More Than Water (6 page)

The crisp night breeze sweeps over my bare hands carrying my photography equipment as Foster and I tread across the stone square plaza toward the illuminated large fountain at its center. Hues of yellow, purple, pink, and gold light up the individual streams of water dancing around the sculpture, creating a lucid rainbow of curves in the air.

“I’ll set up over there,” I say, pointing to a well-lit space about twenty feet from the rim of the fountain.

The temperature lowers as we edge closer toward the moving water.

“I should be able to get a few shots here, and then I’ll likely have to change position.”

“Sounds good,” Foster says near my side, tucking his hands into his taupe canvas jacket. “What should I do?”

“Just be a good guard dog.”

“Do I need to bark?”

“Only if you want to.”

I set up the tripod, lengthening the legs to the appropriate height, extract the camera from my bag, and clip it onto the head of the stand, firmly securing it. Peeking through the lens, I frame the shot and adjust the angle of the camera to achieve a desirable composition.

Fingers crossed this goes well
.

Sometimes, the process of getting the right shot is more trial and error along with a little bit of luck.

I shoot, capturing eight images in a row, and then readjust the angle of the lens upward. I take five more shots as the sound of water plunging into the small pool at the bottom of the fountain fills the quiet evening.

“What’s this all about?” Foster questions.

I change the aperture. “Are you asking a philosophical question about life?” I grin, teasing him. “The age-old question, what does it all mean?”

“No.” He chuckles. “I think Gandhi and a bunch of ancient Greek guys covered most of the what-does-it-all-mean stuff. It’s highly unlikely your views on that could possibly trump those.”

“How do you know?” I peek at him. “I could make a very strong argument. Don’t you think it’s kind of premature of you to disregard my views so quickly?”

“Depends. Do you think the meaning of life can be found through a camera lens?”

I shrug. “It’s possible. Don’t knock it until you try it.”

“Sounds like peer pressure to me. I’m not falling for that.”

I smile and look through the camera once again. “I’m totally lost, and I have no idea what you are even talking about. Your big brain went on some kind of tangent.”

Foster steps closer to my side, and his arm nudges my hip. “The meaning of life.”

“Deep, Fozzie. Cosmically existential.”

“Sure, Evelyn,” he says, drawling out my name.

After taking a few more shots, I change the camera lens to one more suited for close-ups, pick up the camera and stand, and walk closer to the fountain.

“By the way, I wasn’t trying to have a philosophical conversation about life with you,” Foster says.

I lock the tripod legs into place. “I’m aware. I was just teasing you.”

“You do that a lot,” he deadpans.

I’m fully aware of my constant sarcastic tone, but never has anyone called me out on it so blatantly.

Foster is doing me a huge favor by coming to this part of town in the middle of the night, and I should be a little more appreciative of his generosity and try not to be so flippant. As my mother would say, I was raised with manners, so there’s no reason not to use them. Even though I hate to admit it, there are occasions when she’s right, and this is one of them.

“I’m sorry,” I tell him. “I didn’t mean to blow you off.”

“You didn’t.” He smiles in a way that is authentic and somewhat…adorable. “But I am starting to wonder if you can hold a serious conversation.”

“I can, but it isn’t my usual means of communication.”

“Why?”

“A lifetime of rebellion.”

“Huh?”

“Never mind.” I bury my head behind the camera. “We can have a serious conversation if you want. What did you have in mind?”

Foster stands silent at my side as I snap a few photographs. When the frame is exhausted, I gather my equipment and meander to the opposite end of the platform with my faithful guard at my side—still quiet.

I drop my camera bag at the new location.

“Before,” Foster says, “I was asking about your project and all these images that you’re taking.”

“What about them?” I ask, quickly setting up.

“What’s your project about?”

“It’s a study of water.”

“Water,” he muses. “I guess that’s pretty obvious. Are you doing all the classical elements? Earth, wind, and fire, too? Not the band, of course.”

“No.” I laugh, ducking behind the camera. “Why would you think that?”

“It’s logical. They all go together, chemically speaking, balancing each other out, and humans are dependent on all of them to co exist with one another.”

“For humans and the earth maybe, but this isn’t a science project. It’s art. Plus, I’m not exploring that kind of story with this series.”

“There’s a story, too? These are pictures, right?”

“That’s usually what you take with a camera.”

“You’re teasing me again, Evelyn.”

“But it’s so easy, Fozzie,” I singsong. “Besides, you’re thinking too hard. You’re going to hurt that big brain of yours.”

“I doubt that,” he counters. “And it’s not that big.”

“Right.” I laugh. “Keep telling yourself that, Mr. I Hold Every Academic Chemistry Award Known to Man.”

“Somebody needs to. Why not me?”

He pauses, and I take another shot.

“Explain to me what you mean, so I don’t give myself a brain aneurysm.”

“Okay.” I rise from my bent position.

The soft glow from the fountain illuminates his windblown warm-brown hair. The excessive moisture in the air has caused the ends to curl across his brow, framing his midnight-blue eyes.

“Each image is supposed to tell a story, and I’m using water to convey mine.”

“Water?” he questions skeptically.

“Yes. Clear liquid often found in oceans, streams, lakes, and rivers. Sometimes falls from the sky in the form of rain.”

“Can also be a gas or solid.” He taps his forehead. “My gigantic brain has just informed me that it’s two parts hydrogen and one part oxygen. I did pass basic chemistry. It’s kind of simple.”

“Chemically simple, of course,” I playfully mock. Then, I return to shooting my photography assignment. “Each shot should be more than just a picture. If done correctly, within each frame, a tiny tale will unfold. The composition should make people question their purpose in life and the meaning of life and existence in general. Art is a way to convey what words cannot.

