Breathing the World

This story was influenced by a real-life incident I had with my own father, and places that he and I have been, but I'm not Miranda--if I were, I'd probably have all my student loans paid off by now =P

 

I hold a secret I keep locked away from the world, in the folds of my mind.  A man once told me mental illness is the mind’s final attempt to survive.  The water is my refuge, my silence and my inspiration.  With it surrounding me, as the lights of the harbor fade, I breathe.  I survive.

The lake’s surface is surreal the evening I set out from shore.  It’s behaving in ways I’ve never seen water act, despite all my years of living on a lake.  Reminds me of people and their behavior.   When asked why I was going out, I pointed to the clear night sky and said I wanted to see the stars away from the city lights.  It’s not entirely a lie.  The further I travel from the shore, the more nature and the world engulfs me.  Cool air beats at my face, rustles the fabric of my sails.  I lock the rudder in place, set the sail, and plant myself at the bow so that I can feel the water spray against my face.  It’s clean and cool, but its sensation isn’t the only thing I long for.  Silence so profound I can hear my breath.  The water begins to spiral as the wind takes hold of it.  Odd that despite how choppy the lake is, I still feel safer with my hands almost touching it, within reach of getting thrown over the banister and bow, than I do on the land.  Out here, I can forget about a world that once again forced another of my clients to suffer under a man-made judicial system.  Out here, I can forget about law, about how cruel men can be to one another.  I can just remember the facets of nature.  And breathe.

 

 

            “Miranda!” my father called out.  His voice traveled only mere yards ahead, through the trees and thicket, before fading upon the mountainside.  I flinched, locked my muscles, and waited for him to catch up before pressing on through the trees.  Wood chips and dry leaves crumbled under our heavy steps.  With a sigh, I adjusted the weight of my backpack so that it hung over my left shoulder.  He reached for his water sling as I searched my pockets for an energy bar. 

“Is this an exercise in getting lost?” I snickered between swallows of chocolate and peanut butter.  Night had already descended upon the forest and we could hardly see the trail.  I lost count of how many times we’d been through this part of the mountain, and yet the world was such a different place at night.  Shadows played far too many tricks on the eyes and imagination.

            “Why?  Do you want it to be?” he asked, his voice frighteningly eager.

            I stood with bated breath, hesitant to answer.  Growing up, I had realized at an early age that I had with a father who craved the outdoors like a madman.  He didn’t need alcohol or nicotine to find an addiction; nature was plenty enough of a drug.  When I was smaller, I’d curl up on his lap, tucking my knees into my arms and letting my hair fall against his shoulders.  It was in that pose that I learned the secrets of the universe—the shape of the Earth, the moon’s  affect on the tides, why the stars changed each season rather than remaining constant.

            The stars.  My drug.

            “You’re a liar!” I had said one evening with arms crossed.  We were sitting in his burgundy armchair, him prattling off stories as carelessly as one would flick away a spec of fuzz.  As much as I wanted to believe in them all, as desperately as I wanted to believe that the world was truly such a fascinating place where everything fell together in such pristine harmony, there were some notions that were too difficult to swallow, even at such a young age where I was privileged to imagine what I wish without people questioning me or scolding me because of it.  My father, in all his infinite wisdom, still didn’t seem powerful enough to be able to hike across the desert at night.  The terrain was like the same repeating splotch of desert and cactus, so how could anyone find their way without the aid of the sun or light without getting lost?

            “That’s a serious statement,” he frowned in response.  “On what grounds can you prove your argument?”

            “No one can use the stars to navigate their way home, Daddy,” I said firmly.  “They’re not even always in the same spot, right?”

            That was the last second I ever spent on his lap.  He reached under my arms and lifted me, only to plant me down beside him on the adjacent sofa.  One elbow rested on his right knee and the other supported his chin.  I understood the severity of that moment far too well.  A stern expression always meant a lecture was about to ensue.

            “It’s time you hear about the Big and Little Dipper,” he said.  “Come spring, the Big Dipper is in the Northeast part of the sky.  As the season progresses, it moves northwest.  So yes, stars change.  You remember it, the big constellation shaped like a pan?”

I nodded.

            “Well,” he continued, “there’s also the smaller constellation, the Little Dipper.  You can find Polaris, that’s the North Star, from either of these.  It’s at the end of the Little Dipper’s handle, or to find it from the Big Dipper, look at the far end of the bucket and draw a line straight up.  It’s pretty bright, but not the brightest in the sky, so don’t confuse it with another star.”

            I sat silent for minutes on end, stunned, struggling to absorb this fantastical notion.  I was a child of the dawning age of technology, and as I grew up, I was surprised if I visited a household with fewer than two computers.  Throughout college and law school, I realized computers were a man-made necessity that drew us maps and navigated us not just through our term papers but the air and sea.  How explorers survived before the age of technology, I couldn’t fathom, although I always questioned it as far back as I could remember.  From that moment on, I no longer had reason to wonder.  The celestial world was my independence.  Breaking free of the mold of technology, as my father used to say.

