a picture, as I told Kula. I thought that might answer the questions inside me, but it was inadequate. Now I knew why I was here and what I had to do.

I had to see how much I was like my mother. I had to have her experience. I had to try to bring her back. I had to bring her to me.

It was risky, but no one could see.

I pulled off my jacket and stepped out of my shoes and skirt. I slipped off my shirtwaist, camisette, petticoat, stockings, bloomers. Naked, I waded, fast, into the lake, picking my way through the rocks, and then let myself fall.

The cold water hit me like a wall and I gasped. Instinct took over and I drew up and began to swim hard as Mama had taught me, knowing that working would warm my limbs. At first my arms and legs wouldn’t respond, but after a few poorly made strokes, I began to move and pulled myself out to deeper water. My feet left the bottom and my gut clenched.

But it was the cold that was more terrifying than the depth. This water was much more frigid than I’d expected, and that made it much more difficult to swim. My legs felt heavy, and dragged me down. I turned back toward the shore. It wasn’t far, but I had to fight for every inch, and I grew colder and colder, made dreamy and stupid by my icy limbs.

I wasn’t afraid of drowning, or of the deep, deep void beneath me. Not anymore. Even in my increasingly dreamy state, I knew what I feared most: I feared living a life without love. A shallow life. A life where I could always touch the bottom, where impulse was a curse and everything I had was given to me by someone else. I feared living a life like Mama’s, where I yearned for what I could not have.

Had the Atlantic felt like this when Mama had vanished over the cliff? I began to grasp the reality of drowning. Was this what it felt like, Mama? A serene calm . . . I stopped moving. I thought about slipping under the water, about the cold green water that would fill my lungs, about the sense of peace that must be my last thought.

It was so cold, so cold in this lake, like liquid glacier. I felt so tired. Heavy. These heavy legs and arms pulled me down. Weights. The shore. So far, like the wrong end of the camera lens.

Slipping beneath the water, drifting like seaweed—there was no void here; cold sapped me of fear. That’s what it felt like. Peaceful, blissful. Why not? It would be easy to do what she did. To escape.

From beneath me, I felt a hand pushing, pushing.

First I thought, magic! A mermaid. Then, Mama. Mama’s arms wrapped around me and pushed me out of the water. Her long black hair streamed through the water, her hands pushing; I was dimly aware, my eyes were so hard to focus. I was sure I was being carried toward shore. Mama was there, carrying me back. I turned my head, and met her eyes, and she looked at me, so sad. So sad, like the doe, before her face disappeared into the green light of the water.

“Mama!” It wasn’t even a whisper because my throat was frozen tight. Her impulse had been to move toward love, to find her child. She’d slipped on that rocky cliff—she must have. I was sure that she hadn’t chosen to die. All her decisions had been made for her; but I could follow a different path. I could make my own choices. Live fully, impulsively, live on the edge if need be, or die by bits and pieces as my soul was swallowed by the shallow things in life.

At this instant I had to choose whether to quit and succumb, or to face life and all its pain.

My foot scraped something hard, and I shoved against it. I nudged at the rock and it nudged back, sending me toward the shore. I lifted out of the water, head back, like a newborn infant, and the shock of air bit into my skin. I gasped and, in a fog, knew that I was crawling onto the rocky edge; and as I pulled out of the water into the wind, I felt a deep ache.

I’d been in the water for less than a minute, but it felt like a lifetime. I lay on the rocks, shivering uncontrollably. I knew that if I didn’t get dry I’d freeze to death right there. I crawled hand over hand to a sheltered spot on the rocks, my body shaking in violent shudders.

The sun was out, and I leaned back against the rocks, seeking their warmth. It seemed to take forever to seep into me. My long hair was matted; I had a splitting headache. The more I warmed up, the more I shook. I fought with my clothes, tugging as my hands trembled. My cotton underclothes, even my stockings, seemed pathetic. I was grateful that I’d worn the tweed suit. When I was dressed, I sat in the sun, willing my body to recover. The pain in my head was excruciating.

I looked at the dark lake. Mama was not there. No one was there. Had I imagined it? No. I believed in magic. I stood, shaking, and went to the camera, still waiting for me where I left it.

Staring down the viewfinder, I framed the picture. I focused into the water where it was shallow enough to show the rocky bottom, the rocks forming a soft pattern of light and dark. In that narrow world, there was only shape and form. Everything in the picture was finite, in the moment. My stiff fingers worked the lens with difficulty, but I managed.

The steamer blew its horn, and I knew they were missing me. I packed up and worked my way back along the shore, my wet hair pinned up but still dripping icy streams down my neck. I thought about what I would say to Kula to explain myself. I rounded the cove and saw the
Zillah
and a number of tourists, including Kula, watching my return. I knew how odd I looked with my soaking hair and full-body shivers. The tourists gathered on the dock stared at me and whispered. Kula grabbed my arm and pulled me along.

“I slipped,” I lied.

“You’d better get inside.” I was grateful that she didn’t scold me, that she didn’t ask me what I’d really done. She found a blanket and draped it over my shaking shoulders as the steamer made passage back over the lake. I watched Dot Island grow small.

Graybull paced the dock; I could see him from a distance as the
Zillah
approached the landing. The desk clerk had evidently informed him of our unauthorized excursion. He was furious, and hissed at me through clenched teeth when we docked. “Where have you been?”

“I wanted some photographs.”

“No business going without me! Such a state. Your hair. Disgraceful!”

“There was spray. Waves. And some spitting rain on the island.”

He turned toward Kula. “I gave you a task. You failed.”

Kula drew herself up, straight and proud, her lips a tight line. She walked two paces behind us on the way back to the hotel.

“It was my idea to go out there. Kula tried to stop me. When she couldn’t, she decided she’d better go with me.” I was getting good at lies. They were a useful weapon.

Graybull turned on Kula. “Is this true?”

Kula didn’t answer. She remained mute and defiant, her dark eyes seeming even blacker as she looked at him.

“Of course it is,” I said. “I wanted to get some photographs.”

“You are not to leave without my permission again, Margaret. Kula, see to it.”

“I’m going to my room,” I said. “I have a headache.” I’d taken one step, only one, a big step but yet . . . I discovered what I wanted but not how to get it. I found something of Mama but couldn’t complete the circle. I would not live a life without love, but I wasn’t sure how to create that life. I made only one choice out of a vast ocean of possibilities.

I could feel the walls of my prison pressing in on me.

In my room, I stared out the window. Kula drew me a bath, then left me. After soaking for an hour, I pulled on my silk robe and sat down at the desk. I wrote to Kitty for the first time in days.

A huge round splotch marred the words as one of my tears fell on the paper.