It's important not to confuse one woman with another. When did we meet? I met her in mind, first, saw myself encountering her a thousand times, dreamed coming together, floating past obstacles. I remember women, I've seen faces in crowds. I came to understand the type I wanted, the way she should smell, the acceptance in her eyes. Dark hair, skin pale and sometimes patterned. Her own smell. The taste, a mouth full of blood.
A human suit made of—
Women's faces distinct, each body unique. Don't confuse one with other.
Michelle, lips an unwavering line. Uncompromising in the business of control, never doubting.
Sadie, an outline in darkness. A collection of absent details, defined as indefinite.
Lily, built from dreams. My problem is that dreams are never solid as flesh.
No wonder I can never sleep. These are separate names, shapes, bodies, smells, tastes. Remember the need to understand the mark of each.
Fear shapes desire, the gravity of nearing threat. I'm drawn in, perceiving more than I know, accumulating details. People never met, only imagined. Not physical, but still real. I know them all.
I can accept being under a spell, just have to remember what's true. I realize I'm caught. Knowing helps.
Chapter 18
What she gives and what I seek
Beyond the window, sunlight tries to break the clouds. Daylight. What do I remember? Karl came home, we talked and drank, recounted stories. I told about Michelle, and other stories. Though recollection is foggy, embarrassment burns. I can taste whisky. Smell it.
I climb out of bed, search the kitchen for confirmation of what I recall. No empty fifth of Johnnie Walker, no glasses on the counter, or in the sink. Karl's bedroom stands open, vacant, no different than ever before. As if he's never been home. But I know he was here.
In the shower, traces of water. Maybe drops left from my shower last night?
Karl's bed half-made, like usual. It's been exactly the same as this for weeks. Maybe months.
No sign of the black leather book. Maybe hidden? I could search, Karl probably won't return, catch me. But it's not something I want to find.
I feel pulled another direction. The forest wants me back. I intend to go, find Lily again. I remember every detail of her, every sensation. But which is it, something I desire, or something that desires me? A person calling to me, or a place? Am I just imposing myself where I'm not wanted?
With each step toward my next life, this old existence seems more absurdly disconnected. If I'm going to reach into the future, I can't retain my grip on the past, can't stretch far enough to span the two. Time to let go. This compelling urgency confuses me, makes me feel victim of external manipulation. How does such need arise? When the need boils up within me, I recognize it, but can't identify the source. It feels unsafe, somehow, to want so fervently. I'm unprotected, out on a limb. What I need is to convince Lily to meet me halfway, maybe make her understand what I'm asking, why I need more. Not that I want to force her into anything, but I can't help what I want.
There's a vague, lingering sense I ought to go to work today. I dismiss the idea, not even sure what day it is. Of course the odds are against me — there are more weekdays than weekends — but this morning feels like Saturday.
In the shower, I don't allow myself to think where I'm heading. Don't decide. I plan to wear something that will work either place, whether I go to work, or visit Lily. I'll get in the car and drive, and things will make sense along the way. I could check my computer or phone, see what day it is. This is my intention, something I plan to remember to do once I get dressed and I'm closer to leaving.
Somehow I forget until I'm walking up the ramp to the parking lot. My cell phone is in my pocket, but I decide not to check the calendar. I may not like what I find. As I pull out of the parking lot onto Marine Drive, I realize I'm not going to work. It's never been a true question.
The river slides past. Birds glide, sometimes dive into the water. On Government Island, clusters of people persist in camping, though the sky is overcast, the wind strong and chilly. To reach I-5, I have to pass by work. The lot is full of cars, and Constant is standing out there with a bunch of guys looking under the raised hood of his Corvette, a red 1968 Stingray. I slow, think about pulling in, but don't use my turn signal. I let off the brake, accelerate toward the highway.
I admit it. I'm addicted to pleasures that aren't even real. Lily isn't somebody I get to keep. This won't last. That's something I can accept. When I see her, I'll forget any reservations I held. Set aside fear, let need take over.
As I near the Kalama and Cayson's land, the clouds thin, penetrated by the sun's brightness.
