The Summer That I Drowned

Drowning isn't entirely a bad thing.

The Summer That I Drowned

 

            I thought I saw you today. I didn’t, of course--the auburn hair just tricked me, like most little things do. (Today it was some redhead in Dollar General. Tomorrow it’ll be a teal sedan, or the smell of incense, or the way Duncan Schuster leans back in his desk and crosses his arms behind his head and laughs.)

            Sometimes it’s hard to remember what you looked like from a distance. Sometimes I forget the way your face softened whenever you told a story, the set expression of your mind in deep concentration. Sometimes I’ll see a pair of hazel eyes and I’ll remember how yours used to dance, and I can almost convince myself that you’ve been here all along, that you never really went away, that I’m not still struggling to surface from beneath the waves you left in your wake.

***

            Charlotte Krebs somehow manages to convince me to go on a double date with her, her boyfriend Davis, and one of Davis’s friends I’ve never met--Micah, who’s apparently in some underground band or other.

            “You’ve been moping around too much lately,” she tells me in the hallway after second period. “It’ll be good for you. Besides,” she adds, slamming her locker shut and turning around to stare at me with those big blue eyes. “He plays guitar.”

            I offer a hesitant shrug.

            “Oh, come on!” she begs. “You need this! Just forget about everything for one night. Please.” There’s her puppy dog expression again. She dramatically places a hand over her heart. “Please. For me.”

            “All right, I guess,” I respond, fiddling with the zipper on my hoodie. “But only because Dad and April will be out.”

            That night, Micah arrives at my house an hour and twenty-two minutes late, in some giant white SUV with the music blaring. I stand at my window and watch as the vehicle shoots into our driveway, the too-bright headlights glaring and bouncing off the sides of my house. The clunker jolts to a stop inches away from the garage. I quickly close the curtains.

            A car door slams. Five seconds later, the doorbell rings. Twice.

            I open the door to see a lean figure with squinty green eyes and a shock of dark curls. Despite the below-freezing temperature, he only wears a black waffle-print shirt and jeans.

            “Hey. Sorry I’m--” His freakish eyes rake over my body. “Jesus, you’re skinny.”

            I stare at him blankly for a moment, then step past him, close the door behind me, and stride over to the SUV.

            “Char mentioned you don’t talk much,” he says, once we’re both situated in the front seats. He leans over the console to fiddle with the radio and his eyes roll up to look at me, as if seeking some sort of affirmation. I nod. His gaze returns to the controls. “Funk okay?” Without waiting for another answer, he turns on the music full-blast. We lurch back out of the driveway and head toward Charlotte’s house, the hum of bass guitars paving the way.

            “So… Good week?” he asks, his voice raised several octaves to be heard over the sounds from the speakers.

            Didn’t sleep much, I’m almost tempted to say. Kept having these dreams that I was drowning. Instead I simply nod again. “Sure.”

            “What?” he shouts. I shake my head and stare out the window. “My band just finished making the last song for our EP this week,” he continues to yell. “We’re performing at The Malt on the third. You should come.” I feel him looking over at me once more. I shrug.

            By the time we reach Charlotte’s neighborhood, my ears are ringing and temples are throbbing, and Micah’s voice is hoarse from trying to start more conversations. The pounding in my head pulses down to my stomach, which begins to churn.

            Char pops out of her house, arm linked with Davis’s, both of them laughing. They walk over to the SUV, thrust open the back doors, and climb in. “Turn that s**t off!” Char immediately hollers.

Micah’s jaw clenches, but he lowers the volume and leans further across the seats to grab at something in the open glove compartment. He fishes out a pack of cigarettes, then looks at me imploringly. “Want one?”

I shake my head. “Remy’s a good girl,” Char calls from the back. I don’t have to turn around to know she’s grinning. “Didn’t I tell you? Her dad’s a pastor.”

            “I’ve seen my fair share of ‘good girls’,” Micah scoffs, pulling a lighter out of his pocket. He fumbles with the switch a few times before he gets a good flame going. The end of his cigarette burns red-orange against the darkness inside the car. “Trust me, they’re no different than anybody else.” He shoves the stick in his mouth and careens out of the driveway.

            I stare out the window as residential neighborhoods give way to the small downtown area, buildings and fast food joints alive with neon signs. At a stoplight, I find myself wishing I could be sitting in one of the sticky, ripped up booths at Los Burritos under the haze of the blue-green fluorescent lights, being served by a waitress with a greasy ponytail. But for now I suffocate in Micah’s smoke and try to tune out the sounds of Char and Davis kissing in the backseat.

