H2O: The Novel Part 8

"They're here tomorrow. I'm ready. What about it?" My heart pounded as I said it. Something didn't add up. I shook my head, trying to knock out the cobwebs as I raced through mental math. He barked the answer as fast as it came to mind.

" Tomorrow in j.a.pan is today, Kate!" Xavier yelled as he pushed me away with enough force to knock me down. I grabbed at a stair rail and kept my balance, but couldn't look him in the eye. I'd blown it through gross stupidity; they had arrived a day before they left, one of those disconcerting truths of travel across the International Date Line.

"You set it up. You invited them," he screamed with no concern for the patrons arriving at the shop. I didn't care either at this point.

"We paid their way, arranged all the events, and their itinerary started with you. Today. Remember? We talked about it at staff meeting before your accident. You said you were ready-"

"I said I would be ready-" I objected, trying to salvage some self-respect. I had my days mixed up. It could have happened to anyone. Especially after this past week.

"But you weren't! They came, all six of them, ready for 'Kyoto Kate.' They have a nickname for you, for crying out loud." He ran his hands over a sweat-laden bald head, slinging his arms down into balled fists. I backed up the stairs two risers-just in case.

Realization fell like lead rain, washing my anger away. "X. I am so sorry. I . . . I just lost track. It was dumb-I don't know how." I fished my phone out of my pocket. It had been with me all day, and there was the dreaded news. A dozen missed calls, all from the office. Silenced since I'd entered the Boeing meeting. My heart fell into my shoes and oozed onto the sidewalk.

He put up a hand, half turned as he walked toward his Mercedes.

"Don't! Don't apologize; don't make excuses. I don't want to hear about your stupid visions, your sickness, your bike, or your head. I don't care about any of it. I want the old Kate, the on-time-works-her-b.u.t.t-off-Spiderwoman-sushi-cooking-webmaster-motorbike-riding super-Kate." He slammed his palms against his temples. "That's the woman I want."

He spun in a complete circle, shaking his fists at a leaden Seattle sky. I could smell the rain on the way. "Who are you, anyway?" he screamed. "What are you?"

"X. I need to-"

"No! Don't start. I don't care, remember? You have no idea how much I don't care. I depended on you, even consulted you when the schedule changed and asked how it would impact your bed rest. I gave this to you to win, and you blew it."

"They'll understand-"

"What?" he fumed. "Understand? Yeah. They get it. You stood them up. They're furious. They flew ten hours to come see you, and you were nowhere to be found." He pointed to my left with a bony finger that punctuated the now misty air.

"Know where they are now? Headed that way. To SEATAC. They'll be on the first flight back home to Tokyo. At our expense. Your expense!"

"No-"

"Oh, yes. Gone for good. The offense of being stood up runs deep with these people. Go find a sword and sacrifice yourself. It's the honorable thing to do at this point." He stomped toward the car, sweat and the first drops of rain glistening on his shaved dome.

No words would do. Nothing I could say would help. I remembered too late his talk with me in the hospital. I'd been completely consumed with the MRI and diagnosis. Bad timing . . . and I'd forgotten to tell Andrea to put the event in my Outlook. It was a bigger opportunity than the Boeing deal. And, from the sound of it-an opportunity lost.

Xavier opened his car door as rain started to fall in earnest. He looked up briefly, and then back at me with a glare that would have melted any Ice Slice I could throw. "Don't apologize, Kate. Go fix this. Get them back any way you have to. Get on your knees . . . or do it on your back, for all I care. I must have this win." He paused, staring me down. I'd become a statue.

"It's yours to lose, and I don't do losers."

Rain fell as Xavier drove away from ISIP. Misty drizzle became drops. The cool of mist became a damp cold, sinking clammy fingers into my business suit. Drips of rain ran down my hair, soggy in the Seattle dew, now frizzing in the wet. I'd find any excuse to stand in the rain, my favorite shower, on any day but this. Not feeling luxurious seemed fair at this point. Completely at fault and deserving of nothing, I sank lower than the sidewalk.

