We Are Water

  He puts his half-drunk beer and the empties back in the carton and stands up. “Okay, that’s the scene I was waiting for. I’m beat. Guess I’ll hit the hay. You want this on?” The remote’s in his hand. When I shake my head, he deadens the TV and the room goes dark.

  “Everything’s ready up there, honey. I put on sheets for you. And a set of towels on your bureau.”

  “Okay, thanks. Hey, you all right?”

  I nod. Look over at Marissa, cast now in silhouette. “You know what? Let’s try and get her upstairs.” I stand. Go over to her and put my hand on her shoulder. Give it a little shake. “Marissa?”

  “No!” she shouts. “Get away from me!” Her flailing hand hits me on the side of my mouth. It’s okay. It doesn’t hurt, and anyway she didn’t realize what she was doing. She’s sound asleep.

  “Still a brat,” her brother says. “Seriously, Mom. Just leave her alone.”

  “Okay.”

  I follow him out of the room and up the stairs. When we reach the top, I tell him good night. Tell him I love him. “Love you, too, Mom,” he says. He’s at the entrance to the bathroom when he turns back. “Hey, Mom?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Casey and me? We broke up.”

  I reach out to him. Place my hand on his arm. “Oh, baby, I’m so sorry. What happened?”

  He shrugs. “It just wasn’t going to work out.”

  “Who broke it off? You or—”

  “I did. But hey, it’s okay. Better to realize it before we got married than afterward. Right?”

  “Sure, honey, but—”

  “I wasn’t going to mention it just before your wedding, you know? But I told Dad when I was up there, so . . .”

  “What about your sisters? Do they know?”

  He shakes his head. “Don’t worry, Mom. I’ll live. G’night.”

  “Good night.”

  He closes the bathroom door behind him. Poor kid. And poor Marissa, too, passed out down there. I go to the hall closet and grab one of the extra blankets. Go back down and tuck it around her. Do that much at least.

  Back upstairs in the bedoom, I turn off the light and crawl between the sheets. Rest my head on these goddamned new pillows. It’s no wonder Andrew acted so sullen this evening. It wasn’t about Viveca and me. It was about his broken engagement. Oh god, I’m exhausted. I need to get some sleep. . . . I mean sure, you had your moments. But you were a damned good mother. Overall, maybe. But I could get so impatient, so frustrated. Half the time, I wanted them to just go away so I could get to my work. And they had to have picked up on that resentment. Kids are perceptive. But it’s like he said: they survived. They’re all okay in spite of my shortcomings.

  Who are you kidding? They’re the walking wounded, all three of them. A broken engagement, a Dr. Frankenstein pregnancy. And your third one down there, blacked out. Black and blue. Face it, Annie. I screwed you up, and you screwed them up.

  Go to hell. I hope you are dead.

  And what if I am? Our secrets are still alive. What you and I know that no one else ever found out. That it was you who dropped the baby into that cold, dark water and—

  She was crying, bucking against me. And so cold, so slippery. I loved Gracie. I couldn’t hold on to her.

  Was that it? Or were you jealous of all the attention she was getting?

  No! It was an accident.

  And what about our other secret? The things we did when we were alone?

  The things you did. I didn’t even understand what was happening. I was just a little girl.

  A naughty little girl. Touching me where I wanted you to, letting me touch you.

  I missed my mother. I was confused. It was all so confusing. Okay, relax, Annie. Breathe. Go to sleep. . . . But he’s right. He damaged me, and I damaged them—the three people I love most in the world. . . . And Orion: I hurt him, too. I was unfaithful to him with Viveca, and now to add insult to injury, I’m marrying her tomorrow in the town where we raised our kids. Where tomorrow our kids will stand there and witness . . . will witness. . . .

  What’s happening? Why can’t I breathe? My lungs need air! Oh god, I feel so sick. What’s that noise? Oh god, it’s me! I’m shaking so hard that the headboard is banging against the wall. Get out of my room, Kent! Don’t touch me! . . . I’m cold. How can I be sweating when I’m freezing cold? Gracie was so cold, so wet. I couldn’t hold her. Am I having a heart attack? Is that why my heart is pounding? Why my fingertips are numb?

