The Drowning

by Rachel Ward

  I look around, but there’s nothing useful floating anywhere near now. Then I remember that there were some stone pots of flowers near the front door. They’re underwater now, but I’ve got a good idea where they are. I bet one of them would do the trick.

  “Carl! Carl! What are you doing?”

  Neisha’s leaning right out now, craning to see me.

  “I’m going to get one of those pots, smash the window.”

  “Don’t do that! Dad’ll go mad. Maybe I can let you in. I could try the door. I’ll come down.”

  “No! Don’t come into the water. Neisha, please! Stay where you are. For God’s sake, get your head in. Keep dry!”

  I edge my way to the right, holding on to the front wall, feeling for the pots with my feet. My toe hits something hard. I take a breath, duck under the surface, and reach for the pot. It’s really heavy and I can’t get a good grip on it. It moves a little but not enough. The water over my head is freaking me out. I’m trying desperately not to think of that other time, but I can’t help it.

  A confusion of arms and legs, hands and feet, all mixed up in the water. He must have taken his hands off of her because he punches me in the face, then he grips my neck and squeezes. He forces my head under the water. I panic and lash out, trying to hit, scratch, tear, kick — anything that will make him let go.

  I stand up and flick the water out of my hair, rub my hands across my eyes. For a moment I don’t know where I am. I stand and suck air into my lungs. Then I remember — this isn’t a nightmare, it isn’t a dream. The river is flooding. Neisha’s in danger.

  “Are you okay?” she shouts down.

  She’s leaning way over the window ledge now. Her wet hair falls forward like a curtain on either side of her face.

  “It’s heavy, that’s all!”

  “You can do it between you. The two of you could manage.”

  “What?” She’s not making any sense.

  “You can do it together! You and … you and whoever’s behind … Oh my God. No, no, no!” She’s staring at the water behind me. “No, no, no! Oh my God, oh my God!”

  She’s terrified of something she’s seen down in the murk. Rob? I look around wildly, but there’s nothing there.

  She’s gone back into her room like I wanted her to, like I kept telling her to — but her face, the last glimpse I got before she retreated, was a picture of horror. Is Rob here? Can she see him? But how is that possible? She’s never been able to see him before.

  If I was scared before, it’s ten times worse now. I’ve got to get in there. She needs me.

  I take a deep breath and go under again, bending all the way down so that I can get a better grip and use my legs more in the lift. And now the pot shifts. I take the weight of it squarely in both hands, push up with my legs, and I’m there. I stagger through the water to the window, grunting with the effort. This is a one-shot deal. Trying to keep some momentum going, I thrust the pot up and away from me with every ounce of strength that I’ve got left. It thuds against the glass but doesn’t go through. It drops into the water and I leap back so it doesn’t land on my feet.

  “Shit!”

  I’m gasping for breath, disappointed and angry at my failure. I look at the window again and see that the glass is cracked. I’m halfway there, I just need something else to finish the job. I bunch my fist up and wonder if I can do it on my own. I need something to wrap around to protect it, stop myself from slicing an artery open — the only thing I’ve got is my shorts …

  Without warning, there’s a sharp pain in my shoulder. I turn my head. There’s a wooden chair barreling over in the water next to me and I’m bleeding from a nasty flesh wound.

  “I’ve called the police!” Neisha shouts. “I’ve called my dad! They’re all coming, so you’d better get out of here!”

  It was her; she threw the chair.

  “Get out! Get out now!”

  “I’m trying to help you!”

  “You filthy lying bastard, Carl Adams! Fuck off! Fuck off before they arrest you!”

  She’s gone mad. But there’s no time to reason with her. She’s given me the tool I need to get into the house, and I’ve got to get to her before Rob does.

  I grab the chair and swing it above my head, aiming at the cracked glass. It smashes and I’ve got my way in. Above me, Neisha’s screaming at the top of her voice. Something else comes flying through the air and plops into the water a few inches behind me.

