The Lake Of Dreams Part 30

"Not exactly," Avery said. "Tell the rest."

"Well, I'm starting a new venture," he said. He gestured across the water to where the cruise boat was docked, people filing on for the early afternoon tour of the lake. "I've been having these conversations off and on for years with Mike Simms-you know he owns that business, right? He's wanted me to come in as a partner, with the thought of buying him out eventually, and I haven't wanted to do it. Didn't want to be tied down at first; didn't want the daily ha.s.sles, either. But after I quit at Dream Master, I went to talk to him again. I think we've worked out a deal. It's not just going to be tour cruises anymore. We're going to expand and add a lunch and dinner cruise as well. They do that on some of the other lakes, and it's a good seasonal business. Avery's doing the food," he added, and smiled.

"I needed something a little less twenty-four-seven," she said, ignoring his compliment. "With the baby coming, I've hired a manager for The Green Bean, and another chef, but I didn't want to stop cooking altogether. This seemed like it could work."

Yos.h.i.+ and I helped them for a while, carrying several boxes down the dock to Blake's truck, driving over to see the new place. It was small and ramshackle, with a 1950s kitchen, but very charming, too, with a wide front porch. When we were done, we walked back downtown to pick up the car and drive back along the lake road.

"Well," Yos.h.i.+ said, stretching his arms out across the wide front seat. "We have six days left before our flight back to j.a.pan. We have no jobs and limited savings-nothing but our dreams."

"That's right," I said. "Whatever else, we're free."

Epilogue.

ON THE NIGHT BEFORE YOs.h.i.+ AND I LEFT THE LAKE OF Dreams, our last night in the airy darkness of the cupola, I lay awake for a very long time, searching for constellations. Scorpio and Sagittarius were visible; I traced the lines between the stars and wondered, as I often had before, how these intricately imagined characters had ever been a.s.signed to such sketchy patterns in the sky. I wondered how these same stars might look from another perspective-say, from the moon. Next to me, Yos.h.i.+ slept, his hair dark against the sheets, his breathing steady, and a comfort, like the sound of the waves against the sh.o.r.e. We'd woken weeks ago to the uneasy s.h.i.+fting of the earth, and now we were here, our known universe having altered in ways we never could have imagined.

I watched the stars, fixed and burning in the night.

Was it a dream, what happened next, or a kind of waking vision? Did I sleep? The same patterns of stars were visible, the same curved edge of the moon, but I was standing in the shallow water on the sh.o.r.e, my feet sunk deep into the smooth shale beach, waves splas.h.i.+ng my knees and small fish swimming around my ankles. My toes dug deep into the stones, flowing out like roots, and my arms reached like branches to embrace the sky with its scuttling clouds, its beautiful pale round moon. My fingers, far above, fluttered into leaves.

I sat up, exhilarated. The air was soft, and Yos.h.i.+'s legs were tangled with mine; I eased myself free and climbed across the futon to the window. There was the moon, full and tranquil in the sky, making a path of light across the black expanse of water.

The wind stirred softly. I thought of Rose, of the chalice she'd taken, lost from her things or stolen again or sold and melted for the silver, of her stained-gla.s.s windows, her rows of vine-woven moons, and of the people in the Wisdom window, their arms lifted to the sky. I remembered my mother's tulips, radiant, emerging from their leaves, delicate cups swaying on their stems. The singing bowls by my bed in j.a.pan, and a goblet forming, flowerlike, at the end of a fragile gla.s.s stem.

I lifted my arms like the people in the window, my legs and torso like a stem, my arms a crescent curve. Male or female, it didn't matter. Then or now, no difference.

I was a tulip, a cup, a calyx.

I was, in that moonlight pouring down, a chalice.

My dream stayed with me in the weeks and months that followed, but I didn't share it with anyone except Yos.h.i.+. It seemed best left in metaphor, akin to the herons rising at the edge of the pond. Best left unnamed. I didn't want anyone to laugh at me or raise their skeptical eyebrows or to simply not pay attention. I thought about it, though, every time I saw a flower blooming, a person dancing, or hands cupped to lift water.

Yos.h.i.+ and I flew back to j.a.pan, taking one train and then another and finally walking down the cobblestone street to our apartment, which was just as we had left it so many weeks before. We cleaned it out entirely, selling our appliances and giving away everything we couldn't s.h.i.+p to our next life in Cambodia. For those were the jobs, finally, that had appealed to us, the jobs we'd been offered and had taken. My father had fought in Vietnam and he'd written about Cambodia in the letters my mother had saved, bound together with a piece of green ribbon. My mother had a photo of him standing in front of the Royal Palace. I didn't know much more than that, but the connection, however tenuous, made the decision to go there feel right. So we packed and cleaned. The earthquakes had eased-the underwater island had finally formed. On our last day there, Mrs. Fujimoro gave me a beautiful silk scarf, and in return I gave her a kaleidoscope made of bra.s.s with hundreds of s.h.i.+fting pieces of gla.s.s. We bowed to each other in the street.

