Keeping My Head Above Water--A Short Fictional Story by Cherie Lewis
Keeping My Head Above Water
They have been telling me for 16 years that I am stubborn and
defiant. I prefer the terms free thinking and misunderstood. They’ve been
furiously treading water for so long that they don’t know what it feels like to
jump in head first and actually swim.
I admit, I am quite stubborn, and, honestly, I am defiant. I am not bad, just different. I don’t understand how people decide to just move
through the days as though there is nothing unique or beautiful to be seen in
them.
We live in a small cottage in a mountain town where our backyard
meets a lake. It’s just my folks and I. When I was 12, mom was pregnant with a
little sister, but she lost the baby. It was devastating for her, and she retreated
into her shell of a life, moving through it at a pace of a tortoise with a
thousand bricks on its back. Her grieving made her detach, unavailable as a mother
and wife. Dad took to working long hours, and unwilling to upset mom, willingly
assumed that her assessment of me was correct. Mom truly believed that I was
just plain bad.
My spirit of adventure and exploring is distasteful to them, as
though the dirt of enjoying the outdoors is somehow worse than the dirt that
they sweep under the carpet. Our pond might look murky and brown, or have algae
on its surface. But when the temperature outdoors is 95 degrees, and the
temperature inside even hotter so that nothing can tame the blazing fire, the
pond is the place where relief is found. Racing down the dirt path and diving
head first into the cool water somehow washed the dirt away. They don’t understand
the hours I spend swimming in that pond. I’m glad, because I don’t want them to
join me. It is my safe space.
When I’m walking through the woods, I am forever forgetting to
watch the time, getting lost in my thoughts while wandering barefoot over soft,
damp leaves and moss. It is so quiet in the woods, the trees so large and
protective, that not even heavy downpours in the midst of a heated summer can
threaten to disrupt my thoughts. I’ve stubbed my stained, dirty toes more times
than I can count on a dozen hands, but my bare feet welcome the cool forest
floor. The pain my toes might experience cannot compare to what happens when I
am indoors searching for shoes. It is must faster an escape to race out the
door without stopping, free of the constraints of straps or laces.
There is this clean scent. It is the smell of grass and trees
after the rain. Indoors the scents of frozen dinners and dirty dishes fill the
air. I can’t breathe in there. Mom is so used to it from being confined to our
house for so long that she doesn’t even notice. And dad, so driven by the habit
of doing nothing but sleeping in the house, experiences even less life there.
He doesn’t seem to notice, but maybe he just doesn’t care. They are so stuck
with that smell. I don’t know how they can stand it! Is it easier for him to
breathe when he leaves the house?
Mom cannot handle noise. This has always been so and did not start
when I was 12. I remember being very young, and frozen dew appearing on pine
needles in our yard, and mom telling me to get outdoors early in the morning. They appreciate my escaping because it is for
their sake rather than for my own. If they would just get out of their habit of
confining themselves to the dungeon of sadness! They are so stuck in their
world that they cannot enjoy the scent of water and sun and dirt! The earth
refreshes my weary mind after being trapped indoors. Their silent chaos is so
deafening! The woods and the pond keep me from being confined to the walls of
our home.
I’m sure they were disappointed that my little sister-to-be did
not enter their world to rescue them from the parenting of me. She would be
their prodigy, the one they could bend and mold to just skim the surface
without troubling the water. She would be frightened and frail and content to
stay within the cottage walls.
I used to be, before the incident of losing her. I was as stuck as
my parents are, existing peacefully, although not joyfully, in the contentment
of indoor sedentary activity. I was afraid of getting dirty, of mussing my
dresses, of lifting my head even enough to smile when introduced to another. I
am still terribly shy, so lifting my head to acknowledge another is hard for
me. But getting dirty? That part I have down, because when we lost her, things
inside got muddy and cleaning up could only happen by breaking free of that
mess and racing like the wind to get outdoors just to breathe.
I wish I could coax my mom to come walk with me. Come on Mom, just tiptoe to the water’s
edge. I think if she would just let
her feet dangle in the water, I could let my guard down long enough just to be
near her. But the pond is for my own solace, because most of my life is spent
just barely keeping my head above water.
It is dangerous to be so confident in the woods. We don’t have
guns or bows so meeting with wildlife is indeed dangerous. I have listened to
my father’s warnings, to be aware of my surroundings, don’t go out too early or
too late, don’t stray from the path. He doesn’t know that I have worn a path of
my own now. It’s exciting to entertain a little danger.
I learned last year that I was overconfident in the water. Dad,
who is not a swimmer, would tell me that Mom mentioned I had gone to the pond,
and that he was distressed of my swimming alone because I had not been properly
trained in water safety. He had forgotten that I’d been swimming in that pond
for as long as I could remember. Just
keep you head above the water. I mentioned my tendency to dive in head first,
didn’t? Defiantly, and out of necessity I dove in and busted my forehead open
on a log. I took in water. I even panicked. I wondered if this is what my
sister experienced as she was dying in our mother’s womb. I don’t remember
anything after that accept being pulled from the water by the pharmacy delivery
guy, who apparently knew CPR and had my dad as the emergency contact. Oh man,
did I get busted for that! Thankfully Dad did not ground me from the pond. But
it kind of made me feel like it wasn’t all that big a deal to him.
And so I continue to swim, jumping in head first, although careful
about the depth of the water I go charging into. I have a scar on my right
eyebrow that proves it took eight stitches to teach me a lesson that actually
could have meant death. Mom and Dad must assume that I am keeping my head above
water, because they don’t check on me to make sure. Yes. Defiance. Because
under the water is where the deepest parts of me escape.
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