All the Water in the World Read online

  “Well, what do you wake up thinking about?”

  Jack would not say.

  Between treatments, we took an Uber to the Mall, to visit my favorite monument. No statues, no marching buddies, no pillars or famous speeches, just the black stone getting wider and thicker with names as we walked down, and at the bottom it was like some kind of soundproof room with everyone staring at the names of people who would never be seen again. Thousands and thousands of them. I could look in the book and see exactly how many, if I wanted to. Which I didn’t. Our reflections were caught on the polished surface, Jack in his Georgetown sweatshirt, me in my baseball cap, with the names stamped across us and those personal notes taped to the stone. I used to like reading them.

  “I don’t know.” I steered Jack back up the slope. “I don’t think this will help us with what we’re making. Do you?”

  It was by chance that I hit on the idea. If you believe in chance. It was the day I took Jack to meet my grandparents. We sat around in the kitchen drinking lemonade and admiring my grandmother’s ceramic pots, and Jack answered her questions about school and laughed at my grandfather’s lame jokes, and then we horsed around in the back with Barney.

  “It’s so different out here,” said Jack. Where we lived, we had lawn on all sides, and the backyard was as nice as the front. Here, the houses were dignified and orderly from the street, but out back the wooden porches and fire escapes and additions of different sizes and states of repair looked as though a kid who didn’t know any better had thrown them together. An idea was circling in my mind, trying to land.

  “Want to go to Meridian Hill Park?”

  I stopped on the way, pretending to admire the nonexistent view down Sixteenth Street. Why weren’t there any benches on this side of the park? Jack took my arm, and once we arrived at Serenity, I was happy to perch on her pedestal and lean forward, hands on my knees, to catch my breath. “The Mall belongs to the government and the tourists,” I told him. “This is just a little park, but it feels like mine.” He was so busy fussing around me, bending over to check my eyes, that he didn’t notice the statue at first. When he did, he was instantly putting the camera to his face and twisting the lens, getting it from all angles.

  “You mean you’ve never been here?” I wanted him to remember who’d found it in the first place.

  “Don’t think so.” He stepped back, focusing and snapping. “I love things like this. Last year I was obsessed with peeling paint.”

  “Been done,” I said.

  He gave me a fierce look. “I don’t care if it’s been done! I’m doing it, okay?”

  I held up my hands in self-defense. Why do I say things like that just when we’re having a nice time?

  “Sorry.” He gave me an anxious smile. “Do you know how she got this way?”

  “Vandalism, I think. It’s been like that ever since I was little. The Park Service never gets around to repairing it.”

  “I hope they never do.”

  • • •

  All news is graded. Terrible, not great, not too bad, and okay. After my last treatment, the scans were not great. They started me on a stronger combination of drugs. When I got back from the hospital, I was lower than ever. I did a lot of crying. This would go on and on and on. I would never be free of it. Grandma sang me lullabies, Grandpa made hushed inquiries outside my door, and my mother stayed with me night and day. All of that helped. But drawing was the only thing that really, truly helped. As soon as I could sit up, I started drawing the worst possible me on my most desperate days, puffy and bruised, scary, scared, and hopeless.

  By week three, the magic week, the new poison had done its damage and I could finally eat and go outdoors and feel human. My mood came bobbing up, as though I had on a life preserver that wouldn’t let me stay under. I’m lucky that way.

  I studied Jack’s photographs of Serenity and drew her in my sketchbook. I got a sneaky pleasure out of drawing the statue. Not that I wanted her to crumble. But considering that she had crumbled, she had been damaged by something she had in no way asked for and could in no way change, I wanted her crumbling right out in the open, for everyone to see. I made drawing after drawing of myself and drawing after drawing of the statue’s gouged-out face, knowing I couldn’t show these to my mother. Could I? I just had to keep going and see what happened. Nowadays that was my motto: Keep going and see what happens.

  I called Jack to tell him I had an idea. I didn’t want to tell him over the phone, so we arranged to meet at his house after school. As it turned out, something better happened that day, and weeks went by before we thought about the animation again.