            “So, anyone can—navigate—this way?” I asked, struggling to use the most complex word I could think of.

            “Yes,” he replied.  “Remember hearing about Christopher Columbus in school?  Think beyond him, to even Edward Teach.”

            “The pirate?” My eyes were hopelessly glazed.

            “They all had to learn celestial navigation—say it with me, see-lest-you-all,” he said.  “Of course, they had more elaborate tools to aid them, and would be daft to leave port without a compass.”

            “What’s daft?” I blinked.

            “What you call your brother,” he smirked as my complexion flushed a deep pink.  “But if you have a compass, you’re never truly lost.  So, don’t you owe me an apology?”

            “For what?” I said.

“For accusing me of not being good on my word,” he responded.

“Yes,” I said somberly, lowering my chin.  “I’m sorry.”

            “Always look me in the eye when you apologize,” he said.  “That’s the only way I, or anyone else, know it’s genuine.”

            “Can we try this tomorrow?” I asked, suddenly forgetting my guilt and shame.  Those emotions that adults cling to so agonizingly always seem to slide off children.

            “Maybe not tomorrow,” he laughed.  “But, some day, I promise.”

 

 

            “Do you have a compass?”

            His voice had aged by a good fifteen years, as had my level of concentration.  I replied by removing it from my pocket.  It was difficult to fumble with all my hiking accessories in the dark.  The light of the full moon was irrelevant.  The trees smothered out any light that might have tried to reach the base of the forest.  When I finally handed it to him, his hand lunged out in a blur, snatched it away and hid it somewhere on his clothing.

            “You were supposed to say no,” he said.

            “Okay,” I inhaled heavily, but was slow to exhale, as if the act of doing so would expel all courage from my body.  Closing my eyes, I envisioned the layout of the forest.  There was a clearing a short ways back at one of the lesser peaks on the trail.  Without words, he followed me to it.  I no longer had to prove my knowledge to him.  I, too, understood the secrets of the universe.  From the clearing, I could easily find the Big Dipper.

 

 

            Fascinating how the last thing anyone ever tells you is what you most strongly remember.  It doesn’t matter what their first words were to you, or the billion other words they spoke throughout your lifetime or the course of your relationship.  It all hangs on one sentence.  What one can say in a single breath.

            “Shaver Lake is going to be cold.”

            Leave it to my father to break conventions, even on graduation day.  Not a, ‘Congratulations on your completion of law school!’ or ‘Thank heavens I don’t have to pay for any more tuition.’  All he could think about was where I was moving to.  And, of course, him.

            “Oh,” he paused as his eyes jumped back and forth, between the edges of the sidewalk and the rose bush, as if there was something he was hesitant to say.  At last, he sighed and spoke.  “Congratulations.  On, er, Edwin.”

            “His name is Edward,” I replied rather matter-of-factly.  “We still have a full year before the wedding.”

            “A year’s a long time for people to lose themselves,” he laughed, all in good fun, but the reality neither of us wanted to admit was the sincerity of his words.  I could navigate the world over solely by the stars before I would go through the trauma of law school and college again.  Too many restrictions.  Too much forced to be done by machine rather than a human hand.  I secretly swore as I accepted my law degree that if I opened my own practice, everything would be written by hand.  Even my own fiancé declared me a madwoman.  Maybe I was a madwoman, because I could only lie so much before my counselors realized all the reasons why I was going to reclusive Shaver Lake instead of accepting a job in one of the major cities.  I had been well-aware of the fact that I was not meant to belong in this modern world.  Often times, fantasies flittered through my thoughts that I was somehow transported from the past and that I used to invent tools for navigation and write star charts for sailors.  Pretty sad when you’re twenty-five and you still have to pretend to get through your day. 

My father planted both hands on my shoulders and looked me square in the eyes.  I was not in the least bit intimidated and returned the gesture.  “If there’s ever a problem with anything, you can always come back here.”

“Daddy,” I addressed him, “I’d write to you when I arrive, and keep writing for as long as I could, but that wouldn’t be enough to let you know that I’m doing okay.”

            “Actually, it would help.  I want to hear your thoughts.  Hear how everything’s going.”

            “Really?” I frowned, raising one eyebrow and furrowing the other.  Something in his voice frightened me.  Perhaps it was because I knew him too well and knew his tone suggested there was something he was hesitant to mention.

            “Yes,” he replied at last.  “Insanity is the mind’s final attempt to survive.”

            I didn’t quite understand what he meant by that, but a second later, Edward picked me up and we left the following morning with the moving van to travel from San Bernadino to Shaver Lake.  By the time we arrived, I was too busy unpacking boxes to remember to write home and ask my father about what he was trying to tell me. 

 

 

            Jacob’s fate was sealed before the jury spoke.  He sat beside me, his body trembling but deep brown eyes intense, focused on a single object.  The glass of water on the table.  He was explicitly trying to ignore me when his verdict was read, and it’s understandable why he would do that.  A young man whose life was over at twenty-five for having the wretched luck of being in an alley on the wrong night and having to defend himself from an assailant.  As the case progressed into its darker, revealing stages, I only wished the assailant hadn’t died from his injuries, not out of respect for human life but out of respect for Jacob and his freedom.  And yet, Jacob sat there, not speaking a word of anger for me, but perhaps being as focused as he was because he knew I couldn’t be.

