To Europe
In port, the ship offered a new perspective of the New York skyline. The buildings in midtown crept ever higher, reminding me of children standing chin to nose, proclaiming now I’m the tallest. Trails of horse- and man-drawn carts, laden with merchandise, flowed back and forth from barges to warehouses squatting on the riverfront.
Hordes of people turned out to bid farewell to the steamship on the warm June day. I had been one of them many times, waving to the lucky passengers lining the decks. Now, we were the lucky ones, leaning against the rails of the RMS Scotia, blowing kisses, as the ship blew its farewell horn. Mother alternately waved a handkerchief and dabbed her eyes with it. GK, a head taller than the rest, waved an American flag.
The sight of GK especially tugged at my heart. During our time in Cincinnati, he had faced a terrible challenge. In order to cover their own poor judgment, Generals Grant and Sheridan had accused him of making cowardly decisions during the war. During the Battle of Five Forks, Grant had ordered GK to move his troops to support Sheridan. Grant had promised Sheridan the reinforcements would arrive sooner than was humanly possible. In addition, GK had to disentangle his units from other skirmishes and cross a river after the bridges had been destroyed. But all Sheridan saw was that GK did not show up in time, and he accused him of dithering.
My dear General, I had begun a letter.
In his reply, he wrote, I find I must once again provide guidance for you, dearest Em. The proper salutation is “My dear Major.”
Pangs of guilt tore at me for leaving on a grand adventure, helpless to ease his pain.
After a final wave goodbye, a porter led Wash and me on a tour through the ship, heading toward our stateroom. “She is the second largest and the fastest oceangoing ship in the world,” he boasted above the chug of the engines and rush of water through the paddle wheel.
As we left the harbor, Wash and the porter argued about paddle wheels versus screws while I let the balmy salt air caress my cheeks.
In our stateroom, scale diagrams, models, and maps of New York Harbor crowded the cabin and walls. I waded through steamer trunks and piles of textbooks, shoving them aside to make order from the mayhem.
“Oh look, champagne.” Wash nudged out the cork with a delightful pop, filled two glasses, and handed one to me. He lifted his for a toast. “To Europe.” We clinked glasses, and he kissed me. “Darling, I’ve been terribly preoccupied, but I promise you’ll have my undivided attention the entire voyage.”
I eyed the room full of evidence against him. “No apology necessary. You’ll study bridge building, and I’ll see Europe—a fair trade, is it not?” I sipped, the cool bubbles tickling my nose. But despite his promise made mere seconds ago, his eyes fell upon the wooden models dominating the tiny table.
No, not again. A choice needed to be made: I needed to learn of his world or return to the familiar feeling of abandonment. It wasn’t in me to settle for a life of domesticity—managing a household and having chats with my husband about the wallpaper or the rats in the cellar. In Cincinnati, we had drifted apart. I wanted to know his worries, help him think through difficult problems, be his partner in life. His work was so central to his being—I had to understand it.
I picked up a model labeled Pneumatic Caisson. It resembled a wooden shoebox without a lid, its exposed edges sharpened and several smaller boxes fastened within. “I will accept your undivided attention. Can you explain this contraption?”
He came up behind me, surprising me with an embrace. “Caissons can wait,” he murmured in my ear. He pulled the ribbons that held up my hair and let it tumble. We kissed, and he led me toward the cabin bed with its crisp white sheets.
I stopped him with a palm to his chest, even though this was what I longed for on many lonely nights. “Just a short lesson. I’d like some understanding of what takes you away from me every waking hour.”
He sighed. “As you wish, dear, a short lesson, under protest.” He led me back to the table, and I picked up the model. “To begin, we build wooden caissons in the shape and size of the footprint of each bridge tower.” Behind me, he pressed against my back, wrapping his arms around me.
“A huge, empty box?”
He nodded, clasped his hands over mine to turn over the model, open side down. “An open-bottom box about 100 by 170 feet—about a third the size of a city block.”
“Hard to even imagine.”
