Left Drowning

Chris cocks his head to the side. “You okay?” He squeezes my hand.

I nod. “Yes. I am now.”

He studies me, more serious now. “Do we know… .” He can’t seem to finish his question.

“What?”

He shakes his head. “No, we haven’t met before. It’s just… . Nothing.” He slips a smooth stone onto my palm and closes my fingers around it for me. “Show me.” Chris steps back.

The water splashes gently around my ankles as I position my body perpendicular to the line of the water. “Now don’t laugh at me. It’s been a while since I’ve even attempted this.”

“There is no laughing in stone skipping,” he says, clearly dramatizing his voice for effect. “This is a very, very somber activity. You may now proceed with your first attempt.”

I try not to smile at his mock formality, as I keep my arm level and fling the stone over the water. It veers off fifteen feet to the right and then shoots through the surface of the water like a bullet.

“Well,” Chris says, “what you lack in skill, you make up for with sheer force.”

I laugh. “That did not go as I might have hoped, but I appreciate your tact.”

“Do a few more. I’ll back up in case things go really awry.”

“Ha-ha. Very fu

“No, you’re not. Why do you throw like you’re a little kid tossing a Frisbee?”

I can’t help but laugh. “Is that what I look like?”

“Well you sort of throw your arm across your body like this.” He smiles and flings his arm out wildly. “See? That’s no good.”

“Aha. I didn’t realize.” I think for a second. He is right. As intently as I was watching him before, I hadn’t noticed that he doesn’t do this.

“Here, try it a different way.” Chris moves in and stands behind me. “You’re right-handed, so you’ll want to turn the other way so that your throwing hand is away from the water.” His hands touch the top of my arms as he slowly pivots me around, coming to stand so close to me that our shadows become one. As he steps away, his shadow emerges from mine and becomes distinct on the sandy ground. I turn to focus and throw my smooth stone.

“It feels awkward,” I confess.

“Sure, at first. We’re breaking a bad habit. Try again. Let’s wade in a bit more. It sounds corny, but you have to sort of unite with the water.”

I sigh, doubtful I can do this, yet I sidestep a few feet until I feel the water hit the rim of my jeans. I give another attempt.

“Better!” Chris says. “You got two skips. Do another.”

I pull a stone from my pocket and aim. This time the stone soars off to the left and does not skip at all. “Ugh. I give up.”

“No you don’t.” He is behind me again, and I can feel his chest just brush my back. He rests his hands on my shoulders as if to ground me, and I shiver. Not from cold and not exactly from lust. At least, that’s not the only thing making me tremble. “Look out over the water. Zero in on the skyline. Don’t think about where you want to hit the water.”

I feel him run his hand down my arm until he reaches my wrist, then he lifts up my arm for me. I inhale and exhale slowly.

“Then,” he continues, “make the stone hit where the water meets the sky.” He pulls my hand in closer to my body until my arm is crossed in front of me, a slow-motion rehearsal for how I will throw. “Be firm and confident. Remember that you’re not the boss of this. You and this stone are partners.”

“We’re partners. Okay.”

Chris stays where he is, inches behind me, as I follow his advice.

Three skips.

“Beautiful,” he whispers. “Do it again. Listen to your partner.”

Four skips.

He lifts my hand an inch higher and puts his mouth by my ear. “Breathe into it.”

Seven skips.

Holy shit.

“Did you see that?” I can hardly speak. It is just skipping stones; there is no reason to be so awestruck by what I’ve done, but I am.

“That was awesome! Really awesome!” Chris squeezes my shoulders. “Just gorgeous. Hey, I bet if you keep at it, you’ll be skipping across the entire lake in no time. It’s really cool when you skip so far that you lose count. The way the rings move farther and farther

out… .”

Chris continues to talk, but I can barely hear him. I am just staring at the spot where the stone finally broke the surface for the last time, dropping to the bottom of the lake.

“Chris?”

“ … one time I tried to show someone else how to skip, and he completely sucked. You’re so much better—”

“Chris.” Without thinking, I lean my head back, resting it just below his shoulder. He is so tall and … somehow familiar. I roll my head to the side and take in the sunlight, stronger now, which hits the small ripples in the water and turns them bright white. My vision seems sharper, my thoughts less muted, than just an hour ago. This near stranger is inexplicably giving me more safety and security than anyone else ever has.

“Yeah?”

For no discernible reason, it feels unfathomable not to tell him. “My parents are dead.”

He doesn’t move away. He doesn’t even tense up at my words.

It is the first time I have said this out loud in … well, ever. Could it be possible that I have somehow managed never to say this? Yes, I accept, it’s true. People from home didn’t need to hear it directly from me. They all knew. News like that spreads quickly. And no one at college has needed to know. I say it again. “My parents are dead. They died four years ago in a fire.” I step forward, suddenly shocked at how blunt I am being. “Oh God. I’m sorry. I don’t know why I just told you that. I’m so sorry. It’s not your … I shouldn’t have…”

I wait for him to do what everyone else did after my parents died. Spout off some conventional words of sympathy like, I’m so sorry. How awful. You poor thing. Terribly sad… and then run. People always do. Nobody knows what to say after the initial words of supposed comfort. Death and grief make everyone around you vanish because death and grief are intolerable.

But Chris does not run. Instead, he slides his arm around my waist and pulls me in close until my back is tight against his chest. “It’s okay. Breathe into it.”

“I have a brother. James. He hates me because of it. I hate me because of it. I am so tired.” I close my eyes and press my cheek into Chris’s shirt. His arms cross in front of me and hold me gently while flashes of that night roll over me. Flashes are all that I have. I remember sections of that night, but I haven’t pieced it all together. Maybe because I can’t or maybe because I don’t want the full memory. I can barely stand the pieces. The days immediately before and immediately after don’t exist for me either. They are entirely empty, and I prefer to keep it that way. I shudder in Chris’s arms. Right now I ca

Heat. Water. Glass. Dirt. The dock. The swim to the dock. The colors on the patchwork quilt.

I am starting to choke. Why is this happening to me now? Why, when I start to have one vaguely tolerable morning, am I plagued by the past?

His fingers tighten on my arms. “Breathe into it,” he says again. His voice helps; his touch helps. “Let it happen. I’m here.”

The smell. The pictures on the quilt. Red. Red. Red. Trees. The ladder, the sound, the hero. The hero. My hero.

It is enough. I can’t take anymore.

Think about the dock, I tell myself, my eyes still closed. Think about the dock. This always calms me. I don’t know why, but when I picture the dock, it always helps me to stop spiraling. I imagine rowing to it, over and over. I am safe on the dock, and I feel stability and safety there, although I have no idea why.