Healing waters

Originally publised in Bassmaster Magazine 2004.

The nurse barged in, like she always did. No knock, just a swinging door and a uniform with a thermometer, an injection or some medicine. “Good morning,” she said in her usual cheery voice.

Matt peeped from behind his newspaper. “Morning,” he replied. “What’s that?”

“Health drink,” the nurse answered. “Sorta like a milkshake. We’re giving these to your dad to try to keep his weight up.” It was creamy looking, in a plastic cup. “What’s in the news?” the nurse asked.

“Nothing much,” Matt replied. He didn’t feel like small talk.

The nurse moved to the side of his dad’s bed and looked down at him. “Good morning, Mr. Brown. I’ve brought you something to drink.”

The eyes looked up at her, but there was no response. She gently placed a hand behind his head and raised it from the pillow. Then she moved the cup to his lips and tilted it so the liquid could ooze into his mouth. Thank goodness he could still swallow, despite the effort it took.

While she was feeding him, the nurse spotted the fruit jar on the nightstand. “What’s that?” she asked.

Matt didn’t want to answer. He ignored her.

“What’s in the jar?” she repeated.

“It’s healing water,” Matt responded.

She cut her eyes toward him. “Healing water? What’s that? You some kind of medicine man?”

“Yeah,” Matt answered. “You got anything that needs fixin’? I’ll shake a little water on you, and you’ll be good as new.”

“You’re not shaking that stuff on me!” the nurse protested. “What’s that floating in it?”

“What’s it look like?” Matt asked.

“Some kind of fishing thing. It’s got hooks on it.”

“Well, aren’t we the genius this morning?” Matt chided. She was his favorite of all the staff at the nursing home. She was always kind to Dad, and she had a good nature about her. She could take some ribbing.

Suddenly Matt’s dad coughed, and the health drink ran down his chin. “That ought to be enough,” the nurse said, taking the drink away and lowering his head back to the pillow. She wiped his chin with a tissue, then turned to exit the room. Pausing momentarily, she glanced back toward Matt. “Healing water! I sure hope it works.” And then she left.

Matt watched her go, then looked toward his dad, whose eyes were now closed. He studied him for several seconds. Matt wondered how much he knew, what he could understand. The stroke had been massive and had taken virtually all his muscle function. One minute he’d been healthy and vibrant. The next minute he’d been robbed of everything but life itself. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t talk. He couldn’t control his bodily functions. He’d been left with no self-reliance — indeed, no dignity. It wasn’t fair for this to happen to a man who’d been so strong and full of life.

The old man’s breathing shifted into a slow rhythm with the onset of sleep. Matt rose from his chair, walked over and pulled his covers up. Then he looked at the jar of water. He picked it up and peered into it.

Healing water. That’s what his dad had called it that day, now more than 30 years ago. The creek was their own Jordan River, their miracle water. If Matt had ever needed a miracle, he’d needed it then.

He and his dad had fished the creek together ever since Matt could remember.

They’d always waded, casting little spinners, crankbaits and grubs into the dark spots next to the logs and rocks. His dad had taught him to read the water, how to cast just upstream from where bass should be holding, and how to use the current to work the lure back through the strike zone. They’d always had plenty of action, mostly little smallmouth, spots and rock bass. But every once in a while, they’d hang into a big sow smallie. One afternoon, Dad landed one that would have gone better than 6 pounds. Matt still remembered that fish’s red eyes and flaring red gills. Sometimes, Dad kept fish to eat, but he let that one go.

That day on the stream had been different from all the others before it. Matt had been gone more than a year — 379 days, to be exact. It had been a time that had changed his life totally, that had seared through every cell in his body and left him feeling like a shell with skin wrapped around it. He couldn’t tell anybody about the horrors he’d been through and seen, the agony, his friends dying in mud and rain, the fire and smoke and noise and confusion, the fear, the numbness and, finally, the rage.

During that year-and-a-few-days, Matt had come to blame his father for everything that had happened to him. If only Dad had tried to be more understanding. When Matt was in high school, there was never any room for compromise. It was Dad’s way or no way. Or, as he put it, “My way or the highway.” Well, finally it was the highway. Matt decided to strike out. After he graduated, he enlisted in the Army instead of going on to college. His father cried when he told him what he’d done.

Then Matt traveled the Highway to Hell.

Those first few days back home were still hell, just quieter. One day, Matt had been in the inferno. Three days later, he was on the farm with the family. It was like the war had been a bad dream. Now his clothes were clean, the food was good and his bed was dry, but he still woke up every night remembering, even though he fought the memories with all the strength he had left. He thought he was going to lose his mind.

Then one morning at breakfast, Dad suggested they go fishing that afternoon down at the creek. It was spring, and the smallmouth should be bedding. They might hook into a good one.

Matt didn’t really want to go, but he shrugged and said, “Sure.” It would be something to do — get him out of the house and away from the looks his mother and sister gave him when they didn’t think he was watching.

As they were rigging up on the stream bank, Matt’s dad handed him a small box. “I made a discovery while you were gone,” he said. “Tie this on.”

Matt slid open the box and took out a bait that looked like a crawfish. It was brown and orange, and it had two small treble hooks dangling from its belly. “It’s poison on smallmouth,” his dad told him. “They can’t resist it.”