“Quite so. We caulk the seams with oakum and wrap it in iron to make it waterproof and airtight, then float it into place in the river, upside down, just like this. These caissons will be the foundations for the towers.”
“Float? Seems it would be awfully heavy, wrapped in iron.”
“About three thousand tons, but that won’t matter. Compressed oxygen will be pumped in to keep it afloat as it moves into position. After that, we continue pumping in oxygen to keep the men working in the caisson alive.” He kissed the back of my neck as one hand stealthily left the model and unfastened the buttons on the back of my dress.
“As we build a tower of stone on top, we dig out the unstable silt beneath and send it up a chute.” He traced a path up my back, then ran it down my spine. His lips grazed my ear, making me shudder. “The bottom edges, or shoe, cut the path, and the caisson sinks far below the riverbed to bedrock.” He pushed the model and my hands down.
I scooted the model back onto the table.
“Compressed air…keeps…while workers dig… No, I can’t do this.” He took a step back. “I have single-mission brain and body parts. I can speak of bridges or make love, not both.”
I twisted around and poked his belly. “Ah, it would appear we have finally found your limitations.”
“Indeed. Which shall it be? A lesson…or love?” He wrapped his arms around me, a decision made.
From the moment he dropped to one knee in a garden, Wash had been telling me to always choose love. When I pointed out that he often chose work, he would say, “My work is how I show my love. Would you rather I spent my time in pursuits that failed to support you?” But did he understand the heartbreak and fragility of love? Perhaps his emotional constitution was sturdier than I had presumed. It had to be, to go through war, to work under great pressure, with his own father, to love a woman who defied and rebelled, even when she wasn’t sure what she was rebelling against.
* * *
As he dozed, the roll of the ship and queasiness in my stomach advised me the ship was in open seas. I could only hope the seasickness did not last the entire voyage—if it was seasickness. It wasn’t right to delay any longer. I had to tell him.
“Sweetheart.” I caressed his face with the back of my hand. “We have more to celebrate.”
“Hmm?”
“I have the most exciting news.” I rested my head on his chest, his strong heartbeat a comfort. “I’m with child.”
He yawned and blinked. “What child?”
“Yours and mine.”
He cocked his head.
“We’re going to have a baby.”
“You’re not serious!” His eyes widened, his voice incredulous and not in a happy way.
I nodded, smiling with my good news. Wash pushed away and stumbled across the crowded cabin while donning his drawers.
“But we’re on our way to Europe, for God’s sake! You’ll need doctors!” He grabbed bunches of his hair.
“Perhaps it’s not the best of timing, but they have doctors in Europe, some of the best. And we have family there.”
He paced, then threw my belongings back into their trunks. “You must get off the ship. We’ll get the captain to turn around. What were you thinking?”
“My darling, the baby won’t come for months! We’ll be well settled by then.” I took a pair of my shoes from his hands. My voice sounded shaky, so I took a few breaths. I did not want to cry. “I want us to be together.”
He eyed the small but evident bulge of my belly. “Why did you keep this from me? Have you lost your mind?”
My hands went instinctively to the small mound that seemed to have appeared overnight. “A doctor is onboard. I inquired into the manifest.” But in fact, I had not. Now I had done another awful thing. I had lied to him. Where did I start to go wrong? Is it so terrible to want to be with your husband so much that you keep important things from him? Indeed, the reality of a baby had not yet fully taken hold.
Wash slammed the steamer trunk closed. “You tricked me! You knew this…how long ago? And yet didn’t tell me. Why, in God’s name?”
“I thought the news would make you happy. We’ve talked of having children.”
“You’re getting off this ship at once, having the baby on American soil. Our child will not be an immigrant!”
“What happened to always choose love?”
He blinked, shook his head. Of course, that was my own interpretation of his thoughts.
“We are married. For better or worse. I fought your father to be with you. I picked up and moved my life to a rat-infested hole to be with you. This is our life. This is who we are.”
“Understood.” His tone softened, and he spoke evenly and directly as he did when counseling a worker who had made a misstep. “But now everything has changed. Your safety and that of our child must be our foremost concern. You must stay.”
