I hear my name. My sister is here. No surprise. She knows I’m visiting Mom, which means I’ll come here. They both do that. They check in on me when I go here like I’m still five. But good Lord, I’m twenty-seven.
My sister can track me like no other person. It’s probably because when I am three, we visit here, and I climb over on the stone bridge when no one is looking. I even dangle off the side. I’m so drawn to that refreshing water. And that’s the first muskrat call.
Leave it to the ancestors to give me something weird.
I never fall that day. My sister grabs my hand and somehow pulls me up. That’s some strong eight-year-old move.
We never visit this area, so I don’t come back until I have my license and explore one day. I had forgotten about those muskrats. Now, here I am whenever I visit from Rochester.
I sigh. “Over here.”
“Get down from those rocks. Are you kidding me?”
Good Lord. Big sister. More like mother.
How do I even explain our dinners? Mom cooks, but really shouldn’t. Her bread is all soggy that night. And the sauce tastes so fishy. Like sea salt and salmon got all up in there. I try not to make faces. She doesn’t even eat fish.
But mostly, Mom and Sis talk. The entire time. They just go on about their own jobs and lives and kind of talk over me. They volley back and forth; it’s so boring. Who only talks about work? Dad simply sits back, eating. He rarely says more than two words. He’s retired from the salt mines. Happened right after one of his friends died of a heart attack.
“How’s your job?” Mom stops midbite, her fork rolled with spaghetti.
“Oh,” I say. “It’s good. Just fixing some outdated webpages. Designing the fonts and backgrounds and what things will look like.”
“That’s nice, honey. You get that promotion yet?” she asks.
My sister nods along like she’s listening to me.
“It’s more like a raise right now. Those get reviewed this fall.”
Mom makes a noise that’s her agreeing. “I hear your sister found you by that bridge again. I want you staying away from there.”
My sister gives me this hard look, close to I told you so. She doesn’t want anything causing Mom worry. Although Mom worries too much anyway. So how we’re the cause, I’m not sure.
When I’m drying the dishes, Sis pulls me around. She even pinches the skin around my upper arm. “Ow. Seriously?”
“You need to listen. Stay away from there. You can’t be going overboard. You’re creating too much ruckus always going there and making Mom feel bad.”
“She doesn’t feel bad.”
“I told you, no more.” Her eyes are this deep black. She gets like that. So angry with the world but taking it out on us. “You just drop all this.”
Geez. She is so deep sometimes. I live too far away. I never talk to Mom. I need to learn to take care of myself. That’s your run-of-the-mill Sis talk.
I live an hour away and talk to Mom more than she does. I also invite Mom places for more than some half-hour quickie dinner. And I have a good job, my own car, and a credit card I always pay off. But the younger sister never gets respect.
Sis’ll never notice those things. As far as that worry, well, maybe I am responsible, maybe I’m not. I do go to those muskrats most every time. Sometimes, they call me in my dreams. Not the waking ones when I’m there. But I never tell anyone that. I also don’t tell Sis when I go to the park. I don’t go every time. I keep it quiet when I do. I can’t tell my family anything.
The drive back to Rochester isn’t long, but the next morning, I need two lattes. Families are exhausting. So are those dreams. Had one again last night. The muskrat makes this sound, a high one, and slinks along the water with ebbs and flows.
Those dreams are fitful. I still hear mom telling us about our dreams. The images mean something. I used to think she makes things up, especially when my teachers have patted my arm, shaken their heads, and explained how magic doesn’t really exist.
I think maybe I ought to take a sleeping pill. Sis uses them every night “to shut out the extras.” She gives me a few to try a month ago when I complain about our genetic dark under-eye circles.
With water and a chug around ten the next night, I feel drowsy. Once my head hits the firm pillow, I’m out.
The next morning, I don’t remember anything. No dreams. Not even brushing my teeth. My body moves slowly, though, almost heavy. More coffee is necessary.
