The Waterproof Bible by Andrew Kaufman
“Come on,” Aby said. “We’ll have to swim from here.”
Margaret did not respond. Orange rust fell from the edges of her gills and trickled down her collarbone in a steady stream, staining the collar and front of her shirt and pooling in her lap. She was unconscious.
“No, Mom. Not yet,” Aby said.
48
The evaporation of Rebecca Reynolds
Rebecca’s wet hair stuck to the side of her face, and the fabric of her shirt clung to her chest in a way that would normally have made her embarrassed. After walking for an indeterminate time, she decided to sit on a bench. This was the first decision she’d made on her own since Zimmer had dropped her off at her apartment the day before, and she felt good about it. Then she doubted herself and thought maybe she should keep walking, but she concluded that she could do this. After several more minutes and much more rain, her cellphone rang.
“Rebecca?”
“Yes.”
“They’ve stolen the boat. They locked me in the cabin. You have to help me.”
“Who is this?”
“Stewart!”
“Findley?”
“Just listen to me—”
“I know you. We were very important to each other for a very long time. You’re the most important person in my life, but I work very hard for you to never know that.”
“Rebecca, are you on medication again?”
“Why would I do that to you?”
“What’s going on?”
“I’m losing myself,” Rebecca said. As she said these words, she knew they were true.
“It’s going to be okay,” Stewart said. Knowing there was little she could do for him, Stewart focused on helping her. “Where are you?”
“I’m sitting on a bench in the park. I don’t know the name of it.”
“Where is it?”
“It’s the one by the art gallery. Behind the art gallery.”
“Just stay there. Don’t move. Just stay there.”
“I don’t seem capable of moving now.”
“Just stay right there. I’m going to send help.”
“Stewart, do you love me?”
“You’ll be okay.”
“But do you? You don’t have to say yes.”
“I do. Yes. Still.”
“Oh.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
“I don’t think so,” Rebecca said. “I was just hoping that knowing the answer would make me feel something.”
Rebecca closed her phone. She sat on the bench. The rain fell harder. She knew the rain couldn’t hurt her. She felt impervious to decay. She felt the rain on her skin, but then, all of a sudden, she didn’t. When she looked at her arm, she saw that the rain was no longer hitting it but was passing right through. She was, quite literally, beginning to disappear.
49
A triumphant lack of separation
Although Lewis did not know it, it was just before 8:00 p.m. when he put his feet on the carpet, stood, and with only a vague understanding of his motives walked across the room. Although he was sure She was still in the room, he no longer felt She was a threat. If She was going to do something, he figured, she would have done it by now. When his fingers touched the wall, he stretched out his right hand and shuffled along until he felt the windowsill. Standing in front of the window, Lewis was unable to remember how, or if, it opened. He ran his fingers along the frame and found a lock on the sash at the bottom. Lewis unlocked the window and pushed it open. He put his head through and was taken completely off guard by both the rain and the intensity with which it hit his head.
After so many hours without colours or shapes, without music or the human voice, with his world limited to the fabric of the comforter and the edges of the king-sized bed, the feeling of rain on his skin was overwhelming. Lewis rolled up his sleeves. Pulling his head back inside, he took off his shirt and let it fall to the floor, then stood on his tiptoes, extending his naked torso out the window with the sill just below his belly button. Lewis let the rain hit his back and neck and head. He turned so the rain could hit his chest and face, and he was overwhelmed by the thought that the barrier of his skin was irrelevant. Nothing enclosed within it—his heart, his bones, his grief—was separate from anything outside of it. There were no insides and outsides. There were no parts. There was only everything. So far, his only contributions to everything were self-pity, an exaggerated sense of self-importance and one admittedly catchy pop song.
By the time Lewis pulled his head back inside, he knew exactly what he needed to do. First, he shut the window. He felt the soggy carpet between his toes as he extended his arms and took confident strides towards the bathroom. He got dressed, hoping his clothes matched and were clean. He ran his fingers through his wet hair and patted it flat. He had no idea whether he was presentable, but he had done what he could. He followed the wall out of the bathroom and into the living room. Although he knocked the phone to the floor on his first attempt to use it, Lewis managed to pick it up and push the middle button in the bottom row. He counted to fifteen, then requested both assistance and a taxi.
50
Margaret’s final request
Aby undid Margaret’s seat belt and, cupping water with her hands, washed the rust from her mother’s face. She lifted Margaret over her shoulder and began wading towards the Prairie Embassy Hotel. The closer Aby got to the hotel, the higher the water became. At the bottom of the laneway, the water was up to her chest. The front doors were already open, and in the lobby she had to swim, holding her mother in front of her. An end table floated past on a forty-five-degree angle. Books and papers bobbed. Aby carried her mother up the stairs to the second floor.
The door of room #201 was open. Aby laid her mother on the bed. Margaret’s breathing was shallow. She coughed and orange syrup spattered out of her gills. Aby left the room and looked down over the banister at the water rising quickly against the walls. Returning to the room and looking out its east-facing window, she saw only water and the tops of trees.
