Left Drowning(102)

The first hour is tolerable. The salt water eventually feels soothing on his legs, and it’s probably good for cleaning his wounds. Plus, it’s helping to keep him cool on this hot July day. The water, despite providing the problematic weight in his already tired hands, is also his ally. He and the ocean are partners in this hideous day. It is not the water’s fault that Chris is suffering.

The second hour is tougher because his body is already so worn out. The past three days have been filled with grueling tasks, belittling comments, and threats about what will happen to the others should Chris fail at what is expected of him. As easy as it would be to let his mind take him somewhere else, into an imaginary world where this is not happening to him, he refuses to go that route. Escaping, blocking this out, will make him insane, he’s sure of that. Reality is crucial, he believes. Prayer will get him no relief. Begging the sky for a miracle won’t work. Chris is able to handle what his father throws at him, and he will just continue as he always has, shielding the other kids. The truth is that the gaps between his father’s episodes have gotten greater and greater over the years. It’s not as though every day in the house is filled with gruesome beatings. Save for a handful of physical incidents over the years, it’s all just a mind-f*ck, and Chris will not let that drown him. He’s done everything that he can think of to take care of his brothers and sister, and he’s done a damn good job, too. Chris can’t exactly replace their mother, but he cooks, helps them all with homework, and does the laundry when his father lapses. He even walks Estelle to that church she insists on attending.

It’s during the third hour of this increasingly strenuous task that his resolve starts to crack. There is no part of his body or mind that does not hurt to all hell. It’s just water; it’s just water. How can carrying water be so bad? It can’t. Just breathe into it. Breathe into it and keep going. But every step becomes more burdensome, the act of pulling his feet from the sand more and more grueling. Every muscle in his arms feels like it’s going to tear each time he lifts up a new bucket of water. But if he stops, it will be worse.

He should have killed his father. He still could. He could kill him in his sleep with one of the hunting rifles in the house. Or he could poison his food. Maybe he’ll do that. For a moment Chris fantasizes about actually doing this, but despite all the reasons it would be justified, he knows that he isn’t capable and that it’s not right. And that having a dead father is a sure way to guarantee separating the kids.

He holds tightly to the vague plan in his head, which is merely that there is a future outside of this house. He will get his siblings to that future no matter what.

As his arms fatigue even more, the buckets drop down in his arms. He must make a conscious effort to keep his arms bent so that he doesn’t keep battering his thighs with the weight. Chris keeps a steady pace, though, because if his father should choose to look out from the upper windows of their sprawling house and see imperfection, one of the kids will pay the price later. As he mulls over the idiocy in perfecting such a meaningless task, he trips and spills half a bucket of water. Panic grips him, but he continues on.

Sweat drips from his upper body. Chris can feel the sunburn on his shoulders and back. It’s going to make sleeping tonight terrible, but he should be exhausted enough that nothing will keep him awake. Still he feels near to fainting. If he doesn’t take a quick break, he’s not going to make it. His father is going to ring a bell from the deck to signal when he can stop, but that won’t be for hours, he’s sure of that. Chris turns to the trees and looks to the upper deck of the house by his father’s studio. If he’s checking on Chris, he will probably be looking from there. He leans his head to the side to look past one large branch of a tree, and seeing no one, he drops the buckets and leans over, placing his hands on his knees while he dry-heaves. Damn it. He needs water badly. Man, what he’d give for just a little water. Chris turns and wades into the ocean up to his mid-calves. As tempting as it is to gulp down ocean water, he’s not that dumb. He shakes his head. No, he’ll just make himself sicker.

Maybe he has no future after all. Maybe none of them do. Maybe the four of them are already broken beyond repair. Can they really have any sort of life after this? Probably not.

Chris looks out where the ocean meets the sky. He could swim to another shore, run off, and never come back. He contemplates the idea of immediate freedom. Maybe he really should swim out there and never come back. Give himself over to the dark water of the Atlantic. But he would never leave his siblings. Never.

Suddenly, Chris realizes that he is making eye contact with someone. She stands on a floating dock in the cove and looks back at him.

She is beautiful. He can’t even see her clearly because of the distance, but he can feel her beauty. He guesses that she is around his age. She probably has a wonderful, normal life, the way every teenager should. Exhaustion, sadness, and despair overtake him.

The girl gives him a small wave, and he waves back. He knows that he shouldn’t do this because his father might flip, but he can’t help himself. He is drawn to her. Wait, does he know her? No, that’s not it. Yet there is a familiarity about her presence.

She cups her hands to her mouth and yells across the water. “Hi.”

“Hi, back!” Chris replies.

“Are you … okay?”

Chris drops his hands onto his hips and looks away. Shit, she’s been watching him. He must look crazy. “Yes, I’m fine.”