  Scream for help, Annie.

  No, I can’t! I’ll wake them up!

  Then get out of bed. Go over to your phone and call for help. Call 9-1-1. But my legs won’t move. Why can’t I breathe? Is this what drowning feels like? Please, God, don’t let me die. I don’t want to die like this. Then pray. Yes, that’s right. I’ll pray. Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name. Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day . . . Give us . . .

  Okay, it’s passing. I’m up. Walking over to my phone. Turning it on. I watch it light up. Watch my fingers skid along the keys. Press the numbers. Press “send.” . . . Why isn’t it ringing? Okay, there it goes. Two rings, three, four, five. Answer it, Viveca. Please answer it.

  “Mmph. Hello? . . . Hello?”

  Speak. Say something.

  “Who is this? . . . Anna, is that you?”

  “Help me.” It comes out in a whisper. Did she hear me?

  “Anna? What did you just say? Sweetheart, is something wrong?”

  “Help me.”

  And she does. Soothes me with her calming voice. Names it: panic attack. She has me say the address. Says she’s going to get up now, get in her car. Put the address into her GPS and come to me. She’ll bring the Xanax, she says. She’ll be right here. She’s coming.

  I’m downstairs, waiting at the front window, when I see her headlights. I unlock the door. Open it, let her in, and fall against her, sobbing. “I didn’t know what was happening. I thought I was dying.”

  “It’s all right, Anna. I’m here now. Come on. Let’s get you up to bed. You’re all right now. I’m going to stay with you.”

  “No, you can’t. I promised him.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” She takes my hand in hers. “Come with me.”

  At the base of the stairs, I stop. Look over my shoulder and into the living room. The recliner’s empty, the blanket’s on the floor. Marissa’s woken up and gone to bed.

  “Come on now, Anna. Come upstairs. . . . That’s it. Now get under the covers. You feel cold. There you go. Good girl. Now just hold on a second. I’ll be right back.”

  She returns from the bathroom with a cup of water. I take the pill she gives me. Swallow it. She gets into bed. Places her body against mine and holds me. Massages my temple with her thumb. “It’s all right now, baby. I’m here. You’re here with me.”

  “I was up here, trying to get to sleep, but I started thinking about my kids. Worrying about them, and then, all of a sudden, I couldn’t breathe. I thought I was having a heart attack.”

  “I know, sweetheart. But just try to relax now. Okay?”

  “Andrew and I were downstairs. This movie was on, and Marissa—”

  “Shssh. Close your eyes and rest.”

  “He started asking me about when I was a kid. About things I never talk about. And then when I came back up to bed . . . Viveca, there are things that happened when I was little. Bad things.”

  “Shssh. You can tell me about them, Anna, but right now you just need to relax and go to sleep.”

  “Okay. Okay, Viveca.”

  Lying there in the dark, I can’t see the photographs on the bureau, but it’s as if I can feel him looking at me. I’m sorry, Orion. I couldn’t keep my promise. I need her here. I’m worried about the kids, Orion. Did you notice anything about them when they visited you? Why did Andrew and his girl break their engagement? It wasn’t because of me, was it? Why did Ariane decide to get pregnant that way? She’s still young. . . . B
ut okay, Viveca’s right. I need to let it all go and get to sleep. And Marissa’s gotten herself up to bed. She looked so uncomfortable asleep in that chair. All three of them are down the hall, asleep. And no matter why Ariane got pregnant, her child is growing inside her, its tiny heart beating away. . . . In the quiet, I listen to Viveca’s rhythmic breathing. Feel the steady beat of her heart. Her warmth relaxes me, and her arm resting against my back makes me feel safe. I called her, and she came. Took care of me. . . .

  I’m starting to doze now. Don’t fight it, Annie. Just let it go. . . .

  When I wake up, I lie still, confused for a few seconds about where I am. Okay, now I remember. Our bed. The yellow walls, the curtains I hung after he installed the rods. Then it comes back to me: the strange, paralyzing fear that came over me last night. Panic attack, she said. Then she came, brought me up here, got me to sleep. . . .

