The Water Trilogy Box Set

Chapter Three

CHAPTER THREE

JUDE

Nothing is simple with you, and I like things simple, clean. But this is ok, it has to be. Nothing is perfect right out of the gate, and we will get there. All things are fixable, except a few—one of those being death. The short end of it… the simple version is that you are a killer, and I’ve been hired to turn you in—to bring you to justice. I won’t tell you this, at least not at first, but that’s why I came. It isn’t, however, why I stay.

I stay for you. For us. Only, you were interested, and I got too close, and now I’ll have to move to ‘Plan B’ and you don’t know this about me yet—but you will—I’m not a ‘Plan B’ kind of guy. I like to get it right the first time. Even more so where you are concerned.

You aren’t like most girls. You weren’t easy to find, and I’ve been looking for one version or another of you for as long as I can remember. You don’t splash the details of your life all over the internet, and you aren’t on social media, cataloging your every move for strangers you call friends. You don’t post staged pictures of what you’re having for dinner, and you don’t take pictures of your food to show how healthy you are, and I like this. I’ll learn your desires, slowly, the way it’s meant to be.

You don’t need everyone to know where you are, what you’re doing, to show how great your life is. You don’t seek approval by shouting into the ether, into what I call the great want-to-be-known. You’re not like the masses—most people lay it all out there at the curb like garbage on trash day, and I’ll tell you what that does—it makes the whole neighborhood stink. It’s okay, for now, that I’m not sure if this is because you can’t let people know—or because you’re just the kind of girl I like—but I’m optimistic. I choose to go with the latter.

You like intimacy, you like really knowing people. You’re the kind of girl who prefers long conversations deep into the night or in the small moments before the sun rises … moments hazy and real. This makes you the kind of girl I can get behind. In every sense.

This morning, I heard you wake and rise from your slumber because I listen for the sounds of you. I want to know you, I want to know everything. This is how I know you’re up with the sun, and we were made for each other. I listen as you go into the bathroom and do your business, and I hope to God you’re the kind of girl who washes her hands afterward. I listen to the water run as you turn it on full force, and I am in luck, it seems you are. But you take forever in there, and I’m not sure exactly what you could be doing that lasts so long. But then you are beautiful, and everyone knows that beauty takes time.

Eventually, I hear your voice, and it’s perfect. I wonder who you’re talking to, and I intend to find out. I say a silent thank you that these so-called walls are paper thin.

“Thank you, Daddy,” you say, and you and I, we know gratitude. Still, I know that your father is dead, and you are a dirty girl with daddy issues, you are. “This is the best gift I could possibly receive,” you say, but you are wrong.

You have the water running again, and now I can’t hear anymore. So I climb out of bed and rush to the bamboo slat I’ve removed between our bungalows just so I can see you because I can’t miss a thing. My eyes hurt from straining, but there you are, and I can breathe now that I have a visual. You’re in your panties, lace, with nothing on top, and you are not holding a phone. You move away, and I hate it when you hide from me. You’re still talking, and I’m still waiting when suddenly, I can see just a sliver of your silhouette. I wait for more. I could wait forever until you come into full view again. Only, when you finally do, you are crying, and you should only ever know happiness.

“I know, Daddy,” you whimper, but you are talking to no one, something in a mirror that doesn’t exist and maybe we all have our demons. “You’re right, I’m not getting any younger,” you cry as you stare into your reflection, into the invisible Daddy version of yourself, and then you sink to your knees. “I know I have no one—I have nothing. You always tell me this… but why today?” you demand, and you stammer, dig your heels in. You are a fighter, I can tell.

“Of course, I want to make you proud,” you tell him, and no one, and you sigh. You shouldn’t have conversations that wear you down, and someday, I will tell you this. For now, I just listen. “You know I do,” you go on, and this is getting uglier than I imagined. But then again, how can I be anything other than turned on at the sight of you at the altar, bowing to your demons, begging for mercy?

“I met someone today, Daddy,” you confess. “He’s staying next door… And… maybe—” you tell your make-believe father, and maybe make-believe isn’t so bad after all because my best and worst fears are confirmed in your confession. You know there’s something between us, and now I know for sure. You’re drawn to me too. This is good, and this is very, very bad, and only you and I know how that can be.

“I get it,” you say, “you want me to start a family. You think I need to settle down—but you’ve said it yourself, Daddy—perhaps—I’m just not that kind of girl.”

I will make you that kind of girl. I will make you a woman, a woman who isn’t confused about what she wants, who doesn’t need anyone else deciding for her. You could be that woman—I can see it now.

“Look at me, Daddy,” you seethe. You wring your hands, and you pace, coming in and out of view. “You always tell me that I have no one—that I’ll die just like you—on an empty mattress on the floor. And you’re right—no one will care… because there is no one. And, yes, I realize that if I keep doing what I’m doing, you are right, nothing will change. Daddy, I know. This is no way to live,” you say, and you’re sobbing now, and you are mistaken. I will care.