Spatters of rain bounced off the street ahead of me. Dimly aware of the water, I sought out the phone in my jacket pocket. How could I have forgotten to turn the ringer back on, have missed so many calls, the desperate pleas from Andrea to come in and stave off impending doom?

Poor Andrea. I'd promised her it would be a short ma.s.sage trip; I'd promised I'd be back soon-and I'd lied. I took the works, the full-body ma.s.sage. I went Roman all afternoon, in celebration of the Boeing win. I deserved it, I told myself. The phone waited, its desperate messages queuing up in my spa locker while I played hooky.

From spa to ISIP for a caffeine jolt before heading back to the office for a late night of e-mail catch-up free of the interruptions by well-wishers who were glad I'd returned in good health. I thought it brilliant, skipping the chitchat of people with too little to do, a night of mining e-mail, and all caught up before Tuesday, when the j.a.panese arrived. Until this. My deadly one-day miscalculation.

Drips of rain ran off my hair and dripped down my neck, ticklish trickles of cold that sent shivers down my spine. My focus slipped; my incredible self-loathing was replaced by some odd mental image of a jar. Water overflowing in jars. I shook my head, determined to get back in the game, to hate myself for what I'd just done to Xavier and to my clients. Hate myself for the damage to my reputation and my job.

The imagery wrapped me in its shroud. I saw jars of water carried by women in robes, scurrying into little mud huts. I saw gray bricks and dimly lit rooms, food preparation and densely-packed people. I could smell them.

"No!" I screamed aloud, running my hands through wet hair as the rain began to pelt. My suit would shrivel in this downpour, but I didn't care. I deserved it.

"Focus, Pepper!" I screamed at the night. "You messed up. No more daydreams!" I yanked at my hair, milking cool rivulets from each hank.

Red! I saw red splashing in ugly swaths from b.l.o.o.d.y reeds that were sloshed against some kind of wall. Water washing feet and hands. Water for making meals. People singing and eating simple, bitter food.

"No! Not again!" I yelled. "Leave me alone! I want my head back."

I jerked at my hair again, squeezing out more sky juice as the flash of red engulfed me. I stood still, sure I'd fall over in this rush of color that sought to sweep me off my feet. More water, more jugs, more sounds like moans and screams. Women ripping at their clothes. Men wild with rage.

I turned and ran.

"Kate?"

A voice came to me in the midst of the red, a cool voice like the burble of water cascading from the stone flasks of my daydream. A Voice calling my name. I followed the sound, blinded by rage and this nightmare. I stumbled and fell, a thin cold handrail jamming itself under my right armpit as I tripped.

"Kate!" the voice said again. Hiram grabbed me under my left arm, throwing something big and warm over my head. He pulled me up, his thin muscular arms strong but not quivering like the furious ones that had shoved me away only moments earlier.

"You're soaked!" he exclaimed, pulling me to him. He smothered me in a warm cover, thick like a huge beach towel. I rubbed my hair instinctively, vigorously scrubbing to dislodge the mental pictures of water flasks, the screams of unknown bodies, and the slop of single red strokes on something like doorjambs. I rubbed harder. The more I rubbed, the clearer my vision became. Hiram pulled me into the coffee shop.

Candice waited inside, another towel in hand. Her face radiated a strange mixture of empathy and glee, as though she was terribly glad to see me-and in great pain to see me so wet. I began to understand in that moment that Candice possessed some kind of "human X-ray vision," the penetrating purity of a simple heart that allowed her to feel my deep hurt. It was like she knew me, could see deep within me. What hurt me also hurt her. It wounded her somehow to sense the pain that ripped away at my insides. The rage and the mad blackness inside me scared her. Candice recoiled as she handed me another towel.