  I put my hands on the window ledge, checking quickly for jagged glass, and, with a little jump, I bring my legs up to perch on the edge. I launch myself into the living room and wade through the water across the room to the hall. Except it’s not just water. There are bits of paper and all sorts of debris mixed up in it. I try not to think what else is in there. I look up instead of down, expecting to see Neisha at the top of the stairs, but she isn’t there.

  The house is eerily quiet. Water slops gently against the stairs. Furniture thuds softly against wallpaper. Rain patters on the windows.

  “Neisha?” I shout.

  No answer.

  The silence makes this whole thing feel wrong, like I shouldn’t be here. But I’m here to save her, I tell myself. I’m here to be the hero she thought I was.

  “Neisha?”

  I glance around. Still no Rob. I’m at the bottom of the stairs now. I start climbing up, emerging from the water step by step. I nearly bust a gut to get here, but now I’m creeped out. My heart’s beating like mad in my chest. I’m straining my eyes and ears for some clue as to what’s going on. My legs are scratched and bleeding. There’s blood dripping down my chest, too, from the cut on my shoulder.

  At the top of the stairs I hesitate. She was in the front bedroom when she was shouting at me. She must still be in there …

  “Neisha, it’s me. Carl. Where are you?”

  I start padding along the landing. The doors are all open except the one to her room, and I peer in as I pass. They’re empty, each room as beautifully neat and clean as the next. Up here, there’s no sign of the carnage outside and downstairs. It’s bizarre that somewhere can look so normal when only a few feet away the world’s being swallowed up, wrecked, changed forever.

  I’m dripping onto the carpet, leaving wet, bloody footprints in the soft pile. On the scale of things, it doesn’t matter, but it adds to my unease, the sense that I’ve got no right to be here, that I’m trespassing, spoiling things.

  I stop in front of the door to Neisha’s room and knock gently, calling out her name.

  There’s no response. I reach for the handle, turn it, and inch the door open.

  I can’t see her. The window is open and I can hear the wind and rain outside, but nothing inside. It’s almost like the room’s holding its breath. I push the door open wider and step in.

  There’s a flash of recognition. I’ve seen this room before. The bed. It’s where the photos were taken. It’s where —

  Something hits me on the side of the head. Everything turns red, then black, as pain explodes inside my skull. I stagger to the side but manage to stay on my feet, and as my vision starts to clear, I’m hit again, this time across the top of my back, catapulting me forward. I put my hands out to break my fall and crunch down on the carpet next to her bed.

  “I told you to fuck off!”

  Holding my hand to the side of my face, I twist around and look up. Neisha’s standing a couple of feet away from me, holding the metal stand of a bedside light as if it were a baseball bat. She sweeps it through the air in front of her, frowning with the effort, swiping it from side to side like a kid fighting Darth Maul with a toy lightsaber.

  “Jesus, Neisha!”

  She turns her attention back to me, raises the lamp up again, steps forward, and brings it down on my side with full force, knocking the breath out of me.

  “I don’t want you here! Either of you. Get out! Get out!”

  I move my arm to try and shield as much of my head as I can. “Okay, okay!” I yell
. “I’ll get out! I can’t if you keep hitting me, though. Give me a freakin’ chance.”

  I start crawling toward the door, watching her feet retreat, keeping her distance from me now. In the doorway, I stop.

  “What have you seen, Neisha? Is it Rob? Look, you asked me to help you. That’s why I’m here.”

  “You lying bastard!” She’s shouting at me, spit coming out of her mouth as she does. “You said you’d changed, but you’ve been lying to me the whole time!” Her eyes are wide and wild, the muscles in her arms tense, veins standing out like whipcords. “Why did you bring him here, Carl? Why would you do that to me again? I was ready to trust you!”

  “Tell me what you’ve seen, Neisha. I didn’t bring anyone. It’s just me.”

  She steps forward again, and I stop crawling and cower closer to the floor, bringing my knees up to my chest.

