Rogue Wave by Susan Dunlap Read Free Book Online

the moment when she knew she would die, knew the moment when the salt water covered her face and drowned her. He turned to the canvas on the easel. Had he captured all those nuances? There must be three levels in the painting: safety, danger, death. He let his eyes half close; saw Sally, his neighbor in Anchorage. Sally looking at the first sketch he’d done of the flats, swearing she’d never walk there again. He felt again the warm flush of helping, maybe saving. When the canvas was done, if he caught the peril, maybe it would warn people. “Alaskan Mud Flats” would get lots of attention if he won the Arts Foundation grant.
    The studio door creaked again. He turned toward it and waited an instant before taking a blue and green jacket off the hook and placing a hand on the knob. Why am I leaving? I must have decided to take a break. If I can’t remember even that, then I really must need a rest. He smiled, recalling himself standing in the studio, hearing the buzz of the intercom and Maureen telling him to come into the main house; there was a telegram for him. He could see her pale face, flushed now with excitement, could see her waving the envelope at him. “The committee, Garrett …” she’d said, but he couldn’t hear anything else, just knew that her voice seemed different somehow. Odd to lose that memory so soon. Must be the pressure. This San Francisco business to take care of. Waiting to hear about the grant.
    The grant. He felt again the simultaneous tensing of his shoulders and the rush of relief. Made the cut. They don’t telegraph losers. Five finalists. Only four days to go, to know for sure. No more carting slides to galleries, no more gallery owners closing shop before they get around to paying me my share of a sale. No more being too tired to paint because I’ve spent all night — night after night — vacuuming tasteless beige office after tasteless beige office. But his face didn’t reflect that frustration, as if it had settled so deeply, so intimately in his body that it had no need of superficial exhibition. He could still sense those corporate types, feel them grumbling about wastebaskets, dirt on the carpet, as they strolled past him out to the California Tavern. He smiled suddenly. His hands tightened in anticipation. Next week the grant. Then, there would be a future.

7
    M AUREEN WALKED SLOWLY BACK into the dining room. She looked drained. “Kiernan, all those months in the hospital and the rehab center, I thought he’d get better. But he won’t, ever. For him, it’s all the way it was three years ago. It’s like life’s a movie and for Garrett it stopped in that one frame. He’ll be forever twenty-eight. In the middle of his Alaska paintings. He won the Arts of the Land Foundation Award for them. He would have been so pleased. He does know he was one of the finalists, but the notice of the actual award came too late. Sometimes I tell him about winning it.” She swallowed. “I show him the letter. He’s surprised, pleased.”
    “That must be some small comfort for him. To be able to relive a wonderful moment afresh?” Kiernan said.
    Maureen closed her eyes. “For Garrett, yes. But I see the difference. Before the accident he would have been excited. Now he’s pleased. That’s one of the side effects of his type of brain injury. Emotion fades. Maybe it’s the result of no longer having a future. Or maybe it’s the constant uncertainty. Garrett has no facts to hang onto, what happened five minutes ago is gone for him. He has no idea what season it is, you saw that. But he understands enough to know he should know, so he’s always searching around for clues, or for something that will allow him to rationalize what he’s only been guessing at.”
    “Like living in a constant earthquake?”
    “The only solid ground Garrett’s got is in his distant memory. His injury resulted in a very special kind of amnesia. Damage to the mediodorsal nucleus of the thalamus is linked