* * *
I didn’t disembark and spent so much time huddled in bed and vomiting during the eight-day voyage that Wash didn’t dare say anything to upset me. The ship landed in England, then on to Prussia, where we planned to reside in the village of Mühlhausen, Papa’s birthplace and where many Roeblings still lived.
Located in the middle of Prussia, the small city had well-preserved medieval architecture, with spires of Gothic churches dominating the view on every street. From the surrounding hills, one could enjoy a lovely view of the farmland, the city center tucked inside a wall like a precious jewel. It was a peaceful place, even idyllic. Every sidewalk and street was scrubbed, every window spotless. Even the fields were precisely planted, not a stray weed to be found.
The German women were as industrious as they were kind. Each day, a neighbor would arrive at my door with a carefully wrapped wurst and a Brötchen—a crusty roll that looked like a tiny loaf of bread. As my pregnancy progressed, they fussed over me even more, making me feel lazy in comparison.
My immense belly got in the way of the simplest of things. Getting up from the divan required awkwardly rolling to the side, then down to the floor on all fours, then pulling and pushing myself to stand. Thankfully, we had a cook. All the Brötchen, schnitzel, and spaetzle was making me as big as a Haus. Wash’s extended family helped by picking up and delivering our laundry. They spoke little English, and we got by with my few words of German and lots of pantomiming. It amused me that the German community worked much harder and took more interest in communicating with me than had the Americans in Cincinnati.
Our two-story boarding house was as overstuffed as I was. It bulged with our trunks and too much furniture. The baby was due in late October but nearly a month later had yet to appear. Wash asked me how I felt every two minutes and paced at all hours, making the wait even more unbearable. His pacing always set off alarm bells in my mind, and I got up to check on him. Upon seeing me, he startled, seeming not to know who I was for a moment. He didn’t act as strangely as he had directly after the war, but still his behavior renewed my pangs of worry. I tried to conceal my own physical discomfort, hoping not to make him worse.
About the time I thought the child would never arrive, I received not the delivery I yearned for but more laundry. I was faced with a basket of clean clothes and a steep stairway to our bedroom. I considered leaving it for Wash to carry, but stubbornness reared its head. I climbed, holding the heavy basket at an awkward angle against my side. At the top, I stopped to catch my breath.
A sudden pain in my back caused me to drop the basket. I reached for the handrail to steady myself. I missed it, lost my balance, and tumbled down the entire flight, landing on the hard slate floor of the entry.
Pain sliced from my elbow to my hand, and my back ached like it had been kicked by a horse, but all I could think about was the baby. I held my belly, watching it rise and fall with my breathing. Minutes seemed like hours until I felt a kick. Then a few more kicks, the baby reassuring its terrified mama. Too shaken and achy to move, I waited on the cold stone until Wash came home.
With unearthly calm, he checked me and placed a pillow under my head. “I’m running next door to have them fetch the doctor. I’ll be back in a moment.”
He returned, and the doctor came quickly. He placed an ear horn on my belly while Wash stood close by, staring at his shoes. The doctor spoke to him in German, then nodded and smiled at me.
“He says the baby is fine and you have only a few bad bumps and bruises. Em, you shouldn’t be—”
My answer was a groan as a sudden pain gripped my lower abdomen and my stomach tightened. Our baby was finally on the way.
Giving birth was by far the hardest thing I had ever done. How in God’s creation had my mother endured it twelve times? The doctor said I was losing a prodigious amount of blood due to my fall and gave me an injection to ease the pain. But the sensation of a knife twisting in my gut pierced readily through the fog.
When it was over, the doctor handed me our son, wrapped in a cotton blanket. Exhaustion made my arms so heavy that I couldn’t reach for him. The sharp tang of alcohol and the musk of blood filled the air and unsettled my stomach. The four bedposts formed horses on a carousel as the world spun around me. Unreal, as if I were dreaming. Or drowning.