  Hello Antonio,

  Back again! We were away. Do you always email me from work? Your research sounds amazing. Although—poor rats! Do you also try to discover things like why music is so emotional when it’s just sound waves going into our ears? Or what happens after you die? Or is that just not possible??!! You didn’t answer my questions about your (my) family. But I guess I didn’t tell you what you wanted to know about Mom, so we’re even. I’d still like to know, though.

  Are the boys glad summer is coming? Is London always rainy and cold? I don’t think I could stand that. I love hot weather. Though in DC it gets incredibly hot and everyone stays indoors in the AC.

  Maddy

  Maddy,

  Music has a profound effect on us. Most things that have a profound effect on us gave us an evolutionary advantage at some point. My research is very specific, about the biochemistry of the brain and maybe a bit boring to the average person. But it is really about some of the most interesting human questions. Like, how can we remember a phone number or recognise an apple? How can a memory last a lifetime? And eventually, what’s happening in the brain when we listen to music or feel happy, sad, etc.

  I think what happens when we die is not something science can research. Not all scientists are atheists but I myself am an atheist and I have quite a pragmatic approach to these matters. You will discover your own ideas as you grow older.

  I hope you had a great holiday. I guess American schools are more relaxed about kids going on holiday during term time. Here it is almost a criminal offense.

  Antonio

  14

  It rained so hard between my house and Jack’s, it was like running through a waterfall. Getting rained on improved my mood. Anything out of the ordinary did. I turned up on his porch drenched. He gave me a gray T-shirt and a pair of gym shorts to put on, and in his bathroom I peeled off my wet things and toweled down, keeping an eye on myself in the mirror.

  I would be perfect for an anatomy lesson. My collarbones had their own shadows. A lot of girls would die to be this thin. Which kind of misses the point. I guess I looked okay under the circumstances, especially if I turned sideways so you couldn’t see the bump on my chest that was my port. Long neck, not-quite-human head. Better from the side, hand on my jutting-out hip. Front view. Port bump visible. Nipples staring. Hip bones. Lips. Who thought that up as a body part? At least there was one upside to chemo. No need for a Brazilian! Which Vicky tells me hurts like crazy but the boys expect you to have.

  Jack Bell? Please would you go up to the model and locate the clavicle?

  No problem. The clavicle is right there. It is also called a collarbone.

  Go ahead and touch the model.

  The collarbone goes from the shoulder to the neck . . . here . . .

  Excellent, Jack. Now, can you point out the pelvic girdle? Quickly! She’s getting cold.

  Well, the pelvic girdle attaches to the spine approximately here . . .

  “Are you okay, Maddy?” His hesitant voice came through the door. “You haven’t fainted or anything?”

  I plucked his clothes from the toilet seat. “Out in a sec!” How long had I been in there? The T-shirt smelled of laundry soap and, under that, the grassy smell of Jack. Even with the elastic waist, his shorts were loose on me. They could fall down. And I had no dry underwear to put on. Oh well! Que ser�
�, será. I rolled up the waistband, coughing to fend off the giggles. No laughing. No laughing this time.

  Jack was in the kitchen in his usual place, standing with his back to the counter, hands poised on either side of him. He didn’t move when I came in. I stopped in the middle of the floor to let him get a good look at me. I wanted him to see me wearing his clothes. I tried to keep a slightly superior expression on my face. Who said I wanted to kiss him? That hug he gave me the other day had just been a moment of solidarity about fathers.

  “I had this idea for the animation.” Now that I was here, with air in my shorts where air did not usually go, did I really want to think about sad skulls and crumbling faces? “We don’t have to do it now.”

  “Okay,” said Jack. He went to the fridge. By now he knew I didn’t like beer, so he kept wine coolers on hand. When we’d drained our drinks, Jack got up and, without asking, got us two more. He held on to my glass a little longer than necessary before letting me take it. I saw the pulse beating in his neck. Some kind of showdown going on behind his eyes. I was pretty sure then why we were not getting down to any work.

