The Watermark

by Travis Thrasher

  Gen looked up at me with her open gaze. “You don’t have to look far. I think everyone needs help sooner or later in life. You just have to take the time to find them.” She paused for a second. “And they have to be willing to accept it.”

  December 22

  Dear Amy,

  I am amazed that God allowed someone like Genevie Liu to come across my path. What did I ever do to deserve a woman like her? She fills me with enthusiasm and hope. I find myself changed when I am around her.

  I never expected to come back to Covenant and fall in love. I thought I had control of my life. I thought I could come back and finish out school and have nothing eventful happen to me. Instead, I meet this magnificent and beautiful woman and fall in love with her.

  Sheridan

  twelve

  I sat alone in my apartment bedroom, my trembling hands resting on the white keys of my synthesizer keyboard. I had been in my room for fifteen minutes, wanting to finally turn on my keyboard again and play something—anything. Yet I had done nothing except look at the keyboard sitting on its small table and breathe in and out.

  Why couldn’t I play it anymore?

  When I was growing up, playing music had always been my comfort, my solace. Music relaxed me and brought out the best in me. I used to be able to sit down at a piano or with my synthesizer and play for hours upon end. Sometimes I would work my way through complex pieces, immersed in the power of the music, and other times I’d make up my own music. I had composed many pieces and saved them on discs I could manipulate in my computer. The process of creating layer after layer of fresh and vibrant tunes always inspired me. Even when my parents discouraged me from pursuing electronic music, I still composed and continued to hope that I could do this for a living one day.

  That hope evaporated after I quit school. And ever since, I had felt afraid of coming back to something that meant so much to me. At first, I couldn’t do it because I was afraid of feeling anything human again. Then, I gradually realized I had lost the ability to create. I could teach younger kids and show them what needed to be done—how to hold their hands and read music and strike the keys, but that was it. I had not composed anything for myself in years. I didn’t know if I ever could again.

  Now, two days before Christmas, I had decided to try, but nothing was happening. The keys remained still; the speaker resting on the floor next to the keyboard remained soundless. I had no idea how to start.

  Finally I decided to at least play something. So I began. Just scales, up and down. Simple drills I taught beginning students.

  Gradually, the scales became something else. Suddenly, music was pouring out of me. I played for an hour, first playing songs I knew by heart, making sure I remembered how to use the Korg keyboard as I changed the programmed sounds every few minutes from the simple sounds of a piano to the harmonies of a full orchestra. The familiar songs became improvised pieces, works I simply started playing with a naturalness I thought had been long forgotten.

  And then I found myself in uncharted territory, feeling like a man drinking water for the first time after being lost in the desert, playing compositions I had no idea were resting inside of me. I felt glad no one was around; no one could hear me. I was alone and I was creating again. It felt good, like talking to a long-lost friend.

  As my fingers continued to wander over the keys, Genevie’s smile kept coming to my mind. Now I let my emotions flood over the keyboard. The music sounded vibrant and optimistic, much like the amazing woman I was thinking of as I played. Soon I felt a new melody emerging.

  It had been years. Maybe I was finally moving on.

  An hour later, on the cold streets of Chicago, carrying a small backpack and bundled up in a thick winter coat and gloves, I passed by shoppers with arms loaded down with bags of gifts. Everyone was buying and looking and browsing and picking things out. It was usually an inspiring sight, with all the Christmas colors and lights and the realization that Christmas was only two days away. Tonight, though, something about the crowded and busy streets depressed me.

  What had Christmas become?

  I remembered delivering the pastries to the apartment building with Genevie only a few days earlier and how good that had felt. How long had it been since I had been involved in simply giving to another human being and helping them?

  Of course, my parents had taught me to give to charities and to the church on a regular basis and to be especially generous at Christmastime. In my father’s eyes, giving was our duty and responsibility. But it had always seemed so impersonal, and so futile; I never believed that what I gave actually helped anybody.

  As the years passed, I had gradually stopped giving. Maybe I was just selfish. But what I think actually happened was that I began to feel cynical about anything related to money. For so many years I had felt different than others simply because my family had more money than most. The older I became, the more I resented my family’s wealth and tried to do anything I could not to stand out.

  This sort of foolish thinking had gotten me nothing but trouble. Yet, walking down the streets and looking around, I realized I still had that cynicism clinging to me.

  What was Christmas anyway? My recent experience was that it was a time off from school, a time when my family gathered together to give each other a boatload of gifts and then sit down and commit gluttony. In a nutshell, that’s how my Christmas holidays in recent years could be summed up.

  I had gone to church when I was younger and knew it meant something to me. My sister was always a positive influence, taking me to church with her. Yet the older I became, the more I found myself skipping the Christmas Eve services. Instead, I focused on the new video game or stereo system or whatever I hoped to discover the next morning when we opened presents.

  The true meaning of Christmas, as I’ve heard so many say, was lost on me.

  I spotted a scruffy woman ringing a bell and looking cold and tired. I smiled at her and passed by. Then I stopped, backtracked, and dropped a few bills into her box. She gave me a smile and a nod as she kept ringing her bell.

