More Than Water

by Renee Ericson

“Because I wasn’t the one.”

  “Well, you should have done a better job at trying to convince him otherwise. Have I taught you nothing?”

  Angered, I sit up taller, gritting my teeth. “I’m sorry I failed you…again.”

  She then quietly says the same words she has said to me weekly since I was a child, “The world is a cruel place, Evelyn. Your decisions will haunt you if you aren’t careful and you don’t choose wisely. We make our own lives, and you aren’t in control of yours.”

  “I know what I want to do with my life.”

  “What we want and what is best aren’t always the same thing.”

  I squirm and reply as I’ve been taught, “You’ve been telling me this for years. I’ve gotten the gist.”

  “Then, start acting like the smart young lady I raised,” she huffs, air vibrating through the connection. “I’m going to tell your father about this. He’s not going to be happy.”

  “I know.”

  “You should,” she says, her voice hard and full of daggers. “I’m going to go now. I will send your congratulations along with ours to Gerard and his new fiancée.”

  “Thank you,” I say, my mouth tight. At my side, Foster patiently sits as I continue with this extremely uncomfortable but not unexpected conversation, “That’s very thoughtful.”

  “It’s the right thing to do,” she says like it’s a lesson I need to learn. “And don’t forget to call us as soon as you hear about grad school. Surely, you won’t make a mess of that as well, will you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Take care, Evelyn,” she says shortly before ending the call.

  I lower the phone from my ear, set it on the nearby table, and then slink under the covers, resting my head on the pillow. Foster expectantly stares down at me as I try to mentally wash away the conversation with my mother.

  “Should I go?” he asks.

  “If you want.” I shrug.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah. Just had a lovely chat with my mother about how I’m the child she always dreamed of and I’m living up to all of her expectations.”

  “I see.” He scratches behind his ear, releasing a few tufts of hair. “Do you want to go and get some breakfast?”

  “We can do that.”

  My hand dabs the brush across hues of umber and vermilion, combining them, resulting in a brilliant color of sunlight at dawn. I paint a sensual curve along the rib of my human canvas, depicting his molecular composition with shades of reality. The image of the hydrogen element, a nucleus surrounded by a singular circling proton, comes to life with the stroke of my hand. I strategically position it next to the rendering of the carbon particle on Foster’s pectoral muscle.

  Over the last couple of days, Foster and I have spent a fair amount of time together since neither of us have any school or work obligations—or family ones, for that matter. His company has been easy and fun. It’s almost like having a girlfriend over for a long visit while we do nothing, other than eat and hang out.

  Well, there’s the sex, too. That’s one thing I don’t tend to partake in with girlfriends.

  Today started out no different than any other. We lunched at a local Indian restaurant where we dined on curry and naan bread, and then we headed back to my place to explore each other’s bodies more intimately. Actually, we fucked each other hard and fast and then fell asleep, exhausted.

  After awaking from a short nap, an impulsion took over, and Foster became my study. I began drawing a number of profiles of him in my sketchpad while he slumbered next to me.

  My hands worked furiously—depicting the shape of his nose, cheeks, chin, mouth, and body—over and over again with graphite, shading the tiny details making up the uniqueness that is him. It was somewhat strange, drawing him for the first time. There was something almost second nature about it. His face was one I’d come to know in a private way over the past several weeks, and my hands were channeling that knowledge.

  When Foster finally awoke, he caught me in the act of taking advantage of him as an unknown model. He wasn’t upset by my interest to use him as a study. We then got into a discussion about the human form, and Foster—being the science-drawn person that he is—went on a tangent about what really made up a person from a chemical standpoint. He discussed the more elemental aspects of human life, explaining that all people were essentially made up of the same thing, a scientific balance of elements. He taught me that oxygen made up about sixty-five percent of our bodies.

  No surprise to me that we are all made of air.

  Of course, I went the philosophical route, pinpointing that we were all made up of moments of our pasts and our environments.

  At first, I let him jabber on about all the technical and mechanical parts of the world—like he often does—but the more I listened, the more fascinated I became. He was so fierce in his diatribe that I got swept up in his energetic storytelling and how he viewed life through the details of science. Foster then went one step further, showing me images from the Internet of what each element looked like in its raw form and how combining all those things with the right chemistry were able to make the person sitting in front of me.

  Him.

  The same chemistry that made me.

  As he continued to talk, I grabbed the sketchpad and began to draw what he was describing. My hand couldn’t move fast enough as he raced through his knowledge, fueled by my interest. When I filled the last blank page in my art book, I handed it over to him and dug through my closet for a set of stored-away watercolors. I requested him to take off his shirt, which he did without question, and I began to paint his flesh with the transferred knowledge I had received in combination with my imagination. He continued to answer questions as I asked them while I attempted to create the masterpiece of what he was made of on the inside.

  The elements of him.

  Of life.

  Of all of us.

  Foster’s chest is now completely covered in watercolors, a collage of the many periodic elements that make a human being, streaming and connected together in a fluid symphony of color and design. I dip my brush into the ocher tint and begin to create another circle, one to depict sulfur, on his shoulder.

