Surface Tension

“What do you see?”

An endless, white sandy beach. The crystalline waters of the ocean are turquoise and emerald. The waves lap against the sand. The sky is dotted with peach and lavender clouds. It’s almost sunset.

And, out in the water, stands my family. They’re smiling at me; my toddler daughter waves a hand.

“What are you doing?”

Standing there. Watching. Waiting.

“What if you went to them?”

I… I can’t.

“Yes, you can. You have control, here.”

I take a deep breath. I can do this.

I put my right foot forward and the water curls around my toes. I’m barefoot, I see. When I look up, my mom is beckoning me. Her face is neatly wrapped in the curls of her hair. My wife’s big, blue eyes meet mine and she blushes.

“Focus.”

I take another step, and the water slips underneath the sole of my foot. The same thing happens when I bring my other foot forward. The water holds me up. I’m on top of it. I’m walking on the water!

I’m not close, though. My family seems further away now. But they’re still waving, still smiling. They still want me to get to them. The water underneath them is darker than before. All around us is water and emptiness.

When I take another step, my leg sinks up to the knee. Oh, no. I can’t feel the bottom. It’s so cold.

I’m falling, my other leg crashing into the waves and my arms swirl to try and swim. Saltwater shoots up my nose – I’m – I’m gagging. More water, it’s in my eyes. I’m choking! I can’t breathe! It’s dark and it’s cold and the water is – it’s everywhere!

“Aaron, breathe. Open your eyes.”

I took a deep gasp as my eyes flew open. I lurched forward in my seat, clutching at my throat and my chest. I coughed. My heart hammered my sternum.

“That was good,” said Dr. Peterson.

“Good? I could’ve died!”

“You were never in any danger. That was just a trance.”

I let out a long breath as I ran my fingers through what was left of my hair. Then I realized where I was, in Dr. Peterson’s office in the 816th suite of this brick building, miles from the bay. “Right, right, I remember something like that.”

The therapist leaned back in his chair, folding a long leg and balancing it on his knee, giving me a moment to gather myself. His fancy pants slid up his shin to reveal his sock clip. “Do you feel closer to the root of your fear of the water?”

I shook my head. “No, my wife and daughter have never even seen me on the water. There’s no way they’d be in a memory like that.”

“Why do you think you thought of them, then, during the trance?”

“Probably because more than the water, I’m afraid of…” I caught sight of the clock. 5:43. “Is that clock fast? Shit, I have to go.”

“Mr. Fretten, hold on!”

I grabbed my bag and slung it over my shoulder. “Sorry, really. But my dad will blow his top if I don’t get home to make dinner.”

Dr. Peterson started to get to his feet, but I already had the door handle in my fist. “I think we should talk about that. Your father, your parents…”

“Next time!” I said and pulled the door shut before the fancy doctor could catch up. Those fancy pants must’ve made him slower.

But the soonest bus left at 6:00, and if I didn’t get to it in time then I’d never hear the end of it from my mother. After a twenty-minute ride in the heat of July and ten to twenty random humans crammed into the tin can, I arrived at the apartment complex with a sweat stain running down my back. And got an earful anyway.

“You’re just now getting home? Forget about your family while you were in some hoity toity shrink’s office?”

“Sorry, Mom,” I replied flatly, dropping my bag at the door and undoing my boot laces.

“Lucky for you, I’m better at taking care of your father than anyone. I already got the oven preheating. We’re having baked chicken. It’s thawing in the sink.”

“I remembered to get it out this afternoon,” my wife Sharon's soft and lovely voice drifted around my mother as she made her way to me.

“Daddy!” Between the two older women, my favorite girl in the whole world came toddling toward me with hands outstretched and waving. My daughter, Michelle.

“Princess!” I remained knelt long enough to scoop her in my arms. She squealed in delight. I blew a raspberry on her stomach, so she squealed again.

My mother made herself scarce like she always did when Sharon was around. She put a kiss on my cheek and gave me a sad smile. I couldn’t remember the last time I'd seen a genuine one.

“Was she a lot again today?”

She didn’t say anything, she just looked to the ground.

“Look, I promise I’ll talk to her it’s just… not a good time. You know.”

She nodded. “I know. Once you’re feeling better, we can start saving up again. I can ask the office here if there are any openings for apartments next year. Then I could at least slam a door in her face.”

“I hear you in there!” A voice that once was booming but, over time, had turned into gravelly growls, filled the four walls. “What are you two doing? Scheming against your saint of a mother?”

