Margaret Atwood and The Lake

Tomorrow I am checking an item off the bucket list. I will be hearing one of my idols, the magnificent Margaret Atwood, speak at the Boston Book Festival. Cue the Christmas-morning level excitement. There are not enough exclamation points in the world, so I will forgo them and attempt to maintain that grown up level of calmness I try to imagine I possess. (Until tomorrow. Screw it then. I will be fan girling HARD!).

One of the most inspirational things that has ever happened to me was the unique experience of having Ms. Atwood read a story of mine that her own work (the mind-blowing poem This is a Photograph of Me) inspired. She wrote me a supremely kind and generous email (Read it!) in response that has inspired me in so many countless ways ever since. That story, which was originally published in Sou'wester magazine in 2012, is below!

The Lake

Part 1

 The photograph was taken the day after I drowned.  I’m not sure who took it, but I saw it in the newspaper the next day when I was trying to find my mother, to tell her what happened.    She was at the police station explaining what she knew for the ninth or tenth time, to the ninth or tenth officer she had met.  “I didn’t see her go outside,” my mother said, not looking up from the linoleum tiled floor of the station.  “I was cooking dinner and didn’t hear the back door.  She always likes to be outside.”  Her eyes were red but momentarily dry. 

 The newspaper was lying on the desk of the officer she was speaking with.  By that time my body had been found, deep in the lake, by the divers trained specially to find dead people.  When the photograph was taken, though, I was still in the lake, in the center of the picture, somewhere under the surface.  It is difficult to say where precisely, but I was there and soon I would be found. 

 The picture in the paper is very poor quality.  It is a bit smeared around the edges and has that grainy look of all newspaper pictures.  On the right hand side you can see our small frame house on a gently rising slope.  The left hand corner is blurred by part of a tree branch the photographer probably should have avoided.  And then, there is me.  It is almost as if you could see me if you just looked long enough. 

 I loved that lake.  Ever since I can remember, I loved it.  The summer I was four my dad taught me to swim in it for real, and I dove again and again under the water until my skin wrinkled and my lips turned blue with the cold.  He showed me how to hold my breath and sink my body down deep into the center.  I remember looking up to the shimmering surface above my head, feeling completely cut off from everything that was happening above.  The winter I turned six I taught myself to ice skate, around and around the lake until I could hardly stand up from exhaustion.  I caught tadpoles with my mother’s spaghetti strainer and brought them inside for her to see.  I made boats out of anything I could find that would float, and sank many things that wouldn’t. 

 I was out there every day the rain didn’t keep me inside, but even that didn’t always stop me.  The glassiness of the water fascinated me.  I knew it hid all of the things that were happening underneath the surface.  My dad had told me that there was an old tractor at the bottom, way out in the middle, though he wasn’t sure how it got there and I could never figure out how he knew.  Dad loved the lake too.  When he was around, he was hardly ever in the house.  Whether swimming in it, walking around it, or staring at it with sleepy eyes in the evening, Dad and the lake were, and now always would be, one whole complete thought to me.

Part 2

 Anthony Swift sat down on the edge of the sofa, and slowly eased his body back against the sagging cushions.  He lifted his hands to his head, using them to push his too-long hair back out of eyes.  His fingers still felt waterlogged from the three and a half hours he had spent in that wretched lake.  A chill clung to him, despite the clammy heat of the South Carolina summer.  His small apartment lacked not only air conditioning, but even so much as a ceiling fan to stir up the heavy air.  Yet Anthony was cold inside.  At 32, and after eight years as a Dive Rescue Specialist, he had built up a resistance to the emotional aspect of his job.  He had seen plenty of dead bodies.  He had also saved dozens of drowning people as well, but that seemed hard to remember at the moment.