“Yes, Daddy,” you repeat again as you attempt to contain your tears. “I need someone who will punish me, and then you will be happy and then you will go.”

You pause and inhale. You don’t let it out, and I wonder where all the pent up stuff goes, and I think I have an idea. “Ok, fine,” you tell your reflection. “This time, I will listen. I promise,” you tell your imaginary father. You wipe your eyes, and my god, those panties hug your ass in a way that makes me jealous, and I have to know about this punishment you speak of. You are naughtier than I thought, and I think I could love a risk-taker like you. I’m so lost in my own desires for a moment that I almost miss it when you begin to slip further.

“No, you’re not dead,” you scream into the mirror, and now you are angry, and this is good that I get to see another side of you. I want to know them all. “YOU’RE HERE. YOU’RE HERE,” you scream until, eventually, you sink to the ground. You are sobbing now, and I am captivated by your performance—you’re either crazy, or you have mad talent, and I am excited to think it’s a little of both.

You do want a family. I heard you say it, and this is why I can’t turn you in even if it’s an assignment.

You want someone to share your life with and guess what? I’m on the market.

You just have to stop running, Lydia.

You have to come home to me.

* * *

When you go out, I go in and today is your birthday, and I am not happy with what I find. Your place is a pigsty, Lyd. A f*****g mess. I can’t be with a girl who lives like this, and maybe the imaginary father you speak to in the mirror is right—maybe you can’t manage yourself.

This is made obvious by the fact that I can so easily break and enter your bungalow, and by the fact that I can do what I want with that which is yours. You don’t lock your laptop, it isn’t password protected, and why do you have to make things so easy when clearly you have so much to hide? Not that I’m complaining, Kate. Wait. Can I call you Kate now? Tell me, is it too early? Or shall I wait a day or two?

You have plans, and you don’t hide them well, and according to your calendar, you’re at the hair salon becoming a brunette, and everyone knows blondes have more fun. You are changing, and you are running again, and this is good—except that it isn’t—not when your email tells me what you have in the works. You shouldn’t have your passwords stored in your notes, and my god, we have a lot of work to do. And by work, I’m not referring to the plastic surgery you have scheduled, and I understand the need to be something different than that which you are—but you don’t need work, Kate—you don’t.

Also, you talk to yourself. I hear you at all hours, and when do you sleep? I enjoy my shut-eye, and it’s no wonder your life is such a mess.

You’ve booked a flight to Brazil, but I can’t follow you there. I have assignments and deadlines, and I would follow you to the ends of this earth if we were together, but we’re not. Yet.

You think changing your hair and your face will help you fit in, but guess what, Kate? You are wrong about that too—because wherever you go, there you are.

* * *

Your browser history tells me you’ve scoured the internet looking for the best diet around and why would you ever want to lose those curves? Furthermore, why can’t you just be a respectable adult and delete your history so I don’t have to read such bullshit and ruin my whole day?

You set a calendar appointment with yourself to lose twenty pounds. I know this because I’ve set up your cloud on my phone and the fact that it’s so easy to spy on you, to know everything there is to know about you, signifies everything that is wrong with our generation. Technology is ruining us, and maybe there is such a thing as too much too soon.

* * *

It’s hard to be angry with you about Brazil, about the surgery, and the weight loss when I tap into your writing. It’s hard to be mad at technology when I stop and think about it. I should be grateful that it’s so easy to take a tiny hard drive and download the contents of your life. I’m learning so much about you, Kate. Things like how you were in love once. His name was James, and you were seventeen and your writing assures me that he was perfect—but no one is. He lived down the street, and you loved him before you ‘snapped’ (your words), and maybe this is okay because you are different now, and our love will be too.

They locked you away, and now I’m starting to get it. Now, I understand why you’re such a mess. I read your diagnosis, and everything is laid out so neatly, now—thanks to this little black box. You don’t feel things the way other people do, and the pieces that make you up are beginning to fit together in my mind. You’re a puzzle, Kate, and I haven’t told you how much I like your new name, but someday, I plan to.

Anyway, your father thought you and this guy were getting too close, so he moved you across town. But you’re a clever girl, and you feel things deeply. You hang on when the going gets tough. Of course, a little distance wouldn’t change that, and so you continued seeing him even if it wasn’t as often as before, and there’s something about your defiance that turns me on.

This kid, James, had plans to go away to art school in Colorado that fall, and you’d promised to go with him, and I love that you’re willing to follow your heart.

But you’re sensitive and naïve, Kate, and James didn’t love you the way you loved him. I’m sorry to ruin the story for you. I know this because you had no plans for yourself— unless you count working your ass off to put him through school, banking on the fact that dear ol’ James had the talent and the wherewithal to make something of himself.

Not to spoil the ending for you—but most artists don’t. You thought it was okay that things would be hard in the beginning because you’d have each other. But what you don’t understand about love, Kate, is that the beginning is supposed to be the best part.

Still, it’s sweet the way you write about that summer—the summer after graduation, about how you spent every waking moment together and the way you tell it—it’s almost as good as a goddamned Nicolas Sparks novel. Not that I’ve ever read one—but I’d be willing to bet money that you have.