Matt tied the lure on and began wading out ahead, popping mindless casts at any target of opportunity: a log, a rock, a crease in the current, the edge of a weedbed. He got no bites. He didn’t talk. He didn’t notice the wildflowers on the rock shelf or the coon tracks on the sandbar. Cast and reel. Cast and reel. Keep wading.

Soon Matt’s dad was in the stream behind him, trying to catch up. They’d always fished side by side, one covering one bank of the stream, the other the other bank. “Matt, wait up,” he called, but Matt kept forging ahead.

All of a sudden, he felt a jolt in his rod, and the old instinct returned. Matt slammed back with his wrists. The rod bowed, and a hefty smallmouth instantly rocketed out of the water.

Matt kept pressure on the fish as she surged crosscurrent and jumped again. Then the bass made a powerful run downstream. Matt loosened his drag and sloshed after her, giving line and hoping the fish didn’t burrow under a root wad.

Finally, after a fight that lasted three minutes but seemed like an hour, Matt led the bass into the shallows next to a sandbar, and he trapped her with a hand over her gills. Then he forced his thumb into her mouth and lifted her, dripping and exhausted. She was 5 pounds if an ounce! Matt’s face showed the sheer excitement of this man vs. fish contest and the joy of having been the victor.

Suddenly, Matt became aware of his father standing next to him. Their eyes met. His father’s were welling with tears. “Welcome back, son,” he said.

Matt was blindsided! His own tears erupted, out of nowhere. They were uncontrollable, a rush of raw, pent-up emotion. His body went limp, and he shuddered. He dropped his rod and the still-hooked bass into the water. He didn’t understand this! He began sobbing like he hadn’t since childhood. He cradled his face in his hands and just let everything inside go.

He felt his dad’s arm stretch around his shoulders and hold him, and he could feel his dad’s heaving. It was all pouring out now, the anger, the resentment, the trauma, the relief of surviving, the shame of making it home when so many good men never saw their homes again. Why had he made it back and they hadn’t? He’d asked himself this question a thousand times, and he knew there’d never be an answer.

Finally, Matt regained control and wiped his eyes with the backs of his hands. His dad had a handkerchief out, daubing his own eyes and blowing his nose.

“You OK?” his dad asked.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Matt responded.

“Then you’d better grab your rod. It’s being drug down the creek by a mad bass!”

Matt could see the rod a few feet away in the shallows, and indeed, it was being pulled downstream. He lunged for it, and when he did, he lost his balance and fell headlong into the water. His hands found the rod handle. He raised himself to his knees, totally soaked, and he began playing the fish all over again.

Suddenly he broke into a hysterical laugh. This was fun. It was absurd. It was so good, just like it used to be.

Then he was aware of his father behind him, splashing water on him. “Quit!” Matt hooted. “What are you doing?”

“Healed!” his dad responded. “Be healed!” He was mimicking one of those slick-haired TV evangelists. “This is healing water. It’ll cure what ails you. The water and the fish will cure you, and they’re a whole lot cheaper than a psychiatrist!”

A short water battle ensued, Matt holding the rod up with one hand and splashing his dad with the other. His dad kept up his side of the fight until Matt reeled the bass up to land her again. She was a beautiful smallmouth, with gleaming brown scales and a belly full of eggs. When Matt released her, she darted straight under a nearby log, no worse for her struggle.

The rest of the afternoon was nearly perfect. Matt’s clothes dried in the warming sun. He and his dad waded side by side, flicking their crawfish lures toward the banks. Every few minutes one would hook another fish, but nothing like Matt’s 5-pounder. They talked almost nonstop. They talked about things that had happened while Matt was gone, about Matt going back to college, about farming and relatives and — of course — fishing. They talked about everything but the war. Matt wasn’t ready for that yet, but he would be someday.

As the years passed, Matt and his dad wade fished the creek often, and they availed themselves of its healing power several more times. When Matt’s sister told the family she and her husband were divorcing, this is where Dad wanted to come to think things through. When Dad decided to sell the farm — farming hadn’t been very good for several years, and the town was closing in around them — he took Matt to the creek to tell him.

And the afternoon they’d lain Mother to rest, after the pastor and all the relatives had gone, Dad wanted to go to the creek. Both men needed all the healing the water could provide, and for months to come. . . .

Matt set the jar of water back on the nightstand, and he looked at his watch — 10 a.m. He needed to get to the office. Dad was asleep. He’d come back to check on him after work.

Matt folded his newspaper and started to leave. But then he stopped, laid the paper down and picked up the jar of water. He held it for a moment, looked at his dad’s frail figure, and he unscrewed the cap off the jar.

Matt reached in and retrieved the crawfish lure. He used his pocketknife to pry open the split rings and remove the hooks. He dropped the two trebles back into the jar, screwed the cap back on, and returned the jar to the table. Then he reached over, gently opened the sleeping man’s hand, and placed the lure into his palm. Then he closed the fingers to hold it in place.

A large tear slid off Matt’s cheek onto his dad’s hand. He looked at the wetness, and he took his forefinger and slowly rubbed it into his dad’s pale skin.

“Be healed,” he whispered softly. And then he went out of the room.