  “You’re lying! He’s there!” She points wildly to a patch of thin air. “That bastard brother of yours! He’s there, right next to you! At least, he was. I … I can’t see him now. Where’s he gone? Oh God, where is he?” She twirls around, sweeping the lamp through three hundred and sixty degrees. “He was here, I swear he was.”

  “He was here. And now he isn’t.” Suddenly I get it. “You’re drying off.”

  “What?” she says.

  “You see him when you’re wet. Like I did, but I don’t see him at all now. I can’t see him. He disappeared earlier. He’s come to you instead. That’s why I rang you. I figured it out …”

  She’s still holding the lamp like a weapon. She narrows her eyes.

  “What did you see, Carl? Tell me again.”

  “Rob. Only Rob like he was when he drowned. He just had his shorts on” — suddenly I’m very aware of how I’m dressed, or not dressed — “nothing else. Very pale, and streaked with —”

  “— mud,” she says. “Look at you, Carl. Look at you. You’re just like him. But you’ve got blood … What are you playing at?”

  “I can explain.” I sit up a bit, still ready to curl up if she gets nasty again. “I was in the bath when I figured out what was going on. He wasn’t there, you see. I was completely wet and he wasn’t there. And suddenly I realized he’d be here.”

  The lamp hangs by her side now. She looks at me still groveling on the floor, and it feels like she’s come back to me.

  “God, Carl, I never really actually believed you. All that time, I thought you were losing it. I’m so sorry. What’s he going to do, Carl? What’s he going to do to me?”

  There’s no easy way to say this. I get to my feet. I want to walk over to her. I want to hold her hand or wrap my arms around her, but I don’t want to push it. She was beating me hard a few minutes ago. So I stand where I am, near the doorway, and I tell her.

  “He wants to kill you, Neisha. I wouldn’t help him, so he’s going to try to do it himself. But I won’t let him. I won’t, Neisha.”

  She sinks onto the bed, perching on the edge, and puts the lamp down next to her.

  “He’s going to drown me.”

  She looks strangely calm, but her voice is unsteady, giving away how she really feels. And now I do move. I sit next to her and, without thinking, put my arm around her shoulders.

  “But he can’t hurt you,” I say. “Not if you stay out of the water. That’s what I was trying to say on the phone.”

  I lean my head against hers. She squeals, then hisses, “He’s here! Carl, Carl, he’s here!”

  What was I thinking? My skin is wet. My hair is wet. I jump up, away from her.

  “Wipe your face!” I bark. “Quickly, wipe it on the bedspread. I’m sorry. I just wanted to be close to you. That was my fault. I’m soaked. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

  “For God’s sake. Do you want to bring him back again?” She lifts one edge of the bedcover and dries herself, her actions jerky and panicky. Then she scans the room. “One minute I think I can trust you, and the next …”

  “I know. I’m sorry. I just forgot. You can trust me, Neisha, I swear. I won’t let him win. I won’t let anyone hurt you ever again. Has he gone?”

  She looks at me hard for a moment, assessing me with her big brown eyes. Then she turns and looks around the room.

  “Yes,” she says. “He’s gone. I’ll get a towel from the bathroom. You shut the window. Shut him out.”

  I cross to the window. Outside, the water is higher now. It can’t keep on rising forever, though, can it? It’ll have to stop sometime.

  I heave on the window and pull it down. It slides shut and I press on the frame and twist the lock around to make sure nothing can come in. Rain spatters against the glass, but it can’t hurt us now.

  Neisha’s back, carrying a couple of towels and some clothes. She stands in the doorway and I feel self-conscious — her fully clothed and me with hardly a stitch on. My arms and legs are skinny, a boy’s arms and legs, not a man’s. But I don’t feel like a boy when I look at her.

  I catch her looking me up and down. Up to my face and down to my —

  “Here,” she says, and throws the bundle of towels and clothes toward me. I catch them in both arms and dump them on her bed.

  “Thanks,” I say. I’m blushing and it’s a relief to bury my face in a towel for a moment, try and get myself back together.

  “They’re my dad’s clothes, but, you know, better than nothing …”

  I dive into a yellow polo shirt, put a thick fleece on top. My shorts are still dripping.

