Chapter Nine #3
to be able to swim for most of high school, just wading about in the water and then reading magazines on the shore. Until
Buckeye insisted. “You have to learn how to swim. It’s a life skill!” And I couldn’t be on the beach with the campers if I
didn’t know how; it was some sort of liability thing.
Unlike the pool at our Airbnb, where I was able to touch the bottom, this was more of a “jump in and don’t drown” kind of
situation. I peered over the dock. The water was dark. I lay the towel out on the splintery wood. I checked if my phone had
service and texted Katie.
Have you talked to Mom since the weekend? I asked.
Yes.
What did she say about my decision?
She said you seemed unwell and that you looked unwell and if you weren’t focused on work that something was wrong.
Ha! I said out loud, to no one.
I think that’s a sign that I’m on the right track, I said.
I think so too. What did she say about me, when I wasn’t around? Katie asked.
This was a thing we did after every gathering, comparing what passive-aggressive things Mom said about each other when we
weren’t in earshot.
She said you were wasting your life in nursing because you’d make a better doctor or research scientist.
Second verse, same as the first. Anything about the wedding?
Yes, she said she liked Sarah but that no one should marry their first love. That you only really learn about real love when
you’ve had a practice round in.
Ooof. Nice thing to call Dad.
She’s insane. Plus I’m proud of you for being a nurse. It’s the hardest thing I can imagine ever doing and it’s a constant
reminder of the difference in our societal worth.
Writing stories about love is of value too. We need love to even contemplate being here on this crazy earth.
True true.
I mean, what got everyone through Covid lockdowns? Art. Stories about love.
I watched Buffy and Grey’s Anatomy over and over.
Exactly.
I started to text her about Dave, but it felt too strange to put into words. Katie would be protective of me. She knew how
much he’d wrecked me when he disappeared on the last week of camp, the day after we’d slept together. No explanation at all.
Didn’t answer the phone at home. Didn’t answer my letters. My finger hovered over the text I’d started and deleted five times.
Then Katie signed off that her break was over.
OK, chickenshit. Just get in the water. I pulled off my cut-offs and dipped a toe. My legs smelled like bug spray. There would be no slow wading, no contemplation.
I stood up, facing the horizon, the waves lolling against the wood of the dock.
I jumped.
Immediately no, I thought, in that TikTok meme voice.
My eyes were shut tight. I knew I hadn’t sunk far.
Still, I panicked. My toes touched a variety of vegetal monstrosities.
It felt like they were capable of grabbing hold of my legs.
I was aware, as I pushed up toward air, that I was alone.
Instead of pushing out from shore, as I’d planned, I lunged toward the dock ladder, gripping its sides like my life depended on it.
I climbed up a rung, holding on. Wondered if I should go back in and swim properly.
But I was too spooked. I collapsed on my towel.
My chest heaved. I made it. It felt like a tangible metaphor for this summer.
Everything was new, change happening fast, but I was pushing through.
I stood up, embarrassed even though I was alone.
I’m going to swim for real now, I said out loud to no one.
Then a snake zipped by the surface of the water, forming little circle patterns behind him. Perhaps
I’d just stare at this part of the lake and go for swims at the actual beach. The shallow, snake-less beach.
Still, I’d done my county thing for the day. It was only 2 p.m. I never realized how many hours are in a day when you’re not
working. The expanse of time felt as endless and terrifying as the deep, dark water.
I read the local newspaper I’d picked up at the Metro, dripping lake water over the front-page story about a town hall meeting.
I skimmed. Half the paper was made up of real estate listings. There was a screening at the rep theatre that night of Kelly
Reichardt’s First Cow, one of my favourites. I hadn’t been to the movies alone in years. Even my time working at the suburban Cineplex as a teenager
hadn’t spoiled my desire for solo cinema magic. No one to interrupt you or get antsy while you sat through the ending credits.
Just you, taking the film in the way the creators wanted you to. I looked at my phone again. No text from Ben.
I headed back to the cottage, grateful for the pebbled, muddy path through the tall grass. Dave had somehow nearly finished
the floor of the porch on the adjacent cabin. It was impressive. He looked up at me the same way he used to when he’d be behind
the camera at camp and ask my opinion on the shot.
“How was the water?”
“A little creepy, not gonna lie. I was hoping for beach.”
“It’s a little rocky and deep out this way. You still doing that half-panicked dog-paddle?” He knew me so well, it was unnerving.
“I prefer to call it a graceful attempt to keep living. Wow, you’ve made such progress on the porch. It looks great,” I said,
trying to pull my eyes away from his muscled arms, the beads of sweat on his clavicle. I wondered if he had a girlfriend.
Probably.
“Elise, have you ridden a horse?”
“That was a non sequitur. Are you being literal?”
“Yes, Snow and Sable. The horses just behind you? Have you met them?”
“I haven’t introduced myself yet. And I have been on one pony, when I was eight, and I believe I did a fair amount of fear
crying.”
“Do you think you’d be a little more lighthearted about a horse now? I’m supposed to take them out tomorrow because Ben’s
sister has to work late, and it’s easier if there’s another person.”
I wasn’t sure how long I could spend with Dave without begging him to explain why he’d abandoned me without a word after we’d
planned our whole life together. But all I could manage was sure.
“I do have ‘learn to ride a horse’ on my list of county things I want to do,” I added.
He smiled, shyly. Then he nodded, almost to himself. Like he’d done something good. “What other county things?”
“Some things Ben told me to check out.”
“Ben, huh?”
“Yeah, I mean, he’s the reason I’m here. It’s a long story. I don’t even know him that well.”
“I can tell.”
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing.”
“No, come on. What is it?”
“I can always tell when Ben’s charm hasn’t worn thin yet.”
“You guys really don’t like each other, eh?”
“Don’t trust him, is all.”
“Why not?”
“Not really my story to tell.”
“Well, he’s really helped me out so far. Seems like a solid guy.”
I don’t know why I felt so defensive on Ben’s behalf. I didn’t really know him that well at all, that was true. That said,
at one point, I thought I knew Dave better than anyone on the planet, and yet here he was in front of me, basically a stranger.
“Sorry, I shouldn’t talk shit. Ben is very . . . talented. And a good community builder. I didn’t realize you guys were like,
dating, or whatever.”
“No, not really, I mean, it’s kind of a confusing story,” I said, trying to see if there was any relief in his face. But then
Dave’s phone buzzed. He read a text.
“The stove will be delivered on Wednesday, just heard from the store. You good until then? You can always use the barbecue
anytime.”
“OK, cool. You still vegan?”
“No, no,” he said, as though he’d forgotten that he was once so militant. “Wow, I was really into it back then, wasn’t I?”
“You lectured me for eating honey.”
“Oof, I was self-righteous.”
“Everything did seem a lot more simple back then.”
I was perhaps being too obvious, trying to leave open a moment for him to say, Oh, that reminds me, I treated you pretty poorly and here’s why. Even though my instinct in moments like this was to chatter away, I left some silence, on purpose. Counting to ten in my
head. Then fifteen. Then I shivered in the cold, remembered I was still wearing my bathing suit.
“I should keep working,” he said, backing away from me.
“I should go warm up,” I said, heading back to my cabin.