            Micah ends up taking us a short distance to Rickey’s, an entertainment-and-lounge kind of place where all the college kids usually hang out. The entrance is down a flight of stairs that used to lead into a train station from the street. As Micah pushes open the door and we enter the den, we’re immediately greeted by a huge flatscreen TV and several large sofas. To the right of us is a small counter. On our left are foosball tables, a claw machine, jukebox, and rows of pool tables. Fifteen bowling lanes, half of them occupied, lie beyond.

            Char, Davis, and I hang up our coats on some hooks by the door while Micah strides over to the front counter to pay for a set of billiard balls. We all regroup at one of the pool tables in the far corner. Davis grabs four cues off the shelf on the back wall and distributes them.

            “Ready to get your asses kicked?” Micah asks Char, smirking. He sets up the rack and performs a perfect break, the balls smacking each other like a clap of lightning. He pockets two solids right off the bat.

            “Shut up,” Char grunts playfully. “Will Remy and I get to play, or will you and Davis just go at this all night?” She pouts a little. “That was so boring last time.”

            Micah walks over to the other end of the table and leans forward, readying his cue. “Of course you can play,” he assures her, his eyes fixed on his next target. “If you’re not too good to play a gentleman’s sport,” he adds, looking up at me and winking.

Char nudges Davis, whispers something in his ear, and giggles. The ache in my stomach starts to twist around me more tightly.

            By the time Charlotte and I get to shoot, Micah and Davis have only left four balls on the table. But neither of us can hit anything, despite impatient lessons from both the boys. Finally, our dates just finish off the round. Then we decide to bowl.

            “Five bucks says at least three different guys have jacked off into these shoes,” Micah announces, approaching us at a bowling lane with four pairs of rental sneakers.

            “Shut up,” Char repeats. Her tone isn’t light this time.

            Micah holds up his palms in mock surrender. “Sorry, Princess.”

            I curl up in one of the seats in front of the bowling lane and start untying my shoelaces. Char and Davis plop down behind the little computer screen and begin to enter our names, wrapping their arms around each other and chuckling. I stare at them and remember the last time I was here. Because if I forget you, then I forget how to swim, how to--

            A hand suddenly curls itself around my waist. Micah’s face leans close to my ear. “Having fun?”

            I bob my head up and down.

            “Good.” He uses his other hand to turn my body toward his. “Then why don’t you kiss me?” Before I can respond, he juts forward and slams his lips against mine.

            I spring up, pushing him backward with a force I didn’t even know I had. “Get away from me!”

            His eyes widening, he loses his balance and bangs his head on the corner of the seat next to us. Char and Davis turn around and stare in horror as a small stream of blood begins to trickle down his neck. “F**k,” he spits. “F**k!”

            I take off for the exit.

            “You stupid b***h!” he yells. “Those aren’t even your shoes!”

            Without turning around or bothering to grab my coat, I sprint out of Rickey’s and up the stairs leading to the street. I pause for a moment as the cold of the late-winter night settles into my skin, readying myself for the three-mile trek home. Then I run away from the building and into the dark.

            I don’t realize I’m crying until I’ve burst through the front door of my house and hot saltwater is stinging my cheeks. I slam the door shut, stumble down the hallway, and throw myself into the bathroom. I stare down at my red-and-blue bowling shoes, knees wobbling and vision blurring.

            The memories come in swarms. Remy’s a good girl. Micah’s lips forming a perfect ‘o’ as he exhales smoke. If I forget you-- The smacking of lips from the backseat. The clap of billiard balls colliding. Char’s resounding laughter. Jesus, you’re skinny.

            I collapse onto the bathroom floor, shaking all over, thinking of the greasy ponytailed girls in Los Burritos, the stupid funk music trumpeting out of the SUV’s loudspeakers, Micah’s breath on my neck. If I forget you, I forget how to breathe, how to keep my head above the water.

            My hands flip up the toilet seat. I grab onto the rim, tremble, squeeze the last of the tears out of my eyes. And I heave.

***

            I thought I felt you today, but it was only the early spring breeze blowing in through my bedroom window.

Sometimes it’s hard to remember your embrace. Sometimes I forget the smooth warmth of your palm pressed against my own, the grip of the fingers that could pull me up from underwater. Sometimes just the wind is enough to fool me.

            So this afternoon, I closed that window and pulled the curtains tight.

***

            Right after church one Sunday, Char calls me for the first time in over a month. I stare at her name flashing across the screen of my phone and hesitate. But on the fourth buzz, I decide to pick up. “Hello?”

            “Hey. It’s me.” She breathes heavily into the receiver. “Can we go for a drive?”

