The Sister(25)
‘Just at the very last possible point he could stop – he did stop; he was in the process of turning round to face us all with a gleeful smile, arms outstretched as if to say 'I fooled you’, but he never finished what he started to say. He looked in disbelief at his foot as the ankle twisted and gave way, tipping him off balance. Panicking, he flailed his arms, wildly grasping at anything, reaching for a handhold, anywhere...grabbing at the air. He teetered on the edge, too far gone to come back, and plunged backwards into the water.
‘Clouds passed over; shadows formed in the corners of my eyes. I knew this feeling. Something was wrong. I should have realised. I was too slow making the connection. Then I remembered what my grandfather said...that it was a bad place. By then, it was too late.’
Ryan observed the boy’s eye movements, adding to his notes. It’s as if he is watching a film. ‘What do you see, Bruce?’ he prompted gently.
Confusion furrowed his brow as he continued, ‘It was as if I was standing outside myself. I watched my mouth as it shaped the word...Nooo! But nothing came out. I might have shouted it afterwards, I can’t be sure. None of us could quite believe it. I stared down at where he’d lost his footing. Sticking out from the long grass, were the remains of an old boot lying on its side, the leather upper had cracked and blackened with age. The sole, wet and shiny, could have been new.
‘In those few moments, the part of me that was observing latched on to every detail, as if my life depended on it. The deep, double splosh Jones made falling in, showed how deep the water was, and the stench that came up was worse than rotten eggs. The others were laughing and shouting. “That will teach you, you crazy son of a bitch!” “You can keep away from me when you get out of there, Jones!” Brookes cried, clapping his hands together with glee at the thought of this particular campfire tale. It all seemed to occur in slow motion, Brookes saw it first; the smile disappeared from his face, the same with Watson. Jones’ chickweed covered face was a mask of horror; the light in his eyes disappeared—’ Milowski snapped his fingers. ‘Switched off just like that.
‘He stopped moving – just stopped, and then he slid below the black water. Watson jumped in first, and a second later Brookes plunged in, too. The strongest swimmer in the whole school, he turned to me and he never said a word, but the look...the burning eyes...the jerky left-right-left movements of his head...each carried a warning. He seemed to say. “Whatever you do ... don’t jump in!”
‘Something was very, very badly wrong down there. I became even more detached than before, and I saw myself struggling with the urge to jump in after them, moving this way and that, two or three paces left, two, three paces right. In my head, I knew I couldn’t swim. That day, my fear of water saved my life. The scene was now a deadly play, and I – not knowing what else to do – stood there watching as the fight for life took centre stage. I watched myself, as in desperation, throw my magic seashell to Brookes, and he caught it!
‘For a split second, our eyes locked onto each other, united by the power of the shell. I saw myself as I punched the air and exclaimed. Yes! One millisecond...and then he slipped under silently, a look of disappointment on his face. He looked as if he wanted to ask me something. The black water swallowed him and three large bubbles of air broke the surface before the carpet of weed covered it over again. Apart from the smell, there was no sign anyone had been in the water at all. I watched myself as I sank to my knees; a shrill, unearthly wail cut through the silence. I wondered who was screaming and then I realised. It was me.’
When Mrs Milowski returned just under two hours later, she walked into the reception and sorted through the magazines on the side table, selecting the most recent, a five-year-old National Geographic. She was much more comfortable leafing through it there than she would have been at the doctor’s or even the dentist’s. She was paranoid about germs and infections; she thought it less likely she’d pick up anything in a psychiatrist’s waiting room.
There was an article about the plight of Native American Indians, and the reported high incidence of alcoholism among them. She began reading it, quickly becoming engrossed. Over the page, someone had written in light pencil, 'low self-esteem'. A short electronic buzz snapped her attention back into the room. She saw the red indicator light outside the door change to green. The receptionist was just returning with a small plastic watering can. She started watering all the plants that decorated the waiting area.
‘Excuse me.’ Mrs Milowski pointed at the green light. ‘Does that mean he’s finished?’
The receptionist, half-surprised at the interruption of her duties, said, ‘He’ll be out in a minute.’ Her smile was thin. ‘You can’t beat some nice foliage to brighten a place up can you?’ she added as an afterthought.
‘No, you can’t,’ she said, putting the magazine back onto the table. She pointed at the lights outside Ryan’s door. ‘They’re like traffic lights, I suppose.’ She observed from the name displayed on the counter top that the receptionist’s name was Penny.
‘Sorry?’ Penny said. ‘Oh no, not quite; there’s no amber, you see? Just stop or go. I’ll let you in on a little secret,’ Penny whispered, beckoning her closer. ‘He had that put in after I walked in once while he was treating a lady.’ She winked theatrically. ‘When he’s with a patient, he doesn’t like to be disturbed, if you know what I mean.’