Still, I Hear the Water

Still, I dream of her.

The last time I saw her, we were in the lake. Little beads of sunlight caught in the drops of water that dripped from her hair. She said, Are you okay?

She had the most beautiful face.

It is raining very hard outside. I am listening to the countless drops hitting my window.  I am listening to the wind. I am listening to the dull clang of empty beer cans rolling through the alley. I am listening to my very loud head and its long list of grievances against me. All the wrong things I have done and said. And it is a never-ending list and it goes on and on. I am listening to the storm outside my window and I am listening to the storm inside my head. I am always listening. It is a dark morning. And I am staring up at a blank ceiling. Like I usually do. 

Her face was in my dream again. The face of the woman who, years and years ago, pulled me out of the water when I slipped and disappeared beneath the surface.

I drowned once in a lake when I was four years old.

I had slipped away—far away—from everyone else and I went wading in the lake by myself. Even then, I was prone to withdrawing. Even then, I was prone to disappearing. I was following a trail of sunlight rippling on the water. It led deep into the lake and I followed it. I walked and walked. I still don’t know why I did this, why I kept moving deeper into the water. I had no idea how to swim. I just kept wading farther into the lake while the water rose higher and higher all around me; washing over my knees, then my stomach, then my chest, then my neck. I don’t know why I kept moving forward, why I didn’t turn around and head back to the shore. I just kept following the path. I wasn't afraid at all. The water hit my chin, rose up to my lips, started seeping into my mouth. And then I slipped and went under the surface.

I am lucky she saw me, the woman who saved me. I would have been easy to miss. Drowning is not as loud and noticeable as you might think. It is actually pretty quiet. 

After I slipped under the lake, I managed to pull myself up and tried to hold on to the surface. I called out for my sister, but her name came out garbled—a muted scream—my voice choked by the water. I slipped again. One last time, I broke through all of that heavy water and tried to hold on to the surface.

After all of that. Drowning is quiet.

You slap the surface of the water one last time before you slip beneath it and disappear. This is the last sound you make. A sharp slap on water. After that, it’s quiet, this drowning. It’s quiet on the surface, at least. Here is what goes on below: a deep fear and a deep panic. The deepest fear and the deepest panic. It’s a series of explosions in your head and you claw and claw at the water.  But then—after the explosions, after you have clawed and clawed at all of the endless water that engulfs you, after you have tried to push yourself up by kicking and kicking your legs—you just sink. Your arms go limp, you stop kicking your legs, and you let yourself sink. All you can hear is the water. And you listen. You listen to the water. And it is very quiet. As quiet below as it is above. It’s not peaceful. It’s not peaceful at all. But it is quiet. And then—for one very brief moment—it’s almost as if you become two people. It is strange, strange. One of you sinks. You sink and sink. And one of you floats. You are side by side. It is strange and you won’t ever know how to explain this split, this division, in words. So you won’t even try.  Drowning feels like drowning. It feels exactly like drowning. That’s the only way you can describe it. You are sinking but you are also floating. Then an arm appears above you; an arm comes down through the water. You are floating and you see an arm wrap around the waist of the other you, the one who is sinking. It is strange, strange. And then, you are suddenly being pulled up through the water. You are one person again and you are being pulled. Up, up, up.

I am lucky that she saw me. I was so far away from everyone else.

She wrapped her arm around my waist and she pulled me up, up, up. My chest was full of lake water and I was not breathing. She hit my back very hard over and over until all of that water came spilling out of me. She hit my back until my chest was completely empty. I coughed and coughed and every single breath was a shaky gasp. 

She held me above the water. Shining beads of sunlight dripped from her hair. 

I couldn’t hear her voice over the sound of the water. My ears were full of it. Her mouth shaped the words: Are you okay?

She had the most beautiful face.

Still, I dream of her.

In my dream, I am balancing on the edge of a cliff, hovering above a deep gorge. I listen to the river that flows somewhere far below me. It is the only sound other than her footsteps echoing through the dark. The ground beneath me starts to shift and crumble. The ground always does this. It is forever shifting, it is forever crumbling. I can hear the water and I can hear her footsteps coming closer. And I am very afraid. I am so afraid for her. I am so afraid that she will slip. And I don’t want her to fall. I really, really don’t want her to fall with me. I can feel her behind me and I turn around. She has the most beautiful face. Are you okay? Is what she asks me. I try to tell her to stay away from the edge but when I open my mouth to speak, all that comes out is water. I have no voice and there are no words. There is only water. Just water. It spills and spills from my mouth and falls to the ground. It never stops. Spilling. The water. My feet slip in it. Beneath me, the cliff breaks away and I break with it. I am falling, but I am also flying. It is strange, strange. It feels just like it did that day; when I was sinking but also floating. The gorge is deep and dark.

Strange how after all of these years I still dream of her.  

It was so long ago, but I always think about that day. I think about how, in a small way, my life ended in that lake. How, in a small way, my life began in that lake. 

When you are born in a lake, the first question you are asked is: Are you okay? Then you are carried to the shore. A woman with the most beautiful face puts you on her back and swims you through water dappled with sunlight. You hold on to her. Very tight. You listen to the water. You will always hear it; the sound will never leave you. You will always hear the water. When you reach the shore, you sit in the sand and breathe your shaky breaths. You breathe and breathe and breathe. And breathe and breathe and breathe. Never have you loved breathing as much as you do this day, the day you are born in water.

She had the most beautiful face. 

Are you okay?

It was the first question she asked me.

***

Still, I can hear the water. 

Still, I can feel it. My chest is full of it. And it is heavy. It is still so heavy. 

Still, I am sinking.

Still.

***

It is a dark morning and I stare at the ceiling. I am low, low, low. I am trying very hard to stay present. I am trying very hard to not slip away again. My head is loud. As usual. And it hurts. Everything hurts. These days and nights feel hopeless. I don’t know how I will face all of the hours that are stacked before me like heavy bricks. I don’t know how I’ll get through today. Or tomorrow. Or the tomorrow after that or the tomorrow after that. But. I am trying. I am trying very hard not to slip away and sink deeper into this depression. I am trying very hard not to go under and disappear again. 

And sometimes what I do to keep myself from sinking is this: I remember an arm wrapping around my waist and pulling me up, up, up. I remember clearing all of that water from my chest. How light I felt after that. I remember how good it feels to breathe. Even with scared, shaky breaths. It feels so good to breathe. It really, really does.

I remember her face. 

She has the most beautiful face and she holds me above the water and I breathe.

I breathe and breathe and breathe.