Water of Life

by Jeffrey Greene

Table of Contents

Table of Contents
parts: 1, 2, 3 4

conclusion

He opened the door and met her red, itchy-looking stare, saw the ugly rashes on her neck that she had unsuccessfully tried to conceal with make-up, and knew at once why she’d come. She saw that he knew, and bit her lip. Her hands were shaking.

“Hi, Julie. Long time no see. Please come in.”

“Thanks. How are you, Coleman?”

“I’m okay. You?”

“I’m... well, maybe just so-so.” Her eyes kept wandering past him to the water dispenser in the corner of the room.

“I was just having some dinner. Have you eaten?”

“No. Haven’t had much appetite lately.”

“Sorry to hear that. Are you ill?”

She nodded. “I’ve been getting these rashes. And other symptoms. Like I’m suddenly allergic to everything.”

“Bone, muscle, joint pain? Upset stomach? Feeling like you’ve stolen a march on old age?”

“Yes! Do you know what it is? Because my doctor is stumped.”

“I had the same problems. Really set me back on my heels. Please, sit down, and I’ll tell you all about it. Have some pizza. There’s plenty here.”

“Just a slice for me. Thanks.”

“Can I get you something to drink? Wine? Beer?”

“Wine, please.”

He brought her a glass of Chianti, then set her a place at the table, and they both sat down.

“I think the last time I saw you was that night in the elevator,” he said. “When was that, a year ago? At least. You were with that tall guy I used to see in the building. I have to say, you seemed happy.”

She caught herself scratching at the rash on her neck, and put her hands in her lap. “Yes, I was,” she replied with seeming reluctance. “Until he ghosted on me. Week before last. Moved out of the building while I was at work. Changed his phone number, no forwarding address. Nothing.”

“I’m so sorry. I know how tough that is.” He took a bite of pizza and a swig of wine. “You know, Julie, seeing how different you were in the elevator, I mean in every way: your hairstyle, clothes, your joy, but most of all, your shine, if I may put it that way, it reminded me of the first time you came here for a drink. Remember?” She nodded uneasily.

“I have to confess something to you about that evening. I’d discovered this wonderful spring water, called Water of Life, that the woman who lived here before me had had delivered to her each month, and then apparently moved out so fast she didn’t even close her account. A dead-of-night exit, kind of like your boyfriend’s.

“Her monthly two bottles came to me and, out of laziness, I started drinking it. It was the best water I’d ever tasted. Hard as it is to believe, it even made me feel better: stronger, healthier, more outgoing. And because every time we met in the elevator, you always seemed, well, so armored, so held in, I wanted to see if it might help you to come out of your shell a bit more, as it did me.

“You asked for whisky and water, and I gave you Water of Life. I know I didn’t have the right to do that, and I’m sorry. I hadn’t seen the dark side of it yet. But it certainly worked, didn’t it?”

“As you knew it would. And no, you didn’t have the right.”

“Was that your first exposure?”

“Yes. But not the last. That guy you saw me with — Tikhon’s his name, he’s Russian — was another Water of Lifer. That’s what he called himself. At the time I thought he was joking. Then I found out. You’ve found out, too, haven’t you?”

He nodded. “The hard way. So what happened? Did the price finally exceed his generosity?”

She managed a bitter smile. “He started charging me ten bucks a glass, and even then I could see that it pained him to give it to me. Ever since he left, and I went back to drinking regular water, I’ve felt awful. Like, sick all over. What’s going on?”

He told her about the theft of one of his bottles, and the two weeks of misery before his next delivery. “They ought to call it ‘Water for Life.’ But it’s my own fault for being greedy — for attention, popularity, success, abundant health. Water of Life gave me all that.”

“But how? And why did we get sick after stopping it?”

“I don’t know this for sure, but I think it’s because we’re the children of a polluted world. The water we’ve been drinking all our lives would have made humans ten thousand years ago just as sick as it’s making you now, post-Water of Life. In effect, its purity has metabolically spoiled you for the water you grew up drinking. We didn’t get sick at first because our bodies hadn’t become dependent on it yet. It’s a little like opioid withdrawal in that sense. You have to be drinking it for a while, then abruptly stop to have the allergic reaction to tap or filtered water.”