            Thirty minutes later, we’re tearing across the country roads in her dad’s red Ford Escape, the midday sun beating down through the windshield. Char adjusts her gigantic pair of sunglasses and sighs.

            “I think Davis is going to break up with me,” she says. “He’s been acting weird lately. All silent and stuff. He doesn’t even protest when I want to watch Say Yes to the Dress.” She props her left elbow on the inside of the door and runs a hand through her hair. “Do you think he knows about that one time when I went with John to…”

            I gradually tune her out, staring at the gray pavement--still slightly bleached from last winter’s salt--as its bumps and potholes unravel before me. And if I--

            “Remy?” Char says. “I asked you a question.”

            “What?”

            She lets out another sigh. “This is about Micah, isn’t it? I told you I was sorry. But you know,” she puts in, turning to eye me, “He was cuter when I first met him. And don’t be too harsh--his mom’s in the hospital and can’t pay rent. He was probably stressing out about it.”

            I think of him dishing out dollar bill after dollar bill to pay for everything at Rickey’s, and snort.

            “What?” Char asks icily.

            I shake my head.

            “Ugh.” She shakes her head too. “You know, you’re too quiet. It probably freaked him out a little.”

            I suck in a deep breath. Char seems to have forgotten that she and I originally became friends because she used to be just as quiet as I am--until she discovered how much sex she could have by talking and laughing and flirting. I turn toward the window again.

            “I mean, it can’t be healthy,” she continues, “holding stuff in like that. We all saw you snap last month.”

            “Maybe I just don’t have anything to say.”

            “Even so, it’s like--it’s like you’re dead, almost, or just asleep.” She pushes up her sunglasses again. “You need to wake up.”

            It’s hard to wake up when I’m so far below the surface. But you don’t know what it’s like to drown, what it’s like to--

            “I know things have been hard because of Andy,” Char says. “But that was months ago. You need to move on. I mean, God.” Her palm smacks the top of the steering wheel. “Just because someone took his life doesn’t mean you need to waste yours.”

            “What?” I hiss. My body shifts to face her.

            Her blue eyes remain calm at first, but eventually they start to grow bigger and bigger. “Well,” she says, half certainly. “It’s true.”

            “Don’t f*****g talk to me.” I cross my arms and return my gaze to the windshield, where it stays.

Char lifts her foot from the gas pedal for a moment and looks over at me. The car engine sputters. After we slow down to about 40 and neither of us has said anything, she goes heavy on the gas. The Escape lurches forward, shooting down the most recent beat-up road we’ve encountered. And we keep going.

***

            I thought I heard you today. Maybe it was something about the last of the ice on Lake Michigan finally cracking, melting, releasing a steady flow that surged past the docks. Maybe it was the shrieks and laughter of children by the shore as they tried to outrun the wind. Maybe it was that snap of lightning right before the first spring storm, the way the sky nearly split in two to unleash a downpour.

            The rain chills me to the bone. I’m growing sick, sick of having to fight this constant monsoon just to keep my head above the water. Each day is a struggle to prevent my memories from spiraling down the drain--because if I forget you, then I forget how to swim, how to breathe, how to be. I almost wish I’d never learned to begin with.

***

            When April bursts into the upstairs bathroom and catches me with my fingers down my throat, I threaten to kill her.

            “How many times do I have to tell you?” I snap. “When a door is closed, you knock first. F*****g knock!”

            Even the obscenity goes over her head. “Wh-what were you doing?” she asks, her little face a reflection of complete horror.

            “None of your business.” I step closer to her and look down. “And no one needs to know about it. Got it?”

            “But--”

            I push her away from the doorframe. “Okay. Good. Now go away.” Slamming the door in her face, I leave her to stand there unsurely. I turn to face the mirror, rub my temples, and listen as April scampers back downstairs. After a few more minutes of silence, I turn on the faucet and splash some water onto my face. Then I dump our toothbrushes out of a cup, fill it to the brim with water, take a long swig to get everything going.

            “Remy?” Dad calls from downstairs.

            I wrench my hand out of my mouth. Little b***h! I whirl around and grab for the doorknob, but my body is already seizing.

            Two pairs of footsteps sound on the staircase: the light skip of my sister, the heavier beats of my father. “Remy?” he repeats, louder this time.

I crumple onto the bathroom floor, gagging. If I forget…

“Remy!” I hear Dad running up the last few steps and down the hallway. “Remy!”

            My fingers reach out to clutch the edge of the toilet bowl, pulling me toward it just in time. I’m vaguely aware of the door swinging open behind me, of my dad saying, “Remy,” again and again.

