High Tide Read Online Free PDF

coffee, Gran,” says the dark voice, “while you can. I’m visiting. So you can have your coffee before washing up.”
    A white cup enters into view. It moves closer. The hand firmly grips the back of her neck and lifts her head. Mother’s toothless mouth and pale, slug-like lips suction to the rim of the cup. Something white, warm, and sweet fills her mouth. It flows over her tongue, which has dried out overnight and rattles inside her head. The drink is heavenly. Mother wants more and watches the cup eagerly as it’s moved away from her lips.
    â€œSee, it’s good. More?”
    Mother gives a sharp nod with her pointy chin—almost like she fears the cup will stay out of reach. But it comes back. This time the slug-like lips don’t let go of the white cup. Mother gulps down two mouthfuls and sinks back into the pillow. She tries to smile and make out the face. But she can’t. The effort clouds her vision even more.
    Mother speaks:
    â€œSweetheart.”
    â€œYes, Gran? What do you want?”
    Mother wants to tell her, but there are no words.
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    A yard divided up by the bright sun and a shadow cast by the roof. Gravel and tufts of grass. In this yard, she is a cat crouching close to the ground on the edge of the shadow.
    The cat jumps into a flock of birds sunning themselves in the hot sand.
    The birds scatter and the scene crumbles away.
    She doesn’t call up these scenes; they just come and go. There’s the damp smell of moss, a cool spring wind on her face, the breaking of the last layer of ice underfoot and boots splashing into mud.
    She sees a clearing and catches the scent of resin.
    She sees railroad ties, up close—pitchy wood ties, iron tracks covered in red rust and tiny yellow flowers—so lifelike.
    She sees a newborn child, slick with fluids, and they place it in her arms.
    She can see everything except the chance to experience it all over again.
    She thinks a lot about this.
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    But right now Mother doesn’t want scenes; Mother wants what is right next to her. That warm, innocent, dark voice.
    Mother speaks:
    â€œSweetheart.”
    â€œWhat is it, Gran? More coffee?”
    Mother slowly sticks out her chin.
    â€œWhat then?”
    Oh, if she only could say.
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    Mother wants heat.
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    The kind that can’t be bought with money.
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    Mother wants someone to lie down next to her. Right next to her, pressing side to side.
    Like her own mother used to sleep next to her.
    Like her grandmother used to on winter nights.
    Like her husband used to once she had overcome her cold, distant teenage years—once she had been grown up enough to sleep with a man. The return of the nights when their separate warmths would join to become one.
    Like when her own children used to climb into bed next to her.
    And wasn’t this one here—the one with the dark voice—wasn’t she her granddaughter?
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    A country home in the July swelter. The window is open and not a single blade of grass moves in the stifling heat. She is exhausted from this heat and reclines on the large sofa in the kitchen. They call it the “lyre”; it’s covered with a faded, striped cotton blanket that smells faintly of dust. She calls to her granddaughter:
    â€œSweetheart! Come lie down!”
    Like a tiny flame, her granddaughter nestles against her broad back; the flame turns this way and that until it is overcome by sleep. Flies buzz around the brown wood of the curtain rod. Life is so incredibly vast.
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    Mother wants to say to her granddaughter—sweetheart, come lie down!
    Mother wants to say—to hell with bathing, to hell with all the pissing and shitting, the eating—what does it all mean? Coldness, coldness is seeping into her from all sides. Lie down next to me, sweetheart, so I can feel your warmth. Take my frozen body into your arms. Let’s look out that far, faraway window for an hour. Two.
    Live a moment of my