curves, lines, switch tool, splotches, splatters—no longer concerned if he was summoning forces better left undisturbed. All that mattered was the bond. Making it real.
Holding it tight.
Faster.
Faster!
Crack!
A split formed lengthways down the shaft of the
stylus. Clayton’s heart pounded. Drips of sweat had
fallen on the tablet. He slid his chair back to better take in what had happened on his screen. It wasn’t Source02.
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It wasn’t a comic. It wasn’t anything. Just manic scratches rendered in pixels.
“Ay.”
Clayton jumped in his seat, then turned around.
Tuula, dressed in robe and slippers, leaned against the
wardrobe.
“You are still up.”
“Sorry, Mummu. Did I wake you?”
“No. I wake myself these days.” The old woman
cleared her throat and nodded toward the drawing.
“You have been using your gift. This is good—you have
not drawn much lately.”
“No, Mummu.”
“May I see?”
The woman maneuvered around behind Clayton to
better see the screen. She studied the image, tilting her head left and right.
“Ah, abstrakti. Abstract. Very strong. Much emotion.
A self-portrait, perhaps, lapsi?”
“Maybe.”
Tuula waved a hand at the center of the mess. “The
eyes in this—they are…what is word…squinting? Just a
little bit open, yes?”
Eyes? Clayton couldn’t detect a pair of eyes in it.
“They are squinting. Like looking into the sun.
Maybe the next one they will be open wide.” She nodded
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at the bed. “No eyes—not even in art—should be open
wide at two twenty-four in the morning.”
“I couldn’t sleep, Mummu.”
Tuula nodded. “I understand. I had many sleep-
less nights when your isoisä was in Korea the first time.”
Tuula leaned closer. “Do you know what I did?”
“You drew pictures. Same as me.”
“Yes, that’s right! Have I told you this story before?”
“Yes, Mummu. Many times.”
“How many times?”
“Twenty-two.”
“Ha! Not nearly enough!”
Tuula sat down on the bed.
“For a while, I thought I would never sleep again.
And if I could never sleep again, I would go hullu. That would not do. Your isoisä would find a madwoman
at home when he returned. And he was already crazy
enough for the two of us. So I needed to find a way to
calm my mind.
“I drew pictures of the two of us. Not in Australia.
Not of the times that were real, like when we met or
when we got married or when we bought this house.
I drew us as children, doing things together in my home-
town of Kotka. Riding bikes. Playing with the neighbor-
hood dog. Fishing. Snowshoeing. In every picture, your
isoisä was smiling and happy and comfortable. Natural.
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When I drew him skiing, he had perfect form. When I
drew him skating, he had perfect balance. When I drew
him running, he looked like Paavo Nurmi and Lasse
Virén. He belonged. He was safe.
“I thought about the drawings many times. I had
questions I wanted answered. Why did I go back to the
past? Why did I make him…what is word?… protected.
Why did I make him so protected? Was it because he was away at war? Was it just chance? For many years I did
not know. Then one day the pictures and I were old and
faded, and I understood—it was not my place to ques-
tion the art. I was meant to be obedient, to be a good
soldier. And in the time your isoisä was away, I was a good soldier. I gave myself to the drawings. I was their servant.
Doing it over and over, until my hand ached and my neck
was sore and my perse was numb. Until my energy was gone. And when my energy was gone, my eyes closed and
I rested without the crazy thoughts.”
Tuula lapsed into silence for several seconds, then
clapped her hands. “How is your energy now this is
done?”
“Yeah, okay. Now I feel tired,” he said, suppressing a
yawn.
“Ay, the pencil thing is mightier than the bad
thoughts! How wise is your mummu!”
“I think it was your story that did it.”
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“Cheeky boy. My stories are the shit! I will ignore
your comment and go to the vessa now—when I come
back I want to see you in bed and snoring like your isoisä used to.” She kissed Clayton on the head and exited the
room, humming a traditional Finnish tune.
Clayton considered the screen again. Self-portrait?
Where did Tuula get that? He couldn’t see it. Not even
with a squint. He hit the Sleep button. Lights out. Under the covers. The tip, tip, tip of the shower had started up again. Less bothered second time around, he decided to
count out the sounds. He got to seven before sleep took
him under.
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Fourteen
Ash climbed out of the Pepsi Elite Swim Center’s main
pool and took the chamois from Coach Dwyer. As she
patted herself dry, she tried to focus on her mentor’s
feedback.