But you surprise me, too, by how you can go from Sparks to Stephen King in the matter of a few paragraphs when you write about your mother, and my god, after reading this, I’m impressed you seem as normal as you do.

You had big dreams, you did. Albeit a little misguided. You keep secrets, and your mother is weak, and you’re wrong—it was your father who was the sick one.

They didn’t care that you didn’t plan to go to college. And it’s wrong the way your father convinced you it was best you stick close to home to help with your mother. She was sick in the way that people get when they can’t leave the house. She rarely made you dinner and almost never did things normal mothers do, and the more I read, the more I realize we are the same, you and I.

There were weeks she didn’t leave the confines of her bedroom, and this made you anxious because no one aside from your father was allowed to enter, and you don’t say it in words, but you were practically an orphan, like one of those Russian babies forced to fend for themselves.

And not even just for yourself. It went further than that. You were like f*****g Cinderella. You cooked for her, you took her food and left it by the door. You’d knock once, knowing she couldn’t—or wouldn’t answer—and your father always told you what a waste she was, but he left out the part where it was his fault. Most of the time, you’d scrape her food and your hard work down the disposal all the while you wondered how long someone could survive on a mixture of coffee and vodka and cigarettes, and I can attest that given my own mother’s disappearance, it isn’t forever.

You didn’t know your mother, not the way I knew mine. She rarely spoke to you, but what could she possibly have had to say, living that way? Saying as much probably wouldn’t make you feel better, and someday, I will tell you that it’s okay—that it’s hard to really know a person anyway.

You have ambition, Kate and not fake aspirations like that guy you loved, either. You were determined to get out. So you stowed away cash you earned in tips, and this is what set the two of you apart. You were willing to work for what you wanted. But your mistake was handing over the money you earned from waitressing to your father. You were young and naïve—but you weren’t dumb—and so you saved a portion of your tips, hidden away. I appreciate your cleverness even if he didn’t.

And I know he didn’t because, when he found your stash, it set off a whole chain of events that made you the person you are today, and so maybe it’s okay. If not, it will be, just give me time. I’ll make it that way.

Speaking of time, it was just a mere five days before you and James were set to depart that things went south, and fast. You returned home excited, which was only elevated by the fact you found your mother sitting on the couch waiting for your return, the way a normal mother might, only you hadn’t seen yours in eighteen days. Freedom was within reach, and your mother was no longer locked away, and you felt hope for the first time in a long time. That is until your father called from the kitchen. You will never forget the way your heart swelled before you heard his voice, and the more I read, the more mine breaks for you.

It breaks at the part where your mother finally speaks to you, and when she does, it’s only to tell you that your room has bad things in it. But her heart doesn’t break because it doesn’t know love like mine. There’s bad energy in there, she tells you, and I’m not sure if you know it, but she’s the bad energy, and it’s your family who is crazy, not you.

Your father finds you in the living room. He finds you everywhere. He’s drying his hands when he tells you he ran into James’s mother in the grocery store, and you sink to your knees. You pray that the floor will swallow you up, but it won’t because it’s not quicksand you walk on in that house—it’s eggshells. He informs you that your mother found the money—but I’d be willing to bet it was him even though it doesn’t really matter because the outcome is the same. He doesn’t tell you they’ve destroyed your bedroom, your hopes, your dream. You just know.

You don’t go down easy, though—not without a fight. You know what comes next, and you won’t let him lock you in that room, not this time, not again. You won’t become a younger version of your mother, you tell him. But then, that’s what all girls say.

You thought you could run, but this was before you got good at it.

You thought they couldn’t stop you. But you were wrong. They could, and they did. And they drove you to the brink in the process. They knew what to say to put you where they wanted you to be. In your room, in your place. You grabbed carpet by the fistful before you moved to the hair on your head—anything— you said to avoid being punished—to avoid being locked in that room.

The thing is, your father understood what you didn’t, Kate. He understood the long game. He’d been playing it longer.

He told the police, and then the doctors, that you attacked him, and they bought into his lies, but not me. You didn’t have it in you—not then.

Unfortunately, no one knew this. Maybe they should’ve read your writing, but they didn’t, and so they locked you away for ten weeks. And, Kate—that boy you loved… all he did was send a note thanking you for the money your father sent. Money that was yours and all he had to say for himself was that he was sorry you were sick. But, like me, you’re a real romantic, one of the few left. This is why you wrote to him every day, often twice a day, bearing your heart, bleeding on the page.

All those letters you sent? They were a monument to your love, but he only ever returned one. He wrote that he missed you and that he was doing well. As a token, he offered a small drawing—of a mountain. It must have meant something to you because you’ve kept it, even after all this time. It’s crap if you ask me. He promised he’d take you there, to see this mountain. But unlike me, he isn’t the kind of guy who makes good on his promises. It’s hard to blame him, though, given that three weeks after that final letter was sent, you received the news that he was dead.

* * *