  It’s our wedding day! I reach out to touch her, but my hand comes down on the empty mattress. A car starts outside. I get up, go over to the window. Watch her back down the driveway and out into the street. She puts on her headlights. Puts the car into gear and drives away. The sunrise is pretty, a mother-of-pearl pink beyond the trees. . . .

  I see it on the bureau: the note in her beautiful, flowing penmanship.

  Good morning, darling. I wanted to get up and out of here before any of the kids woke up—respect the family boundaries. You were sleeping so peacefully, I didn’t have the heart to wake you up. I’m so sorry you had a bad night, but don’t dwell on that. Think about today and all of our tomorrows. I love you, Anna.~ V

  And I love her, too. I need her. I want to marry her, go with her to Greece and see the things she wants to show me: those sun-bleached houses built into the hill, the blue Aegean, the red hibiscus against the snow-white fence. My doubts are gone, and I’m filled with hope. The sunrise is beautiful, the sky is clear. It’s going to be a beautiful day.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Kent Kelly

  At the hardware store, I got promoted to the sales floor. All those fix-it lessons Uncle Chick had given me came in handy, and I was good at selling. I was a natural, they said. Some customer would come in for a can of paint or a package of picture hooks and leave with a quartz heater for their garage or a socket wrench set that was on sale. Impulse buys: that was my specialty once I realized how gullible people could be. I sold this one lady patio furniture in November, and I’m not even talking clearance prices. After a while, I got another promotion: assistant sales manager. They still let me be the key guy, though. There was something about cutting keys that felt satisfying. Years later, when I mentioned that to some court-ordered shrink who was treating me, he said, “Well, Kent, there’s something phallic about a key, isn’t there? You stick it into a lock and voilà.” He was so far off base, I couldn’t help laughing at him. For me, it was more about hearing my name over the loudspeaker. “Kent Kelly to the key machine, please. Kent to keys.” I was a somebody at that store—the assistant manager and the key guy.

  At the flophouse where I lived, this guy Mitch moved into Daisy’s old room. He was a tattoo artist. Worked at a storefront place two streets over called Marked Men. (This was before every chick in the universe started getting tattooed.) There was a porn shop next door to Marked Men, and Mitch worked there a couple of nights, too. He was closer to my father’s age than mine, but we got to be friends. We’d smoke weed together, play cards, go out for breakfast or to the movies on Sundays, which, like I said, was always the hardest day of the week for me. One Sunday afternoon, he opened up the shop and gave me a tat free of charge—a cobra, its body coiled around my bicep, its hooded head raised and ready to strike. Mitch said a paying customer would have had to fork over seventy-five bucks for it. It hurt like a motherfucker for a day or so, itched for a couple more, but it was worth it. When I wore short sleeves at work, people would ask me to pull up my sleeve so they could see the whole thing. Tell me it was cool. I didn’t know Mitch had an ulterior motive until the night we were hanging out in his room doing vodka shots and he reached over and put his hand on my crotch. At first, I was so stunned that I just sat there letting him. But when he went for my zipper, I grabbed his wrist and gave him his hand back. “What’s the matter?” he said.

  “Nothing. What are you, a fag or something? Because I’m not.”

  “Don’t knock it till you try it,” he said. “A guy knows a lot more about what makes another guy feel good than a woman does.”

  I shook my head. “I’m just not into that kind of action.”

  A few minutes and a couple of vodkas later, he asked me what kind of action I was into. I never would have told him if I wasn’t shit-faced.

  The next night there was a knock on my door, and when I answered it, there was Mitch. He handed me a magazine called Young Love. The porn shop where he pinch-hit kept stuff like that in the back, he said. “Have fun.” I stood there, watching him walk down the hall to his room.

  The pictures in that magazine excited me, but they shocked me, too. I was pretty streetwise by then but still naïve about some stuff. I guess I’d more or less assumed I was the only guy in the world who liked them that age, but Young Love let me know I wasn’t. Over the next several days, I looked at it so many times that the binding fell apart.