For the past months, I had imagined the moment we would lay eyes on our tiny baby and revel in the wonder of creating a new human being. Instead, I was stunned by his enormity. He hung precariously from the small triangle of fabric attached to a hook on a scale. “Twelve pounds,” the doctor announced. The baby had chubby legs and arms and puffy pink cheeks. And big lungs. We named him John, after his grandfather.
The next day, Wash paced helplessly as the baby wailed for my milk. I was too worn out to lift my head let alone Johnny to my breast.
“I can’t—” I moaned, wanting nothing but sleep.
Wash arranged some pillows to prop the baby, and at last Johnny latched on and quieted.
“I have to leave for a few days, some important appointments, but the nurse is here to take care of you.” He kissed my forehead through an encroaching darkness.
That was the last I remember until the sound of the nurse shrieking “Der liebe Gott!” pierced my slumber. I awoke on my side, the baby sleeping in a cradle next to me.
“What?” I tried to form the word with unresponsive lips. The nurse lifted crimson bedsheets from my wet legs as I drifted back into the deep, dark river.
* * *
My hand was lifted to a damp, scratchy cheek. I felt his presence more than seeing him.
“Wash.”
“I’m here, my love.”
I unglued my eyes a slit, and Wash’s tortured face swam before me. A terrible dread entered my mind, and my heart raced. “The baby!”
“He’s fine, dear.” Wash placed a warm hand over mine and took in a deep, jagged breath. “But the doctor says you need an operation. We’ve got to let him do it.”
“Mmm… Thasss all right…” Even through the fog, I knew as long as the baby was fine, nothing else mattered.
“I’m so sorry for leaving you. I’ll…I’ll never forgive myself.”
His face was wracked with anguish, and I tried to comfort him.
“I fine.” I felt the skin of my forehead being tugged as he plucked matted hair from it.
“There’s something else.” He hung his head. “We can’t have any more.”
“More what?” I asked, already fading into a soft dream.
“More babies.”
* * *
The surgery stemmed the bleeding, but I was very weak and unable to get out of bed for a month. My heart ached for the children we would never have. I pictured Johnny running through fields with the sisters that weren’t meant to be. I recalled my own childhood with nearly a dozen siblings vying for the best swing, the most attention, the biggest piece of bread. But part of me was relieved to never have to repeat the painful experience of childbirth. Johnny would have friends and cousins and parents who could devote themselves to him.
Johnny brought us great joy, and Wash no longer harangued me about my decision to accompany him to Europe with a child on the way. Likewise, I bit my tongue back from lashing him once I realized he’d gone away, leaving me and his newborn son for days while I hung in a precarious state.
* * *
When I had regained my strength, I accompanied Wash on research trips, sometimes leaving Johnny with the Roebling clan. Words like “caisson” and “quoin” became as familiar to me as “cat” and “dog.” Or le chat and le chien. When the opportunity to study a bridge over the Seine arose, I used my facility with French to worm my way into the visit.
We reveled in each other’s company, making love frequently and passionately once I had recovered, as if to make up for the lonely nights filled with his work and my waiting. It was the honeymoon we had never had.
Wash’s spells of soldier’s heart occurred less frequently, and his sweetness and lively sense of humor returned along with our lovemaking. He surprised me with unusual gifts of questionable taste. Once, he paid a few francs for some eggs from a farm woman, then drew comical likenesses of her on the shells and presented them to me in a lovely basket.
He had a knack for analyzing building design and why the human eye might perceive it with pleasure, as when we visited Versailles. The formal gardens were breathtaking with the precision of their carved hedges, the romantic twists and turns of the paths between them.
Wash pointed out features of the wondrous palace, such as the two stories of tall Palladian windows, precisely offset from each other. “It’s the symmetry and balance, two related but different things. The grandeur in size, restraint in design, and the consistency in the color of the stone taken together please the eye and soothe the mind.”
Especially enjoyable was our visit to England to see the architecture of Sir Christopher Wren. At the Royal Navy Observatory in Greenwich, Wash and I admired the perfect balance of grace, symmetry, and utility in Wren’s dome.