“No, Dad, of course not. I’ll get your chicken started.” I passed Michelle to her mother.

“Don’t be so ungrateful,” my father warned from the other room.

“You want a beer?” I called, hoping that I could distract his ire. I was used to it – at least, more than Sharon was. He didn’t answer, but I popped the top off a bottle and brought it to him anyway.

He took it while barely acknowledging me. His gaze stayed fixed on the television playing baseball highlights from twenty years ago. He leaned back in his armchair, like usual, but with his pillows cast on the floor.

I grunted and picked them up. “Dad, the doctor said you have to keep your legs elevated.” I shoved them under his bloated legs and propped them on the chair. “You don’t want to have another stroke, do you? Don’t you want to see Michelle grow up? Mom’s talked to you about this.”

My father scoffed. “Don’t put words in your dear mother’s mouth. She’s better than your witch of a wife, I’ll tell you that. Don’t know where I went wrong with you.”

“I’ve told you, don’t talk about Sharon that way.” I kept my voice level, like how a rock stays smooth after tumbling around a river for an entire lifetime. “I love her, that’s what’s important. Don’t you love Mom?”

“I love her cooking. It's still good even after her ass started saggin'!”

I turned away from the laughter that thundered out of him. His usual response might have made me chuckle as a teenager, but that was a long time ago. His laughing became coughing, then he quieted to watch his reruns.

The din of the television meant that he wasn’t angry, at least.

I met my mother in the kitchen, hunched over a chopping board with carrots and celery. “Oh!” She exclaimed. “Finally decided to help your poor mother with your dinner? What a gentleman.”

“Here, let me take over,” I reached out for the knife she held, but she whipped around and waggled the point of it at me.

“Your father nearly fell out of bed this morning, did you know that?” She kept the blade pointed at me, but the real threat was the sharpness of her glare and tongue. “I’ve been working myself to the bone since I woke up, and that stupid woman you married doesn’t do a damn thing to help me around here.”

The only dirt that came into this house anymore was what I brought home from the construction site. I cleaned up the kitchen after dinner every night, and my mother screamed at Sharon any time she tried to clean anything. Yet, still, the house was tidy as ever. I held up my hands in submission and bit my tongue. “Mom, you know having a toddler in the house is a lot of work, too.”

She groaned and thrust the handle of the knife into one of my open hands. “When are you going to quit making excuses for her and stand up for your family?”

I slid the cutting board closer and started to work. “Sharon is family. She’s the mother of your only granddaughter.”

“Yeah, and that poor girl better hope not to have your wife’s smarts and your looks or she’s doomed!” She smacked my arm with the back of her hand. It used to hurt, when I was little, but we were both older now.

She grumbled as she left the room, granting me a few blessed moments of peace as I chopped vegetables before Sharon and Michelle joined me to finish up. Michelle waved at the chicken as we put it in the oven. Sharon and I played with her while it cooked, then served dinner.

Sharon took her plate to the bedroom, and I fed Michelle in her highchair after delivering plates to my parents. By the time I got to my own dinner, it was cold. I’d taken to putting it right in the microwave after plating.

For a moment, it was almost like it always was. And that was the problem.

I laid in the bed with Sharon at my side. Her steady breathing usually comforted me, but as I stared at the ceiling, nothing helped quiet my mind. In the shadows, the flat pane of the ceiling reminded me of the water beneath my family in the hypnosis trance I’d seen earlier that day.

If Dr. Peterson let me back in his office, I’d have to apologize. But I just couldn’t open up to him that way. Not yet.

Yes, my fear of the water was what had put me on leave to begin with. Our construction company, the same one my father had worked at his whole life, had started picking up jobs along the bay. At first, I thought I could swallow the fear and press on but when I was ten stories up and looking down at the endless blue…

My safety harness did its job at least. But I couldn’t be fainting at work every day. Traumatized the other guys. And Sharon. So, they put me on leave while I worked with a doctor on it.

I could talk about the fear of the water. That didn’t bother me. Peterson wanted to find the source of the fear, that was why he’d recommended hypnosis. I didn’t know it would bring me to facing my family.

With Michelle getting older, she’d start to have memories soon. Did I really want her childhood to be like mine? Constant yelling, drinking, squabbling, and arguments? What would I do when my mother struck her on the arm the way she always did? Or when my father started insulting me and her mother in front of her?