By mid-October, we'd returned to The Lake of Dreams for a final visit. We sat on the patio, the leaves edged with gold or orange or flaming red against the vivid blue sky, while I unwrapped a box that had arrived, searching through the thick layers of tissue paper to find two small stemmed gla.s.ses made of delicate green gla.s.s, the sides paper-thin, translucent. Inside the box, a card said, simply: For Your Wedding, from Keegan and Max For Your Wedding, from Keegan and Max. I handed one to Yos.h.i.+, imagining how it had taken form, the gla.s.s growing liquid and the cup emerging on the green gla.s.s stem-its delicate, human shape.

When Yos.h.i.+ and I were married, we exchanged these cups in the j.a.panese tradition. We had the ceremony in the Wisdom chapel, with the Reverend Suzi Wells presiding, our friends and family filling the pews, and the women in the windows all around us, Rose and Frank somehow present, too. Ned read from the Song of Songs, and I asked Zoe, who was staying with my mother while her parents were on a cruise, to read a poem she'd written for us. Zoe had cut her hair short and gotten a tattoo of a little b.u.t.terfly on her collarbone, all of which made her look younger and more vulnerable than she would ever have intended. Yos.h.i.+'s parents flew in from Helsinki, and sat next to my mother and Andy. Iris came with Carol and Ned, and Julie brought her boyfriend. Oliver came with his wife, and Stuart Minter brought his partner, Alex. Blake and Avery were there, too, though they sat at the back and didn't stay for the reception; their son had been born just the week before and they were still dazed, still tired, reluctant to leave him. They named him Martin, after our father.

Art and Austen sent a gift-a set of white plates-which I gave to Goodwill, unopened.

After the wedding we lingered outside, the leaves vibrant reds and yellows against the blue autumn sky.

Three days later, we flew to Phnom Penh.

The beauty and the poverty here engulfed us like the heat; we wandered down the sunstruck streets, through market stalls with baskets of bright carrots or greens or whole fish, past the restored colonial buildings and shacks built from thatch and tarps. The scars of the past are visible everywhere, especially on the outskirts of the city-here a blackened stairway that ends in the sky, there a pond, perfectly round, which began as the crater of a bomb. I glimpse this in the faces of people, too, the past jutting like sharp stones into the swift currents of the present, and I am humbled every day by the suffering and the resiliency that I witness.

Yos.h.i.+ took a job with an NGO that monitors the development of water resources along the Mekong River as it flows from China through Laos, Vietnam, and Cambodia. What happens with these dams will matter to the future of this river and the people who live here for generations, and Yos.h.i.+ comes home every day full of energy and ideas. My work, too, is good, though my own job came, surprisingly enough, not through any of my former contacts but through Suzi, who knew of an ec.u.menical group here working to improve the lives of rural women. I travel into the countryside and help set up foot-powered treadle pumps. They are made of bamboo and metal pistons and families take turns running them to collect fresh water from their wells. Everything begins with water. It helps the gardens, and when the families sell their surplus vegetables, they use the money to buy chickens for eggs or a cow for milk or to send their children to school. The program has grown so much that lately my focus is s.h.i.+fting to training others to demonstrate the pumps and travel to the provinces.

We live at the edge of the Mekong, one of the world's great rivers. Every year when the monsoons come, the river fills and presses so hard against the sea that it changes its direction and flows north to flood the Tonle Sap, the great lake that the Cambodians call Creator Lake for its profusion of life. Graceful boats travel across the surface of the water and men lean to cast their nets, fis.h.i.+ng. I think of my father, of course, but without the sadness I carried with me for so many years.

The boats are vessels, carrying the fishermen out each dawn. Long and narrow, they curve at the ends, arced like crescent moons. The heart is a vessel, too, pulsing blood in its...o...b..t through the body, and in English the word to bless to bless comes from the Old English comes from the Old English blestian, blestian, or "blood." The challenges in this place are real and sometimes very difficult, but I've learned to slow down and look for beauty in my days, for the mysteries and blessings woven into everything, into the very words we speak. I stand each morning at the edge of the balcony and watch the boats skim across the water. I feel the blood beating through my veins-vessels, too. or "blood." The challenges in this place are real and sometimes very difficult, but I've learned to slow down and look for beauty in my days, for the mysteries and blessings woven into everything, into the very words we speak. I stand each morning at the edge of the balcony and watch the boats skim across the water. I feel the blood beating through my veins-vessels, too.

