More Than Water

by Renee Ericson

  When they were last in town, we parted with a bit of unease, but there was a sense of hope.

  It was Wolfgang’s suggestion that I extend an invitation for them to come even though they were on vacation, but I didn’t expect them to attend. Their presence is an encouraging surprise, and deep in my heart, it’s a welcomed one. It’s a first step. For possibly the first time in my life, they’re showing an interest in something that truly matters to me, and it has no benefit to them, other than knowing that it makes me happy.

  “Have a safe trip,” I say, hugging my father and then my mother.

  She kisses me on the cheek.

  “Congratulations,” my father says for possibly the fourth time this evening. “You’ve done very well. We’ll talk to you soon.”

  “Enjoy the rest of your evening, EJ,” my mother adds. “And it was a pleasure meeting you, Wolfgang.”

  “You, too, Mr. and Mrs. C.,” Wolfgang replies, somewhat aloof, causing me to snort.

  The look on my mother’s face in response to his informal address is priceless.

  “Come on, dear,” my father encourages my mother, taking her by the arm. “It’s time for us to head out.”

  We all say one last final farewell, and my parents leave through the crowd of guests. Wolfgang and I wander around the room, studying everyone’s work one more time, discussing what we think the artist is trying to convey and the execution. We’re both on our second glass of champagne, so our observations aren’t very technical at this point.

  “Well, isn’t that just phallic?” Wolfgang states in examination of one artist’s depiction of a weeping woman on a log.

  “I guess we all see what we want to see.” I laugh.

  “It’s wood,” he deadpans. “And the leaves are ejaculating.”

  “It’s a very excited little log.”

  “Now, girl, you know better than to ever call a piece of wood little. That’s just plain old insulting.”

  “Well, somebody likes it.” I point to the red dot next to the title of the piece, indicating that it has been sold. “Enough to buy it.”

  “Porn always sells.”

  “C’mon.” I loop my arm through his. “Let’s keep moving.”

  We proceed to the next installation—a high-speed video display of a man on a roof as the sun rises and sets. Of course, he’s naked.

  Why is there always so much nudity in art? Maybe we are a bunch of horny people.

  “So, I haven’t seen Foster,” Wolfgang states, probing. “I guess he didn’t make it?”

  “No.” I smile, hiding the splinters in my heart. “I guess he didn’t.”

  “Have you talked to him?”

  “Briefly. He called yesterday when he arrived back in town.”

  “And how did that go?”

  “It was okay.” I bite my lower lip. “I really hurt him.”

  “I’m sure he’ll forgive you. He has to understand what you were going through.”

  “I think he does, but it’s no excuse.” I shake my head. “I pushed him away, simply for what he is. It was completely hypocritical of me, judging him on his family’s stature.”

  “Man, you rich people have it tough,” he kids. “Money trees and vapid dreams.”

  “We all just want to be seen as people, Wolfie. What do you think we do all day? Roll around on the bed, covered in hundred-dollar bills?”

  Wolfgang takes my hand, winks at me, and then leads us toward the next collection of students’ work in a smaller space brightly lit to showcase the five brilliantly colored canvases on the wall. Within the room, Professor Turner nonchalantly speaks with a couple about the compositions, signaling and waving his arms in an animated fashion. When he spies my friend and me, he excuses himself from the attentive pair.

  “I was just looking for you,” Professor Turner says, addressing me. “You have a buyer interested in your piece, and he’d like to meet you.”

  “Oh,” I utter, surprised. “Well, it’s not exactly for sale. Is it mislabeled?”

  “No, the label is correct, but he insisted on meeting you, in hopes of changing your mind.”

  Wolfgang and I share a look.

  “I doubt I’ll budge,” I confess, “but I’m happy to speak with him.”

  “Come”—he gestures to the left—“I’ll introduce you.”

  With Wolfgang by my side, we follow the professor toward the space where my work is displayed. A small number of people are gathered around my sculpture installation, but I’m only drawn to one. A man dressed casually in a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, his warm-brown hair falling just over his brow while sporting a pair of familiar dark-framed glasses, stares intently at my creation.

  Foster.

  He came.

  Cutting through the crowd, Professor Turner approaches Foster and signals toward me. “Mr. Blake, I believe you wanted to meet the artist. This is EJ Cunning.”

  “Hello,” Foster says, the hint of a smile flirting at the corner of his mouth.

  “Hi,” I respond, a surge of relief spreading across my chest.

  “I’ll let you two get acquainted,” the professor says to us. “Please let me know if you have any questions, Mr. Blake.”

  “I will. Thank you.”

  Professor Turner nods and then makes his way back into the crowd.

  “Looks like it’s time to refresh my drink,” Wolfgang says, raising his half-empty glass and taking mine from my hand. “I’ll take care of these.” He then leaves Foster and me alone in front of my work.

  “You made it,” I state, unable to contain my exuberance.

  “I did.” He smirks. “I was trying to find the right outfit. I didn’t want to seem too…professional. It’s not really my style.”

  “Mission accomplished.” My eyes sink into him as he stands before me. “You look perfect.”

  The crowd around us begins to dissipate.

  All that’s left is Foster.

  Me.

  Us.

  “So, tell me about your work,” Foster says, stepping closer to the castings of a man and a woman’s torsos. “It’s different than the last time I saw it. You’ve gone in a new direction.”

  “Foster…I…”

  “It’s an interesting title.” He spares me a glance, ignoring my incomplete thought. “You call this one More Than Water? I’d like to know a little more about that.”

