Just Under the Surface
This morning I stood on the dock near my mother’s house, waiting for the guys to finish loading the crab pots into the boat. The floating dock moved under my feet, eliciting a visceral memory that caused my stomach to turn over in a way that was not attributable only to my temporarily displaced equilibrium. I gasped a little and turned to Joel. “This is where we almost lost Emily,” I said.
Joel nodded, looking at me and waiting patiently for me to tell him the same story I have to relate each time I stand on this dock. “She was only about 7,” I say, “and I was around the bend in the beach over there, looking at sea stars with Sandy and Chris. Emily was standing at the end of this very dock, right here, waiting to be helped into the boat. The dock lurched and she fell into the water right between the propeller and the dock. The motor was on and it was loud, but her Grandpa felt the air move past his arm and he looked into the water. He saw her hair floating, just under the surface, so he leaned over the side, grabbed her by the hair, and pulled her back up. He saved her life.”
Joel nods gravely, watching me. “As they set her back on the dock and began talking to her,” I continued, “Emily looked down at her sodden clothes and said, ‘I hafta tell my mom about this.’” Joel nods again, and I shudder slightly, then shake myself a bit more
deliberately and climb into the boat.
As we chug past the always-fascinating but familiar shore with the crab traps rattling in the stern, a lump rises in my throat. What if Papa wasn’t a person who always pays attention?
What if he didn’t look down?
I could have lost her. I could have lost her and she would never have been able to tell me about it.
No doubt every parent has a story to tell like that one. I wonder if they are as haunted by what might have been as I occasionally allow myself to be. Memories have an extra value of wear-and-tear for those of us who think in metaphor. For me, the incident is symbolic of our journey together and a reminder of how fragile our connections are – how so much of our daily survival depends upon random luck and split-second timing.
I do not think only in metaphor – I think in “might have been.” My mind always goes back to what I thought I knew about my life before I learned about the incest and what I had to face about my life after I was told. As well, my imagination attempts to inhabit the memory via the minds of my children – how must this world have seemed to them, the world of deception and secrets that they inhabited? What did it teach them about their lives and themselves?
When she fell into the dark water, my little girl wanted to tell her mommy about it – she was wet and cold - and a scary new thing had happened to her. What was it like to be my girls when no one knew they’d gone under? What was it like to have bewildering, painful, frightening things happen to you – things your daddy did to you when noone else was around – and you couldn’t say, “I hafta tell my mom about this”?
I did not see the dock rolling under them – I did not know they were about to be tossed overboard into danger of the cruelest kind – no, pulled into the deep by a monster. Once again, I have to confront the heartless truth – they went into the deep and I nearly lost them. I was around the bend at the time, looking at something else. From time to time, when I am feeling vulnerable, these issues still torture me, but I think it helps my girls to know I have enough empathy to imagine how it must have been for them. At least, I hope it helps them.
These thoughts are always near me, always just under the surface. They used to pull me in after them with frightening regularity, often completely against my will. I would find myself keel-hauled past the biting propeller and left panting, gasping for air, for reassurance that we made it through this terrible thing. These days the thoughts still bubble up and I can follow them into the drink, but I know when to head for the surface. I refuse to let the monsters drown me and I won’t let them drown my kids - we put on our life jackets before we walk onto the dock.
As heartbreaking as it might be to accept, we can’t always save our kids from the dirty deals life can throw at them. Sometimes all we can do is reassure our kids that, while what happened to them was scary – even tragic – the uncaring ocean did not claim them.
The tide did not sweep them out. They were not pulled beyond our reach, beyond our love, and we are there to help them cope and assimilate the experience. It is not nearly enough, but it is what we have.
Last night my brilliant Emily sat across from me in the restaurant with her fiancé who loves her to distraction. We laughed and talked about jobs, plans, dreams, weddings. After the meal I hugged her tight and watched her walk away, pulling back from her sweet man a bit so she could beam up at him as they went.
My heart lurches.
Oh, my love – I nearly lost you.
- Another Mother 2012
Joel nodded, looking at me and waiting patiently for me to tell him the same story I have to relate each time I stand on this dock. “She was only about 7,” I say, “and I was around the bend in the beach over there, looking at sea stars with Sandy and Chris. Emily was standing at the end of this very dock, right here, waiting to be helped into the boat. The dock lurched and she fell into the water right between the propeller and the dock. The motor was on and it was loud, but her Grandpa felt the air move past his arm and he looked into the water. He saw her hair floating, just under the surface, so he leaned over the side, grabbed her by the hair, and pulled her back up. He saved her life.”
Joel nods gravely, watching me. “As they set her back on the dock and began talking to her,” I continued, “Emily looked down at her sodden clothes and said, ‘I hafta tell my mom about this.’” Joel nods again, and I shudder slightly, then shake myself a bit more
deliberately and climb into the boat.
As we chug past the always-fascinating but familiar shore with the crab traps rattling in the stern, a lump rises in my throat. What if Papa wasn’t a person who always pays attention?
What if he didn’t look down?
I could have lost her. I could have lost her and she would never have been able to tell me about it.
No doubt every parent has a story to tell like that one. I wonder if they are as haunted by what might have been as I occasionally allow myself to be. Memories have an extra value of wear-and-tear for those of us who think in metaphor. For me, the incident is symbolic of our journey together and a reminder of how fragile our connections are – how so much of our daily survival depends upon random luck and split-second timing.
I do not think only in metaphor – I think in “might have been.” My mind always goes back to what I thought I knew about my life before I learned about the incest and what I had to face about my life after I was told. As well, my imagination attempts to inhabit the memory via the minds of my children – how must this world have seemed to them, the world of deception and secrets that they inhabited? What did it teach them about their lives and themselves?
When she fell into the dark water, my little girl wanted to tell her mommy about it – she was wet and cold - and a scary new thing had happened to her. What was it like to be my girls when no one knew they’d gone under? What was it like to have bewildering, painful, frightening things happen to you – things your daddy did to you when noone else was around – and you couldn’t say, “I hafta tell my mom about this”?
I did not see the dock rolling under them – I did not know they were about to be tossed overboard into danger of the cruelest kind – no, pulled into the deep by a monster. Once again, I have to confront the heartless truth – they went into the deep and I nearly lost them. I was around the bend at the time, looking at something else. From time to time, when I am feeling vulnerable, these issues still torture me, but I think it helps my girls to know I have enough empathy to imagine how it must have been for them. At least, I hope it helps them.
These thoughts are always near me, always just under the surface. They used to pull me in after them with frightening regularity, often completely against my will. I would find myself keel-hauled past the biting propeller and left panting, gasping for air, for reassurance that we made it through this terrible thing. These days the thoughts still bubble up and I can follow them into the drink, but I know when to head for the surface. I refuse to let the monsters drown me and I won’t let them drown my kids - we put on our life jackets before we walk onto the dock.
As heartbreaking as it might be to accept, we can’t always save our kids from the dirty deals life can throw at them. Sometimes all we can do is reassure our kids that, while what happened to them was scary – even tragic – the uncaring ocean did not claim them.
The tide did not sweep them out. They were not pulled beyond our reach, beyond our love, and we are there to help them cope and assimilate the experience. It is not nearly enough, but it is what we have.
Last night my brilliant Emily sat across from me in the restaurant with her fiancé who loves her to distraction. We laughed and talked about jobs, plans, dreams, weddings. After the meal I hugged her tight and watched her walk away, pulling back from her sweet man a bit so she could beam up at him as they went.
My heart lurches.
Oh, my love – I nearly lost you.
- Another Mother 2012