Margaret stirred and Aby returned to the bed. Margaret opened her eyes and coughed, rust pouring from her gills. “I want a dry death,” Margaret said.
“No, Mom. Just try to be still.”
“Aby, do you believe in the trú?”
“I’m supposed to be convincing you.”
“In my heart I know I’m following my trú.”
“I know you believe that.”
“Then it’s simple, Aby. Either you’re mistaken about me, or I’m mistaken about my trú.”
Margaret’s eyes closed again. Aby checked her pulse. It was weak. Water began seeping under the door of room # 201.
“I’m so sorry,” Aby said. She lifted her mother off the bed and set her on the floor. Water trickled under the door and curled under Margaret’s head. It rose steadily higher, lifting her hair and spilling onto her face. Aby watched as Margaret’s submerged gills opened and she breathed in water.
51
God’s audience
Sitting on the edge of the couch in the living room, Lewis folded his hands together and waited. His hair was still wet. It did not seem like much time passed before he felt a gentle tug at his elbow. “Thank you,” Lewis said, standing up.
The hand on his arm felt large and strong. It could not be Beth, nor could it be Lisa. The hand guided him out of his room, down the elevator and out of the hotel. Lewis felt wind on his face. The wind was strong, but he must have been under an umbrella because he could feel only an occasional drop of rain on his face. He let himself be guided down a series of steps, then a second hand took his other elbow.
“Thank you,” Lewis said in the direction of the first. He let this new hand guide him inside a car, which he presumed was a taxi. “Please take me to a movie theatre,” Lewis said. “The closest one.”
The taxi moved forward. They made left turns and right turns. Lewis could smell the remnants of a cigarette smoked long ago. Feeling that he’d travelled very fa
Feeling a tug on his elbow, Lewis slid out of the taxi. He felt rain on his face and hands. The rain was coming down hard, and his clothes quickly became wet. He tripped on the curb, but the driver had his elbow and kept him upright. They walked slowly down a series of steps. He knew they were inside the theatre, because the wind and rain had stopped, and he could smell popcorn.
“Thank you,” Lewis said, raising his wallet. The wallet was taken from his hand. Seconds later, he felt it pushed back into his back pocket. Another hand was at his elbow. This one felt feminine.
“I’d like to see the most popular movie you’re presenting,” Lewis said, and once again held his wallet in the air. With the woman’s hand on his elbow, they walked down a gradual slope. Then the hand gently pushed him down. Lewis felt the plush seat underneath him. “Thank you,” he said. The hand squeezed his shoulder.
Lewis did not know what movie was playing in front of him or at what point he’d come in. He could not be certain that a movie was playing at all, or if there was anyone in the theatre with him. He sat in his chair, uncomfortable because his pants and jacket were wet from the rain. Then, after what felt like a much longer stretch of time than a standard movie would take, Lewis heard something. It was not music, and it was not dialogue. Lewis did not hear the movie at all. The small sound he heard was the audience.
The events on the screen had scared the audience, which made them quiet. Lewis understood that the audience was afraid, and he became afraid too. The next time the audience was quiet, Lewis could tell it was because they were sad, and so he became sad. He heard when they were anxious or upset or hopeful, and he became these things as well.
Soon he could hear the movie—the music and the soundtrack and the dialogue—but Lewis continued to listen only to the audience, reacting as they did. Near the end of the film, when the boy had successfully won the girl and the audience was relieved because everything was going to be okay, Lewis looked down and noticed that his shirt was inside out.
52
The roof of the Prairie Embassy Hotel
Aby watched her mother breathe underneath the water. Margaret’s breaths were very deep and very far apart.
Aby had spent years trying to predict what her mother would look like when she saw her again. Innumerable times she’d taken childhood memories and aged them, greying her mother’s hair and deepening her wrinkles. But the face she saw in front of her looked little like the one she’d created in her mind. Her mother had aged in ways that Aby could never have predicted, shaped not just by time but also by her unwatered life.
Slipping beneath the surface, Aby put her head next to her mother’s. She breathed in and out, then slowed her breath until their gills were in sync. She felt a deep sadness as she allowed herself to accept that the mother she remembered, the mother she had come to rescue, didn’t exist and perhaps never had.
Aby wrapped her arms around Margaret and swam into the hallway. Using the railing for support, Aby half swam, half climbed the steps to the fifth floor. Her progress was slow. The water rose almost as fast as she climbed and it was to her waist when she opened the door to room #501. She opened the room’s only window. With her mother over her shoulder, she climbed out onto the roof.
She put her mother down. Margaret coughed as she took in air again. Dead birds and car batteries were scattered across the roof. Aby looked around her; as far as she could see, there was nothing but water. Even now, water was lapping at her feet. Quickly, Aby lifted her mother in her arms. The water rose to her waist, and Aby lifted Margaret over her head. The cloud above her seemed low enough to touch. The water rose to Aby’s shoulders, then up her neck and over her face. Aby held her mother as high as she could. Her arms and legs ached. The rain fell. She felt the water reach her forearms. She felt her mother’s body tighten and then go limp.