I listen. Not to locks anymore, but past the stillness to the deepest longings of what the mystics would call my true self, something I have come to understand as prayer. This is Rose's greatest legacy to me. Her cloth hangs in our house, against the painted concrete wall; Iris gave it to us as a wedding present. Last year, during the slow, hot season and then the sudden time of rains, as I grew as round as one of Rose Jarrett's interlocking moons, as I swelled like the river beyond our little house, I thought of Rose so often. When our daughter was born at the end of the cool season, we named her Hannah, after no one at all, though it's true that we got the idea from the j.a.panese word hanashobu, hanashobu, which is a kind of iris that grows in marshy land. It's true, also, that we sometimes call her Hannah Rose. which is a kind of iris that grows in marshy land. It's true, also, that we sometimes call her Hannah Rose.

A few months after she was born, we had a lunar eclipse. Yos.h.i.+ and I sat all evening on the balcony to watch the great pale moon rising over the river, a shadow falling over its edge, slowly eroding its light. I thought of Joseph Jarrett, waking from his dream to the light of the comet, and of Rose, walking home alone through the vineyards on that same night, more alive and terrified than she had ever felt before.

Near the end of the eclipse Hannah stirred from her sleep. Yos.h.i.+ went inside to get her, moving through the rooms, talking to her softly. Then he brought her out to the balcony. "Look," we said to her that night. "Sweet girl, look, the moon." She saw it, emerging slowly from the mouth of the shadow, and laughed, reaching for the sky as babies will, as if she could grasp the moon in one small hand and slip it into her mouth like a wafer.

She laughed again when she couldn't catch it, and reached higher, and we held her up. This would not last, of course. Soon, she'd be frustrated or hungry and we'd go inside, leaving the night sky with its burning stars. But for that moment the river flowed like black gla.s.s and we stood gazing at the wild, pale beauty of the moon, waiting to see how the world would s.h.i.+ft, and change.

THE JARRETT FAMILY.

THE WESTRUM FAMILY.

Acknowledgments.

THE LAKE OF DREAMS IS FICTIONAL, AS ARE ITS INHABITANTS, and exists only in the realm of the imagination. However, in writing this novel I drew deeply on my extensive experiences in the spectacular Finger Lakes region of upstate New York, an area rich in history and beauty. The Women's Rights National Historical Park in Seneca Falls is real, of course, and I am grateful to the archivists there who spoke with me at length about their work.

Writing is such a solitary pursuit, and I am forever thankful for the patience and support of friends, colleagues, and family as I secluded myself with this book. Special thanks to Tom for so generously sharing his many gifts and talents, and for being so steady in chaotic times; warm thanks also to Abby and Naomi. My thanks to Edna Gordon for kind hospitality and fascinating insights on the Somerset Levels, and to my friends at the University of Kentucky, especially to Gurney Norman for his long support of writers and writing.

Geri Thoma is insightful, warm, and wise, and no one could have a better agent. My thanks to her, and to everyone at the Markson Thoma Agency.

The people at Viking Penguin bring terrific expertise and talent to every facet of publis.h.i.+ng, and I am grateful to them all, especially to Kathryn Court and Clare Ferraro. First and last, I thank Pamela Dorman, a gifted editor, whose belief in my work made this book possible. Molly Stern's smart, insightful editorial suggestions strengthened this story in ways large and small. Beena Kamlani brought a very keen and sensitive eye to the editing. Liz Van Hoose gave the final draft a crucial reading, and Kendra Harpster nurtured this book as it grew to completion. Thanks also to Stephen Morrison, as well as to d.i.c.k Heffernan and Norman Lidofsky and their fantastic sales teams. Paul Buckley and Carla Bolte created the beautiful jacket and book design. Shannon Twomey, Nancy Sheppard, Rach.e.l.le Andujar, Andrew Duncan, Leigh Butler, Valentina Price, Hal Fessenden, John f.a.gan, Maureen Donnelly, and Julie Miesionczek all gave their talents to help bring this book into the world, and I thank them.

I extend my thanks to the community at The Lexington Theological Seminary, where I've taken several cla.s.ses, as well as to the clergy at Good Shepherd Episcopal Church, who generously answered many questions. Thanks also to my spiritual direction group for thought-provoking discussions, candor, and much laughter. Finally, I am grateful to many authors over many years for their brilliant, perspective-s.h.i.+fting books, especially The Dream of the Earth The Dream of the Earth by Thomas Berry, by Thomas Berry, In Memory of Her In Memory of Her by Elisabeth Fiorenza, by Elisabeth Fiorenza, Women, Earth, and Creator Spirit Women, Earth, and Creator Spirit by Elizabeth A. Johnson, and by Elizabeth A. Johnson, and The Silent Cry: Mysticism and Resistance The Silent Cry: Mysticism and Resistance by Dorothy Soelle. by Dorothy Soelle.

ALSO BY KIM EDWARDS.

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