In the morning, I had a new email from Dr. Peterson. He invited me back the following work day, making a special note that it was scheduled well before dinner hours.

“I have a challenge for you this weekend, Aaron,” he said when I called him to confirm the appointment. “There is a boating party on the bay this weekend. I think you, and your family, should go participate.”

“Get on a boat?” I balked. “I thought I was the crazy one, here.”

He chuckled. “Neither of us is crazy, Mr. Fretten. You don’t have to get on a boat, but you must at least sit on the shore and watch the boats. You never have to touch the water yourself. Then let yourself feel that anxiety, and wait for it to subside on its own. Tell me about it when I see you again."

I expected the doctor to press me for details, but he was thankfully more invested in challenging my water phobia. Or, more likely, pointedly ignoring it so I would keep working with him after my mandatory sessions. Probably so he could afford more fancy pants.

I hadn’t made any promises to Dr. Peterson, but the way Sharon’s eyes lit up when I told her about the outing left me no other choice. She said it would be great for Michelle to get out of the house and a way to spend the day away from my mother, who had to stay back to take care of Dad. I said a grateful prayer to any god who would listen.

It seemed that everyone in the city was on their way to the bay. Michelle waved at everyone on the bus. Some people waved back. Sharon held her around the waist in her lap, carefully adjusting the straps on her dress and brushing loose, brown hairs away from her eyes.

“Sorry I can’t drive us,” I said, nudging my wife to talk into her ear.

She smirked at me and motioned to look out the window of the bus. We scooted along the bus lane beside bumper-to-bumper traffic. “You think we’d be happier in one of those? Michelle would be screaming.”

“She never screams.”

“She might in a car seat.” We laughed, and it was the first time in ages we’d smiled together. Maybe the trip was a good idea after all.

Then the white triangles of boat sails fluttered over the edge of the street, and I realized how close we’d come to the bay. I clammed up right away, nerves gripping my throat and chest. Just like I was actually drowning. Sharon put her hand on mine. I held my breath a moment then let it out. Michelle looked at me with her sweet, doe eyes. She reached for me, and I brought her into my lap. “I’m good, I’m good.”

Due to the number of boats in the harbor, I couldn’t see much of the water. I counted it as a blessing. Sharon set out a blanket on the grass and gave Michelle her sippy cup. She waved at the people around us, and most of them waved back.

“Will you watch her?” Sharon asked, then gestured to a nearby set of porta-johns. “Mother nature calls.”

“Well, you don’t want her to leave a message,” I answered, and reached for Michelle to bring her into my lap.

She protested, pointing to the water’s edge. The pontoons and sailboats on the bay enticed her, and she smiled at the sparkling waves lapping at the shore.

I hesitated and looked for Sharon, but she was already on her way to the toilets. “You don’t have to touch the water.” I reminded myself of Dr. Peterson’s words as I let Michelle guide me off the blanket and into the sand on the beach. She toddled determinedly forward, wavering for only a moment as the sand gave beneath her and threatened to swallow her calf. Like she broke through the surface tension.

I let go of her hand as she reached wet, darker sand and followed numbly. She turned back to me and beamed, then lifted her hand to wave. I lifted my hand in turn, but not to wave.

Water splashed around her legs and sprayed up her back. The corners of her mouth dropped down as her wispy curls rushed into her face. I reached her after she’d hit the ground, sending sand into her face and hair. She propped up on her short arms in a moment of silent shock.

She let out a piercing wail as I danced around the water that pooled before sliding out to sea. We only had a moment; the water would be back. It would swallow her up, it would drag us both out to sea with a wave.

I got my hands under Michelle's armpits and pulled her up to my chest. Her legs flailed. Her cry hiccuped.

The back of my pants turned cold and wet like a sharp blade digging into my calf. I shouted and lifted my daughter out in front of me. And I ran forward.

I set her on her feet on the blanket, then let my arms dangle in the air to keep the wet front of my shirt from touching my skin. I tried in vain to convince myself that the water on my hands was sweat.

Michelle resumed her screaming. Sharon emerged from the toilet, alerted by the sound of her child. She rushed up to us and dropped down on her knees to wrap Michelle in a comforting hug. I stood above them. Waiting, in a way, for my comforting hug. To meet them across the narrow channel of fear that divided us.

Then I reached in our bag and drew out a towel. I took off my shirt and dabbed the towel against my skin, with my daughter’s scream echoing in my ears. I put the towel to my face and did wished I could do the same thing.