I park outside the gate, like I've done dozens of times. No, more than that. Hundreds, thousands. This is something I've always done, every day. I've visited the river a million times. Lily can't possibly still be waiting. If she's gone, I can fish the river instead. But I find myself walking, breathing easily in the wild air, not carrying my fishing gear. I think I left it at home. This means I'm going to see Lily. She'll be here after all. The birds make sounds unlike anything I've heard before. I'm not sure. Maybe the same thought crossed my mind last time.
Walking up the driveway, I turn off earlier than usual, trying to avoid the house. The trail slips into the trees. Dew stands in luminous beads on blades of grass and fern fronds. Not far off, the river hums, a blended murmur of invisible insects.
This is the wrong trail. I want to avoid Cayson's place, but this path takes me near another building, some little fishing shack, weathered and faded, falling to ruin. The aged wood is cracked and split. Outside, like an obsoleted front yard, is a rhombus of overgrown grass. Near the center of this old lawn is a barren rectangle of packed, smooth soil, like a chalkboard on the ground covered with scratches, lines, figures. I wish I had something to write with, so I could copy down these word-like forms. I hope I'll remember to tell Lily about this. She might want to see.
I hurry past, continuing toward the river. Rather than going down the bank, I veer left, heading downriver on the parallel trail I normally use. The rest is easy, familiar. This has been my entire life. Trees change. Tall, dense Douglas Firs give way to more haphazardly arranged pines interspersed with birches, blackberry stalks, prehistoric ferns, wild rhododendrons and field grass.
I see it ahead, Lily's field. Her home. I'm still not sure what to call this. House, cabin, or what? It looks faded with age, hollow. I move closer. This place isn't just quiet. It's abandoned.
What if she's gone? If it's empty, this is all over.
"Are you lost?" A voice behind, startling.
I spin.
Lily's standing there, in a place where nobody was just seconds before. I'm not sure where she—
"You look sad," she says.
Closer still. Why am I always so maddeningly self-aware about every movement, whether toward proximity or distance? "How many times have we met?" I ask, trying to appear neither lost nor sad, as she suggests. It's strange, seeing her outside, in daylight.
"I don't know how many. I forgot to count." Lily's face changes. "But one thing I do know, it's been too long since last time. Too long."
Maybe she's right. I've been trying to keep myself away, but why? All I've desired has been to see her again. "I must have been trying to understand things better."
"There's nothing to understand," she says. "I only try to give what you want."
I believe this is true. I shouldn't focus so much on what she withholds. "I'm here now."
She leads me, though I know the way. There's never been any question I'll return, that I'll find her, and we'll go together inside. I only wonder how long I'll remain.
Inside, my eyes burn. My focus sharpens, my body surges with tingling hypersensitivity. I breathe faster. It's dark, I can barely see. Her eyes are wide, almost wild. We come together, clutching, a series of confused gestures, too-eager responses. I have no idea what either of us desires. All I know is we're here, bo
th of us, together.
Lily moves to kiss me, blood on her lips.
Startled, I pull back. "Stop."
There's no blood.
Her mouth opens into something resembling a smile, eyes cast down as if she's played a trick. One shoulder lifts, some kind of conciliatory gesture. She flicks her straight black hair over her right shoulder, reaches for me, touches my mouth with open palms. It's awkward at first, but comes across as playful, experimental. Lily takes my right hand, extends my fingers and places my open palm lightly across her mouth, mirroring the gesture she herself just made. She hums, and the vibration tickles my skin like some exotic transmission of data, some new language. It's something I should be able to understand.
Our hands tug at clothing already damp with sweat. Breathless, we scramble sideways, fall onto the pile of blankets. Darkness deepens. Lily seizes my face in her hands, wrestles me beneath her. I remember a dream, sinking. Our bodies strain. Though I've just arrived, already my muscles burn from long exertion, my throat aches from endless raw cries. Lily guides me to that familiar place, that amniotic swim.
I no longer recall clearly the rush of my arrival, hoping for something. On the other side of that urgency, no doubt remains. No more confusion. I want to understand more of her, desire nothing more than this move into greater proximity. Lily reveals herself to me through her body, her pleasure, her books and art. With these, she holds nothing back.