I shivered, aware in that moment how much I needed help. My head was a mess. I'd botched a ten-million-dollar consulting deal with some arrogant j.a.panese traditionalists, and I'd let my boss down. A week ago, I would have called him "boyfriend." I might have even hoped one day to say "fiancee." That bond was severed for good.

I couldn't focus, so caught up in my failure that I'd begun to see things again. I took Candice's towel and wiped my face, then wrapped it around my shoulders. Hiram's hand lingered on my arm, and I brushed it off. I needed to be alone, to go home.

"Can I call you a cab?" he asked, his voice loaded with the same empathy I'd observed in Candice. Who were these people with eyes that saw pain? I couldn't describe why, but I knew we were connected. Struggling to understand, I nodded to Hiram. Yes. A cab would be good, and I sank into the chair he pushed toward me. My eyes didn't leave Candice.

"Blue is your color," Mother told me once. She'd taken some cla.s.s at the YMCA on colors and women and something spiritual. I can't remember much more than that. But I do remember her p.r.o.nouncement. "You are water blue. Aqua. Light and delicate." I thought she'd gone over the edge again. Certifiably nuts.

Before me, Candice knelt quietly in front of my soaking-wet form, a frumpy pillar of blue. A dingy blue polo shirt with the ISIP logo and vestiges of someone's coffee staining the linings of her shirt pocket. Blue, like me. But not me.

She reached up, placing a pudgy hand on my wet knee, her eyes staring at her hand as if the sensation was one she'd never experienced. It was a warm hand, electric. I could feel her heart beat in her palm like the thrum of a hummingbird.

Scared.

It occurred to me that I'd never actually taken her hand on purpose, never connected in a personal way. I'd spent months, maybe years knowing this person, but never touching. No skin to skin, no connection. Her warmth flooded me as her hand rested on my wetness. After what seemed minutes, she looked up, her eyes glistening. She reached and took the tail of my towel in her hand, dabbing carefully at my soaked blouse. Anyone else doing that would have earned a slap. But her simple spirit and her mothering care gripped me in a way I can't completely describe. I wanted to be wiped and dried by her. She dabbed in silence for several moments and then smiled, eyes br.i.m.m.i.n.g. She spoke for the first time since Hiram had hauled me in from the rain.

"It's okay, Miss Kate. Jesus can make you clean."

CHAPTER NINE.

FOUR-THIRTY in the morning-my alarm belted out its screechy bark like Rocco, the neighbor's obnoxious bull terrier. I hated that stupid dog, the same way I felt about my alarm clock, Rocco's digital counterpart.

I forced myself out of bed, feeling every minute of my hour of lost sleep, brutally sacrificed at the altar of preparation. No palatial tours of dreamland this morning. After yesterday . . . the missed meeting and the fight with X, I was determined to make today as flawless as it could be. I'd find the old super-Kate and bring her back to life.

Did I really want the old Kate back? How about a new woman instead?

I rubbed sleep from the corners of my eyes.

Get a grip, girl.

Minutes later, teeth freshly flossed and electric toothbrush buzzing, I stepped out of the bathroom, ticking off a mental checklist of the items on my gla.s.s-and-chrome-plated desk in the bedroom. I had triple-checked my schedule and phone the night before; I wasn't about to make the same gaffe twice.

My work laptop, complete with all of the presentations, winked blue LEDs, ready to roll. My iPhone lay tethered on the desk, powered up and ready for action. And my tiny crocodile tote beckoned, its gold-rimmed jaws propped open. Not a proper purse, only large enough for the phone, some keys, and a few sundries, but supple as b.u.t.ter. It fit the bill.

Back in the bathroom, I stared at my reflection in the mirror. There stood "old Kate"-the "superKate" whom Xavier missed-a woman in control, focused on what she needed and wanted, with the world by the tail. But somewhere deep inside lurked a "new Kate," a mental midget who forgot things-important things-and suffered screaming matches with her boyfriend-boss. A softy who cared what other people thought about her. A psychotic who saw things.