I can’t recall when it started happening; when I couldn’t focus on people anymore.  My reputation in law school was that of the compassionate, humanistic lawyer.  Where compassion existed some eight years ago, there are now vacant of memories of my clients’ blurred faces.  A nineteen-year-old girl on trial for her life because she sought vengeance and murdered the man who raped her.  A young man who robbed a store for fifteen dollars so he could eat.  Many other cases, faces, names, that I didn’t remember because I didn’t want to remember.  They told me in law school that I would come across that one difficult case every now and then.  Did the world frown upon me so much that I got them all consecutively?  They were all the same case, and when I sat in court and could not immediately recall the names of my clients, I somehow knew they were doomed.  At least when Jacob stood up and was cuffed, preparing to be held for sentencing, he turned and looked me in the eyes.  I met his gaze directly and held it.  He was the first to break the connection.  It was the least I could offer him. 

The courtroom air is stifling.  The buildings and towns surrounding Shaver Lake are suffocating.  I can’t breathe anymore, and as each second passes where my body doesn’t get the oxygen it craves, I can feel a part of me slipping away that I know I’ll never get back.

 

 

            My hand punctures the lake’s surface.  The cool liquid passes through the slits between my fingers like air.  I can fall in and submerge myself—maybe to never again come up for air—but I force myself to sit back and concentrate on breathing.  Inhale deeply, exhale slowly.  I find my pulse beating in perfect synchronization with the rise and fall of the swells and the movement of the current.  Glossy water drips from my fingers, shimmering, falling into the lake, like a meteor in terms of brilliance and impact.

Thinking quickly, I clutch the banister and fling myself around so my back is on the deck and gaze at the sky.  With the harbor so distant and my boat planted in the middle of the lake, no one is here to intrude.  My eyes scan the night sky, absorbing the sheer amount of light the stars emit.  As I begin to notice the different constellations, my breathing becomes regular.  There’s Ursa Minor.  My finger reaches towards the sky, almost as if I can brush against it.  It paints an invisible line upwards until it blots out the light of Polaris.  I pull my hand back so I can see it in its full natural beauty. 

Only half-aware of what I’m doing, I remove my cell phone from my pocket.  I get service out here?  Cell phones are another curse of technology, but unlike celestial navigation, I can’t think of a way that the explorers used to communicate to far away places with ease in replacement of them.  Besides, this way my husband and daughter don’t panic when they can’t immediately locate me.

            “Hello?” I hear a deep tenor voice speak in my ear.  Startled, I nearly drop my phone as my body locks in place.  Vocal chords become restrictive as I realize what number I’ve dialed.  I have to say something, because there’s no use in calling if I won’t at least leave a message.

            “Wesley,” I say at last, “It’s Miranda.”

            “Oh, hey,” he says and falls silent.  The universe could have been created and destroyed in the amount of time it takes for either of us to speak.  “Is there, um, something I can help you with?”

            “Yeah, there is,” I reply, my fingers digging themselves into the leather case on my phone.  “Is Daddy still visiting you?”

            “Yeah,” he says hesitantly, as if he’s afraid of what I was going to ask him.  It never ceases to amaze me how daft my brother can be.  “He’s out at the moment, but he’ll probably be back in a few hours.”

“I have to be home by then.  I still have to finish my report for a client’s sentencing tomorrow,” I say and close my eyes.  “Listen, it’s getting late and I have to start making my way.  I just want you to pass on a note to Daddy for me.  He doesn’t have to call me back.  Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

            “Pen in hand?”

            “Give me a sec.”  Ugh.  “Okay.  What is it?”

“Tell him,” I smirk, “that I’m looking to the North right now.”

He breaks out in menacing laughter. “You called me at ten forty-five just to tell me this?”

“Yeah,” I grunt, ready to hang up on him, “And he doesn’t need to call me back.  Just make sure he gets the message.”

“Okay, fine.  Goodnight,” he says quickly then hangs up before I can respond. 

            The journey back towards shore is swift.  Though the wind is against me, I feel as if it’s only taken half the time to get back as it did for me to make it to the center of the lake.  Maybe the wind isn’t against me after all, and I’ve just lost all sense of time.  The entire voyage back, I’m captivated by Ursa Minor and oblivious to all else around me.

Reviews

[.:Naiira Harlow:.]

A very beautiful piece. I like the beginning sentences alot.

"I hold a secret I keep locked away from the world, in the folds of my mind. A man once told me mental illness is the mind's final attempt to survive. The water is my refuge, my silence and my inspiration. With it surrounding me, as the lights of the harbor fade, I breathe. I survive."

Such a nice opening to this piece. The title is also a nicely added part. I'm addicted to the stars as well, but my dad doesn't watch them with me. Kudos! A very nice piece!
-Twilight