The Water Keeper(100)

I nodded. So many questions. Struggling to breathe, she forced her lungs to expand, inhaled, and let it out. Slowly. She eyed the water in front of us where the sun was just breaking the skyline. She leaned sideways, pressing her forehead to mine. She spoke without struggle and without fear. “Walk me home?”

I shook my head. “I have so much I want to tell you.”

She waved her hand across the bookshelf. “You already did.” A smile. “Ten thousand times over. I used to lie here and wonder if you would ever walk in that door.”

I nodded and opened my mouth, but no words sounded.

She chuckled. “You were here every day. Every sunrise. Sunset. I’ve never been alone.” She paused. Breathing. The vein on her temple pounding, depicting the load her heart was under and how it was struggling to keep up. She placed her palm on my cheek. We didn’t have much time. She struggled. “I ran . . . because I didn’t feel worthy of your love. The more I tried to push you away, the harder you looked and the more you proved me wrong.” She tried to smile. “So many times I stared out the window. You had come within the sound of my voice. And yet I couldn’t let myself cry out, knowing what I’d done.”

“Marie—”

She stopped me. “I don’t deserve it, but I need a favor.”

“Name it.”

She breathed slowly. In. Out. The end had come. She pulled the clear tube away from her face and lay waiting. She pointed to the beach. Squeezed my hand. “Be my priest . . . and walk me home.”

I swallowed. I knew what she was asking. And the pain of it was killing me. “Only if you’ll let me be your husband first.”

She blinked and smiled, unable to speak. I slid my hands beneath her legs and lifted her frail and thin body. She hung her arms around my neck and pressed her nose to my cheek, breathing in. She weighed nothing. What little she did weigh was crushing me.

Without oxygen, Marie was having trouble focusing, so I called her back. “Marie . . .”

In all my wanderings, all my dreaming, all the slideshows across my mind’s eye, I’d never seen us end this way. My lip trembled. Mind raced. I couldn’t put the words together. I just pulled her to my chest, descended the steps onto the beach, and held her while the life drained out and the darkness seeped in.

While I carried her, she smiled and whispered in my ear. “Bread first. Then wine.” Before us, Sister June had set a table.

We waded into the water.

Her faded gown sucked to her skin. She had become a shadow. Only seconds now. Waist deep, I held her. I tore off a small piece of bread, mumbled something no one could hear, and managed a whisper that mimicked the words I’d written in my books a hundred times: “. . . the body, broken for . . .” Then I laid the bread on her tongue.

She pushed it around her mouth and tried to swallow, which brought a spasm of fear. Of the inability to get oxygen to her lungs. Her body tensed, eyes rolled back, and I just held her. Ellie stood crying just feet away. Around us, the water had begun washing the blood off me, causing a tint. First pink. Then Cabernet. Merlot.

Marie settled and placed her palm flat against my chest where she could feel my heart pounding. I pulled the cork, tilted the bottle, and rolled the wine up against her lips. “The blood, shed for . . .” My voice cracked again. “Whenever you do this, you proclaim the . . .” I trailed off.

She spoke before letting the wine enter her mouth. The smile on her lips matched that in her eyes. I’d known that smile since our youth. Since the beach where we played as kids. I would miss that smile. The look behind her eyes. The window to her soul. It spoke to the deepest places in me. Always had. The wine filled the back of her mouth and drained out the sides.

Blood with blood.

Another spasm. More struggling to breathe. I clung to Marie as the waves rocked her body. One breath. Then two. Mustering her strength, she pointed. Deeper water.

I hesitated.

Marie’s eyes rolled back, but she forced their return and they narrowed on me. “Please.”

I waded deeper. Her breathing was shallower. Less frequent. Her eyes opened and closed. Sleep was heavy. I spoke the only words I knew. “If I could stop the sun or ask God to take me and not you, I would.”

She placed a hand behind my neck and pulled my face close to hers. “I’ve . . . always . . . loved . . . you.” She swallowed and fought for air. “Still do.”

I kissed her, trying to imprint the feel and taste of her into me.

I walked farther into the gin-clear water, above my waist, while Marie’s body floated beneath the cradle of my arms. A trail of red painted the water downcurrent. Marie tapped me in the chest and used one hand to make the numbers. She tucked three, leaving two. Without pausing, she held up all five. Then she started over. Extending five only to tuck three, leaving two. Making a seven. Her cryptic motions meant 25–7. Do not remember the sins of my youth, nor my transgressions; according to Your mercy remember me.

I nodded, and the tears pushed through the dam. I could hold them no more.

Her head fell to one side. Her lips made the words, then the sound came. “Forgive me?”

I kept shaking my head. “There’s nothing to—”

She pressed her fingers to my lips and tried to nod. “Please. Forgive—” She tensed. Her lips were turning blue.

The tears drained off my face. She thumbed each away. I managed, “I love you with all of me. I—”