 Anthony was not terribly sad about the dead girl in particular.  He felt bad for her parents, and sorry she was dead.  Of course he was always sorry about the ones that turned out to be recovery missions rather than rescue ones.  At the end of the day though, he did his job and went home, always with the feeling that the job was not completely done and never would be as long as there was someone else to save or find.  But this time was different.  This time he had not held his own feelings in check.  He was ashamed to admit it; that he hadn’t been executing his job to the high level he expected of himself, that his focus had been off, that his mind had been looking for something other than the girl. 

 It was a normal call for a diver.  Suspected drowning, search and recover, ten year old female, way outside of town.  He and the rest of the crew, boat in tow, headed out as always.  The water was colder than he expected.  With all his gear in place and a last nod at the other crewmembers on board, Anthony dove beneath the surface.  Many hours and several breaks later the rest of the team was ready to give up.  The lake was small but terribly deep.  Some of the police officers who had joined the fray on the shore started talking about draining some of the lake to get to the bottom easier.  While Anthony knew that was an option, he hated it.  It meant a lot of wait time followed by, more often than not, a disappointing result. 

 Not wanting to take that route, Anthony went down again, despite his already long dive time.  He headed straight for the middle and down.  The water was murky and swimming with stirred up debris from all of the previous activity.  The sunlight was thin but enough came filtering down through the water to allow him to see well enough, with a little help from his flashlight.  Anthony focused all of his energy on his task, wanting so badly to find the girl.  Failure in this case not only meant disappointment and a lot of wasted time, but it would probably mean a return trip at some point; the height of frustration.

 Pushing forward, Anthony thought he saw something ahead of him.  It was a slight variance in color and shape that usually meant something was in the water.  Squinting through his mask Anthony focused on the spot where he thought the movement had been.  He slowly moved in that direction.  Another shimmer of movement off to the left made him turn quickly, but he saw nothing there.  He briefly considered the possibility that he had been down too long, or perhaps his breath tank was malfunctioning, depriving his brain of oxygen.  Anthony readjusted his mouthpiece and looked all around him, searching in growing desperation for the girl.

 It was then through the dim water he saw a figure.  It was clear to him that it was a human form.  Only a shadow at first, it started to take a clearer shape as Anthony swam towards it.  It was the girl.  Anthony realized he hadn’t even bothered to remember the name one of the officers had told him before they launched the boat.  He blinked his eyes, trying to rid himself of the slight guilt he felt.  The girl’s back was towards him.  Her long hair streamed upwards in the tiny underwater current making her look as though she was hanging upside down.  As Anthony reached her, he held back for just a second, not yet wanting to touch her bluish dead skin.  Finally, with a gently push Anthony turned the girl towards him, bracing himself for the first glimpse of her face.  Her eyes were open, mouth gaped in an O, tiny air bubbles clinging to her skin.  Face to face they floated.  Anthony’s heart stopped.  His sister’s face looked back at him.

Part 3

  Celia Raines never felt as though she had been a good mother.  Since her daughter was a baby, she realized it was far easier to give in to her wishes than attempt to control her.  Whether it was cookies, bedtime stories, or another swim, Celia allowed her daughter whatever she wanted, just to avoid the argument.  Celia knew she was her father’s child.  They were both free-willed, adventurous and unendingly stubborn.  He made no attempt to curb her wild behavior, encouraging her to occupy herself outdoors as much as possible, climbing trees, picking flowers and of course playing by the lake.  When they pulled her dead body out of it, that day in June, he wasn’t even there to see it.  Celia wondered, at that moment, if she would even be considered a mother any more at all, good or bad.

 To see your own child dead is an experience in recalculation.  A parent must immediately re-plan the rest of their lives minus baseball games, ballet classes, sticky fingers, new school clothes, marshmallow cereals, lunch boxes, homework, first dates, prom dresses, driving lessons, college applications, weddings, grandchildren, and every other plan or detail a mother foresees in the life of their child.  To Celia it was the shock of trying to re-frame her life as a childless woman that made her nearly fall to the ground.  The officers had tried to make her stay in the house, but she couldn’t imagine everyone else knowing before her if her daughter, or anything else, had been found, so she stayed on the bank and waited. 