  “You can finish changing in the bathroom,” she says. “I found you some jeans. I wasn’t sure about underwear …”

  I swipe the jeans off the bed.

  “That’s cool,” I say. “I really couldn’t wear your dad’s underwear, even if my life depended on it.”

  Her face slowly breaks into a smile, then she grins.

  “I know. Eww.”

  In the bathroom, I quickly peel off my shorts, dry myself, and put the jeans on. They’re way too big, but they’ll do. I’m already feeling warmer. I shuffle out of the bathroom and look over the banister. The water’s about halfway up the stairs now, lapping at the hall wallpaper. I stare for a minute or so, trying to see whether it’s creeping upward, but it’s moving too much for me to be able to judge.

  It’s going to be okay. All we have to do is sit it out. It’s a bit like being on a desert island, and I can’t think of anyone I’d rather be here with than Neisha.

  I’m about to pad back along the landing when I look up. She’s coming toward me.

  “Wondered where you’d got to,” she says. “Oh God, you look … weird … in my dad’s clothes, I mean. Not a good look. At least you’re dry, I s’pose.”

  She puts her hands on my waist. I mirror her. We hesitate, awkward for a moment, then she slides her arms around me, drawing me close, and hugs me.

  I kiss the side of her face, not much more than a peck, but then she turns and our mouths meet and we kiss silently and tenderly. Below us, the hall table taps gently against the wall.

  We draw apart. I hold her face with both my hands.

  “Neisha,” I say, “I’m so, so sorry. For everything.”

  “It’s all right,” she says. “You don’t need to say it.”

  “Yeah, I do. It’s important. I’m sorry for the things I did. I’ve done some terrible, terrible things.”

  “It’s okay,” she says. She brings her finger up to my lips. “Shh. I know.”

  I open my lips and the end of her finger crooks into my mouth. I kiss it, then take both her hands and hold them between us.

  “I want to say it. If I don’t say it, then it’s not real. Now or afterward. I need to say the words and you need to hear them. God, I’m crap at this. I wish I could say what I really feel.”

  “You’re not crap. Go on.”

  Her face is serious now. She’s listening carefully and there’s something so trusting about her expression, even after everything we’ve been through.

  “I can’t make everything right,”
I say, “but maybe I can start to make things better. I did something so bad that, by rights, you should hate me, and I know you did for a while. I’ll do anything to make it up to you. I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to make you forget, forgive.”

  “The rest of your life?” she says. “Are you asking me to marry you? ’Cause that’s way out there …”

  There’s a hint of a smile at the corners of her mouth and I feel like I’m blowing it, messing up this opportunity big-time. This time, this moment, is slipping away from me. I look up to the ceiling.

  “God, I’m not doing this very well. I told you I was crap.”

  “No, you’re not. Sorry, I’m listening.” She strokes my face.

  “I’m not asking you to marry me, but I do love you, Neisha. That’s all. I love you.”

  I want her to say it back, really quickly, like she doesn’t have to think about it at all.

  But she doesn’t.

  My heart’s sinking inside. I’m ashamed and embarrassed at what I just said. But then she kisses me again, and it’s tender and sweet, full of comfort and warmth. And maybe it doesn’t matter if she won’t say it, can’t say it, yet.

  When we stop kissing, I hold her close.

  “I’m scared,” she says.

  “I think the water’s stopped rising,” I say. “I think we’re going to be okay.”

  And then all around us the windows burst and the world turns dark. The water rushes in, sweeping her out of my arms.

  No time to take a breath. No time to say, “Hold on.”

  The water is sudden and brutal, cutting my legs out from under me, flipping me over, throwing me against a wall or a banister or a ceiling, I can’t tell. I can’t fight it — I don’t know how. Which way is up? What do I cling to? The water is everywhere, dragging on my clothes. I twist and turn, helpless. I’m slammed into something else. I try to grip on to it, but my scrabbling fingers can’t find anything to hold.