Nights, days, all dark. Lacking sunlight's intrusion, it's impossible to discern passing time.
We gasp, breathe, exert. Recover in sleep.
I wake.
Lily places my hand between her legs, watches my reaction. "What word do you have for this?"
Scalding, wet and swollen. I can't stop my mind flashing to the word Michelle always used. Cunny. I almost say it, but stop myself. It's infantile, and anyway, it describes not part of a woman, but part of Michelle. The two are so different. No single word can fit both at once.
"This, you mean?" I grasp and probe, stalling in awareness of my need to offer a better word. "This place between your legs?"
Lily almost smiles. "You know what I mean." She waits, won't say it for me.
I'll think of a name. I'll say it for her later. But now I find myself thinking of Michelle. I hate bringing her here, into Lily's presence. That word exemplifies Michelle's stunted, dysfunctional sexuality. What does it say about me that I can't name part of Lily's body without borrowing Michelle's terminology?
"This part of you," I say, "I worship it."
Lily releases my hand, seeming satisfied. As so often happens, a discussion shift becomes something nonverbal.
All is forgotten.
Eventually I see changes in the room, various aspects. Decorations added or removed, works of art in progress. Signs of new presence, different clothing. A blanket added. Shifts in humidity, degrees of warmth. We speak of none of these things. I notice.
When I try to discern what Lily feels, where she comes from, where she's headed, she remains closed. I push, she evades. Like trying to grasp a cloud, a shape that only seems tangible. If I reach, try to grasp, the cloud vanishes as if it were never actually present.
Sometimes while Lily sleeps, I watch her, the way I know she sometimes watches me. Other times I rise, leave her undisturbed, drawing slow breaths. I explore the room, try to read pages in darkness, venture outside, observe seasons changing in the field. Here I find proof of the passage of time, growth and death and decay. Fragile ornaments hung on trees, or shapes drawn in ash and soot on barren geometries of earth. Scattered letterforms in bone, expressions in blood. Some vanish, others appear. These changes prove we are living through more than one night.
When each image is erased, I hold it in my mind forever. The next always arrives to build upon the last.
In my sleep, Lily wraps hands around my throat, blocks my breathing. I wake thinking it's a game, try to stop her, shrug her off. Her hands lock tight, unbreakable. I struggle until vision goes black. Finally I relax, fight back the spasm of resistance. No more breath. A feeling in my lungs like starvation. Need, the beginning of lust. New desire.
Breathe, awake.
The sky must be perfectly dark. The window passes no light. This pattern we've fallen into, by wordless agreement, lying close atop the blankets, touching but not too intertwined. Lily's place gets hot, as though some unseen fire burns nearby. I sleep always conscious of distant sounds, the churn of water, tonal whispers of wind between trees like a harmonious, rhythmic beating of wings. Sounds real and imagined combine to music. I still hear the Columbia rushing beneath floats and docks and other houseboats. The sounds, always the same.
Deeper now, rumbling. Not a dream. My eyes open, awake. Painfully loud, the ground vibrating.
"Lily?" I sit up, reach for her, find the space beside me empty. I search the room, can't see. A glow rises outside the grimy window. It fades, rises again. A fixed rhythm, like breathing or a heartbeat. The ebb and flow of the rumble matches the pulsing luminance. Still no movement, no hint of Lily's presence.
I rise, stagger to the door. Grip the knob, expecting heat or vibration, but find only cool metal. Bracing myself, I throw the door open. Not sure what I anticipate; some military helicopter or Close Encounters invasion? There's nothing to see, nothing present. The sound is quieter and more distant than I perceived. A weirdly drawn-out echo, some long-ago collision stretching into the present, louder when my memory is clearer, quieter as my recollection fades. Back and forth.
Someone asked what I would say if they told me they saw lights in the sky. Who was it, and when?
I'm up, I could go to the river, look down. Maybe the steelhead are there, holding. But what would they be waiting for, in the night?