            Stomach acid scalds my throat and my eyes start to water. Dad falls to his knees behind me, making a feeble attempt to pull back some of my hair. I wretch for what feels like hours.

            “Oh, Remy,” Dad says, his voice soft, his other hand stroking my back.

            I sit up, preparing to wipe my chin, turn around, and tell him that I only have a bug. But I can’t even think about forming the right words with this new searing pain in my chest.

“Sorry,” I choke out, tears suddenly spilling over. “I’m sorry.” My mouth hangs open; drool dribbles down and onto my neck. I start to shake with sobs. “I’m so sorry. I just miss him.” It feels so weird to finally say it that I cry even harder.

Dad presses me back against his chest, rocking us slowly. “It’s all right,” he murmurs. “I know. I know. It’s okay.” He rubs my arms and holds me closer.

“I’m sorry,” I repeat.

“Shh. Shh.”

            I’m not sure how long we stay there, but the next thing I know, he’s carrying me out of the bathroom, down the hallway, and into my room. I find myself struggling to stay awake as he tucks me into bed.

            “Everything’ll be all right,” he says quietly, kneeling by my bedside. He folds his hands together and begins to pray softly. The slow whispers lull me to sleep, eventually mingling with my dreams.

            When I wake, it’s well into the next day. I slip out of bed, make my way over to my closed window, and run a hand along the sill.

A thin layer of dust covers my fingertips. I brush them together and blow the remaining debris off the wooden ledge. Then I slowly reach up and tug on the plastic draw-pull and the curtains finally open, flooding the room with light.

Author's Note

Originally a piece I started last summer. Of course, being me, I had only written about three lines of it back then (and the rest in my head), but the few sentences I actually did write were the foundation for this. The rest I built on from experience.

Reviews

[lostinthewaves]

Okay I never read stories on here. Ever. I bumped into this one after reading one of your poems, and I am so glad I got sucked in before I had time to click away. Remy is so relatable yet so far away at the same time. I have no idea how you packed so much background info into so little time but I feel like I’ve know these characters forever. I loved it! Thank you for sharing!

[JayceeC]

I'm not sure about empowering feminism, but to me this story is about surviving the dark places. It's about owning your emotions despite what others say. It's accepting that helping hand and letting others help you heal...Perhaps by anchoring you back in your roots.
This is a great story all-out dealing with loss in the midst of the rush of teenager/young adult life and expectations.
The only thing I would like to see is something moored at the climax to the end. Some indication of emotion to the fathers care or more than just the action of opening the shades. There was a fundamental change in your protagonist, but your reader had to guess, because we went from inside her head to across the room. To me the story feels a bit incomplete despite having a great closing.

Don't worry about the teacher's drivel. Some English and lit teachers are trained that way in their liberal arts colleges. People will take from your write what their own experiences let them take.

[TL Boehm]

Emma sent this to me and I am so far behind on RR's that I don't often read things third party but because it was Emmajoy and it was a story I jumped.
This one is a stellar write. Its gripping, edged - a little sass and lots of whollop to it. it could have gone awry at the pool table but it didn't and I was relieved. I like the treatment of it the fact that my intelligence was never insulted by an "explanation" of what was literally eating Remy from within. The characters lived the story - well done. Well polished - a fantastic write.

[andrew mitchell]

I don't read too many stories but thanks to emmajoy I had the pleasure. This had the wow factor written all through this piece. The format, the story, the imagery, the grammar was all too excellent. Unbelievable and held my attention, in awe!:)

[Carolynn]

I think you did an amazing job with this story - it had me pulled in from start to finish (and I'm old now lol) but I could really understand the characters personality (a bit of her resembled an old friend as well as a niece of mine) quiet people who hold all their emotions in. I usually think about editing as I read but this was to me - very well edited, grammar flows smoothly - just wow! Great job!

[emmajoy]

This is one of the best stories I've read in years of being in the Cafe! I'm near struck Numb with thought, numb with knowing that such a story was written by someone whose comment about stabbing self in the face made me laugh aloud!

You use the most amazing touches of place, person and moment, '.. His freakish eyes rake over my body. “Jesus, you’re skinny.” ' - in that you've hinted at his character and described Remy. it's no good, there are so many cues, mini descriptions that set the tone of what is obviously a tragic tale that builds and builds, its characters clear, the emotions zizzing. Sweet, near strange finish that.. says so much. Going to recommend to absolutely. Will return to read again and again and, know each time i'll find another sweet something to eulogise over.

[mappingthenight]

This was amazing. I love the flow of your writing and how the story alternates between Remy's present experiences and the feel of forgetting/drowning. I really like the mixture of dialogue and how you describe settings. I hope there is more to come.