Gus’s Subs has this great homemade bread, softer and thicker than Subway’s, and real meat, not the deli kind stuffed with preservatives. A line forms around the corner. Sis texts several times asking about Mom’s birthday. What should we get her? Could we do something together? And what about next year’s big sixtieth? A year ahead. Good Lord.
Once inside, halfway through the line, my head becomes cloudy, woozy. Those are some of the pill’s side effects. Man. I close my eyes, then open them. My arms are heavy, and I feel like I’m walking through Jell-O rather than air.
A woman behind me taps my shoulder. “Hey, you can move up now.”
My vision blurs. I order the usual. Susan, the cashier, recognizes me. Even Susan’s voice sounds strange. I think Susan says, “We’re swimming.”
“What?” I ask.
“I didn’t say anything. Just waiting for you to pay.” Susan’s voice stays chipper.
“Oh.” I hand her cash and put the leftover change in the tip jar.
The paper bag they hand me is oily. Dripping in oil. Grease spots have formed and penetrate the paper. I certainly didn’t ask for an oil dressing today.
A large park is nearby. Easy to get to and back in time and still have most of the hour with nothing but me and the people who pass by. I eat the pickle spear first. Brine hits my tongue, and, man, my brain tingles again, the numbness dissipating.
Apple next. I really want salty tastes along my tongue, so I leave the meat until last. Unwrapping the sandwich, I see no oil. In fact, nothing escapes the bread, not even the mayo or tomatoes.
I must be tired. Just not myself.
The rest of the day goes as usual, questions from coworkers and problem-solving a downed website. Once home, though, I sit down on my couch and fall asleep.
Suddenly, I’m underwater. Swimming in my living room, breathing in the water. The water feels warm, but the sensation of being wet doesn’t exist. What are those muskrats doing now? I float over my couch, hit my head on the patio sliding doors, and make my way to the kitchen.
Gray. Everything’s gray and murky. No light penetrates the water, but yet I can see everything, not just as shapes, but as their actual selves.
My body suddenly falls flat to the kitchen tiles and stays on those cold squares.
That next morning I somehow drive to work.
My boss catches me listening to those muskrats again. I thought she would say “get back to work.” But instead, she launches into this family story.
“We were in San Diego last summer, up in the La Jolla Cove area. There’s this beach where the sea lions hang out. It’s all fenced because it’s one of their main parks. But boy, that smell. Still, they seemed to …” She doesn’t finish. Her eyes wander and stare out my one office window. The building stretches high, and you can see this bank out there with a top that almost looks like a hand reaching up.
“Karen?”
“Hmm. Oh yeah. Well, it was just beautiful. The water washing over the rocks. Them calling and barking. Moms up against their pups. But pinch your nose.” She laughs. “Not the same as those things.” She points at my screen. “Is it? Those are rather creepy. All slinking about.”
I explain that’s their hunting sounds and movements. They’re looking for something.
She walks out. But not before shaking her finger. Get back to work.
I keep their sounds on with headphones while I crank work out.
That must have affected the dreams again. I’m underwater, this time with a green-and-brown coloring that washes a
way all other color. Seems like some lens cover, but I can’t wipe it away. And I can’t hear anything.
Tossing and turning, I finally wake up. My hair’s wet. I wrap the strands up and try sleeping again. But don’t. I really am kind of scared in that water. My heart just pumps as if I’m really there. And those muskrat eyes, small round eyes, they look so human if you stare straight in though.
The next night, I sit up and struggle to breath, gulping air and grabbing my throat. Hair, clothes, the bedding, everything is dry. I can only see the green digits on the nightstand clock. I breathe deeper each time, then slow.
Wow, that’s a vivid dream. I run my hand through my hair, and there’s something. A piece of a long, wet leaf, half-rotted.
My brain. I can’t feel it. I’ve been disconnected for weeks, thinking I’m one place, but sometimes being elsewhere.
The muskrats. They keep at it. Keep appearing daylight or nighttime.
