One to Love (One to Hold 4)
“I don’t think it’s an accident that you found each other. Don’t make up your mind so fast on what should happen.”
Shaking my head, I pushed through the door. “Goodnight.”
Chapter 31: “May you never be broken.”
Slayde
We made it to Hamburg without any real incidents at sea. A couple stormy nights had me vomiting like a pussy in my toilet, but nothing major cargo-wise. Captain McKinney declared me the ship’s lucky omen, but I knew better. If my life was spared on this voyage, it was only because something crueler was in store for me.
Walking through the market near the docks, I couldn’t stop thinking about Kenny. I didn’t want to miss her as badly as I did, but I knew I’d never stop. She would always haunt my thoughts.
One of the merchants made miniature dolls. Not knowing any German, I couldn’t speak to her, but she demonstrated how the tiny doll in my palm had moveable hands and feet. She had long purple yarn for hair. The part of my brain that wallowed in self-immolation imagined Kenny and me with a blue-eyed baby girl. She would love something like this. I pulled out the few Francs I had and handed them over.
The merchant was overjoyed, but I didn’t know what I’d do with the doll. Its eyes were closed, and it looked so vulnerable in my hand. Something about it reminded me of that night on the beach. I wrapped it in tissue and slid it under my pillow when I got back to the ship.
As I sat with the crew waiting for us to leave port again, headed back for Bayville, I watched the crewman Anders twisting wire into different shapes. He was Finnish, and with a pair of needle-nose pliers, he took a thin piece of silver and twisted it until it was a tiny boat with sails.
“That’s pretty good,” I said, watching him.
“It’s nothing,” he laughed, handing it to me. “For our good luck omen.”
He was something of the ship’s philosopher, and he reminded me a little of Doc. He was also the same joker who liked talking about all the different ways cargo ships could sink.
“Who do you make them for?” I asked, watching him start another.
“Meh,” he shrugged. “Wife and kids, mostly.”
Nodding, I picked up one of the small silver rods and rolled it between my fingers. As he worked, I saw a thin red ring around his thumb. “Did you get caught in the line?”
He inspected his hand. “Oh, no. That’s the Red String of Fate. Chinese legend. It’s for those who are destined to be together no matter time, place, or circumstance—an invisible red string runs from her pinky finger to his thumb.” Turning his hand, he smiled. “It might stretch or tangle, but it can never break.”
My eyes ached and I curled my fingers to touch the little black heart in my palm. “You believe in that stuff?”
“I’m a sailor, mate. I believe in omens, myths, legends, prayers.” His gravelly voice was low when he spoke again. “What’s her name? The girl who has your string? I can see it tormenting you.”
Glancing up at him, I couldn’t find a reason to hide it. “Kenny.”
“She married?” I shook my head, and he poked his lips out. “The Japanese have a word, Komorebi. It means ‘The sunlight that filters through the leaves of the trees.’ There’s no English equivalent.”
I thought of Kenny’s smile as I watched him continue to twist the silver pin into an infinity knot. He continued working, and after a while, it was a heart. Finishing, he wrapped it around, and it was a ring.
“Here.” Holding it up, he inspected it a few moments. “Tie a red string to this and give it to her.”
With a sad smile, I shook my head. “It’s going to take a lot more than a twisted piece of silver to fix what I did.”
“The red string can never break. Now be our safe omen home.”
* * *
The sunlight was too bright hitting the courtyard on that steamy morning, the grass too green. It stung my eyes, and I wiped the back of my hand roughly across my brow, blinking fast.
The older man in the blue cotton tee and matching blue work slacks clapped me gently on the back. “You got this.” Deep lines on his face told of every hard lesson he’d ever learned, and I couldn’t help wondering if I’d ever see him again after I walked out those gates.
“I got nothing,” I said, rubbing an inked hand over my diminished midsection. Then I picked up the pack at my feet. “All I’ve got is this. What I brought with me.”
“That’s all anybody ever has in life.” The man gave me a warm smile. His brown hair hung in his brown eyes. It was a style from another era, and the grey at his temples gave away his age. “But you’re ready to pick up your life again. You’re taking what you’ve learned.”
My lips tightened, unable to force a smile. Yes, I’d learned coping skills, how to control the rage in my chest, how to walk away, but I had no life to pick up. Not anymore.