 When the diver finally surfaced after another endless dive, a ripple went through the growing crowd of people surrounding the small lake.  Celia knew what that must mean.  The boat eventually pulled up to the muddy bank and she pushed away the plying hands of the men trying to keep her back.  She splashed through the shallow water to get to the boat’s ladder and climb aboard.  She could see the outline of her daughter’s small form under the horrible plastic tarp they had covered her with.  It seemed wrong to her, as though they were planning on throwing the girl away.  It made Celia angry; unnecessarily angry and she stepped up to the girl as the dive team started to climb out.  One man, still in dive gear, dripping with lake water, knelt by the body.  Celia said her daughter’s name out loud, as though needing to hear it even if there was no denying the girl was dead.  The diver looked up at her, meeting her eyes.  Celia saw in his face a look of terror and misery that nearly stopped her heart in her chest.

 The man pulled the tarp from the girl, revealing her pale face and tangled hair.  He lifted her from the wet floor of the boat and carried her over to her mother.  Celia reached out and touched her daughter’s cheek, feeling the stiff coldness of her skin.  With a nod to the diver, she watched as he laid her on the stretcher they had brought on board and with extreme gentleness brushed back a few strands of hair clinging to the girl’s forehead.  Celia considered staying on the boat forever in her wet sneakers.  It seemed far more sensible than dealing with the circus of events she knew would follow.  She didn’t want to be that woman; the one she had seen so often on the news after a teenager’s car crash, a lost battle with cancer, or any other child’s death.  That woman was inconsolable, overcome with grief, unable to stand unsupported, miserable in a black coat and dress.  She knew, however, that she would be that woman.  She already was, she just wasn’t dressed for it yet.

 Part 4

  Anthony knew it wasn’t Carrie.  Of course he knew.  Carrie had been younger, smaller.  Dark-haired where this girl had been blond.  But down at the bottom of that damn lake, with the green sunlight filtering down and the brown muck swirling around, it might as well have been her.  If he was being honest he might have admitted that he had been searching for her all along.  Every time he strapped on his mask and sank down into the quiet press of the water, he was looking. 

 He pushed up off the couch, suddenly feeling suffocated by the mushy cushions, and walked to the front window.  The sun was almost down and stained the sky orange and red over the tops of the apartment buildings across the street.  Not so much as a whisper of wind blew.  Anthony imagined if it did, it might just blow away some of the discomfort he felt all over his mind, his body and his memory.  Despite a long shower he still felt as though the weedy smell of lake emanated from his skin.  He sighed.  Walking to the kitchen, he yanked open a drawer, cursing himself as he did.  He tried not to look at her picture, tried not to think about that day, but in truth he relived it every time he dived.

 It was a picture of them together.  He and Carrie laughing at something silly she had said.  It was taken some time just before that last Christmas, the year she had turned five.  He was eight years older and a good foot and a half taller.  Their age difference was enough that he was never bothered by her, never tried to be rid of her, never felt the resentment older siblings often feel about the baby of the family.  Carrie was fine by him and he was a proud brother.  She had a little bobbed haircut that framed her still-round face.  In the picture she wore all white.  That’s how he remembered her.

 Anthony gripped the edge of the kitchen counter as waves of pain rolled over him.  Eventually he gave in, laying his forehead down on his arms and letting those memories, the ones he hated, treasured, hid from, wash in and take over.  He could feel the hot sand of the beach, the sticky scent of sunscreen on his skinny body, the pounding of the surf all around.  His mother was there, dozing off on a towel while the sun baked her skin brown.  Carrie played by the water and he kept one eye on her all the time, knowing his mom wasn’t watching.  He was making some serious work of digging in the sand when a biplane flew low overhead.  He craned his neck and tried to read the words spelled out on the fluttering banner the plane pulled behind it.  Greenwood Auto Sales- Drive Right In!  He knew paunchy Mr. Greenwood from church and wondered if he was flying the plane himself.  He was kind of big to wedge himself in that little plane, Anthony thought.  It must feel so freeing to fly.