They don’t go away, no matter what. If I take the sleeping pills, now they have the gall to come when I’m awake.
Dark circles take over my eyes.
I finally drive back home.
“Are you doing okay?” my mother asks me.
Sis isn’t there. I haven’t seen Mom in a month and know if I don’t have dinner with her, she’ll drive to my workplace and ask my coworkers about me. “It’s for your own good,” she says when I’m younger. She even once walks right into my history class demanding to see the history text. The teacher’s face loses all color, then red slowly creeps up his neck and into his ears. From then on, my mother tells us stories and sends us to visit two elders, one every other weekend.
I can’t help but roll my eyes when Mom checks in. “I’m fine, Mom.”
“You look awful. They treating you right at that job?”
“My job is great. Don’t you dare go see my boss.” She piles more food onto my plate.
“Good. You’re eating more.”
The muskrats have stayed away and faded the closer I get home.
Mom spoons more canned green beans onto my plate.
I hate these green beans. Such a bitter taste. Didn’t know I even liked green beans until a lunch at my friend Beth’s house where they steamed green beans right out of their garden. Damn can.
Chewing tiny bites doesn’t make the flavor change. Then they start to taste fishy. I cough and drink half a glass of milk.
I think about that water, right over the hills in the park. A space taken by William Pryor Letchworth. Mary Jemison forced to sell her land. Seneca land. I sigh.
“Mom, you know those stories Grandpa told, the ones about muskrat and raven?”
“Yes. He really taught some lessons to you kids.”
“Have you seen muskrats around here?”
I notice Dad stops eating. He says nothing, though.
Mom laughs direct from the belly, and she yelps in the middle, like a hiccup and a laugh.
“I take it no.”
“Well, I also haven’t been out and about in the woods in a long while.” Mom pauses, her fork halfway to her mouth. “We do have important relations with the muskrat. Why?”
“Nothing.” My head pounds.
“When you were a girl, you had some strange dreams about our stories. Got those dark circles just like you have there, too.” Even though my mom continues eating, she furrows her brows and clucks. “Pay attention to their details. The dreams went away whenever you did.”
“But what does seeing details do?”
“You never explained once you got to see them.”
Thub thub. Thub thub. My head keeps running.
Lunch gets quiet, and we talk mostly about the flowers in Mom’s yard she just cut back before frosts. She hates the grocery flowers but puts some in vases, and the roses have opened in that way where they appear huge and curled. The yellow ones with pink centers are my favorite.
I don’t always know where conversation should go between us. Maybe neither one of us has that kind of life where talk happens. I work. I go home. I hang with friends. No boyfriend. She works. Has the house, my sister, silent Pop, and goes to the library or grocery store. There was so much more when I was in high school. But maybe it was just more going on, but not substance. Does that seem like family?
My dad pulls me aside before I leave. “Everything all right?”
I stare, then say, “Sure, Dad.”
He puts a hand on my arm. “I don’t believe you.”
His look is deep. I haven’t seen this reaction before. “Dad?”
“They’ll ask you to do something important. They’ve been at you long enough.” He nods.
I stare after his back, confused.
I hug Mom. We usually just wave goodbye. But she squeezes extra hard.
The dreams become these intense images. Sometimes there’s only water and rocks. Sometimes there’s muskrats swimming around me. I feel blasts of wet and wind and cold. Piled blankets are not enough to stave away the chill, even though my windows are closed.
I wake so often with sweats, brain fog, and loss of breath.
People look at me sideways now when I walk by. Whispers. Maybe the greasy hair that never goes away scares them. Or the large under-eye bags. Or the clothes that somehow don’t fit anymore. Everything about me has shrunk.
I don’t dare visit Mom. She’d think I’m in some kind of trouble. I call, so she doesn’t worry. I just fake busy.
I keep listening to muskrat calls online. There’s something to them. Inherently, words translate in my mind, but not English. I think I understand what they’re saying now.