  On my way back from the bathroom I stumbled on the leg of the stool. Jack caught me from the side and stopped me from falling. Someone’s heart was thumping, maybe his, maybe mine. That was the moment he could have let me go. I could have pulled away. Instead, we straightened up and started to kiss. I was shocked at first by the greedy, fishlike movements of our faces. But soon I didn’t want to stop. I had never kissed a boy, but once we started, I knew exactly what to do.

  I pulled back to see his eyes. The shy, proud look in them, and the sense of Jack morphing from one thing to another and back again, made me laugh. This time I knew he didn’t mind. It was a completely different kind of laughter, aimed at both of us because of the outrageous thing we were doing. Jack’s hands were on my back, pressing me against the bulge in his jeans. I felt myself teetering on the edge of empty space, and there was nothing to do but start kissing again. The universe might not want me, but Jack did.

  He backed me down the hallway, our fingers laced together. I maneuvered us around so that I was steering him instead. The kissing made me daring and free. Jack had on this dazed expression, but he was with it enough to glance at his watch.

  “When’s your father back?” I whispered, tightening my fingers.

  “Late. I don’t care. Do you?”

  I did, but I had to say no. Had to hope Jack knew what he was doing in relation to the work habits of his father. We reached the doorway to his bedroom. Maybe he hadn’t planned this in advance? Maybe he didn’t wish to tempt fate by being prepared, for instance, by disinfecting his room? It smelled of feet and old apples. Half-closed curtains created a maroon twilight. Single unmade bed against the far wall. I gave him a playful shove to the chest. We tumbled onto the bed, wrestling. When he was on top, he peeled up my T-shirt, and seeing I had no bra on, he stopped and murmured something I did not catch. It was a one-syllable word he kept repeating in a confused, slurred voice, before he lowered his head to kiss me where I had never been kissed. “What?” I demanded, to keep him talking. “What?” Though by that time I didn’t need to know.

  When he raised his head, our eyes met. That was hard to bear and we could not keep it up for long, but for me it was the defining moment that made sense of our bare skin, the shock of his mouth on my breast, the sensation that I was levitating off the bed and at the same time sliding down it. Jack looked as if he couldn’t quite place me. Now was the time to put my hand on his zipper. He shimmied his jeans and boxers down, yanked off his socks and shirt, and came to a halt on his knees in front of me, where his features were instantly seized by the terror of being naked and in plain view. More buff than he looked in clothes. Thing flipped up tight to abdomen from nest of hairs. I had seen erections online and in this book I had, so I was familiar with the overall design. Even so. Strange beyond strange seeing one in the flesh, attached to someone who chewed his pens flat and could solve quadratic equations.

  He hunkered down next to me, making loud shivering noises, pretending to be cold instead of shy. His skin was hot along my legs. Into my ear he whispered, “Do we need to use . . . you know?” I shook my head, and as I shook my head, a thought intruded that pretty much brought things to a halt. Had my mother and Antonio really forgotten in the passion of the moment, or had they secretly wanted me?

  I shifted so we were no longer touching, and Jack froze, alert to the tiniest change. We stayed that way for a long agonizing moment, me with my knees folded to one side, Jack trying at the same time to stay clear of me and to hide himself, no easy trick on that narrow bed, each of us gazing into the fearful eyes of the other person. Then his leg slipped and lodged against mine, and the weight and heat of his leg said to me: Why not? Why not do this if I wanted to? So I reached for Jack and his brand-new components, and in no time at all I was looking into the most joyful face I had ever seen. Reason enough to keep going, in spite of everything.

  • • •

  We lay together under the sheet, Jack on his back, me with my head on his shoulder. This was pretty uncomfortable and I had to twist my neck to see his face, but I didn’t say anything because it’s the position they assume in movies after sex, and I could tell he was proud to be holding me like that. He was radiant, in spite of his shrunken state. Like he just won the lottery. Olympic gold.