  The true meaning of Christmas. It wasn’t just about being charitable, but that certainly was part of it. Friends and family, loved ones—they were part of it too. And there was more.

  I walked on, warmed by the simple interchange, but still a bit depressed by the bustle around me. All these people walking by me, shopping and spending money and maxing out their Visa cards and purchasing way too many presents. What did they know of Christmas? What did it mean to them? Family arguments? Spiked eggnog? Getting gifts that mostly would never be used? Eating a huge meal and then falling asleep on a couch in front of a football game?

  What about the little baby who was born on this day almost two thousand years ago? Didn’t he play into this somehow?

  I remembered one Christmas Eve service when our entire congregation lit candles in the darkness of the sanctuary and sang “Joy to the World” as midnight approached. I was probably ten or eleven years old then. As the twenty-fourth turned into the twenty-fifth, the congregation became quiet as we were encouraged to offer silent prayers of thankfulness.

  I can still remember how easily the prayer came to me then, how certain I was that God heard my words: “Lord, thank you for coming down and being born,” I had prayed. “Thank you for doing something you didn’t have to do. Thank you for giving the world hope and for giving me eternal life. Please never let me forget this.”

  It was surprising that in the midst of the busyness this memory from my childhood had resurfaced. And somehow in that memory I was given a vision of what I really wanted for this Christmas. I wanted it to be different. I knew it already would be with Genevie at my side. And perhaps that was why it could be. I knew she probably treated Christmas with the reverence it deserved. Maybe some of that could rub off on me.

  On the streets, I could hear “We Three Kings” coming from speakers and wondered if most of the people even realized what three kings were being talked about. Did t
hey know? How many times had they heard this song? How many times had I heard it?

  This year, I told myself, I’m going to listen.

  December 24

  Dear Amy,

  It’s Christmas Eve morning as I write. I’ve been listening to a station that plays nonstop Christmas carols, and I’ve really been trying to listen to the words and hear and understand them. For so long Christmas has meant nothing more to me than receiving a ton of presents and eating way too much food. The last few Christmases have been nothing more than a time to look back on the year and see how little I’ve done. I want this year to be better, to be filled with more hope. So I’m listening.

  The song that just finished was “O Holy Night.” I wonder if my music could ever express something as beautiful as those lyrics: “A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices, for yonder breaks a new and glorious morn.”

  Well, maybe this is a little too dramatic—but I really do feel that a new and glorious morn has broken for me. I really feel like a weary man finally rejoicing. I eagerly await tonight’s dinner with Genevie and the thrill of hope awaiting me in the new year.

  Sheridan

  thirteen

  Minutes before Genevie was supposed to arrive at my apartment, I wandered around my place cleaning up. Ralph was in the living room fidgeting and trying to get out of the little red sweater I had bought him as a joke for Genevie. The little sheltie looked adorably uncomfortable in the oversized outfit.

  I was just making several scans of the apartment to make sure everything was neat and orderly and set up when I heard a knock on the door. I opened it. Genevie stood in the hallway, a smile on her lips.

  For a second I couldn’t think of anything to say. I didn’t want to be obvious, but I’m sure I was. She looked incredible in sleek black boots and a dark red dress that fell just below her knees. Her gray coat hung over one arm, and her arms were full of packages.

  “You look—” I sought the right word to say—”nice.”

  She grinned at my fumbled word choice.

  “You didn’t have to bring those,” I said, referring to the presents in her hands.

  “They’re just some things I got for Barney and Ralphie.”

  It was close to five-thirty on Christmas Eve. After dinner and perhaps watching a movie, we would be going to the church service that started an hour before midnight. Then I would pick Genevie up tomorrow morning on campus, and we would both head to my parents’ house for our Christmas celebration.

  “I hope you weren’t expecting anything for Christmas,” I told Genevie.

  “I don’t need anything,” she replied.

  I looked into her shimmering eyes. “You know I’m just kidding.”

  “I wasn’t.”

  I laughed and took the packages from her to place under the tree, then returned for her coat.

  “Nice tree,” Genevie commented once again. We had joked about it ever since I got the three-foot-tall live tree and set it up in my living room. Erik and I had decorated it with a hideous assortment of things from around the apartment—an old CD Erik had found in his car one day, caps to an assortment of beer bottles, a small fly swatter, soap on a rope (something Erik had bought at a dollar store), even ballpoint pens. We had started by hanging up a few ridiculous things with the box of hooks we had bought and then decided to do the whole thing in Sheridan-Erik chic.

  “Erik loves it.”

  “Where’s he again?” Gen asked.

  “He’s with his parents. They live in the south suburbs, about an hour away. He’ll be back late.”

  “So it’s just you and me?”

  “Don’t forget the dogs,” I said.

  “So where’s my little guy?”

  “Last time I saw him, he was pretty busy.”

  It took Gen a minute to find him. I had put him back in his large box with a blanket inside. Genevie lifted him up and laughed at the colorful sweater the puppy had partially chewed but failed to take off.

