H2O: The Novel Part 16

Water visions filled my head as tears flowed unabated. I gave up trying; I couldn't daub the wet on my face fast enough. Micro-visions of wells, streams, buckets, and showerheads filled my head. Toilets, lakes, oceans, and clouds. I banged my forehead with a fistful of wet Kleenex, trying to pound the pictures out of me, and as I did, sobs crawled out of my chest, forcing more tears and more visions while I sat cross-legged in front of the door.

Please come back!

I'd waited half an hour and heard nothing from him. He hated me, I knew it. I'd scared off the only human contact I'd had-other than anonymous food delivery boys-since Thanksgiving. The one person in the world I desperately wanted to know was gone. My head swam in water imagery as I sank into a tear-filled well of pity.

The doorbell rang, deep-throated gongs of my door chimes announcing another food delivery. But I hadn't ordered anything. I peered through the bay window at the stoop.

John!

I jumped up, blowing my nose and wiping my face as I dashed for the door. I didn't care if my eyes were as red as beets, and I forgot to check for stuff running out of my nostrils. I was desperate to see him again, to apologize, to connect. I tossed the wad of sodden tissues in a corner with the rest of the junk and threw open the door.

My plumber stood there clutching a pair of Chinese takeout boxes in one hand and a drink cup in the other. "Hungry?" he asked with a big smile as he handed the food my direction.

My face felt hot again, and I could imagine what I must look like. Puffy cried-out eyes, tear stains, and a snotty nose-the crimson face of yet another embarra.s.sment. Despite all that, he looked at me in a way that made me feel pretty, not the desperate ugly woman I'd become.

"You . . . you did this for me?" The aroma of hot pork and fried rice rose from the little boxes. I was famished.

"Yeah. You looked like you were busy around here and didn't have time to head out for food." I'd not yet accepted his gift and took the dinner from his hands. He nodded toward the meal. "I thought I'd bring you something."

Most men would have walked through the door the moment I opened it. All the men I'd ever known before him did, one eye on my bare legs, one on the bedroom door. But John just stood in the portal, not inviting himself in. He didn't act like he owned my flat or me. That was another first.

"I . . . I'm starved, to tell you the truth. Please. Please come in." I stepped aside so he could get past me. More smells of hot Chinese food filled the gap between us as John entered and I pushed the door shut with my foot. With the chilled cup in one hand, food buckets in the other, and balanced on one foot, I played ballerina in my condo, welcoming a man I'd hoped would forgive me and return.

The drink cup, ice cold and sweating in the damp Seattle air, sent tiny rivulets coursing onto my hand. My first connection with water in weeks.

As I pivoted on that one foot, my head suddenly filled with images of a raging sea, frothy waters, and a bobbing boat. Twelve men cried out for help, tossed on the waves, their wooden craft swollen with water and men bailing for their lives. One of them, a tall, burly man, stopped bailing and stepped out of the boat, his crazy departure raising more cries from his s.h.i.+pmates. He put his foot on the angry water-and walked.

I stumbled, the cup leaping from my hands, headed for a sure splash on the wooden floor of my den. As I heard it crash in a sickening smack, I saw another figure, a Man in brilliant white who approached from the distance, walking on the water toward the boat. The one who'd bravely stepped off into the waves had started to sink and called out to him. Like the sinking one, I went down, alternating between my world and this watery vision of men swallowed by a mad sea.

He caught me. In that instant, I saw the sinking man reach out and take the hands of the One in dazzling white who walked on the water. And in that instant I felt John's rigid arms encircle me, taking my weight as I sank in my own desperate wave.

He drew me closer to him, his smile no longer toothy and boyish but strong and warm. His gaze caught mine as the image of the sinking man vanished; the bulge of one of John's biceps wedged in my back, his other flexed under my right side. His hands gripped my forearms, and he pulled me tight into his chest.

It felt so good to be in the arms of another, to be touched.

To be lifted up.

To be saved.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

THREE DAYS LATER.

"LIFE IS GOOD." I once saw a T-s.h.i.+rt with that saying printed on it and thought it funny. Why would someone wear a s.h.i.+rt with such a ridiculous slogan?

At the time, it seemed readily apparent that life was wonderful. Who would see it otherwise? I never dreamed then that I'd find myself in the despair that had gripped me these past weeks. Finally, that T-s.h.i.+rt slogan held some promise for me, a hope of someplace I could reach again. With John's help.

Dental floss, toothpicks, and toothpaste without water were the latest weapons in the a.r.s.enal of the new Kate. No more trench mouth from lack of brus.h.i.+ng for fear of water. I wanted to get close to John without wilting him. I tossed the used floss in a new trashcan, admiring the kitchen and the adjoining dining room of my renewed home. I'd cleaned it at last; all the trash was gone, the vacuuming completed, and all the surfaces wiped down with alcohol or vinegar cleansers. It felt good to be pristine.