  “You’re really into this,” Foster comments, remaining as still as possible.

  “Shh…” I hush him. “I’m working.”

  With the arm opposite of where the fresh paint is being applied, he places his glasses over his face and then turns the page in the sketchpad full of my previously created images, studying them. “I still can’t believe this is how you see science.”

  “Why not?” I ask absently while creating the nucleus detail in a shade of purple.

  “It’s all so…vivid.”

  “Well, you made it sound very exciting. It’s your fault.”

  “This can’t be from me,” he insists, showing me an orange-and-blue image of a carbon molecule drowning in darkness. “It’s too…exotic.”

  “You doubt your passion. And it’s safe to say that you’re the driving force behind that one. All I did was channel it onto the page.”

  He lays the pad back on the bed. “They’re really amazing. I’ve never seen anything like this, and I’ve been looking at the elements in many variations for most of my life. What you’ve done is beyond what my mind has seen, yet it is still so accurate.”

  “Keep it then,” I say, blotting my brush on a nearby cloth. “You can have it.”

  “I don’t want to take your things. These are too good for you to just give away.”

  I lift my head, so my clear blue eyes meet his cobalt ones behind dark frames. “I have no use for those. Plus, you would love them more than me. They’re yours.”

  I concentrate on the human mural, defining a few lines, while Foster sits patiently. He never complains about the coolness of the paint, the air, or any position I request for him to hold.

  “How long have you been doing this?” he asks out of nowhere.

  “For
a little over an hour.” I chuckle. “Don’t you remember the last hour?”

  “Not this.” He points to his abs. “Drawing, painting, taking pictures—the art stuff.”

  “Hmm…” I twist my mouth, adding a thin line of detail to the composition. “Not sure. I’ve been drawing pictures in my mind and seeing the world differently than reality long before conveying the images to paper. But I never defined it as art back then.” I laugh. “My mother called it daydreaming. She was right. I was constantly wandering in the made-up world in my own head. But to answer your question, it likely started the moment my…sitter took me to a museum. She helped me focus my imagination to the page, using art as a medium. She was a musician and saw things a little differently, too.”

  “So, you were born an artist.”

  “Unfortunately,” I say, adding a small scarlet detail near his collarbone. “It’s not exactly a blessing.”

  “I don’t know about that.” Foster’s index finger lightly traces over the dried connecting swirls and circles near his waistline. “I admire your creativity.”

  “You’re one of the few.” Lifting my brush from his skin, I sit back on my heels, observing the product. “I think it’s done.”

  “Yeah? How does it look?”

  “Hang on.” Shuffling backward off the bed, I move the art supplies to the floor and then retrieve my camera from its nearby case. “Do you mind if I shoot you?”

  His mouth gapes in mock shock. “You aren’t going to post these online, are you?”

  “Absolutely not. I plan to use them for blackmail later in life.”

  He narrows his gaze in warning.

  “Why don’t you take off your shorts?” I bite my lower lip, amused. “It will make the pictures more valuable.”

  Foster shakes his head. “Take the pictures, you hedonist. I’m keeping my shorts on.”

  “You’re no fun.” I raise the camera and focus on his chest through the lens. “You look fabulous, darling.”

  “Oh, shut up,” he retorts sarcastically. “Just do it before I change my mind.”

  Clicking the shutter, I capture the painting on his skin—the weaving of science, humanity, and imagination—from a number of angles. Foster lies still on the bed as I snap him from the side, over his body, and head-on when he sits up at my request. When more than enough shots have been taken, I take a step back for one last look through the shots to ensure it’s all been collected on digital film.

  “Can you lie back down?” I ask, stepping up onto the bed. “I want to get a few more from this position.”

  “Sure,” he complies, easily resting both hands behind his head. “I think you like it on top.”

  “All girls do. They’re just too afraid to admit it.”

  “But not you?”

  “Have you met me?”

  “We’ve been acquainted.”

  With a foot placed on each side of his waist, I take a few more images of his torso, focusing on the area at his neck where the paint ends and Foster begins. Then, without any thought, like my hands are guiding my subconscious mind, the lens travels along the length of his face, focusing on the fine details of his features. It finds the crease between his chin and his mouth, the indentation at the center of his upper lip, the often underrated area where his hairline meets his cheekbones, and the softness of his ears. My camera encapsulates them all.

  “Can you take off your glasses?” I ask, still behind the lens.

  “I thought the paint was lower?”

  “Humor me.”

  He obliges, revealing his deep blue orbs, soft and open. Zooming in, I observe their sensitivity, vulnerability, and the layers of his humanity often shielded by the reflective glass barrier. There’s lightness, darkness, hunger, and—dare I even say—fear lurking within them as the sound of the clicking shutter memorizes their shape and unspoken story.

  “Got it?” he asks.

  I nod, waking myself out of the mesmerizing moment. “I think so.”

  Lowering the camera, I take a seat with my legs crossed, next to Foster. He sits up and leans over my shoulder, so we can view the frames together. One by one, I flip through the images of colors and shapes, including the more intimate ones of his face.

  Foster makes no comment.