Aby looked up, through the water, and saw a blinding flash of blue light. She did not resist as the current lifted Margaret’s body out of her grip and carried her away.
53
A beacon, sudden and timely
Anderson and Kenneth stood on deck, watching the rain strike the water. The wind was loud and the sound of thunder almost constant, and when Anderson spoke he used a voice so hushed and small that his father had to lean towards him to hear it.
“We couldn’t have known,” Anderson said. “How could we have known?”
Anderson looked at his father, who looked out at the storm. Then they looked at each other. For a moment the thunder stopped, the wind died down, and the only sound they could hear was Stewart banging on the hatch.
“How many people do you think would fit on this boat?” Kenneth asked.
“Quite a few, I bet.”
No verbal or physical cue followed, but a decision was made and passed between them. Anderson unlocked the hatch, Kenneth opened it, and Stewart charged up the steps, his hands in fists. But when he reached the deck, he was brought to a halt by the view around him. Lowering his arms, he turned in a circle. In every direction, all the way to the horizon, there was nothing but water.
“We want to use your boat to help.”
“Help who?” Stewart said, gesturing at the water that surrounded them.
“Well, Winnipeg’s pretty close, right?”
Stewart looked up at the small Canadian flag attached to the top of the mast. He watched it flap in the steadily increasing wind. For the first time in years, and certainly since he’d taken employment at the Prairie Embassy Hotel, Stewart felt a sense of purpose. Finally, there was something he must—not just could—accomplish. He began moving quickly, his motions decisive, giving him an unquestionable authority.
“You, the thin one,” Stewart said.
“Anderson.”
“Anderson, take the rudder and keep us pointed into the wind. And you …”
“Kenneth.”
“Remove the halyard … unfasten that thing,” Stewart said, pointing.
All three men began working quickly and collectively. The halyard was attached to the headboard. The mainsail was allowed to run free. But as Stewart was raising the sail hand over hand, he suddenly stopped and looked around. He looked over the bow and the stern and the starboard side, but there was no point of reference. They had no map. No compass. No way to determine what direction to sail in.
“Which way?” Stewart asked.
Just then, a blinding blue light flashed in the distance.
None of the men knew that the blue light had anything to do with Margaret, or that it was above the roof of the Prairie Embassy Hotel, which was now completely underwater. Nor did they know that sailing directly towards it would set them on a straight-line course to Winnipeg. But all three felt that the blue light’s sudden and timely appearance was unlikely to be a coincidence.
“I presume we’re going that way?” Anderson asked.
“Definitely,” Stewart replied. “And you, Kenneth, get down in the cabin, start bailing and keep at it.”
54
The last full-sized telephone booth in the world
Lewis left the movie theatre and began searching for a telephone. All the stores were closed. No cars stopped; they just splashed water on him as they passed. He did not know where his cellphone was—the last time he remembered using it was back in Toronto, which seemed like a very long time ago. The puddles were now so large, and his clothes were already so drenched, that he stopped avoiding puddles and simply walked through them.
At the corner of Albert and McDermot, Lewis found what he assumed was the last full-sized phone booth in the world. Closing the door behind him, Lewis wiped the rain off his face with the sleeve of his jacket. He shook his head, se
Lewis had to close his eyes to remember the number his wife had forced him to memorize. The phone began to ring. After the third ring, a click indicated that the call had been answered, but no one spoke.
“Rebecca? Are you there?”
“Yes, I am.”
“I don’t have much time, so please listen.”
“Who is this?”
“It’s Lewis. Just listen.”
“Lewis Taylor?”
“Rebecca, you were right. So right. I treated your sister badly. I never noticed that she was my whole life. Forgive me that I only learned this after she died.”
Lewis waited for a response, but none came. The phone went dead. Looking down, he saw that water had pooled at the bottom of the phone booth and was quickly rising.
55
The unanticipated effects of the unexpected apology
Rain soaked into Rebecca’s clothes and Lewis’s apology began to dissolve her emotional invulnerability. She looked at her hands. The flesh was solid, and she felt more open and free than she ever had before.
It was a fragile state, Rebecca knew, and to sustain it she began thinking of Stewart. Working chronologically, she pictured each significant moment in their relationship. She saw him kneeling behind the damaged tail light. She watched him tinker with the engine of the Karmann Ghia. She saw him on their first date, the day they moved in together, their wedding day.
Each memory returned to her so clearly that she forgot about the park and the bench and the rain. Each moment she remembered, she almost relived. A tiny residue of her feelings for Stewart had remained inside her: the combination of her new vulnerability with the vividness of the remembered moments created a tiny opening. As she pictured the day Stewart left her, Rebecca began to fall in love with him again.