“Stay off the lane rope…Maybe use more six beat
kicks in the middle third…Swimming at altitude is
always hard…”
Sentences ran together until all that remained was
a steady stream of noise. Her head was elsewhere. In
two other spaces, to be precise. The first was a happy
place. She was swimming again. Properly swimming.
Not in chintzy hotel waders, where the water was more
listless than the guests and the excessive chlorine made you feel like a dipped sheep. This was real. This was
her element. At first glance, her days were once again
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simple and recognizable, free of green rooms and guest
protocols.
The second distraction was less pleasant. The
harrowing daytime visions of Clayton drowning—
she’d taken to calling it a “lightmare”—continued to
hound her. Eating breakfast, working out at the gym,
studying footage of past races. The ghoulish show
was apt to strike her at any time. Even the pool wasn’t
off-limits. Midstroke or during a tumble turn, flashes
of his serene, dead face sent her heart rate jumping
and her technique astray. More and more it seemed
her previous assertion of it will pass was wrong.
Relief required effort on her part. Something needed
to change.
The logic seemed obvious as she lapped up
and down the lane, the black line on the pool floor
crystallizing her thoughts and pointing the way
forward. By the time she was drying off, she’d made
her decision.
“Hey, champ, you okay?”
Ash emptied her mind and smiled.
“Yep. I’m good, Coach.”
“You sure?
Your skin’s still pretty wet. Were you
sweating in there?”
“No, sir.”
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“I know it’s tough getting back into it after all this
tv horseshit. Hitting the water again. It’s hard.”
Ash handed the chamois back. “Nah. It’s the easiest
thing in the world.”
Q
She stared at her watch. For the tenth time, she checked the time difference between Denver, usa, and Brisbane,
Australia. Finally satisfied, she lifted the phone from her pocket. She couldn’t shake the imagined response from
her mind.
I can’t believe you’re doing this to me.
After everything we’ve been through.
“Keep going,” she murmured to herself.
You ambush me like this?
Do I mean nothing to you after all?
“Follow the black line.”
As Ash punched out the number, she crossed her
fingers that Clayton wouldn’t answer. That would be a
long shot—Clayton never answered the landline— but
it would be just her luck for him to break his habit this once. She really didn’t want to speak to him.
She wanted to talk to Tuula.
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Q
That evening sleep came easily and without dreams.
The following day, the “lightmare” abated too.
The image of her man—lifeless, drifting away from
her before sinking to the seafloor—would never again
hijack Ash’s mind.
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Fifteen
A thick fog hung in the wattles and white figs lining the street. It did its best to hide the lingering evidence of the flood that had swallowed the suburb twelve months
earlier, but telltale signs were still apparent. A mud-
encrusted hubcap at the foot of a mailbox. A birdbath
lying on its side in a front yard. A once-white garage door now a permanent silty brown. These signs were not lost
on Clayton. He chose, though, to view them with a posi-
tive eye. The people here—they were tough. They never
bowed to the rising waters. They didn’t drown.
He hadn’t heard from Ash, but that was okay too.
In her last message she had sounded more upbeat than
she had in weeks. She was finally back in the pool, and she sounded more like her regular self. They had to make the most of their days now—she and Coach Dwyer. It was only
reasonable that she wouldn’t get too much downtime.
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He could wait.
Clayton pushed a hand through his hair and stepped
onto the concrete path running parallel to the riverbank.
Not even Tuula’s weird act this morning could break his
mood.
“So, Mummu, we’re here for a walk?”
Tuula took a last drag on her cigarette and flicked it
into a nearby bin. “Ay.”
“A walk?”
“Yes.”
“At seven thirty in the morning?”
“You have to remind me of this, lapsi?”
“Yeah, I do. You hate waking up early. You hate exer-
cise. I can see you’re not enjoying this one bit. What’s the deal?”
Tuula muttered several Finnish expletives, then
stopped. She gave her hip a rub and belched into her free hand. “Okay, you have found me out. We are not here to
make me boobylicious.”
“Booty.”
“Ay?”
“Booty licious.”
“My booties need to be licious?”
“Mummu, forget it. What’s going on?”
Tuula looked around, then held her grandson by the
shoulders. “Ash called me.”
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He blinked. “She called.”
“Ay.”
“You.”
“Ay, lapsi.”
“When?”
“On Thursday. While you were out.”
Time difference, thought Clayton. She’d mixed up
the times. Easy enough to do. He swallowed. The humid
air had a faintly sour tang.
“What did she say?”
“She said a few things, one thing that was very
important. She said she had heart change? A changed
heart?”
“A…change of heart.”