 He turned back towards the water but she was already gone; her small body in the wet red bathing suit nowhere to be seen near the glittering edge of the ocean where she had been playing.  The next few minutes are unclear in Anthony’s mind.  He remembered the rush of the salt water around him, flooding his mouth, filling his ears, as he dove again and again under the surface to try and find her.  But no, she was never found; body unrecoverable.  Sister dead.  Carrie gone.  And Anthony had been diving, under the water, again, again, again, ever since, trying to find her.

Part 5

  Celia knew everyone blamed her, and that was fine.  She blamed herself.  She also blamed John, for encouraging tomboy behavior in his little girl, for teaching her to love the lake, for not being there.  He had been gone three weeks this time when the drowning happened.  Either on a binge somewhere or holed up in some disgusting hotel room with whatever piece of trash he managed to pick up on his way out of town.  Marriage to John had not been the life raft she imagined.  Instead, she had to learn how to keep herself afloat and not be dragged under by his mistakes.  He loved his daughter, though, undeniably, but never really understood the weight of consistent parenting.  He taught her how to have fun and please herself instead of teaching her how to exist as a good human being in the world, not that Celia did much better. And now his little girl was dead and he didn’t even know. 

 She looked at the picture in the newspaper.  She had wanted to keep it for some reason, even though it was only a photograph of the lake, and it had been sitting on the kitchen table now for three days.  She had survived the funeral as best as possible.  Survival is a funny word, she thought.  I’ve survived, but to what end?  John must have seen the news coverage on the drowning by now, and still, he hadn’t come home.  For a wildly vivid moment, she imagined him gone forever.  Then she could go, she thought.  Then she could leave this place.  Begin somewhere else. A totally different person, single, unbound.  Leave this tiny house, the rotting woods, the stinking lake, John’s dirty boots, the memories of motherhood, the crushing smoldering disappointment that pervaded every moment of her life, a life half-lived, all of it.  She sat back in the kitchen chair.  Where would she go? 

Celia looked out the window, feeling accused, disowned, alone.  The lake looked back like one giant, invading eye.  She closed her eyes to block it out but it was still there.  She felt the cold clench of the water.  She felt the pull down into the deep unknown darkness where her daughter had gone.  She felt smothered, threatened- a feeling Celia was more than used to.  She stood, exactly still in that moment, her mind calm, her ears straining to hear it call her so that she could go. 

 Part 6

  I sat by the edge of the water, my shorts slowly growing wet from the damp dirt but I didn’t care.  It was sixteen days after my tenth birthday and I was sure I was on the edge of adulthood.  It was a hot day and the water looked cool but I wasn’t allowed to go in without my mother or father there.  I knew it was almost dinner time and Mom wouldn’t want to hang around for me to swim right now.  She would be in the kitchen, humming to herself while she cooked but would stop if I walked in, like there was something the music made her think of that she didn’t want me to know about.  She probably thought I was in my room.  I had climbed out of my window to come down here like I did sometimes when I didn’t want her to know where I was going.

 I watched an ant crawl up my arm.  I imagined his little feet slipping in the sweat that gathered at my bend elbows, but he moved on just fine.  The weight of my hair pressed against my back and I longed for the cold water of the lake to surround me.  I wanted to slip into it and disappear.  I thought about the tractor.  I pictured it rusty, dark, covered with weeds and sunken leaves.  I wondered if I could dive deep enough to touch it.  Without knowing how, or stopping to think about the consequences, I was suddenly under the water.  I was pulled down, deep into the middle.  I dove, the water crushing me from above, the sweat washed from my skin, my hair streaming behind me, and I knew there was something there I was supposed to find.  My lungs had just begun to protest, telling me to head for the surface.  I started to turn back up when I saw him. Dad.  Dead.  I opened my mouth to scream, and everything went a watery black.