Nothing to do but lie down, wait, maybe sleep. Out of one dream, into another. If I only wait, I'll circle back into some waking reality in which Lily exists alongside me.
Always straight from sleep into intimacy, no preamble. Our bodies breathe each other for air. Our exchanges are sometimes quiet, other times focused on specific actions with fetishistic attention to angle or detail or contortion of physiology. Most often, we build from aching need, from the fear this may never happen again, into greater urgency, heart-racing, muscle-clenching forward-moving impetus. Desire to quench, to strangle, to dominate, to expel. Then easing, languidness and brief talk. More complicated feelings arise, unspoken. Desire for elements not present here. Mixed feelings, doubt. Concepts I'm unsure how to articulate. Not only does Lily refuse to help. She wishes I'd stop. We argue over her sense of my various dissatisfactions.
I try to talk about Karl and Sadie, seeking to illustrate some point.
"Who are they?" she asks. "How does it help you or me, here, if we talk about strangers?"
"I'm looking for analogies. Trying to understand each other."
"We understand."
"Maybe you. I'm not sure I do."
"What more do I need to share?"
I'm surprised, frustrated at my inability to come up with something specific to ask her. She's offering, and I'm not sure what to tell her.
She sits up, rises to her knees as if in contemplation of standing, leaving me here. "If you don't like the way I am, the way I was when you met me, why come back? Why stay?"
"I wanted to be with you. I just can't stop myself wanting what I want." My confusion is an impasse, a dead-end. From here I can't advance, can't move forward. In such futility as this, I can only close my eyes, let go.
Relinquish.
Next time I wake, Lily is standing over me in the dark. I see her plainly, the whole room clearer than ever before, the objects and corners and surfaces clearly defined and separate from one another. I sit up, rub my eyes.
Lily holds a pen in her right hand, cradles a large brown book with her left arm. She's writing in the book, or maybe drawing. Watching me.
"What are you doing?" I ask.
"I'm not hiding anything," she says. "You can see."
"You're looking at me while you write."
"It's not about you." Her voice is flat.
I don't know what to ask. I feel sick. "Then what are you writing about?"
"I can't tell you what. I can't tell you why."
I want to know more, though I realize she doesn't want me to want this. "You have to."
She arches an eyebrow. "What you believe you want, you don't really want."
"Tell me something," I insist.
She tells me something.
"The river cuts from a dead mountain to an artery river, a direct connection." Exasperation contorts Lily's face as she speaks, as if she's resolved to reveal the most primal truths from deep in her gut. "Every river, all of them large and small, each one is connected. Water connects to water and also connects above and below. The sky, the ground. All the water everywhere."
"But that's..." I don't understand, can't make sense of it. "Is that all?" I'm trying hard not to seem disappointed.
"What, then?" Her constant refrain. She appears ready to cry, something I've never seen her do.
It's a question I can't answer. I have nothing specific. "I don't need to know everything. But something."
"What? You don't want what I offer, but some different thing. You can't tell me what I need to change to be more like what you want."
"I need to feel I'm learning about you." I realize as I speak, this is hopeless. Can't she understand this sense of lack? So many of my desires are met, but not all. I feel untethered, less than solid. Pain within me also means pain for Lily. That isn't what I want, but an unavoidable side effect.
I remember sounds Sadie made. Wild howls, unrestrained screeching, like protesting a knife twisting in her gut. I can't tell Lily this, can't convey the first hint of what it was like to hear.
I try to sleep. For the first time since I came here, I lie restless.
Something shifts outside the window, moonlight slipping beyond the grasp of clouds. Illumination spills through the window, casts silvery gray across us. Lily lies motionless, her body so fully revealed in this light, I'm startled by what I see. Her skin patterned like fabric, shiny black in places, silver in others. At first I think she must be wearing some sheer, decorated bodysuit. I follow the curve of her thigh, up her hip, across her back. The pattern continues unbroken. I search for seams, gaps, or a cuff ending at ankle, neck or wrist. She's entirely covered, fingertips, toes, eyelids. Her skin is glossy, ornately embellished, like a full-body tattoo or scarification.
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