Part 14 (1/2)
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? Was.h.i.+ng 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.”