I couldn't deny the mental imagery. The rainbow of colors that flashed before my eyes on the Ice Rocket. Pregnancy had nothing to do with it. Home tests and blood tests confirmed that the problem lay elsewhere. In fact, the docs made a big deal over the fact I was a miracle case, in far better shape than I deserved . . . flying off the back of a racing bike, and suffering a facial beating from a swinging door.

But I couldn't deny the reeds in the river, and the frogs, and the blood. The jars of water, the red swaths above crude doors. Those were real-at least as genuine as my mind would allow. The mirror reflected the real me. Green eyes bored back into themselves-hard.

Beside me, my cell chirped. Five a.m.. Time for a shower and a taxi ride to work, then drown the dread of my mental fragility in a frothing sea of self-pity.

My precious bike is trashed, I lost a huge business deal, and I'm crazy.

"Temperature one hundred and ten," my computerized shower stated in its programmable British voice. The p.r.o.nouncement brought me out of the funk, heralding the opportunity to indulge in my morning baptism of wet heat. I hung a plush white terrycloth towel on the chrome bar outside the plate-gla.s.s door and stepped into billowy steam.

I didn't have time to fully close the gla.s.s behind me.

No time to scream.

The moment I touched the hot stream, I fell.

The world roared bright and wet like a brilliant waterfall. I felt the warmth of morning sunshine, saw clouds, sensed wind and mist and something that looked like the whitecaps on a river, or foam atop waves. Everything stood askew, all at the wrong angle; the waves ran vertical, not horizontal. I tumbled, disoriented, but I could make out what might be a horizon, tinged with smoldering fires. As I got my sense of "up," I realized that someone had turned the ocean on its side and poured it onto rocky ground.

I fell, a plain of bare earth dotted with smooth rocks rushing up to greet me. I screamed but no sound emerged as I slammed against rocks and flowed over them, caught up in a ma.s.sive wave of froth, bubbles, and rushing chaos. For another long moment, everything went dark and I had no sense of up or down, right or left. I spun out of control, wobbling toward some kind of wet doom.

I raced faster than I could ever go on the Ice Rocket, consumed by a thrumming power that surrounded me, as though a million horses forced me forward and I'd become nothing more than breath from their heaving nostrils. All around me flowed watery darkness, the sort of bluish-green I remembered from diving cla.s.ses off the coast of Monterey. I leapt over boulders and raced across bare sand faster than I believed possible.

Before me lay my quarry. Thousands of insignificant forms stumbled feebly before my fury. Something deep inside drove me toward them; I could taste their end as death splayed out before me in a blast of misty spray and hoa.r.s.e throaty screams. I slammed into their backs and swept them away in the ferocity of my flood fury. They ceased to exist, weak human forms disintegrating before my frothing jaws.

A gyre of drowning carnage lay beneath me. I could see them for the first time, frail things. Dark-skinned men with terror etched across suffocating faces. Horses chained to chariots struggled against my raw power, harnessed to blasted pieces of splintered iron, wood, and gold in a maelstrom of wet destruction. I raced toward little men garbed in dirty white tunics, my watery hands ripping them in half. Men with painted eyes were torn in two, churning in a wet cloud of red, screams bursting forth from their mouths in blood-tinged bubbles.

The whites of each man's eyes stood in stark contrast to the black lines painted around them. Each thrashed and gurgled as I consumed him. Time and again, I punched through a mask of crimson bubbles and rammed myself into a gaping mouth. My watery body shuddered as I drove deep into the heaving lungs of little brown-skinned men.

I fell. My back slapped against the cold white tile of the shower and I screamed, clawing at slick walls for some grip, for a brittle hold on reality. The vision fled, but as I was immersed in the hot shower stream my next heartbeat birthed yet another nightmare.

