The Water Keeper(106)

The breeze washed across my skin. I stared across the water at my island. The upstairs of the barn I call an office. The window I look out of when I’m staring across the top of my laptop. There was so much left unsaid. Not knowing what else to say, I spoke out loud some of the words of Marie’s obituary:

Some of us wear our limps on the inside. Some on the out. No matter where, we’re all broken. All walk with a limp. I wish I had found you sooner. I’m sorry I did not. Although, I guess if you were standing here, you would tell me that I did. That every word I’d ever wished to tell you found you. And when I think about that, about how those words soothed your broken heart, that you slept with me tucked up against your chest and under your chin, I feel . . . better. I don’t know if I’m okay, but maybe better.

I know you’re wondering, so I’ll tell you—I’ve decided to keep writing. Why? Because I have more to tell you. The story’s not over. Least not yet. You are still loved. And nothing you have done or can do makes me love you any less. Our love will live on. All of us face the choice—how to get from slave to free. Run? Walk? Crawl? Is it worth it? Will it hurt? Will it kill me? Some take longer than others. Some never risk it. Some never make it. You did. And in the most beautiful gift you’ve ever given me, I got to walk you through the door.

In the years ahead, when I grow old and tired, and maybe when my well runs dry and the words fade and the scent of you grows faint, I’ll walk back out into these waters, dive beneath the surface, and let you fill me up. Red sky at night.

Love is like water. No matter how you cut it, slice it, beat it, or blow it into ten trillion droplets, give it a few minutes and it will all come back together again. Like nothing ever happened. No scar. No shrapnel. Just one giant body of water. Clear. Clean. Cool. Love fills the empty places and flows from what was once the epicenter of the wound. And it’s the flowing that washes out the residue of the pain and makes us whole again. That’s the crazy miracle that is love. The more you pour out, the more you have to pour. I don’t understand it, I just know it’s true.





I turned the jar, and Marie’s ashes scattered onto the water, spreading into a defined cloud around me. Clinging to my skin. Then I emptied the words I’d written. To keep her company. Keep her warm. Remind her when she forgot. If this water could talk, I wanted her to hear my voice. To hear me say with every ripple, current, and wave that there was not then and is not now anything she could do to lose my love. Nothing can separate us.

Love does that. It erases the pain. The darkness. The stuff that wants to hold our head under the water. Love reminds us who we are and who we were always meant to be. And there never has been nor ever will be anything that can kill it.

I shook the two urns and mixed the ashes until there was no distinction between them. We stood there, a slack tide. Marie, me, and the ink that etched the memories. Then the current swirled, tugged on my legs, its flow drawn by the moon, and carried her out to where the Atlantic kissed the sky.

In a few hours, she’d be swimming in the Gulf Stream. Free again.





Chapter 53


A few days later, I found myself sitting on the floor of the chapel. Angel’s lipstick inscription just above my head. Tools scattered around me. A Dremel in my hand. I’d just finished carving five names into the wall of the chapel.

Angel

Ellie

Marie

Summer

Clay



Then, for reasons I can’t quite understand, I stood and inscribed a phrase above all the names:

These have walked from broken to not.

From slave to free.

I sat back, leaning against the far wall. Staring at the names. The fresh cuts in the stones. I scratched my head. It was warm, so I’d stripped my shirt off and sat there sweating. Beads draining down. Cleansing me. As I stared at the wall, something bugged me. Gunner too. He lay on the cold stone floor, belly up, tail wagging, tongue dragging. He’d taken to island life just fine.

I circled the wall all afternoon, trying to place the missing piece. Wasn’t until midnight, standing knee-deep in the incoming tide, that it dawned on me. I climbed out of the water, headed back into the chapel, and picked up the Dremel. Only took me a few minutes. When finished, I blew out the dust, wiped it with a wet rag, and stood back. Reading the two names. Over and over.

David Bishop

Murphy Shepherd



Sometimes I can’t wrap my head around where my life has taken me. The depth and the breadth. I nodded at the two names. They, too, had been cut loose from their tethers. A salty breeze washed through the chapel.

I wasn’t quite sure who to be.

I packed a few things and closed up the island, and Gunner and I arrived at the tarmac midafternoon. The plane was waiting on us. We boarded, the G5 took off, and three hours later we touched down at a private airport ten minutes outside of Freetown. I unlocked my storage unit, backed out my Chevrolet diesel, locked it into four-wheel drive, watched the highway turn from asphalt to gravel, and began working my way to Freetown.

I never told them when I was coming. Not even Bones. Only the pilots knew and even that was just a few hours’ notice. I drove back roads and parked at a trail that wound its way up to one of the Collegiate fourteen-footers but also allowed me backdoor access to the Eagle’s Nest without being seen. I wanted some time to myself. In truth, I wanted to spy on Summer and Angel. Or rather, Summer.