MJ thinks about water often these days. Water seeps into her mind as she sits at her desk, adding the numbers. Water drips in as she drives R to school, even on the brightest of days. She cannot shake it off, not like a dog, not like a duck's back.
Ever since the Announcement three months ago, MJ has been drowning in thoughts of water. She knows she is not alone. At work, her colleagues are distracted. Everett and Lorne drew graphs on the white board at lunch one day with the door closed. She could hear them arguing all the way from her cubicle. Janie, who sits across from MJ, has already submitted her papers for Nepal now that Canada and Peru are no longer accepting wetlanders. 'You have to get in before the rush,' she tells MJ. 'Before everyone wants to go and they close it down, like in France.'
So many have already left. Her friend, Amy, packed it up the week of the announcement. Her husband had an uncle in the USA who pulled some strings. MJ's sister up and moved to Peru before UN Water Treaty Six came into effect and they stopped letting anyone in. She sends letters to MJ and R now, full of Spanish conjugations and relief.
But MJ can't seem to find the energy to leave. And perhaps it is too late. At R's school, the class is half empty. The highways are a breeze now, they have even stopped the traffic report on the radio. No need. There are advantages, MJ tells herself. There is always parking. And the city is so quiet now. No lineups, ever except at the camping and hiking store. And forget about any of the boating stores, you'd be waiting in line for weeks.
MJ has her boat already. It is tied tightly to the balcony. It is not a big boat or a fancy one. She couldn't afford it on her salary but the salesman assured her it floats and that is really all that matters.
On the phone to her mother, who is high in the Canadian Rockies, illegally, MJ tells her of the obsession with water, how it follows her everywhere, how showering and doing the dishes have almost become unbearable.
'But you're ready, aren't you?' MJ's mother asks. 'The kayak and everything? It's ready?'
'Yes, it's ready but what if it's not enough?'
When she is not thinking of water, running water, swirling brown water with leaves and branches and debris, icy cold water, she looks for things that float. Every time MJ enters a room, she quickly scans the furniture, what floats, what doesn't, where could she put R if the time came? She carries her emergency floating device with her at all times and panicked that one time when R forgot hers in the rush to get to school.
Floating. Water. Sinking. Water.
At night, she dreams of rushing floods, of buildings collapsing under the brute weight of water. She wakes in a sweat, again water, and goes to the balcony to check the kayak, glowing yellow in the night. The dry goods are tucked into the toe of the boat, the life jackets hooked to the sides. MJ looks out onto the neighbourhood. Hers is a fourth floor apartment, which reassures her. The moon is bright and full. Already the spring has been so warm, melting what little snow fell in the winter.
I am ready, MJ says to herself. If it comes, I am ready. And she returns to bed.
