Remembrances

In a hot room full of forced smiles and fake conversations I stand alone, haunted. Murmured voices fill my ears echoing loudly and stuffing my mind with unwelcomed thoughts. I want to lash out. Instead, I step out into the cold night air, the heat of the gathered bodies steaming off body and begin my quiet descent toward the pond on my aunt and uncle’s grounds. Thick flakes falling in the dark night absorb the sounds around me leaving only the exaggerated crunch of my feet on the snow. Hollow clops of my shoes upon the pier announce my arrival at my destination. It’s not a real pier of course. Just 20 feet of lumber jutting out on the pond’s surface.

I remember the day Uncle Bill decided to build it. I was 10 and it was the first day of our annual weeklong stay at my aunt and uncle’s place. A tradition that had started when I was too young to walk and would continue to this day. I always had mix feelings about this yearly tradition. My cousin Mike was a couple of years older than I and of superior physical talents, which meant he was always better at the games we played. He was also an insufferable winner who lorded over me with each victory no matter how small. However, the house was built on the edge of a substantial forest with a creek that ran through it, and I could escape into the adventures and solitude of the woods. To make our stay more pleasant my parents got me a remote-controlled boat for my 10th birthday thinking I could play with it on the pond. In the summer it was a brown mess with clumps of green algae floating on top. No animals lived in it and the water was a bit rancid, but it was significantly larger than the swimming pool and we didn’t have to worry about hitting swimmers. Following the Mr. Rogers doctrine, I had been raised with, I shared control of the watercraft with my cousin who seemed intent on hitting every algae mass he could until enough of the slime had accumulated to drastically reduce its propulsion. At my urging, and the possible threat of “I’m going to tell,” he finally brought it close to shore. As I reached out to grab it, the mud from the shoreline gave way. My legs flung too far apart, and I smacked face first into the slimy water. Like a cat in a tub, I frantically scrambled my way back to solid ground. I stood there for a second, both me and my craft covered in lime green goo with the faint smell of decaying matter wafting off us. My cousin didn’t bother to try and stifle his belly churning laughter as I ran for the house. My parents would be made in the way all parents get when they find their children covered in filth and the thought of being yelled at while covered in stinking detritus brought tears to my eyes. As I neared the house, my mother immediately putting down her drink and hopping down the stairs to chastise me, I saw someone I have never seen before. She had flame red hair and the pale skin of a porcelain doll dotted with freckles. She reminded me of the cat’s tails that grew on one side of the pond. She was about my size, which I took to mean she was about my age, and she looked at me quizzically as if wondering why I had decided to dress myself in this green ooze. I stifled my tears, determined to put my best foot forward despite pathetic countenance. Heidi. Her name was Heidi, and I could remember every detail as if it had happened earlier today.

But this was not that day. I brushed some snow off the built-in bench and felt dampness as I sat down. Reaching into my pocket I pulled out a pack of Newports and my lighter. I place a cigarette between my lips and run my fingers down the shaft of wrapped tobacco. The plain red Bic lights with a single flick of my thumb. Holding the gas lever down I admire the reliability of the simple tool and wonder why everything can’t be as dependable. With an inhale the cigarette’s cherry brightens and smoke fills my mouth. Moving the cigarette to the side I gulp down the smoke with a sharp inhale the acrid smoke filling my lungs. A tingle settles over my brain as the nicotine hits my system and a pleasant lightheadedness comes over me. I hold my breath for a second then slowly blow the smoke out looking across the pond at the strawberry fields.

Heidi and I had grown up in those fields. Her mom, a divorced coworker of my aunt, had become sort of a project for her. Heidi’s mom didn’t have many friends and my aunt took her in like a lonely puppy in need of a home. Heidi and I got along great, and she would come over almost every day when we were vacationing there. Though her hair sparkled like strands of rubies in the golden sun, it was hidden under one of the broad brimmed hats she wore to protect her fair skin. Heidi was the talkative sort, expressing whatever thoughts or observations came into her mind, but she had a pleasant voice and a way of talking that elevated what might be considered blatherskite. Picking strawberries she talked to me about school, her peers, and of course any abnormal berries she came across. Being a quiet listener, I found her words soothing as they often drowned out the chorus of voices that filled my head when left in silence. She joined me on my wilderness treks pointing out things I would never have noticed. Our adventures became something I looked forward to every summer. In a world where shy boys are forced out of their shells and loquacious girls are told to be quiet, the two of us being together was simple.