  “What do you think?” I ask hesitantly, knowing that he might see what’s evident to me in the latter images.

  “You did…it’s beyond anything I imagined. I’m almost afraid to shower.”

  “I hope you aren’t serious.” I rest the camera in my lap. “I’ll send you a few copies.”

  “I would like that.” He gazes down at the artwork on his chest. “So, is this what all art history majors do? Obsessively paint their friends?”

  I laugh. “No, it’s just me.”

  “So, you’re special?”

  “Haven’t you noticed?”

  “It’s come to my attention.” Foster traces a plum swirl on his lower ribs. “I’m curious though. What does an art history major do after graduating from college?”

  Reaching over his legs, I place the camera back in its bag. “Most of them get jobs at museums or go on to grad school to again get a job at a museum, as a curator, or go into teaching and research. I don’t know. There are a few other things, too, but those are the most popular options.”

  “Which one of those are you doing?”

  “None.”

  “Oh?” He grabs his black frames from the nearby side table and returns them to his face. “So, you’re one of the others?”

  “I guess you could say that. I’ll be going to grad school and getting my MBA.”

  “Really?” He sits up straighter, turning his full attention toward me. “Do you plan to run an art business or something?”

  “Hardly,” I sputter. “I’ll be going to Yale most likely. It’s my duty to take part in the family tradition.”

  “Wow. Yale, huh?”

  “Yeah, I’m a double legacy. They have to take me.” I stare at my lap. “You know, you’re the first person I’ve ever told that to.”

  “About getting an MBA?”

  “Yeah…well, Chandra knows but not about Yale.”

  “Is it a secret?”

  “I guess not.” I lift a shoulder. “It’s just not something I’m shouting from the rooftops.”

  “Do you not want to go?” he questions, his voice low and steady.

  Grazing my fingers along the colorful dots, circles, and waves on his chest, I ask, “Do I seem like the MBA type?”

  “Not really.” He wraps his fingers around my wandering hand. “If I’m being honest, you don’t seem like the art history type either. I don’t see you working in a museum or sitting in some office, doing research.”

  Our gazes slowly connect.

  “Sometimes, what we want to do and what we have to do aren’t always the same,” I say, like it’s a script that my mother has burned into my soul.

  “It sucks, doesn’t it?”

  “Like you wouldn’t believe.”

  He releases my hand, and I join it with the other on my lap.

  “What about you? What are your plans after graduation?” I ask.

  “MBA, likely Stanford or Duke. My grandparents are alumni at both.”

  “Ah, you’re a legacy, too,” I tease, bumping his shoulder. “Who knew we had so much in common?”

  “I never would have imagined.”

  Foster parks his vehicle in front of a small Victorian home on the hill that overlooks the city. I peer up at the quaint house, highlighted by a streetlamp in the black sky. The light illuminates the house’s palette of bright colors, accents of green and purple against the yellow facade.

  “Is this it?” I ask, unbuckling my seat belt, preparing to exit the car.

  “Yep. We’re here.” He kills the ignition and opens the car door. “Let’s go in.”

  I step onto the sidewalk as Foster rounds his well-loved more-than-ten-years-old Honda Accord. With a six-pack of beer in my hand, I follow h
is lead and ascend the steps to the front door of his friend’s house where he rings the doorbell. We wait under the tiny covered alcove, listening to the sounds of voices in cheerful spirits reverberating from within the walls.

  “Thanks again for inviting me,” I say, tucking a sun-kissed strand of hair behind my ear, highlighted from my recent time at sea. “And for reminding me how lame it is to spend New Year’s Eve alone. It was by choice, you know.”

  “You were going to be a total loser, and I can’t be associated with someone like that. What would people say?”

  “Yes, we wouldn’t want anyone to insult your judgment. We both know what a blow that would be to your intelligence.”

  “Exactly.”

  The door opens, and the golden light from within floods the porch, framing a tall man’s silhouette.

  “Hey, man,” Graham, Foster’s light-blond friend, says, widening the entrance. “You made it.”

  “All in one piece. And I brought a friend, too,” he adds, placing a hand at the middle of my back. “You remember EJ, right?”

  “How could I forget?” he asks rhetorically. “You’re the girl who likes lots of tongue in her bets.”

  “I’m glad I made an impression. I’m not sure if being known as tongue-girl is a good thing or a bad thing, but I’ll go with it.” I lift the six-pack in his direction, and he takes it in his free hand. “Thanks for having me.”

  “Sure thing. C’mon in.”

  Graham steps aside, allowing Foster and me to enter the warm house fragrant with pine and the remnants of pizza. He shows us a chair near the steps where we can leave our jackets and then leads us through a short hallway to the kitchen where a stream of voices in conversation billows out.

  In the tight space of white-and-green tiles, three men—two I recognize as Peter and James from that fateful night when I won my bet at the bar—are gathered around a small table, playing a card game, while three girls are in the midst of a conversation at the counter. A fourth girl, a fit brunette with angular features, enters the room from a side hallway at the same time as us and makes her way past the group of women.

  “Hi, Foster,” she says in a cold tone.

  “Hey, Fiona,” he responds easily.