"I want to be pretty," I said to the mirror near the front door, admiring my latest attempt at hygienic hair. I'd tried half a dozen recipes I found on the Internet. Quaker Oats was the weirdest; I rubbed a couple of cups into my scalp and my grease-laden locks. But it worked. I tried cornstarch, baking soda, even flour for a dry shampoo. But the best by far was baby powder. After a good scrubbing with dry oatmeal and brus.h.i.+ng it out, I'd rubbed a few liberal douses of sweet-smelling powder into my hair and whisked it away. I smelled good, and the nasty seb.u.m oil on my head disappeared. My hair had bounce! Half an hour of straightening, and I had my old hairdo back. I felt great.

Baby wipes became my new best friend. I shopped carefully for just the right kind. I called them the "nonvision wipes." Instead of lathering up with hand sanitizer, I could scrub with the little cloths. I bought dozens of packs at a time.

A beep from my laptop meant a new message, and I dashed across the room to see if it came from John. He insisted on continuing our messaging with his pseudonym for "Worker John Connor." However, a new message flashed on the screen from my physician at the "doc in a box" across town, a friendly elderly man I trusted. He gave quick and honest advice. " Test results," read the subject line.

"Kate, I wouldn't normally e-mail a patient, but you've been a good friend and I'm writing because I'm concerned about you and your health. The girls in the front office told me that your insurance claim bounced because you're no longer employed at Consolidated Aerodyne. Maybe you've changed jobs, but from your condition at your last visit and judging from these test results, I suspect there may be a serious problem on your end. I need you to call my office about the insurance issue, but I'm even more concerned that you call me about your health. We need to talk soon. Dr. Hunt."

Was it the liver test? The kidney stones? My mind raced as I thought through a million possibilities, always coming back to Dr. Hunt's impossible advice. "Hydrate, Kate. Drink more water. You're living on caffeine and juice, and that's building up nasty stones in your kidneys by the day."

He didn't understand. I saved my sanity by destroying my health. I heard once about a man who drank Coca-Cola as his only liquid for fourteen years. That might be me-a lifelong addict to Hiram's coffee blends and Tropicana with pulp. An addict loaded with kidney stones and no medical insurance. I deleted the message. I knew what he wanted, and what it required. I could afford cash for my treatment, at least for now.

The future, however, was less certain.

"Dinner tonight at my place?" I typed, desperate to see John again. It had been three days since he had brought me the Chinese takeout and saved me from a nasty fall. The vision from my contact with the wet drink cup had an additional outcome. It confirmed my fears. The visions were more intense than ever, triggered by less water. I dared not get the least bit damp.

On the other hand, I was willing to suffer the unexplainable mental imagery in order to spend time with John, however hard that might be.

"What's for supper?" he wrote back. I imagined John at work on some other poor soul's toilet or clogged drain, diverting his attention from their pressing need to answer my message. He'd been doing that for months, carrying on a lively conversation with me while staying employed with his hands. A champion mult.i.tasker.

"Sus.h.i.+," I responded. "Ever had it?"

"Raw fish?"

"You'll love it. Trust me."

"You're sure?"

"Absolutely."

"What about your visions? Don't you have to use water to prepare it?"

John thought about me, not the food. What a change. If he were Xavier, he'd be leaning on me to buckle down and "suck it up."

"I'll manage. I promise not to poison you."

"You eat poison fish?"

"No. Just making a point. It will be a sanitary meal." Somehow. I trembled thinking about it, wiping the knife with the sanitizing cloth. I'd tried using rubber gloves once. That should work.

"You're on. What can I do to help?"

I'd never heard those words from Xavier. In fact, very few men I'd ever known had a mind that ran in that direction. I was quickly coming to the conclusion that my past problems with men were largely my fault. John had proved, in our short time together, that all men weren't self-centered bedroom creeps.

"I need some shopping done. Want to buy the fish?" It was the only ingredient I didn't have in the condo-and the most important.

"Sure. Can I get it at the local market?"

"No!" I wrote back, revolted by the thought of stale California rolls in the deli section. "I'll send you directions and call in the order. We'll have some ahi tuna, and if you don't like it raw, I can cook it all the way."

"I'll try anything once."

I sent John the directions and phoned in my request to a local fish supplier. I'd have sent him to Fisherman's Terminal and the St. Jude if we could have waited for the meat to thaw. It's funny how getting involved in some dinner planning suddenly changed my entire outlook. I found myself thinking about Liam again, about cooking and shopping. Thinking about a man. That slogan I'd seen a while ago wasn't so far off base after all.

Life was good.

An hour later, I stared into a bottomless pit.

The deep stainless-steel sink in my kitchen resembled a silver cave without end. Water poured from the spout, coursing down the drain as though the metal had no cares. It directed the flow and sent the nasty stuff out of my condo. No screaming, no fainting. Just water. The sink wasn't bothered.

