H2O: The Novel Part 14

Control. The only path to success I'd ever known.

Two months later.

"I refuse to wear sweatpants," I said to the screen of my laptop, a dingy old Dell I'd rescued from a thrift store; I didn't dare buy something exotic at this point in my life, in between jobs. I talked to my computer a lot these days. I lived alone at the condo, by choice. Life resembled a pit, and I stood smack dab in the middle of it. A tar pit.

Sweatpants were the cotton feel-good clothes for women who lounged around with nothing to do. I wouldn't let myself sink to that level of despair. Yet, how could I make a case for a life of anything but despair at this point? Of all the things that mattered to me, only my waist size had gotten better. The rest of my life, like my apartment, lay in a mess, and I hated messes. What little food I ate had to be eaten without cleaning. Paper plates and plastic forks worked tolerably well, but it hurt me to see such large trash bags go out of a household that had once recycled everything except toilet waste. Bottles of hand sanitizer sat everywhere, including one to the left of my computer. I squeezed out a dollop of the clear liquid, my only form of cleansing. I took spit-baths with the stuff. And, blessedly, I'd lived for eight weeks with no visions.

I looked across the room to where Shogun plied dark waters in his own dingy home. I'd not found a way to get water to clean or refill his tank without touching it, so I resigned myself to the decision that Shogun would make it on his own or perish along with me. Fatalism cast a broad net.

I'd become the expert on living without pure water, but that lifestyle was taking its toll. I never ventured outdoors if I couldn't see a clear sky. Even fog had an effect on me now, and I resolved to never encounter clouds in any form. Hand lotion, a battery powered razor and a sharp blade made shaving my legs and armpits tolerable, albeit infrequent. The one major drawback? Washing my hair. It turned into a grease trap without a good shampoo. I l.u.s.ted for a good lathering and a long dunk under the caress of the steaming-hot jets of a showerhead. But I dared not get wet. I would win this battle, at any price.

I could drink anything liquid as long as pure water never crossed my lips, and coffee became my drink of choice. Cases of Diet Dr. Pepper and gallon jugs of orange juice were second and third on my list. I lived in a perpetual caffeine-and-sugar high, truly deep sleep a thing of the distant past. Sometimes I went days drinking only coffee, preferably the hard stuff at Hiram's ISIP when I could venture out for it safely. Hyper-caffeinated, I slept only when exhaustion overwhelmed me. Sleep would hold me in its nightmarish dream-crazed grip for a few hours, until another waking zombie state ensued. Then I waited for more exhaustion. Troubled dream-plagued sleep was only slightly worse than hallucinating from lack of sleep, but I preferred to fight my battle awake.

I peed all the time, loaded as I was with diuretics. But at least I lived hydrated. A doctor would condemn my diet, and no doubt, I would wreck my poor kidneys, but there had not been a vision in sixty days. That counted for something. The other part of using the bathroom involved a bit more complication. I loaded the bowl with a puffy ball of paper to prevent any splash-back, and I went through two rolls of paper a day. As long as we had a sewage treatment plant in Seattle where people needed jobs, I didn't care. I'd long cast off any pretense of saving the Earth. I intended to save Kate. Trees died every day to keep my b.u.t.t dry and my head clear.

Andrea came over two weeks ago and left after only fifteen minutes. She said she couldn't stand the mess, but I didn't notice it anymore. Life is war, and this was a war zone. Try living like me for two months. I thought I did a good job of adapting. I'd become a Bedouin, living a nomadic waterless life in the Arabian desert of Seattle, a place where one underwent great pains to stay 100 percent dry.

My laptop became my solace. The recycled machine was a far cry from my old MacBook, a three-hundred-dollar foray into the digital world. I'd determined to stretch out my twelve-week severance package as long as it would last, and with my current approach, that might be as long as a year. I tried not to think about what state I'd be in after twelve months of self-imposed water exile. But I was sure of one thing as I typed away-I'd never sink to the ignominy of wearing sweatpants.

Where my laptop became my solace, WRKRJC served as my constant digital companion. Girl or guy? I cycled from certain to unsure on a weekly basis. He became my p.r.o.noun of choice for the chatterer's complicated screen name. Perhaps that was wishful thinking, that there could be a man who listened, a man who cared enough to keep showing up online to help me day after day with no hope of any "payback." A spiritual element ran through WRKRJC's writings the way a single gold thread courses through a bolt of white cloth. Yet, I never felt pushed to buy into something I didn't believe. And for some unexplainable reason, I never bothered to ask if my messenger friend was a guy.

