Burying Water

Perhaps I feel particularly cozy given the thunderous storm outside. Apparently we’re sheltered from the kind of rain that the east coast of Oregon gets, thanks to the mountains, but we don’t get away completely. The radio station playing at work today called for everything from catastrophic winds to clear skies in the span of an afternoon. Dakota and I made a bet—loser buys coffee. I, of course, chose clear night skies, both because I like to take in the stars from my balcony before I go to bed and because Dakota always buys coffee for both of us.

I’ll definitely be buying the coffee tomorrow.

A bolt of lightning zags through the sky outside and my attic apartment fills with light. The booming crack of thunder comes almost immediately after. And then the old brass lamp that shines over my book pages cuts out, along with the one other light I have on in my apartment.

Unease begins to slide down my back. The fire glow provides enough light to guide me to the kitchen drawer, where I know that there is a flashlight. It’s not big, but I can find my way around the apartment with it.

Another loud crack of thunder has me diving to the window to check the Welles property. There’s always a spotlight shining on one corner of their house—bright enough to cast a light to the fence line, emphasizing Meredith’s promise that I can come to their door at any time, day or night. Now, though, it’s as if that guarantee has been snuffed out. I don’t know that I could even make it to their house without tripping and injuring myself, the darkness is so consuming.

I look out the other windows. I even unlatch all the deadbolts and chains that I use every night and open the door. I meet only black nothingness.

That, and a cold, mean rain that pelts my face and dampens my shirt. Pushing my door shut, I relock the door and wrap my chest with my arms. I guess I’ll just have to wait it out. Taking my seat by the fire again, my blanket pulled to my chin and my knees pulled to my chest, I watch the flames lick the glass panel of the woodstove.

When footsteps pound up the stairs outside and someone knocks, I’m on my feet instantly, moving for the door. There are only a few people it could be—Ginny or one of the Welleses—and they’ll be getting soaked out there, so I begin unlatching the deadbolts again.

But then my hand falters. That voice in the back of my head adds another person to the list of possible visitors: the faceless man who showed himself to me once in a dream. Who hurt me terribly. I know it’s not realistic and yet, as I see the doorknob wiggle, a part of me panics.

A fist pounds against the other side. “Water! It’s me!”

My heart skips a beat.

I’m safe.

I fumble with the remaining locks and throw open the door, ushering in Jesse.

“Hey,” he says through a shudder. “Are you all right?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Oh, just because . . .” He lifts a hand to rub the back of his head. His hair’s so short that it barely messes it. “The power’s out. I don’t like when the power’s out.”

“I’m not sure I do either,” I admit. “How long do you think before it’s back on?”

“Honestly? Depends on where the break is, but it could be all night.” Flashes of lightning fill the room, and I can see that his flannel jacket and the T-shirt underneath are drenched.

I have the urge to find him something to change into, but nothing I have would fit him. My closet is full of hand-me-downs from Amber and Meredith, along with a few basic things from the secondhand shop in Bend. I forced Amber to go in. She wasn’t crazy about the idea but I enjoyed paying for some clothes with my own money, even if they weren’t new.

“Well, I guess we’ll just have to wait it out, then.” I wander back over to my spot by the woodstove and wrap myself up in my blanket, hoping he’ll stay. I like not being alone right now, but more than that, I like the idea of being with Jesse.

Without a word, he grabs another log, the handle squeaking as he opens the woodstove and feeds the fire. Hungry, the flames flare, casting a brighter glow and illuminating Jesse’s profile, his eyelashes long and thick.

I instinctively reach up to my scar, my index finger running along the thin ridge. I’ll never have an appealing profile, not from my right side, anyway.

When the tiny door screeches shut, he pulls his jacket off, exposing his T-shirt beneath, the front of it wet. I’m suddenly thankful for the relative darkness, as it affords me the chance to gawk at the ridges on his stomach without being too obvious.

“Don’t like the furniture in here?” he murmurs, stretching his jacket out on one of the wicker chairs—a skeleton now that I’ve confiscated the cushions for my nest.

“I do, I just . . .” I frown. “I felt the urge to lie on the floor, I guess. It makes me feel cozy.”

“Does it?” His eyes drift over the pile of cushions that I lean against. “Well, in that case . . .” He kicks off his running shoes and then dives down next to me. Tucking his shoes under the woodstove, he adjusts the few stray pillows and lies back, stretching out his long body.

From my angle, higher and slightly behind him, I can watch him shamelessly.

And I do.

“Was this ours?” He nestles his head against the cable-knit pillow.

“Yeah. Your mom’s very generous.” Meredith’s spring cleaning involved bringing perfectly good bedding and blankets and books over to my door—things to dress up the space, give it life, she said. Some of these things still had price tags on them. “Do you want tea?” I reach for the mug I was drinking. “I can’t make you one right now, but you can have mine if you’d like.”

I feel his eyes on my face and I wish we were facing the other way, so the shadows could hide what I don’t want him to see. Finally, he drops his gaze. “I’m not a tea drinker.”

“Coffee?” His single nod answers me. “Let me guess . . . black?”

The muscle in his jaw pulses. “What made you think that?”

I shrug. “Just a guess. You look like a black-coffee drinker.”