I saw the clear liquid as some horrible snake venom that sparked mind-bending visions. It wasn't just water. What spilled from my faucet represented the most intense form of mental agony.

I thought of John. I could weasel my way through this dinner without touching the poison that spewed from my tap, and dinner might even taste good. Or I could remain pure to my cla.s.sical sus.h.i.+ training and do it the way it should be done. But to do that, I had to get wet.

Gramps told me once while we were plying the harbor on his tugboat that "everything has its price, Kate. The stuff you can touch, and the stuff you can't." He'd paused, staring out from his spot at the helm and added, "Sometimes you have to pay a steep price for something or someone you love." I'm sure he meant my grandmother, who'd died years earlier, but he might as well have been preparing me for today.

I shut off the tap and reached down slowly, rapping the side of the damp sink with bare knuckles. It made a solid tink when I tapped the damp sides, and immediately colors flashed in my mind's eye.

I saw a small pool of water amid a Roman bath-like structure. Two dozen sick men and women waited around it, anxious about something. The surface of the pool rippled suddenly and a mad dash ensued, every invalid desperate to be the first in the water.

I jerked my hand from the sink and wiped it on a towel before the vision consumed me. I'd found that, if I moved fast, I could stop the mental games by drying quickly. That strategy would have to work for dinner as well. Everything had its price.

The vision spurred by John's drink cup had been my first in two months. As powerful as it had seemed, like this latest micro-vision, I discovered that I could now manage in both worlds-the visionary and the real. I didn't have to crash through gla.s.s doors or get a concussion from a fall to the floor. I could weather the impact and even come through to the other side intact. With my hands on opposite rims of the sink bowl, I pondered my next step. I had to wash the knife.

I'd ordered two sets of rubber gloves from a chemistry laboratory, elbow-length heavy rubber that would deflect acid and deadly poison. I took my thousand-dollar slicing knife in one hand, gripping the edge of the sink with the other while I maneuvered the knife under the tap. Bit by bit I worked my way forward, knife slicing the stream of water in two.

Getting a tighter hold on the sink rim, I advanced my hand into the flow, the black rubber of my gloves barely touching the silver wetness, then fully immersed. I dropped the knife in the sink and shut my eyes, waiting for the inevitable. Nothing came.

Dry! Safe! And sane!

For the next four hours, I cleaned house. I've never enjoyed cleaning like I did that day. From kitchen to bath, to den and bedroom. I picked up, swept up, vacuumed, and wiped. I started with food preparation materials and finished with the bathroom, arrayed in a second set of gloves meant just for toilets and cleanser. The thick gloves were hardly tactile, with big bulky fingers that held a rag well but would never allow me to slice a fish with precision. Nevertheless, it made me feel clean to have order in my home again. The second cleaning in as many days. John was my inspiration for change, my "tipping point."

At five o'clock he landed on the stoop, packages in hand. Punctual and, I'd bet, no excuses for what he didn't remember or had done wrong. John didn't strike me as an excuses kind of man. He was solid, a model of dependability.

"We're not going to eat this thing raw, are we?" he asked, holding a bag of fish toward me when I opened the door. "Seems kind'a crazy." His smile gave him away.

"Heat ruins the taste, John. You'll love it," I replied, reaching out to grab his arm and pull him in. My smile mirrored his. "Thank you for coming."

"I think I'll prefer cooked fish," he insisted, pretending to be stuck in the doorway to make me urge him inside. He had a sense of humor-another trait sorely lacking in the Kate Pepper stable of man-hunks.

We stopped in my living room, and I swept my arm about the s.p.a.ce, waiting to see if he noticed. It was unfair to expect him to notice my work, but I hoped he'd see the difference.

John let out a long low whistle. "Merry Maids has been busy!"

That's all I needed-a recognition of something done well. It had been so long since I sold a million-dollar deal, launched a new web service, or even received a compliment. I'd been a hermit since last year. Slowly, I spread my wings. A clean apartment represented a major life change for me.

"Come on," I said, pulling him in the direction of the kitchen. "I'll show you something."

Somewhere between the doorbell and the kitchen counter, I lost touch with the present. I became the old Kate, the self-confident Kate, afraid of nothing and ready to take on the world. The Kate who wors.h.i.+pped wet weather, hard work, and fast motorcycles. In those few steps, basking in the smile of a man I'd spilled my heart out to over the past months, I found myself at peace with myself and with the world.

Life was good.

"I have an appetizer ready for you!" I said, beaming as I held up a platter of some of my best sus.h.i.+ rolls ever. I'd boiled the rice, cleaned the seaweed wrappers, rolled the vegetables and sticky rice, all free of any visions. Sanitized and scalded, those big rubber gloves had worked wonders. And I'd been a cook again. John looked at the wooden tray, his head c.o.c.ked to one side.