  “Fozzie…” I implore, trying to find the words to express the elephant sitting its ass firmly between us.

  “I don’t recall a woman in the original piece. Why the change?”

  I sigh, resigned, and join him as he ponders over my piece. “I wasn’t looking deep enough before.”

  “And now?”

  “Now, I see what was there all along.”

  “Tell me more.” He pauses. “Evelyn.” A moment of silence. “I want to hear it all.”

  Together, Foster and I speculate over my work, a colorful casting of two figures, a man and a woman, covered in a dripping blue-and-green substance to simulate water. The male counterpart is the original cast of Foster that I submitted for review—a vivid display of the science of man with his palm resting over his heart. Now, in addition to that is the cast of a woman, modeled after my own torso, her hand resting over his heart with her chest angled toward his. Her body is covered with various shapes and vibrant colors, a unique design of her own making. In the space where their hands are joined, an energetic and fiery vermilion flame pattern seeps through both of the figures, gradually fading into their individuality. Just beyond the last licks of the scarlet heat, the water that covers them both melts away over their shoulders and along their lines, sluicing down toward the ground.

  “These two individuals,” I begin to tell him, “live under a mask, but it’s not of their doing. They’re both caught in the wave of limited vision. It’s heavy and clouded. It often weighs them down. Sometimes, they feel like they’re drowning. However, there’s more to them than what meets the eye. It’s all about perception.
”

  “And the place where their hands meet?” he asks, not looking at me. “What is that?”

  “It’s something else altogether. It’s the catalyst for them to truly find themselves and each other. It’s the strength they need to fight away the pretenses, the wave.”

  “Does it have a name?”

  “Not officially, but it stems from their love for one another. It trumps everything else. It cuts through barriers, allowing them to break free as individuals and as a unit.”

  Foster’s hand finds mine, weaving our fingers together. He leans down and presses his soft lips to my cheek, and the air passing through my lungs hitches.

  I imagine the heat building in the places where our bodies unite, growing and expanding through both of us, as we shed away the exterior that each of us carries.

  “And this is how you see us?” he asks, skating his mouth to my ear.

  “Yes.” I nod. “Neither one of us is the water. You’re not, and neither am I. We’re more than water.”

  “It all sounds very wet,” he jests. “And watery.”

  “The combination of hydrogen and oxygen is off the charts. We might be swimming in it for days.”

  “Are clothes required?”

  “Completely optional.”

  “Evelyn,” Foster carefully pronounces, like it’s the most precious word to ever cross his lips. His fingertips delicately graze along the shape of my cheekbone. “Just my Evelyn.”

  “Yes, Fozzie,” I reply in confirmation.

  Slipping his palms to the base of my neck, Foster connects his lips with mine, fervently kissing me and sealing together who we are outside of our stature and status, beyond his science-oriented mind and my free-spirited one. I swim into his depths as we drown ourselves in one another, underneath what the world perceives.

  There are many factors that make us an unlikely pair—my own predisposition toward any kind of society, his geeky way of thinking, and the vibrant way I express myself—but we have a chemistry that cannot be denied.

  Like a flame breaking the boundaries to survive underwater, we, too, are something beautiful.

  We are a substance of our own design.

  We’re more than water.

  We’re more than fire.

  We’re a miracle, a living and breathing combination, with no formula to define us.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Almost fifteen years prior to writing this story, and before digital photography was common practice, I took a photography class in college that sparked a love to last a lifetime. Having been an artist all of my life, finding stories through the lens was like opening up my imagination to the layers of the everyday world with a new and exciting medium.

  I took the following images for a project similar to EJ’s, with a friend watching my back during not-so-safe hours. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine that my own art would inspire a story to be written later in life.

  Look into the depths for what’s hidden within.

  It’s more than water.

  It’s a story.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  The only way for a new venture to happen is with an amazing support system. I’m so lucky to have one of the best.

  Alyssa—Thank you so much for your constant enthusiasm toward my stories, for reading my works critically and open-mindedly, for talking through plot points at any hour of the day, and for your willingness to help me fine-tune the details over and over again. You’re an amazing person, and I’m lucky to call you a friend. Also, I will never use the word piston in a draft ever again. I promise. Hips should never do such a thing to one another.

  Thank you, MJ, Mendy, Evette, Kristin, Mandy, Renee, and Amanda—my super amazing cheerleaders and beta readers! You were there for me to answer my many questions, patiently waiting as I wrote and tweaked this story, and you loved EJ and Foster even more than I anticipated. I love you all so much and appreciate you more than you know. I value your opinions and friendship unconditionally.

  My amazing Street Team—Thank you for your continued support.

  My husband—I love you.

  My children—Thank you for cheering me on daily. I never thought my love for writing stories would inspire you to write as well.

  Jovana with Unforeseen Editing—You always make my words shine.

  The University of Cincinnati, College of Design, Architecture, Art, and Planning—My time with you as an undergrad opened my eyes to many forms of art, allowed me to see things differently, and helped me to understand the value of a critique. Thank you.

  And finally, Humor—Without you, the world would be boring and exhausting. Thank you for getting me through each and every day.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Renee Ericson is the author of the These Days series.

  Originally from the Midwest, she now resides in a small town just outside of Boston with her husband and three children.

  Most winters, Renee can be found on the slopes of the White Mountains skiing with her family. During the summer months, she likes to spend every spare minute at the beach soaking up the sea air. All those moments in between, she is talking to imaginary characters and caring for her children.