“Ay! That is right.” She dropped her hands from
Clayton’s shoulders and smiled sadly. “She said she had
a change of heart.”
The blood drained from Clayton’s features.
Change of heart.
Change. Of. Heart.
A burning indignation sparked in him. She spoke to
Tuula? Tuula? Who does that? Who breaks up with someone through their grandmother? Deep down, he’d known this was coming. Blythe had finally gotten to her, convinced
her to ditch him from her lane. And she’d agreed. She’d
let go. He wanted the river to rise as it had a year ago, as it 96
I N F I N I T E B L U E
had thirty-five years before that. He wanted to hitchhike on a passing raft of flotsam to be carried off to the bay.
Screw this. Positivity could go to hell.
Tuula’s face fell as she watched Clayton come to the
boil.
“Oh, perkele paska . ”
“What?”
“There are times,” she said, “when I hate my stupid
tongue and my stupid English. There are times when I
need more words. Better words.”
“What, Mummu?”
“Turn around.”
Clayton grunted and turned.
Ash was there on the path, in jeans and one of his
tees, no more than twenty meters away. Softened by the
fog, she looked delicate, weightless. She was paler than when she had left, but her wide smile was undiminished.
“What happened?”
“I wasn’t getting what I needed over there.”
“You left?”
“I did.”
They embraced, reacquainting themselves with the
feel of each other. For both of them, it was like slipping out of cold air and into a warm bath.
“Nice T-shirt.”
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“You’d be amazed how often I hear that. I tell
everyone I bought it from this cool webcomic site.”
They remained clinging to each other, neither daring
to let go.
“Blythe must be thrilled you’re here,” said Clayton.
Ash groaned and released herself from the embrace.
“Beyond words. Actually, not beyond words. She had a few choice ones. I can’t believe you’re doing this, you ambushed me, do I mean nothing to you? …I told Mum straight, before we left. She couldn’t keep me there.
She never thought I would test her out.”
The ropes failed, thought Clayton. Now Ash is swim-
ming outside her lane.
“Excuse me, rakastavainen,” said Tuula, clearing her throat. “I will be going now. This girl made me get up too early. I will go home and get back into bed.”
Ash wrapped her arms around Tuula. “Thank you.”
“Ay.”
Clayton escorted Tuula back to the car. After his
grandmother’s departure he returned to find Ash seated
on a bench near the river’s edge. He sat beside her and
laid a hand on her thigh. She rested
her head on his
shoulder.
“So you missed me then?” he said.
“I did.”
“I saw your tv stuff.”
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“Yeah.” Ash sighed. “God, some of it was awful.”
“The shows were awful. You were great.”
“Don’t suck up to me, Clayton. That’s what Mum’s
minions are for.”
“You did look a bit awkward sometimes.”
“I was more than awkward. I was wrong. Like…
like…”
“A fish out of water?”
“Funny.” Ash smiled wanly but quickly dropped
the facade. “That whole time we were traveling, I wasn’t swimming. And I was scared. Not nervous or anxious.
Scared. I didn’t know what might happen if it went on
much longer. It was like I was in withdrawal. And the
nightmares…” She let the sentence trail off.
“You’re here now. Things will be better.”
“They already are.”
Clayton touched the ring on Ash’s finger. “Welcome
home, water lover.”
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Sixteen
Clayton watched Ash climb into her jeans and then peek
out the window.
“Storm’s coming from the west,” she said. “Might
need an ark to get downtown.”
“You have to go?”
She pulled a face. “Yeah. Press conference Mum’s set
up. Wouldn’t be wise for me to stuff her around again
after the last few days.”
“No, I guess not.” Clayton sat up straight, back
against the headboard of the bed. He watched Ash
lace up her sneakers. “Tell Blythe the stray dog’s still around.”
“What?”
“Never mind.”
Ash frowned, then looked around the room. “Keys?”
“There.”
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“Thanks.” She paused and smiled at Clayton. “Before
I go, I have to tell you this. I met a couple on one of
the talk shows—they were guests too. When they were
young the guy went off to the Vietnam War—he was,
like, seventeen, and I think she was fifteen. He went
through all sorts of shit there, not surprisingly. He saw his mates get blown up by hand grenades in, like, the
first week. Then he almost died in an attack near some
creek. The doctors wanted to amputate his legs, but he
wouldn’t allow it.
“When he got back to the States, the girl’s family had
moved and he couldn’t find her. They ended up getting
married to other people. The girl—the woman —she got divorced twice. The bloke left his first wife and lost his second to cancer. And when the obituary came out,