“It’s not simple, like you said. It’s not just two parts hydrogen and one part oxygen. It’s more than water. It’s a story—a living and breathing substance beyond the reflective surface.” I snap an image and then return my focus to Foster, who is pondering over the fountain before us. “Sure, you joked about it before, but in some ways, I really am exploring the meaning of life through a lens.”

Foster grins. “Damn, Evelyn, that’s kind of deep.”

“Thanks, Fozzie.”

I pick up the tripod with the camera attached and maneuver around the base of the fountain to the other side, wanting to capture every angle. Lining up my shot, I play with the shutter speed, taking longer-exposed shots to create a sense of motion.

“So, why water?” Foster asks at my side, continuing our conversation.

“What do you mean?”

“There has to be a reason you chose it, right? According to you, it’s more than just molecules, and you think it tells a story—or at least, you want it to tell one.”

“I don’t know.” I feel a pang in my gut. I snap another shot and then peek over my shoulder at him. “I guess I’ve always had a thing for water. Ever since I was little, um…I’ve kind of been obsessed.”

“Fond childhood memories?”

“Hardly,” I huff. “Kind of the opposite.”

“Oh?”

“Growing up, my family and I used to spend a lot of time on the water, and I hated it. Every trip was torture.”

“I thought you said you loved the water.”

“I do. My mother, on the other hand, is…never mind.”

“Ah,” he says, like he’s had a eureka moment, “mommy issues.”

“Total understatement.” I laugh to myself, realizing how open I’m being about the subject. “It would have likely taken years of therapy to come up with that diagnosis, and you figured it out in less than three minutes.”

“I must be a genius.”

“I told you that you had a big brain,” I remark over my shoulder.

“You sure did.” He massages his temples. “And it’s getting bigger by the minute.”

“That’s your ego inflating.”

“Doubtful.” He lowers his gaze toward the ground, kicking at the cobblestones. “Would you like me to send you a bill for my psychological services?”

“Please do. I’ll forward it along to my accountant.”

He adjusts his glasses over the bridge of his nose. “So, what? When you went on family vacations, did you have visions of tying a rock to your mother’s ankle and dropping her to the bottom of the ocean?”

“That’s kind of morbid. And no, I didn’t. I always hoped to escape into the water myself.” The same pang hits my stomach once again. It’s a new-to-me nervousness. “Do you promise not to laugh?”

“No,” he utters curiously, “but I’ll try not to.”

“Great. I can’t believe I’m telling you this. It sounds so silly, but part of me always hoped that I could turn into a mermaid and plunge into the depths of the sea forever.”

Foster tilts his head. “That doesn’t sound silly.”

“Really?”

“No. And your family can’t be all that bad.”

“Well, that’s debatable.”

“It’s doubtful that they’re so bad that you’d rather spend your entire life as part fish, drowning sailors with screeching siren songs.”

“The gig was attractive when I was ten.”

I take two more shots and then stop to review my digital images. Satisfied with the variety and angles, I announce, “I think that’s everything I need.”

Detaching the camera from the tripod, I place it into my bag and rise back up to begin breaking down the rest of my equipment.

But someone beat me to it.

Foster collapses the tripod legs and then locks everything into place without me having to even tell him how. Carrying the metal stand, he begins to walk toward where my vehicle is parked in a nearby garage.

“So, what’s your parents’ story?” Foster questions as we’re crossing the street. “Divorced or something?”

“Worse. They’re happily married. They always do the right thing and are loved by everyone they meet.”

“Sounds like a total nightmare.”

“A very scary one.”

It’s the Friday after Thanksgiving, and I’m fleeing New York City two days earlier than regularly scheduled. The visit was not a warm one.

I’d arrived at my parents’ penthouse on Wednesday afternoon and ended up going out with a high school friend, who was also back in town, to catch up since my parents had a social function to attend that would last through the evening. The following day, I’d joined them, Barbara, and her newlywed husband, Geoffrey, for Thanksgiving dinner at the same hotel we had dined at since I was six.

The meal itself had been overly indulgent and grand, as was the conversation. By the time dinner had ended, it had been obvious that my presence wasn’t needed in New York—or even desired, for that matter. My father had promptly left for Italy on business, and my mother had made arrangements with Barbara to visit Geoffrey’s family in the Hamptons. Being an afterthought for the holiday, I’d decided to return to campus where stilettos and pencil skirts weren’t a requirement.

I’d devised a white lie about studying for finals and spending the weekend working on my thesis. None of my family had batted an eye about my soon-to-be absence, so I’d booked the earliest flight available.

I will be landing back where I truly belong in less than three hours.

“Flight attendants,” the pilot announces over the aircraft cabin, “prepare for takeoff, please.”

Settling back into my seat, my tension dissipates when the plane pulls away from the gate. It’s not long before we’re on the runway and ascending into the air. I gaze out the window, watching the world below become smaller with every passing second. When the New York skyline is well out of view, I close the shade along with my eyes, exhausted and free, drifting to sleep.

~~~~~~

“Evelyn,” my mother says, her high heels clicking across the hardwood floor of my bedroom, “I’m heading out for the day.” She stops by the window, drawing the taupe curtain to view the street twenty stories below.

“Where are you going?” I ask in my eleven-year-old voice, turning within my seat at the vanity.

“Meetings, darling. The charity auction I’m heading this year needs a lot of my attention right now. After that, I have an appointment with Gregor at the salon and then drinks with Charlotte and Daniella. I can’t very well let them down.”

“Oh,” I say, smoothing out the wrinkles in the skirt my mother purchased for me on one of her daily shopping excursions last week. The white eyelet trim is similar to the scallop on my bedding.