  “Where’d you find this?”

  “At a Christmas store on Michigan Avenue.”

  “And there’s Barney, our guard dog.”

  Barney lay on his bed in the corner of the room, unaware of the visitor.

  “You know, I even got him a present,” Genevie told me.

  “He’ll appreciate it. Really.”

  Gen sat on one of the two matching couches in our living room. I had dipped into the large savings fund I had accumulated over the years to buy most of the furniture in the apartment. Since I had lived at home for free and worked various jobs, I had managed to save quite a bit of money. I was even able to pay for my final year at Covenant, something I did in spite of my parents’ offers to do the same.

  “Dinner smells good.”

  I laughed. “You know, I haven’t done this in like—well, to be honest, I haven’t done this ever.”

  “So I’m your Christmas dinner guinea pig?”

  “Yep.”

  “Well, at least it smells delicious.”

  “Well, I shouldn’t tell you this, but I found some special ‘Christmas dinner’ spray that comes in a can like Lysol. Spray a little of it around, and your place smells just like Ma’s good ol’ Christmas dinner. Unfortunately, I can’t say the same about how my Christmas hot dogs will taste.”

  Gen crossed her legs and smiled. I started the Christmas music waiting in my five-disc CD changer. Several discs had been bought especially for this evening.

  Gen sat on the couch, looking a bit unsure about what to say. This was unusual for her.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” I asked. “Eggnog? Sparkling cider? Tea?”

  “I’ll try some eggnog.”

  “Don’t worry—I bought it at Oberweis, so it should be halfway decent.”

  It took me a couple of minutes to find a nice glass to serve the eggnog in. I gave it to her. She smiled a formal grin and accepted it.

  I sat down beside her with a glass of my own. “You know, Gen. Just because I’m making dinner for you doesn’t mean this has to be awkward or anything.”

  She let go with a nervous laugh. “I know. I’m sorry. I am being kind of stiff, aren’t I?”

  “Well, you better watch out. I’ll get Barney to throw up on you again.”

  “Hard to be stiff when you have a lapful of puke.”

  I laughed at Genevie’s words—and at the memory.

  Gen continued. “It’s just—this is so new to me.”

  “You and me both. Think I cook Christmas dinner for every girl I meet?”

  “I’m not sure,” she joked. “Maybe you do.”

  “Remember, you’re my guinea pig. This is all for my future in catering.”

  “I like the candles,” she said. “Very nice touch.”

  I nodded, noting another Christmas first for me—candles bought for tonight, perched on various surfaces around the room, lit and softly glowing. Even with the lamps on, the candles added to Christmas ambience. At least I hoped they did.

  Before heading for the kitchen to finish the dinner, I squeezed Genevie’s hand. “You know what I first thought when we went on our first date? It was how incredibly beautiful you looked.”

  “Please—”

  “No, I’m serious. Remember when I came to pick you up at your dorm room? I told myself you were about the most gorgeous girl I’d ever seen in my whole life. And I doubted that you could ever look more stunning than you did that night. I was mistaken.”

  “Your food’s going to burn if you don’t go back into the kitchen,” Gen said, a tinge of unease in her voice. My compliments seemed to make her uncomfortable.

  We ate by candlelight at the small table next to the kitchen. The walls were a little bare due to my recent removal of Erik’s beer posters, but Genevie and I both liked the shadows flickering on the textured surface. I couldn’t help feeling a bit awkward myself at the start of the dinner, since I wore a vest and dress shirt and slacks and because Genevie looked so stunning tonight, almost untouchable.
But as soon as I began making fun of the food, we both seemed to relax and act like ourselves.

  Actually, the dinner wasn’t all that bad. The ham was all right, the gravy a bit goopy, the potatoes only a little salty, and the sweet potatoes tasted exactly the way they should have—an easy feat, since they came from a microwavable package. I couldn’t ruin the “brown and serve” bread or the frozen yellow corn. All in all, I had to admit it was a decent first Christmas dinner.

  Close to the end of the meal, she thanked me for the dinner. “You didn’t have to do this, you know.”

  “I really wanted to.”

  “Thank you. I can’t tell you how much this means.”

  “I can say the same about these past few months.”

  “They’ve been fun, haven’t they?”

  I nodded.

  “Last Christmas, I was by myself for the most part.”

  “How often do you see your parents?” I asked her.

  “Maybe once or twice a year. But Christmas is hard. It’s just not the same when you have parents who are divorced and who don’t believe in Christmas in the first place. It’s been hard to see my father remarry, too. They have a two-year-old daughter.”

  “Really?” I replied, surprised by the fact that Gen had a sister. Or a stepsister.

  “At first I didn’t think I could ever accept my dad having another child with someone else. It’s still hard to accept. But I think God has really worked in me to accept both my stepmom and my new sister.”

  “That would be tough.”

  “It has been. It continues to be. I have to constantly pray for patience and for peace, especially when I go back home.”

  I wasn’t sure what I could possibly add to Gen’s comment. She ended up asking me what I was doing at this time last year.