Read Online Blue Water by A. Manette Ansay - Free Book Online Page B

was comfortable, homey, fitted up with custom cupboards and shelves. There was a teak dining table, a desk with a computer, satellite TV. The couch was crowded with homemade pillows and stuffed animals. Framed watercolor island-scapes, signed by Bernadette, were affixed to the bulkheads. Somewhere aft of the galley, a generator hummed, powering the blessed air conditioner. If it weren’t for the sounds of Rex and Eli at work—the growl of the water maker, dropped tools, muffled curses—I could have imagined I was back in Fox Harbor, sitting in the living room of somebody’s ranch house. That, and the slight gliding feeling of the hull.
    And the peculiar smell.
    â€œHave a seat,” Bernadette said, heading for the galley. “What would you like to drink? Apple juice okay?” Again, that flash of grin. “We seem to be low on water.”
    â€œApple juice would be great.”
    I sank onto the couch. The smell seemed stronger here. I could almost place it; I fought the urge to squint, as if that might help me see. And then, there it was: Cindy Ann Kreisler’s house. Not the grand place where she lived now, but the farmhouse she’d grown up in, four square rooms off a shotgun hall, divided by stairs that led to the second-story bedrooms, the attic. At the back of the kitchenwas a pantry Dan Kolb had converted to a room for four-year-old Ricky, who couldn’t climb stairs, who couldn’t walk, in fact, without holding on to a walker. Shelves lined the walls above a chipped countertop; below, there were cupboards, overstuffed with clothing, toys, stickered with Tiggers and Winnie-the-Poohs. A wall-mounted can opener still jutted from the space to the right of the doorway.
    â€œHow about crackers and cheese?” Bernadette called.
    It was then that I noticed the wheelchair, secured behind the table with floor locks.
    â€œJuice is fine,” I said.
    It was smaller than any wheelchair I’d ever seen, with a strangely torqued back, a single footrest. A complicated web of embroidered straps formed a makeshift harness attached to the seat. Beside it sat a teak chest, high as a bench, roughly the size of a coffin. It, too, was affixed to the floor, its cover sealed with latches, a blue and white cushion resting on top. I was leaning forward to study it more closely when Bernadette came with our drinks.
    â€œIt’s a bathtub, actually,” she said, and she tapped the box with her toe. “Though it doubles as a bench. Eli built it that way. He built all these shelves and our table, too. He even built Leon’s wheelchair.”
    â€œLeon?” I was beginning to understand.
    â€œOur little guy,” Bernadette said. “Our son.” She gestured toward a closed door. “He should be up from his nap pretty soon. You folks have kids?”
    Perhaps for the first time since Evan’s death, the question caught me off guard. I felt my face flush. “Not really,” I managed; then: “Not now. No. No kids.”
    If Bernadette thought this was odd, her expression revealed nothing.
    â€œLeon’s eleven,” she said. “He nearly died at birth. He can’t hear, but he feels vibrations. If the engine isn’t running right, he’s always the first to know. Actually, I’m surprised he hasn’t noticed you’re on board.”
    With that came the sounds Rex and I had heard over the VHF, followed by a series of scuffling thumps against the bulkhead. Bernadette laughed. “What did I tell you?” She got to her feet, then paused, considering. “It takes awhile, getting him up. You want to come and meet him?”
    I was surprised to discover that I did. Back in Fox Harbor, I’d gone out of my way to avoid other people’s children. Now, after so many weeks of isolation, the thought of seeing a child, even the child of a stranger, filled me with tenderness. Already, I was regretting the lie I’d told. Already,