Bright, piercing sunlight from a noonday sun shone through me. A shadow, cast by dusty hands and a bearded face, fell across me, blocking the warming sun. A man dipped his hands deep inside me, his filth rinsed away by my cool darkness. A portion of me taken away, he drew me into himself, his eyes suddenly growing wide with my hidden surprise. He spat back into me and cried an unintelligible word to someone whom I could not see. The hairy shadow departed, and I again enjoyed the sun's full stare, rejoicing in its renewed warmth upon my liquid skin.

A hand and arms appeared overtop me a second time, draped with a threadbare cloth, much like the sleeve of a robe. I could tell that this hand was far different than the dusty hands and shadowy face from before. This hand was steady and full of fervor, its strength apparent in calloused fingers. Those fingers held a large stick above me. The figure spoke a single word and the hand dropped the wood onto me. It slapped my surface with a loud smack.

I smashed into the partially opened gla.s.s door of the shower stall. My head reeled from the vision; searing pain clawed into my body through every pore. Somehow, I knew that the door to the shower wasn't fully closed. Disaster loomed, and over my own jagged wails, I heard it.

The plate gla.s.s cracked.

Light scattered across a thousand slivers. A shower of gla.s.s shards sliced into naked flesh. I gagged, my cry aborted before it could achieve life. I caught a glimpse of my wet body refracted in the mirrored walls of my bathroom. In a garish blend of fun house and slaughter house, I saw the reflection of feeble fingers s.n.a.t.c.hing onto terrycloth towel.

The fingers were mine.

My blood splattered across a pale tile floor, and I heard the whoosh of air as it fled my lungs. My back slammed hard against the tile, but my right foot remained hooked on the sill of the shower. Pain had its way with my body, and I tried to scream but my mouth just opened and closed. Water spritzed my foot from the hot shower, and the electric arcs of yet another vision sparked inside my mental eye.

All around me, darkness-yet I sensed movement. I felt like a cork bobbing on the surface of a raging sea. No, not on the surface. I went down, plummeting into frothing blackness with a dwindling lifeline of bubbles leading my eyes up to the shadowy footprint of a boat on the surface. I turned my head, peering down. The bulk of something huge vanished below me into the abyss.

Panic rose from somewhere deep inside.

A huge maw, no other word for it-a mouth as big as a car-headed my way. It intended to consume me, to swallow me whole. The whitish line of the mouth closed and my world went black again. My insides rumbled as the thing that had eaten me let go a throaty, gushing growl. My whole world trembled.

My eyes flicked to the left. Six inches from my face lay my iPhone.

I lay shivering on the floor of my bathroom in a pool of watery blood and shattered gla.s.s. My terrycloth towel, stained with splotches of pink and red, was gathered feebly beneath my head.

The display on my cell flashed "14 missed messages," and it started to walk, vibrating on the floor with yet another incoming call. Someone wanted me bad.

It was nine a.m.

CHAPTER TEN.

LYING ON the floor, I reached for the phone out of reflex. Other than 911 or Andrea, there was no one I could call for help. That says a lot-and none of it good.

"He-h.e.l.lo?" I replied, my voice cracking. Terrified, I'd just come a wrist-slice from death, falling through a gla.s.s shower door in my worst hallucination yet.

Xavier's harsh voice-his argument voice-launched a string of profanities that made my ears ring. He never bothered to ask about me.

"Kate, I'm outside the conference room hanging in the wind! Again."

"Wha . . .?" I mumbled.

"The Ellsworth meeting, stupid. You're fifteen minutes late. I've got no briefings, no strategy, and no idea what to talk to our clients about. Did you just wake up? Did you-"

I hung up, tears stinging my eyes. Lying in a pool of blood, my sanity on the fritz, I was in no mood for his whining.

I'd rather bleed to death than ask Xavier for help. I'd do this on my own.

Three and a half hours later, I'd managed to pluck the gla.s.s shards out of my skin and bandage dozens of small, shallow cuts. Thankfully, the terrycloth towel beneath me had spared me a worse fate. Doctored up, I slipped into some clothes and called a cab. I tried to congratulate myself on getting dressed, my "big accomplishment." I finally made it to the street.