Simple. I look down at my Bic again. I had bought it 2 years ago for a couple of bucks. It had never failed to light. Sure, on windy day I had to huddle around it, but even then, I could hear the gas and see the spark. The bulk of its form was just a housing for the fuel. Add a simple valve to release the gas and some flint and steel and the next thing you know I was the master of flame and the envy of cavemen. Simple. Not rock and lever simple, but in a modern society the common lighter is one of the most simple, reliable, and affordable tools. It’s the complicated things, that can cost so much and fail so often, that will truly hurt.

Complicated were the conversations Heidi and I had the last time I saw her. It had only been a few weeks ago that my aunt and uncle had hosted Christmas. After all the excitement of opening presents and eating far too much, she had come over to hang out. As we had grown that ease between us had grown too and become a precious thing we shared. Skating around the frozen pond we talked about how this, our Junior year in High School, made everything else in the world complex. Some of it was very exciting. Learning to drive and experiencing new levels of independence was exhilarating. However, this was also to time of SAT prep, after school activities, joining clubs, and researching any scholarships and financing help that you could possibly apply for all in an attempt to stuff a college resume. People wanted you to get serious about your future plans and start making decisions that would literally affect the rest of your life. Heidi complained about people who wanted to know where she was thinking of going to college. Her train of thought was that she could only answer that question if she knew what she was going to study and knowing that the seemingly innocuous of “What colleges are you considering?” was tantamount to “What are you going to do with the rest of your life?” She wasn’t wrong. Having lived only about 20% of our lives we were now supposed to know how to spend the other 80%. With a smile I stopped her, looked her in the eyes, and reminded her that the majority of people who get degrees end up working in a field outside of their major. She looked up at me and laughed, the tension of trying to foresee her entire life expelled into the night air. And that’s when she kissed me.

The crunching of someone’s approach pulls me from my reverie. Glaring out of the corner of my eye I see the lanky 6’4” frame of my cousin approach. His footfalls ring hollow, as mine had, when he steps on the pier and soon, he takes a seat beside me, not even bothering to brush off the snow. I take another drag from my cigarette and refuse to look his way. Though well intentioned, his presence is an intrusion, and he will find no welcome from me. To my surprise he sits in silence actively not trying to engage me in conversation. The gesture is so kind and so against his natural tendencies that I almost smile and almost cry. Instead, I take a final hit from the Newport in my mouth and then flick the half-smoked cigarette at the frozen pond. It hits a bald spot where the snow has refused to cover it. I watch as the cherry explodes into several pieces, the smoking shaft sliding along the ice. I wonder if that’s what it had looked like when the drunk driver had hit her car, a fiery explosion with shards of vehicle flying like in the movies.

I suppose not. The funeral had been open casket. Still, the crash had done enough damage that she hadn’t looked real. She had looked more like a mannequin of herself with heavy layers of makeup applied to cover the blemishes of torn skin. Looking around at a funeral room filled with people she had barely known and not necessarily liked all dressed in their finest black clothes standing or sitting uncomfortably still. She would have hated it; God knows I did. This was her day of remembrance, yet nothing reflected her personality. Not the people, not their dress, not the awkward silences that dragged on to the point of breaking. Her clothes were wrong! I don’t care what they were hiding, that caked on death mask they called make up was not how she wanted to face eternity. I idly wondered how much damage was being covered. A grotesque image her concave face turned my stomach.

I lurch off of the bench and dry heave over the pier. I feel nauseous and I want to throw up. Nothing comes but the dry hacking of my empty body trying to expel something that doesn’t exist. I straighten wiping a long strand of spittle from my lip and chin. The repast won’t last much longer and there are still plenty of people who want to offer me their empty words, so I walk back to the house in silence. The stuffy air warms my limbs, but a part of me remains frozen like the pond.