It's funny how the most mundane things we talked about could lead to a serious discussion about the meaning of life. I lived as an instant-messenger addict now, waiting for every opportunity to talk to them. I hoped-no, I fantasized-that WRKRJC was a "he." A single man, an attractive trustworthy man who liked a dry woman with greasy hair, a woman who bathed with hand sanitizer and shaved with skin lotion.

My ISIP cup had been running on empty for too long. I needed another jolt. I checked the weather on the Dell, starting with local observations downtown and at the airport. Then I checked the extended two-hour and daily forecast, followed by a few peeks at webcams around town, and finally a trip to the window. The coast looked clear, no sign of rain. I speed-dialed the cab company. My brand new Ice Rocket was parked in a display at a local motorcycle shop. Many days I wished I'd not spent the insurance money on a new bike. I could use the cash right now, and I dared not ride again considering my struggles with rain. The cab would pull up to the front of my condo, and in a few minutes, I'd be safe in the embrace of Hiram's coffeehouse. I'd done it fifty times in the past two months.

ISIP. My nirvana.

Three hours of coffee shop Internet chatting and countless instant messages later, I'd loaded up on two super-grande cups of Hiram's special blend and another of Hiram's brilliant grilled cheese sandwiches. Life was more than tolerable today. It was good.

The phone warbled, one of my rare calls coming in. Since my days at Consolidated Aerodyne, I'd spoken less and less with Andrea. It had been almost a week since we talked last. No one else used my number, and I jumped when the phone rang. Coffee made me hyper. I stared at the number on the screen through two more rings, trying to place it. A 212 area code.

My parents.

"Kate?" It was my father. I'd answered the phone without so much as a greeting. "Are you there?" he asked after my long pause.

When had we last talked? A month ago? No. It had been much longer. I'd had a job the last time I had spoken with my father. I'd had a boyfriend, if you could call him that. I knew now that I'd simply been one of three women on his string, each of us convinced we were his one and only. And remarkably, all of us worked in the same office. When I had talked to my father the last time, fall knocked at Seattle's door. By now, Thanksgiving meals had long been digested and the Christmas countdown started days ago. It had been a long, long time since we had talked.

"Yes. It's me."

"Kate. We haven't heard from you in forever. Are you all right?"

I hated that sound of pain in his voice, as if he was feigning hurt or something like it. But I knew better. I'd been a source of distress for him as a daughter, and surely this pain was more of his contrived concern, putting on a show for Mother. My father never called. Not without provocation. Telephones interrupted his television, an unforgivable violation of Norman Pepper's media sanctum.

"I'm fine. Been busy, that's all." What else could I say?

"That's good. Real good. Mom's here and she wants to talk to you, but I thought I'd get on the line first. We've been worried. Real worried. Mom's having lots of messages about you."

No! Don't take me there.

"Dad, you know I don't-"

"I know, Kate. I know. But hear me out, okay? Mom's had some real visions this time. Strong ones, and they're all about you. We don't hear from you. Not even a letter-"

"Get e-mail," I replied. "Join the real world."

"Anyway. She's never had visions like these. Okay? So, talk to her. She's worried stiff about you, Missy."

"My name is Kate. It's been Kate for twenty-nine years. Not Missy."

"You'll always be Missy to me. Listen, here's your mom. And call us once in a while."

I could imagine life in the brownstone in Queens at this moment. Mother would walk in from the kitchen, set down her ap.r.o.n, and my father would hand her the phone. One of those old dial versions connected by a long cord to the wall. They'd never invested in a wireless device of any sort, not even a push-b.u.t.ton phone. The concept of cellular telephones eluded them. And they didn't own a computer. My parents belonged on Leave It to Beaver or The Ed Sullivan Show.

"Kate?" Mother asked. As soon as I said yes, she launched into her crying spell. Bawling about how it had been weeks since she'd heard from me, how my aunts and uncles all asked about me and she had no idea. Stressing out about my cousins who all managed to live within two blocks of their own parents, and how they'd all had such a great time at Thanksgiving, but where was I? Her visions about me, predictions about something horrible happening, about some bad men in my life. At least she'd gotten that part right.

Mother never asked about me. Calls were always about her, about how I'd wronged her by living so far from home, hurt her by not calling, offended her by wearing stilettos, or sinned against G.o.d by not going to church.