Windows and panels alternated in pleasing scale, and glorious carvings at the zenith drew my eyes toward the heavens. An enormous telescope protruded through an opening in the roof, similar to the Cincinnati Observatory. Once again, I was able to see beyond our world. How tiny and insignificant our lives seemed in comparison. We were living our lives as they were meant to be lived, our place in the universe ordained by a power greater than us. My perspective grew and my worries abated. I was physically as strong as I had been before the pregnancy and emotionally even stronger.
In a Scotland dry dock, Wash and I watched workers prepare the new clipper ship Cutty Sark for launch. Wash was eager to explore the innovative hull design. Her framework was designed for speed, with several types of wood fitted into a graceful curve. We were both awed by the waterproofing—a skin of brass, much more elegant than his plan for the caisson.
A wooden structure cradled the ship, and we ducked under the spectacular hull. The special type of flexible brass sheathing, called Muntz metal, was a precise mixture of corrosion-resistant copper and zinc. It was heated to a blazing 800 degrees, applied to the lower hull, then carefully cooled. I reached up and ran my hand across the golden surface’s breathtaking curves. One couldn’t see and feel that without wonder, without a sense of calm. It was a privilege to view this treasure of art and science before it was forever concealed beneath the waves.
* * *
We were in a remote part of France when I failed at the first chance I had to truly help Wash with his work. He planned to dive underwater to examine foundations and needed me to hold his rope line, which was tied about his waist in case he got into some trouble. Refusing to ask his father to pay for an assistant, when he needed an extra set of hands, he chose mine.
Wash was studying a small bridge, its several stone arches leaping across the water in perfect symmetry. It was as if we had stepped into a painting. Lilacs scented the spring air while apple and cherry trees bloomed with abandon.
I sat on the bank of the stream, a cool breeze blowing over my bare feet, a picture book of the French countryside in one hand, the coiled end of Wash’s rope in the other. The rope tugged, and Wash popped out of the water.
“Em! You must come see this!” He waded over to me, his wet bathing costume clinging nicely to his broad chest. He pulled off the swim goggles he had fashioned with round pieces of glass and bits of rubber, leaving black rings around his eyes.
I laughed. “You look like a panda bear.”
He growled and rubbed his face on my white gauzy skirt.
I pushed his head away. “Mon Dieu, this is the latest in French fashion.”
“You’re all dirty.” He gave me a smile. “Now you have to come in.” He offered his hand and guided me down the short bank. “It’s not too cold.”
He gently pulled me, but I dug my heels into the pebbled shallows.
“I’m quite content right here,” I said, although I wasn’t at all. I wanted to climb back up the riverbank. The thought of going deeper into the water sent a shiver of dread through my body.
“What is it? You told me you could swim.”
“I can survive.”
He tilted his head. “And what were you going to do if I needed help?”
“It’s not that I can’t, physically.”
“Metaphorically, then?” Wash waved at the sinking sun. “I’ve got the rest of the day and all night. Tell me.”
Perhaps I should have shared the story with him long ago. Memories tucked in a recess of my mind sometimes boiled to the surface, with or without provocation. If I shared them with my beloved, could I finally let go? A dull pain formed in the pit of my belly, convincing me to keep my secrets buried. It was so long ago, after all. I stared at the water rippling over my feet, screams of terror from the past echoing in my ears. He was right. It was time.
* * *
My memories begin, as everything begins, with water. Flowing serenely between cascading cliffs, the river appeared so gentle, so welcoming. My fifth spring had arrived, and we children were set free to explore the budding world.
My brother GK led my sister Elizabeth and me on a narrow path through the woods toward the river, bent branches snapping back into my face. We weren’t allowed to swim in the river but often threw pebbles into it and watched boats go by.
GK pointed out poison ivy, and I slapped at mosquitoes as we hiked a good mile from home, climbing all the way.
