Beneath the Surface

“What do you see?”

White sand, stretching to the horizon. Gentle turquoise waves kiss the shoreline. The sky is brushed with peach and lavender clouds. The sun hovers low, warming everything with golden light.

My family is out in the water. Smiling. Waiting. My daughter waves, joy beaming from her small frame.

“What are you doing?”

Standing. Watching. Frozen.

“What if you went to them?”

I hesitate. Then breathe. And take a step.

The cool water greets my toes. I'm barefoot. My mom beckons me forward, hair curling around her cheeks. My wife’s familiar eyes meet mine. A blush rises on her face.

“Focus.”

Another step. The water holds me. I’m not sinking — I’m walking on it.

But they feel further now. The water beneath them has darkened. My chest tightens. The next step pulls me down to my knee. Cold. Deep.

Panic.

Saltwater burns my nose. I can’t breathe. I’m sinking. Thrashing. Drowning.

"Aaron, breathe. Open your eyes."

I bolt upright, coughing, clutching my chest. I’m not at the beach — I’m in a chair. Dr. Peterson watches me from across his office, expression calm.

“That was good,” he says.

“Good? I nearly drowned.”

“You were safe. It was a trance.”

The ceiling lights buzz above us. The sterile smell of the office returns to me. Right. Therapy.

“Do you feel closer to understanding your fear of water?”

I shake my head. “My daughter’s never seen me on water. Neither has my wife. That scene— it wasn’t real.”

“Then why them?”

I glance at the clock. Late. “I have to go.”

“Wait—”

“My dad will freak if I’m late for dinner,” I mumble, already halfway out the door.

The bus ride home is sticky and loud. By the time I reach the apartment, sweat clings to my back. But that doesn't spare me.

“You’re just now getting home?” My mother’s voice slices through me the moment I open the door.

“I’m sorry, Mom.”

“Lucky for you, I already started dinner. Your father needs his baked chicken.”

Sharon, my wife, steps forward with a gentle smile. “I thawed it out earlier.”

Then, the only light in my life toddles toward me. “Daddy!” Michelle cries.

I scoop her up, blowing a raspberry on her belly. Her laugh pierces the tension.

My mother retreats. She always does when Sharon’s around. Sharon kisses my cheek.

“She was tough again today?” I ask.

She shrugs. “Same as always.”

“I’ll talk to her soon. I promise.”

But before we can say more, the thunderous voice from the living room returns. “You two scheming against your mother?”

“No, Dad. Just starting dinner.” I pass Michelle to Sharon and fetch a beer for my father. He accepts it without a word, eyes glued to some ancient baseball game.

His pillows are on the floor again. I kneel, prop up his legs. “You’re supposed to keep them elevated. You want another stroke?”

He scoffs. “Your mother’s smarter than that woman you married.”

“Please don’t talk about Sharon that way.”

“I call it like I see it.”

His laughter is short-lived. He coughs and settles in.

In the kitchen, my mother chops vegetables furiously. “Took you long enough,” she snaps. “Your father nearly fell this morning. What would we do then, huh?”

“I’m sorry. Let me help—”

She thrusts the knife into my hand. “Your wife does nothing while I kill myself working!”

I know it's not true. Sharon does more than she’s allowed. I clean the kitchen every night. But it’s useless to argue.

“She’s raising Michelle.”

“She’s raising her to be useless, like you.”

The words hit harder than the back of her hand, which she slaps against my arm. A gesture from childhood. One I’ve never forgotten.

I say nothing. Just chop carrots.

Sharon returns with Michelle. We finish cooking in silence, serve the food. Sharon eats in our room. I feed Michelle and deliver plates to my parents. My own meal is cold. I microwave it like usual.

Same routine. Every night. But now, it’s no longer bearable.

That night, lying beside Sharon, I stare at the ceiling. It's just drywall — but I see the water again. Endless. Dark. Waiting to swallow me.

Dr. Peterson's voice haunts me: "Do you know the root of your fear?"

It wasn’t the water.

The next morning, an email from the doctor waits in my inbox.

> "Try something this weekend. A boating event at the bay. You don’t have to touch the water — just sit by it. Let the anxiety come. Let it pass. Then tell me about it."

I don’t commit. But when I tell Sharon, her eyes sparkle. “A day out?” she says. “We could use that.”

She’s right. A few hours away from my parents. Michelle deserves at least that.

At the bay, the bus is packed. Michelle waves at everyone. Sharon brushes hair from her eyes. We laugh. We feel like us again.

Then, the sails appear. Boats. Water.

My chest tightens. I hold Michelle close. “I’m okay,” I whisper, mostly to myself.

Sharon lays out a blanket. “Watch her? I need the restroom.”

Michelle tugs my hand toward the water. I hesitate. Then remember:

“You don’t have to touch the water.”

She stumbles into the wet sand, then turns and beams. Waves lap at her ankles.

Then she falls.

I lurch forward. Saltwater sprays. She’s crying, startled. Wet. Sand in her curls.

I pull her up. Water splashes against my pants. Ice-cold. Panic surges. My mind flashes back.

But I don’t freeze.

I run.

I reach the blanket, set her down. She wails. Sharon rushes over. I watch them embrace.

Then I wipe my face, shirt soaked, hands shaking. And I laugh softly.

Not because it’s funny.

Because I’m still standing.

Because I faced the water.

And didn’t drown.