"Come home for Christmas. Please?" she pleaded after ten minutes of a one-way conversation, then she was silent at last. Every call went like this. Rant, rant, rant . . . then wait.

"Mother, this is a very difficult time for me. I don't know if I can do that."

"I know it's difficult. I've seen that."

"How can you see anything? You're not here. You don't even know what I'm going through."

"But I do, Missy. I have these dreams. I sense that you're in some kind of horrible trouble at work, and you're with a bad man. That's all I know, but I know the vision is true. It always is."

I'd spent a lifetime listening to her imaginings, her wild and vivid hallucinations. Every morning at the table, long-winded recitations. More of it every evening at dinner, as though the rest of us did nothing with our lives. And at Sunday gatherings after church with a dozen Italian cousins, everyone looking like her, all conversation centered on her revelations-Mother, our family prophetess. Now, here I sat, in the midst of the worst grunge of my life, on the brink of becoming my mother.

No visions for me. Not a chance. I dared not get wet.

"Your father's calling me, Kate," she said after a short pause. "He says there's a really important show coming on, so I need to go. It was great to talk with you."

Talk with me? This was a transmission, not a conversation.

"Please, come home for Christmas, Kate. We miss you so much."

"And if I can't?" I asked, regretting the words as soon as I spoke them.

She didn't answer right away.

"I . . ." Mother stopped, speechless.

"I'm sorry. That didn't come out the way I wanted it to."

"No, you asked me a valid question. I . . ." She paused, and I could hear a long wheeze as she took a breath. "I want you to know that I love you, Kate. Whatever it is that's separated us these past twelve years, I hope you can forgive me. Forgive us. Let's not miss a chance to hug each other once more, before it's too late."

Too late?

"You think about it, okay? We'd love to see you."

"Mom . . ."

I'd never called her "mom" since I left home. It slipped out before I knew it. I could tell that the word stunned her as much as it did me.

"I need to go, Missy. I'm not feeling well these days. Please, come home soon." She wheezed again, and then the phone clicked off.

"No!" I pounded the table with my fist, slopping a br.i.m.m.i.n.g new cup of brew onto the deeply etched "funt." Precious brown liquid ran into the pen-gouged grooves, and I reached for a napkin to mop up the mess.

Mother had done it again. She'd made the one-way call, laid the great guilt trip on me, and then run away before I could tell her anything about my life or learn anything substantive about hers. My father had placed the call, and then succ.u.mbed to the addiction of the television, unable to pull himself away for more than a minute. His attention span measured the duration of two advertis.e.m.e.nts. I'd seen it at home as a kid. If he had a call to make, it came during the commercials, and only during the ads he didn't like. He had a sixth sense for how long the ads would run. My father shut off many a conversation with me just in time to be reclined in front of the set as the show came back on. I'd served as his commercial break this afternoon.

Candice swept by my table making her rounds as I dabbed at the coffee mess. Before I could stop her, she whipped out her wet rag.

"No!" I yelled, pushing away from the table with both hands. The base of the cup went away from me, and its top tipped straight at me. Candice moved fast and grabbed the cup, but it sloshed a few sips on my jacket. My hands flew in the air, and Candice had the rag on me before I could stop her. I wore Gore-Tex neck to foot and rain pants, waterproof everywhere but my hands and face. Her dreaded rag had no effect.

I lowered my hands and smiled. For a moment, I forgot the call. I'd defeated water, my ultimate enemy.

I sat down, nodding with embarra.s.sment to the other patrons who'd been startled by my outburst. Candice wiped the table, but tarried before she moved on to another wiping task.

"Jesus can make you clean," she repeated for perhaps the thousandth time that month. I once counted her recitations for four hours soon after I started coming to ISIP, and determined that she said it to the patrons at least thirty times a day.

"Thank you, Candice. I'm fine."

The pillar of blue stood like a statue, her rag tucked into her bosom, where she carried it against that dingy blue golf shirt. She stared at me for a long moment. Her eyes were not stark or beautiful. But they were wet. Candice hurt, and tears had welled up.

"You're not fine, Miss Kate. I can see that."

In all my days with her, I'd never heard her speak so clearly, so succinctly. She dropped one hand from her grip of the wet rag against her shirt and put it out to touch mine where it rested against the table. As she did, a tear rolled from her eye unchecked, trickling down her pudgy cheek.

Her hand was rough, cracked by too many hours clutching a damp rag. She took my hand in hers and squeezed it for a long moment as another tear broke free.