“Wait up,” Elizabeth called from behind. My parents favored her, the golden child, the sky-eyed angel among the rest of us with dark hair and dirt eyes. She was heavier and slower, although six years old to my five. We were always competing: who was braver, smarter, taller? Hearing her clomping behind me, I giggled and raced farther ahead.
White sunshine blinded us as we emerged from the woods. The dirt path ended at a smooth stone ledge. We scrambled up the rock to the top of the cliff, high above the water.
“You see that, Emily?” GK pointed across the river to a bald mountain, as pockmarked as his face. He was thirteen years older than me, therefore fascinating, and seemed to change with each day. We crept to the edge of the rock for a view of the iron foundry just upriver but far below us. “They shoot the cannons across the river to test them.”
The woods rustled behind us as Elizabeth caught up. “Get back from there.” She huffed, her shoulders rising and falling with each breath.
I ignored her, mesmerized by the river slithering through the rounded green mountains like a glittering snake.
“Here comes the train.” GK pointed to the river’s twin, a black snake running beside it.
Elizabeth pulled on his arm. “I mean it. Get back.”
“Stop it.” I pushed between them.
“You’re too close.” Elizabeth held her hands on her hips.
“Shut your mouth. You’re not the boss. We got here first.”
“Enough, you two.” GK herded us back from the cliff, but I wasn’t having any of it. I kicked the back of her knee.
She whirled around, reaching for my hair. “Stop it, you baby.”
I punched at her face, and she blocked with an elbow. My brother pushed us both back toward the woods, but we escaped him, mindful only of unsettled rows and hurts of the past.
We tussled, a shoe hitting a knee, an elbow meeting a chin. GK grabbed her corn-silk hair and a wad of my brown curls and pulled us apart, our fists swirling in air. He let go of her first, the older, more sensible one. She backed away, her plump cheeks pinked, her hair wild.
“You look like a witch,” I said.
She shoved me, or tried to anyway, arms stretched, hands ready to flatten across my chest. I dodged. She stumbled forward, and her momentum carried her the few steps toward the edge. She tried to stop but slid on loose gravel. I ran to catch her, but GK stiff-armed me back, reaching to grab Elizabeth.
But he missed.
She screamed as she tilted, then tumbled off our rock and crashed into a clump of trees below. She was safe there for a moment, the tender green branches nesting her body.
“Hold on!” GK yelled.
She scrambled, no baby bird but a little girl seeking solid earth. Branches gave way, and she fell out of sight, her voice echoing in the riverside canyon.
GK scooped me up and jumped down off our perch. He carried me, slipping and jerking, down a narrow, steep path, barely wide enough for a foothold. We zigzagged down the face of the gray rock mountain, and I hid my face in his shoulder. About halfway down the cliff, he put me down on a fallen tree. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”
“No, don’t leave me!” I clung to him.
He hesitated. Elizabeth’s cries for help were like a baby bear calling for its mama.
“You’ll be safe here, Emily.” He cupped my chin in his hand. “I’ve got to help our sister.”
“No, no, no.” I wrapped both arms around his leg.
Groaning in anguish, he picked me up and tossed me over his shoulder. I clasped his brown shirt as we bumped down, down, down. At the bottom of the ravine, he set me on a patch of pebbles at the edge of the water.
“Help me,” Elizabeth cried. She was in the river, clinging to a branch, her face curtained with blood.
The water rushed by much more quickly than it appeared from above. Logs and branches swept by faster than I had ever run. Having no experience in the water, I stepped in to help. A shock of cold water captured me. I paddled madly to keep my head above the water. My head slipped under, and I arched my neck to get a breath.
The current dragged me under, sunlight wavering through a filter of water. Then strong arms scooped me up, and I sucked in a great breath of air. The river pulled against us, and GK stumbled, waist-deep and weighed down by me and our sopping clothes. When we reached the shore, he set me down, told me to stay put. I obeyed, wet and shivering, my sister’s pleas filling my ears.
He jumped back in and swam to Elizabeth, still clinging to the branch. He reached her just as the current yanked her from it. She slapped at the water and clawed for him as he grasped her dress and pulled her toward him. He lost his grip on the branch.