Calling and calling.
Underwater songs travel faster. Not like the chirping of land calls. No longer weird or Pink Floyd–like to my ears, I play them over and over and over. I don’t think anyone else hears. But I imagine this is how they navigate the water.
If anyone enters my office, I make them shove off. People scurry away. When my boss makes comments, the words float and float.
I stop going to work after that. I can’t focus. Maybe they ask me to leave. It doesn’t matter. Now I get to listen.
Calling continues. I don’t think I should drive. Drive there where they are. Where they wait. Fall turns into winter. Almost. The cold invigorates my skin, though. Brings a glisten to the layers of wet. I like it.
My hands feel strange wrapped around some wheel, feet working pedals. All weird. All out of sorts. The whole way.
But what is in sorts?
That isn’t me.
But then my feet crumble leaves and crack tiny twigs.
Down the stone steps. Past the stone walls.
Some black squirrel chitters after me.
The water crashes loud as always.
I recognize their language, and I know what they’re saying. It’s old, old Seneca. But I can’t hear that right now. I just can’t. My heart is agoing with some heavy thump-thump.
Except for this spot, I’ve always seemed to know this area, like a string that ties you, but you can’t explain. Let’s be clear, I’m no nature lover. No matter these muskrats and this place. That’s not the tie here. It’s everything. Everything in its place. Which is why that moment, I understand. I understand the years spent called, seeing these creatures that aren’t really there.
On the bridge.
The muskrats circle below. Their tails sometimes overlapped. Back and forth. My head spins, blurring the edges of my vision. Blurring until I see nothing. Until I hear the underwater calls.
Standing on top of the bridge wall, I see so far below, further than the rocks. Maybe even straight through an endless bottom.
Then I’m there.
They swim around me. I can breathe again. Feel the air flowing through my skin, up under some layers, warming me.
I move, slither, racing through the water, no longer too shallow for us. No longer rocks and rapids and waterfalls or frozen, full of ice. I call and call. And the others swim around me, paws touching here and there.
&nb
sp; My body floats and glides. We force water away and around us, sail over rocks we shouldn’t be able to sail over, wiggle down rapids, and move so far from that bridge. I no longer see the stones, the gray, the falls. Or hear my mom’s voice. I see the muskrats and even more animals. All around me, guiding me through cold waters. Sonar radiating along the waves. I forget the other world. I am called and there below me, I see through to the other side of the world, so deep, so dark, so light.
And then I fall.
Luck Stone
The sun had come out, breaking through large, round clouds, which had taken over the city that week. Sometimes gray days clung on like that here. The leaves would change soon. Cam held her bike helmet under her arm and a few books in the opposite hand. She shifted her weight, having stood in line for ten minutes already.
The poor woman seemed stuck checking out all the patrons that morning. She had seen this librarian before, usually shelving, though. Her deft with the check-out machines appeared slow, although methodical. She swiped one book at a time, then put the book in a pile, straightening each book each time.
People were gasping, shaking their heads, and rocking back and forth, an impatience hard to ignore.
“Where’s that young girl?” one woman said behind her. “She always goes so fast. Just click, click, click.”
Cam remembered standing in lines any time she checked out books. But then, she generally came at this time, right before her classes. Seemed popular.
When she placed her books down, the woman did just as she had while they all waited.
“How are you?” she asked. Her nameplate said “Nancy.” Her hair sprung up with multiple medium curls, making it seem short.
“Good. A bit gloomy outside.”
“Oh, don’t I know it. Seems to have kept some staff home with colds. Those poor kids.”
Cam smiled. “Does make you want to curl up. But the sun came out.” She pushed her hair behind her ear.
“Oh good. That’s good.” As they talked, the woman actually sped up. She found a rhythm. “This is a great book.” Nancy held up The Round House by Louise Erdrich. “Won that award. But most people, they don’t like that ending.”
“A friend told me it was life altering.”
Living on the Borderlines Page 13