She held with a grip that was warm and strong.

Her hand was wet. New lights sparked in my eyes.

"Go! Wash!" I heard. Someone lived in my head, commanding me. I could smell myself, the filth of years, not of days. My eyes were covered in mud and smelled like spit. Hands pulled at me, dragging me. My vision ceased to exist, my mind filled with black. I was blind.

A crowd jeered. People laughed at me. My knees b.u.mped against rocky outcroppings as hard hands jerked me along and I stumbled.

Someone yelled, " Take him to the pool!" I could smell animals and cooking fires, and heard lambs bleating.

Moments later I felt the wash of water. A gentle hand took me from the grip of the rough ones that had led me to this place and carefully guided me to the edge of a pool. I could smell it, the sweet odor of dampness in a bone-dry place. The gentle hand placed mine into water, forming my hands into a cup and drawing them toward my face.

"Wash," the Voice said. That commanding, yet gentle timbre, once again. The Voice from the well. The Radiant One.

I splashed water on my face, wetting the dry scaled mud that covered my eyes. The water trickled into my mouth, slaking a thirst that seemed unquenchable. I cupped more water and splashed it again, drinking and washing at the same time. Feeling the edge of the pool, I bent over and put my face into water, scrubbing at the hard dirt on my eyes, now softened by cool liquid. Loosened mud fell from my eyes, and a brilliant light filled my mind as I stood.

Brightness consumed me. Colors, vibrant dancing hues that dazzled me, shapes I had felt for a lifetime but had never seen. And dozens of faces, heads with eyes that were like my own, yet every person about me different. After being locked in a dungeon of blackness for a lifetime, I could see at last.

I grabbed at the person closest to my left. The laughing and jeering had stopped; all were looking at me in stunned silence. I laughed, raising my hands to the sky as water dripped down my arms onto my filthy rags. I shouted out loud to all those near me.

"I was blind, but now I see!"

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

TWO MONTHS LATER.

"HOW FAR can a person sink?" I wrote from the prison cell of my condo in the middle of the day. Somewhere out there my constant companion WRKRJC waited, ever ready with a wise answer and a listening heart. I could never meet him. I'd fallen too far, careening down a slope too steep to climb back up to my old life.

"Some people hit rock bottom. But they come back. With help from their friends. And help from above." His response came immediately, as though he'd waited all day to speak to me, carrying his laptop or his BlackBerry at the ready in his mysterious career as what he called a "water professional." I was convinced my digital pen pal was a "he." I wished it so.

"Help from above?" I wrote. "Don't see any need for that."

"Lots of people don't until they sink so low that they realize they need a helping hand."

"You weren't talking about a hand," I wrote back in hopes we could prolong this talk, one of his many forays into a gentle spiritual tongue-lashing. I wanted to talk, to communicate. Even if it was about issues that I had no interest in.

"Have you ever fallen and needed someone to lift you up?" he wrote.

"I am fallen," I wrote. "I've slid so far that there's no way back."

"Now you're the one who's speaking metaphorically. And you're right. We've all fallen. But I meant did you ever fall down as a kid and need someone to lift you up?"

"Sure. Everyone does."

"How did that make you feel?"

"Are you with the media?" I asked. Only TV reporters asked that stupid question.

"No. When that someone helped you up, did you appreciate it? Why?"

"Of course I appreciated it. It made me feel good that they cared. They were strong when I was weak."

"Good. That's what a hand from above can do for you. Physically, like you experienced. Metaphorically. And spiritually."

"Some big daddy in the sky's going to reach down and clean me up? Lift me out of this pit?" I chuckled aloud, imagining a G.o.dlike housekeeper who descended to shovel out the trash in my apartment. I looked around at the mess, a gradual acc.u.mulation since late November and my last trip out.

Candice's wet hand drove me to this. Wanting no more chance connections with water, I determined to dine in my own home whenever possible. But it was a living h.e.l.l. I hadn't basked in sunshine, except through my bay window. No fresh air, except the breeze through my screens, in nearly four months. You start feeling sorry for yourself and the things that matter start to slide. Months ago I'd have vomited at the sight of an apartment like mine. Now I hardly noticed it.

The laptop dinged again.

"Yes, the 'Big Daddy' in the sky will reach down and lift you up, metaphorically. G.o.d won't lift you out of the grunge you say you live in, but He'll show you a way out of it. If you trust Him. He'll give you the inner strength to do the hard work yourself. He'll take the old you and make you into a new creature."