"What is it?"

"A special roll. My secret recipe, just for you. It's delicious." I simply needed to slice it. The wasabi and the slivers of pickled ginger were ready on our platters. I offered him something to drink, bustling about the kitchen, oblivious to my last three months of torture.

John took a seat at the counter bar in the kitchen and talked as I worked. He shared stories about his day, about a particularly tough plumbing repair he'd done for an elderly lady in an apartment downtown. Stories about the trip to the fish market, and stories about me. We walked through months of instant messages and e-mails, sharing what he'd imagined I was like during the digital period of our "relations.h.i.+p," and telling me his impressions about the moment I'd discovered him-I.M. buddy and plumber, wrapped up in one. That day had been a huge surprise to us both.

I felt so at peace with him that life seemed to have flashed back to my old days, but with someone who had a real interest in me. He didn't mention the visions, and I forgot them. For a time.

At some point, as I was busy with the dinner preparations, it came time to slice fish. While I worked, John's voice took on a more serious tone. He hesitated, somehow treading on sensitive ground. "Remember when you said you were ready for help-for G.o.d's help-to climb out of your pit?"

He knew my typical reaction to his "spiritual discussions." But tonight, with him here in the kitchen, that resistance to his "G.o.d talk" melted away. I wanted to climb inside his head and understand him. Even more, I yearned for him to climb inside my crazy head and understand me.

"I remember," I said, answering his question. "And I am. I'm ready to climb out."

"Then remember this promise," he said, moving to my side. "He will show you the way. And He'll never test you beyond your ability to endure."

It all seemed sort of fuzzy, this talk about "the way." Like describing a map to someone without showing it. But at least, now, I knew there might be a map to lead me out of my despair. John's presence, and his a.s.surance, was the most encouragement I'd had in months.

John shared more: his thoughts when we first made eye contact, his reaction when I stood like a statue after the plumbing job and let him leave without so much as a goodbye. I hung on his every word. While he talked, I followed old habits, preparing the meat for our dinner. I unwrapped the fish, tossed the wrapping paper in the trash, and turned to the sink. I caught his eye as I turned on the water. It was one of those moments where you see something coming but don't realize what you're about to do. I smiled at a comment he made about the mountains of empty sanitizer bottles he'd found in my bathroom, and then pushed the fish under the stream of water.

John yelled my name.

I saw the fish fall from my hands before I lost total connection with reality. I could hear it clank in the bottom of the sink and sensed, but could not see, John moving to my left. Something firm held me, and I was instantly transported into another world. No more dualities. I was gone, to a hot place. I became a dry wooden thing, floating on water.

"Haven't you any fish?" I could hear the Voice that asked the question but couldn't see the face of the person that uttered it, just the form of a Man clad in white robes standing on a sh.o.r.e far away. Though I could barely make him out in the brilliance of his white, I knew that Man from somewhere else. I felt like we'd met before but didn't know why, or where.

I was far out at sea, or perhaps a long way from some kind of lakesh.o.r.e. Mountains in the distance told me we were near land, but the beach blended in with the water and he stood, a small figure, so far away. Yet I could see the Man vividly, his presence filling my mind.

How could I hear the Voice so clearly this far from sh.o.r.e? Men stood atop me as I bobbed in the water, large men rugged from long days of hard work. I smelled like fish and pitch, and I felt old. Parts of me creaked in the cool sun of an early morning. I felt like I'd been at sea for a very long time.

"Throw your net on the right side of the boat and you will find some." The Voice spoke strongly, yet the figure stood so very distant.

Men tossed big nets over my side, the coa.r.s.e rope of their trade sc.r.a.ping at me. They didn't wait long. I felt the strain, the pull of a mysterious force in the water below me as it dragged me sideways and pulled me off balance. The men rushed to the opposite side of me to balance our load, yelling in unison, urging each other to pull harder on the ropes that linked them to the net below.

Ropes sliced into my sides as they hauled their load from the water. Nets clogged with fish crept up my rough brown hull, pulling me more off balance, precariously close to tipping. Yet, the nets held firm and I stayed afloat. Hundreds of fish, huge fish, poured out of the net into my hold. The men couldn't haul the net in completely, and the leader directed the others to set the sail. They would pull the net to sh.o.r.e. I complied, unfurling my cloth in the morning breeze, and moved with the wind toward the Voice in white.

We were not yet to the sh.o.r.e when one of the men, the leader, tore off his tunic and jumped into the water. Others yelled at him to hang on, that we would soon be ash.o.r.e. He couldn't wait, yelling at the top of his lungs with the encouragement that made me pull harder in the wind to reach the One in white. I knew him. It was the Man from the well. The Voice at the pool. The Radiant One from the river. The fishermen joined in a chorus of shouts.

"It is the Lord!"