“And what does a black-coffee drinker look like?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know why I said that. I guess you remind me of someone who drinks black coffee.” Now I sound even more stupid. “I watch people a lot, wondering what makes them who they are.” I watch what kind of food they load onto the conveyor belt at the grocery store, and what they order at Poppa’s, the local greasy diner that serves the best coffee in town. I watch the way some people dart across a busy main street while others wait for the light so they can use the crosswalk; the way some parents offer annoyed shushes to their children’s incessant chatter while others provide calm answers; the way a group of women will sit at a coffee shop table, their eyes circulating, their words laced with critical comments, while at the next table another group sits, oblivious to anyone else and just enjoying one another’s company. I watch and I wonder what makes people who they are. Is it the sum of learned behaviors and experiences? And if they, like me, can’t recall those experiences, would they still do those things in the exact same way? Or would they deviate?

How similar am I to who I once was? Would I have gotten excited stepping out of a thrift shop, my arms loaded with someone else’s castaways? Would I have willingly cooked meals for a crotchety old lady who doesn’t have the words “thank you” in her vocabulary?

Would I have turned my judgmental nose up at a “free spirit” like Dakota?

I think about these things. I think about the fancy dress and the diamond jewelry I was found with, my platinum-blond dyed hair, and how that girl ended up shoveling horse shit out of stalls. And loving it.

“That makes sense,” Jesse finally offers.

I giggle. “No it doesn’t. You’re just trying to make me feel better.”

The tiniest dimple pokes his cheek. “You look like a two-and-a-half-milks, one-sweetener kind of coffee drinker.”

“That sounds ridiculous.” He must be mocking me now. “I’m one cream, one sugar.” That was how the first cup Amber ever delivered to me in the hospital was made. I realize now that I’ve never tried anything else.

He shrugs. “It was worth a shot.”

A comfortable silence hangs over us. “Are you happy to be back home?”

A slow nod answers. “It’s where I belong. Nothing I want in Portland anymore.”

Not even that girl you wanted to marry?

He reaches forward to pick up my journal, lying on the floor between us. “What’s this?”

“Just . . . uh . . .” I fight the urge to grab it out of his hand as he flips it open to the latest page, where my pen is tucked in. “It’s nothing, just a journal I need to keep for my psychologist. She’s hoping there will be a pattern or maybe it’ll trigger something.”

I see “blueberries” in my circular handwriting and know that he’s on the latest page. I haven’t been keeping up with the process as well as I should.

“Why’d you cross my name out?”

Heat crawls up my neck. “Because that response was tainted.”

“Tainted?” Amusement dances along his profile. “I tainted blueberries?”

“You gave me the blueberries. Of course the first word that enters my head is going to be your name.”

“Right.” He flips through the other pages. “My sister’s helping you with these?”

“Yeah, sometimes. Your mom, too. Sometimes I quiz myself. Though it’s not quite as effective.”

When he reaches the page where I’ve written “Baby = Impossible,” he stops. “Is it? I mean, is that what my mom told you?”

I’m surprised he’s asking me this so bluntly—but then again, he doesn’t seem like a small-talk kind of guy. And for some reason, I don’t mind talking about it with him. “No. She said the exact opposite, actually.” My hand shifts to rest on my abdomen of its own accord. “I would have been about seven months pregnant by now.” I’ve caught myself doing the math often. Usually when I’m walking along the stream, or watching the horses trot by. Imagining what it would be like to raise a child out here. “I think I really wanted this baby.”

“I guess that one wasn’t meant to be,” Jesse offers softly. He lifts the pen, making a spectacle of clicking the top several times.

I playfully pull my blanket to my face to cover my nervous smile, equal parts curious about and wary of what he’s going to prompt me with. I’ve found that Amber relies on cues from our surroundings as a resource. Meredith’s a little more creative, throwing out things like “Barbie doll” and “gymnastics,” things that may relate to my childhood. Both treat the exercise as a light, unchallenging way to help me.

A prick in my gut tells me that Jesse may not take that approach.

“Tire.”

What? Wait. Meredith told me he’s a mechanic. I guess that makes sense. “Flat.” I watch him scribble the words down, his pen strokes long but neat. The knuckles on his right hand are red and bruised. I assume from punching Dean.

“Hotel.”

Hotel . . . Hotel . . . Hotel . . . “Bed?”

My cheeks heat as I watch his hand scribble the words down. Not because there’s anything unusual. Because the second word that popped into my head after “bed” was “Jesse.”

“Water.”

“Yes?”

“No . . . I mean, ‘Water.’ I hear the smile in his voice.

“Oh! Tattoo. Your sister’s already done that one.”

“Why tattoo?” he asks softly, his eyes on the page, his hand ready to write.

“I have one, right here.” I tap my pelvis, drawing his attention to it. Heat spreads through my legs and thighs instantly.

“Okay. The second word that comes to mind. Water.”

I close my eyes and let my mind go blank. Water . . . Water . . . Water . . . “Stream.” Like that stream that runs behind the barn. I sigh. “I think my new life is bleeding into my thoughts. That’s not going to help this exercise much.”

He says nothing for a moment. Then, “Tattoo.”

“Water . . . No! Wait.” I reach out to touch his arm, to stop him from writing that down. “That’s too obvious.”

The bicep muscle beneath my fingertips tightens, but he doesn’t move. “Okay. What, then?”

Tattoo . . . Tattoo . . . Tattoo.

Jesse.

I can’t even think straight anymore, with him here. “I don’t . . . next word,” I demand, flustered.

“Scar.”

“Ugly.” I didn’t really mean to blurt that out. There are plenty of other words that I could use—ones that don’t make me sound weak and whiny and quite so vulnerable—but I can’t deny that it’s the first thing that popped into my mind.

The pen sits poised over the paper in his frozen grip for long seconds, as both shame and anger swirl like an angry cloud within me. It’s one thing to fear that you’re ugly; it’s an entirely different thing to acknowledge it out loud to another person. Especially when that other person is a guy who you seem to be developing a crush on.