  From there, one thing led to another. Mitch and I had an agreement. He kept me supplied with kiddie porn, and I let him do stuff. I didn’t particularly enjoy it, but it was a means to an end. This was years before all that shit became available on the Internet. After I started selling life insurance and could afford a computer, it was like someone had handed me the key to the candy store. At least that was what it was like until those two plainclothes detectives showed up at the door of my condo, read me my rights, and walked out with my hard drive. But that happened a lot later, when I was in my forties and making decent money. The lawyer I hired couldn’t get the charges dropped, but he got me off with just a fine. With what he charged me plus what I had to fork over to the government, someone might as well have shoved a gun against my ribs and said, “Stick ’em up.” But at least in terms of jail time, I dodged a bullet. Dodged another one in terms of my job. The Duffy Insurance Agency was none the wiser. By then, I had four framed “Sales Manager of the Month” certificates hanging on the wall in my cubicle and four three-hundred-dollar sports jackets hanging in my closet. It didn’t much matter if it was out-of-season patio furniture or life insurance policies: I was goddamned good at whatever it was I had to sell.

  I’ve done eight little girls over the years. I have Polaroids of some of them, and memories of every single one. What I’d do was rent apartments in smaller towns but cruise city kids. Get what I wanted and then get back on I-95 and disappear six or seven exits down the highway. I’d zero in on lonely kids for the most part—girls who, in their own way, were as starved for attention as those old folks at Eldredge Eldercare, as neglected as I was when I was a kid. This one girl, Lawanda? In Bridgeport? She was the only black kid I ever did. Her mom was a hooker who, when she worked the streets, would give her daughter a few bucks and drop her off at McDonald’s. You know how easy it is to pick up a kid when McDonald’s is her babysitter?

  When you’re a grown man who’s circling a little girl, you’ve got to be patient. If you make your move before the kid and her mom both trust you—begin to need you—then it can all go south. But if you bide your time, within a month or so, you’re staying the night, going to Wal-Mart with them, giving the kid rides to gymnastics or some other little girl’s birthday party. For one thing, the moms whose daughters I’m interested in are struggling to make ends meet—working a job with long hours or, even better, two jobs. And for another thing, they’re lonely, too. Starved for attention and romance. So you start pinch-hitting for them if their regular sitter’s sick, maybe do a load of laundry if you notice that the hamper’s full. When they get home from work, you rub their aching feet or massage the tension out of their shoulders, listen to their gripes about
their crap-head boss or their difficult coworker. You tell them they’re pretty, and if they try to dismiss the compliment, you look them straight in the eye and say, “No, seriously, you are.” And they look back at you, hopeful as hell, blinking back all of their past disappointments. See, I’m lucky because my diagnosis is Pedophilia, Nonexclusive Type, “nonexclusive” meaning that, although it’s little girls who turn me on, I can do the mothers, too, even if I have to think about their daughters to help me cross the finish line. And when Mom’s getting hers on a regular basis, it’s easier for her to stay blind about what might be going on when she’s not there.

  Do I feel guilty sometimes? Sure. Like I said, I’m not a monster. Case in point: the day I found out my mother had died and been buried two weeks earlier, I started banging my head against the wall, hard as I could. Then I stumbled down the street to the walk-in clinic. Had to get stitches in my forehead. Hey, I’ve known monsters—in prison, in a therapy group for sexual predators they made me go to—and believe me, I’m a different breed than those guys. The way I look at it, I’m just a guy who needs sex like any other guy, except that I’m wired a little differently than most, which, when you think about it, is kind of like having a disability. Think about it. Most men can go to a bar or go online, pick up some pussy, and be done with it. Whereas I’ve got to always be looking over my shoulder, risking arrest because society’s so fucking squeamish and hypocritical about it. You walk through the girls’ department of any department store in the country, and they’ve got the mannequins dressed up like little sluts. They sell makeup for little kids, for chrissake. But as far as the law’s concerned, it’s strictly look but don’t touch. And don’t kid yourself. Some of these little girls can be pretty seductive. They’ll climb up in your lap and want to cuddle, touch their fingers to your face so that they can feel how scratchy your whiskers are. And take it from me: some of these kids, once you’ve initiated them, want it, too. Because, hey, sex feels good no matter what age you are. I gave a ten-year-old an orgasm once and don’t tell me I didn’t, like that one facilitator said in one of those groups they made me go to. I mean, who was there? Me or that battle-ax? . . .