I watched them float away, arms flailing, voices muffled, their heads bobbing under the water, until only one head popped back up.
* * *
I shared my darkest secret, about the most horrible day, of losing my sister and my fear of the water ever since.
He wrapped me in his arms, my head tucked under his chin. “I’m sorry, my love.”
I raked my foot against the wet pebbles. “So GK was determined to teach me how to swim. For several months, he woke me before dawn, and we snuck out of the house to a small pond covered with lily pads. He would pick me up and wade into the water until it reached my feet. I screamed in terror when we went any deeper. Gradually, he helped me overcome my fears enough to separate from him and paddle around him like a puppy. My strokes grew stronger over time, but I was much relieved when he declared the lessons to be completed.”
“Was that the last time you swam?”
“Once or twice since, but I’d be perfectly happy never to swim again. Every spring, we go back to the overlook and throw flowers down the cliff in her memory.”
GK and I, the guilty survivors, had made a pact. We had taken a life. Whether we called it an accident or fate or irresponsibility or recklessness, it was just a name for our pain, not a way to live with it. We had told no one the full story of what happened that day. It was a secret that both bonded and haunted us.
I rested my hand on Wash’s cool, wet chest. “Each year, we renew a pact: to work twice as hard, be twice as good, and have twice as much fun—for Elizabeth.”
He caught my eye, his lips curled into a slight smile. “That explains so much.” He lifted me up. “But this won’t do for the wife of a bridge builder. We’ll be around water our whole lives.” He leaned close. “Come. You’ll enjoy it with me.”
“No, put me down!” I kicked my legs free.
“Emily, you are going to have to face this sooner or later.”
“Not now.” I stepped back. “Is that why you brought me here? Did GK tell you? Have you known all along?” My insides felt exposed like a freshly gutted trout.
“No, I wanted you here, thought we might enjoy the day together, and I could benefit from your assistance. But now I think you rather need help yourself.” His fingers swirled the water, tinkling around us and smelling of yesterday’s fish. “Nothing’s going to hurt you.”
“I’m not ready. You’ll have to find another assistant.” I stepped through the murk back to the riverbank. My feet slid on its slippery face; I grabbed tree roots for support.
He approached with sloshing steps, and his warm hand rested on my back. “Stop. Let me help you.”
I hugged the steep bank, breathing the scent of mud and grass and worms. Tears flowed down my cheeks.
“It’s all right.” He gently tugged my shoulder.
When I could breathe without shuddering, I echoed him. “All right.” He slid his hands down to make a seat for me, and I wrapped my arms around his neck. I raised my legs around his waist, and he slowly, slowly waded in. My arms clung tightly to him, my face tucked into his neck as he crept deeper, the water chilling my legs. Bile rose in my throat, and I struggled to breathe.
But I did breathe, in jerky gasps at first, smoothing and slowing as his musky smell calmed me. With the clutch of his hands under my bottom and the solid wall of his chest against me, I pushed thoughts of swirling, rapid river from my mind. “Are your arms getting tired? You can bring me back.”
“I can hold you as long as you need.”
Shivering, I inched my legs into the waist-deep river while wishing to be lifted away from the snake that stole my sister. But he rocked me with the current, repeating, “Don’t worry. I’ve got you.”
My trembling stopped, and the corset laces of fear and guilt that had long squeezed my chest loosened. We kissed, the stream gently flowing past. The sky darkened and the crickets chirped. I dipped my fingertips in the water, making peace with it.
“Good?” he asked.
I nodded, and he slipped his arms from around me, reached under the current, and brought up a muddy piece of junk. “Aha. This is what I wanted to show you.”
I raised my eyebrows at his offering.
He swirled it in the water to rinse off the mud, revealing a white ceramic pitcher with beautiful lines and in good trim. He raised it like a trophy. “An artifact of an ancient culture.”
I wiped my streaked face, trying to resemble a normal sort of person. “Or something that fell off someone’s boat last week.”