  I felt proud too, for different reasons. Whatever happened, I had done it. Bronze maybe, not gold, but I had experienced it. How could I not be happy about that?

  He rubbed his cheek on top of my skull. Now that he was allowed to touch it, Jack seemed to genuinely appreciate the feel of my head. At least I thought he did. At one point he’d held my head with both hands. This was one of the heartening things about the afternoon. Another was his sincere effort to touch me. He gave up too soon, but that might have been because it felt so good I lost my nerve and jumped a mile as if to say—Hey! Why do you think it’s called “privates”?—and set about attending to him instead. He kept asking me if it hurt, which was sweet of him. It hurt, but not that much. No one barged in on us. He didn’t fall asleep. I lay there, warm through and through. This body that had betrayed me was good for something.

  “We should talk about it,” Jack said in his normal voice, which took me by surprise. “If we want to,” he added hastily.

  “That’s what it says in this book my mother gave me when I was fourteen.”

  I’d reacted, of course, with fake operatic indignation: one, that she would get me such a thing in the first place, and two, that she would suggest with an impish smile that we discuss it and look at the photographs together. She knew full well I would hide the book, devour the book, find roundabout ways to bring up the book, take the book as not exactly a green light but an understanding of some kind between Mama mia and me. Which I did, thinking: Wow; disgusting; thrilling; bizarre. One day, one day.

  “It’s supposed to get better,” Jack informed me solemnly, and his face did this thing that made me scoot up and kiss him in different places. As if he knew anything about it!

  “It was great,” I said, and sank back down with a sudden pang. “You were great.” Late afternoon was my least favorite time of day. Neither one thing or the other. Unnaturally still. Dingy light. When? When, for me, was it going to get better?

  “Your mother gave you a book about sex?” asked Jack. “My mother would never do that.”

  “What about your father?”

  “My father gave me The Talk. Once when I was ten, on a camping trip. One a few years later. Final one last year. That one covered contraception and STDs.”

  I raised my head, smiling a little. “Did it cover the female anatomy?”

  Jack reddened and looked away. “Are we supposed to be talking about our parents at a time like this?”

  I nestled down and kissed his neck to fend off the late-afternoon feeling. You’d think having nothing between you but skin would bring you to the true center of a
person. You’d think. But the fact was, I felt closer to Jack kissing in the kitchen than I did later on. Mouth first, I had all of him. I would not tell Vicky this, or even Fiona, but it wasn’t just having something inside me that belonged to someone else. It wasn’t that the setup was obviously five-star for him but how on earth was it supposed to work for me? No, the thing was this. When he was pressing the mattress on either side of my head and whimpering in ascending notes that made me think of a blind dog scaling a cliff, it was as though Jack went away and left me and I had no idea if he would return or what he’d be like if he did. True, he was lying there now speaking to me in his everyday voice. But once they’ve emptied themselves out like that, isn’t it easier for them to walk away?

  Jack tightened his grip on me and kissed my forehead in slow motion, exactly as you might if you loved someone but couldn’t tell them. I felt an upsurge of longing for my mother. She was home waiting for me, but I couldn’t turn to her now. I hid my face in Jack’s shoulder and he laid his head on mine, tender as could be, unaware that I was no longer with him. I was standing on a lone rock jutting out of the sea. Recklessly I had scrambled out there, wanting what everyone wants, doing what people do on sunny mornings. But now I could see the black water stretching out in front of me to the horizon, and behind me, in silence, the tide had come in and closed off the way back.

  15

  From the road, my house looked like a replica of itself. Not smaller, exactly. Purple paving stones curved as always up to the three porch steps. Pointy dormers, black handrail, red shutters were just the same. But still the house was different. Complete without me.

  My mother was unloading the dishwasher, her back to the kitchen door, making such a racket she didn’t hear me come in. Humming, she stacked the cupboard, raked her bangs with one hand, and bent down again, her denim hips too slight and girlish to belong to anyone’s mother. Clattering plates is the loneliest sound ever.