She went even paler. “And how long will this... withdrawal period last?”

“No idea. Two weeks of it was enough for me. You have a choice here, Julie, and it’s not a pleasant one. Quit Water of Life and be miserable until your body readjusts to regular water, or become a sucker like me and drink yourself into bankruptcy. I know I’m just postponing it. But who wants to be sick if there’s medicine to treat it?”

“You’re wrong about my choices, Coleman. I’ve already tried to get an account with them. They regretted to inform me that due to high demand and a prolonged drought, they aren’t taking any new customers.”

She got up and dumped the rest of her pizza in the garbage, then limped back to her seat in obvious pain. They stared at each other for a long moment. He was about to tell her that he just couldn’t spare any, much as he’d like to, but found himself unable to say the words. He got a glass measuring pitcher from the cupboard, went over to the dispenser and drew her exactly twenty ounces, then poured it into a tall plastic container with a lid and set it in front of her.

“The next delivery comes in less than a week,” he said. “I can cut my intake in half until then. That’s twenty ounces for you and twenty for me per day, enough to keep us feeling well. I won’t charge you any more for it than what I’m now paying, which is $11.25 for twenty ounces. Drink some now, maybe eight ounces, then ration the rest. Tomorrow I’ll give you the same amount. You’ll feel better right away, but the aches and pains and the rash will take a few days to clear up.”

“Can I pay you tomorrow for this?” she asked. He nodded, and she drank down about a third of it, then carefully set down the cup, closed her eyes and breathed deeply. He could almost see the color returning to her face. “Thank you,” she said.

“I owe you that much, for giving it to you in the first place. But you know this is just a reprieve, right? I can’t keep paying these prices. And even if we pool our money, sooner or later we’ll be wiped out. Maybe we should try weaning ourselves off it. Drink a little less each day, or start mixing it with heavily filtered water, until we’re off of it completely.”

“I guess we don’t have much choice,” she said. “Still, it’s amazing how much better I feel after drinking just eight ounces. That mere water could do that.” She stood up and stretched her long limbs. Looking at her, already visibly less pale and sick, he wondered if either of them would have the strength of will to give up that Water of Life feeling.

“Maybe it’s because our bodies are mostly water anyway,” he said. “And if all of our drinking water was as pure as Water of Life, we’d never have to experience an allergic reaction. But humans will have to be extinct for millennia before the Earth is that clean again.”

“Well, I’d better be going,” Julie said, scooping up her water and limping to the door. He opened it for her, and she turned and enfolded him in a quick embrace. “Thanks again, Coleman. I’m not used to disinterested kindness. Especially from men. I won’t forget it.”

“I’ll see you about this time tomorrow,” he said. “Goodnight.” He closed the door, turning the word “disinterested” over and back in his mind. He knew it was the only kindness allowed him when it came to Julie, regardless of what water he happened to be drinking. But after seeing her taste in men, could he ever have believed otherwise?

The maintenance dose of Water of Life seemed to stave off the allergic reaction in both of them. He decided to postpone the weaning-off process until the next — and possibly last — month’s delivery came. The first of the month happened to fall on Saturday, and he set up a chair outside his door and read from late morning until sometime after one, when he saw the delivery person bustling down the hall pushing a hand truck, dressed in navy blue pants and a light blue shirt.

It was a different person this time, a woman about his age, with shoulder-length brown hair. She mumbled a greeting and kept her head down while unloading the bottles and stacking the empties, and was turning away when he noticed the name stitched to the breast of her shirt.

“Helen!” he said. She stopped, keeping her back to him. “Helen Merrivale?”

She slowly turned and faced him, a wiry, gaunt woman with a disappointed mouth and deep-set gray eyes shadowed with dark circles. “Yes?”

“I’m Coleman Stillworth. I’ve wondered about you since the day I moved in. I know it’s none of my business, but what happened? Why did you move out so suddenly?”

“For the same reason you will, one of these days,” she replied. “Money. I live where I can afford to now, thirty miles outside the Beltway. Two full-time jobs, one to pay the bills, and this one. My salary is two bottles a month.” She turned her back and on him and started down the hallway.

“I’m going to quit,” he said. “Start tapering off as of right now.”

She paused, turning an incredulous smile on him over her shoulder. Then she laughed.

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