There's a body in the pond

There’s a body in the pond. A body in the pond. In the pond. In the pond…

The mantra beat like a brass drum, reverberating between my ears as a steady pulsating accusation. Of course no one knew that, how could they, how could anyone know? The pond was cloudy with frozen air, crystals blinking in the late afternoon sun. I dragged in a mouthful of air, sliding one foot cautiously out onto the ice. It was the shortest way home, I reminded myself again, sliding a little bit further. Now there’s a body on the pond. A body on the bond. On the pond. On the pond… I frowned. This was no time to be funny brain.

The slide became more confident the further out onto the pond I went. I couldn’t bear to bring my foot off the ice to step. Confident that a step would send me plunging into an icy abyss, confident that breathing too hard or, blinking too rapidly would seal my fate. I slid; my eyes wide and stinging, breath shallow and slow, it was the shortest way home. The scrape of my boots grated in time to the drum in my head, for a moment they perfectly harmonized. I chanted back my response in between quiet exhales, no one knew, how could they, how could anyone know?

There’s a body in the pond. A body in the pond. In the pond. In the pond…

The bank was hard and icy. My fingers wrapped around the thick roots sticking out from the soil and scrambled to the top. Dirty nails and frozen feet, what a day, what a day, what a day.

Home was dark, no lights to greet me, no warm rooms beckoning, just crunch, crunch, crunch as I plodded across the yard. Familiar dread snuck a tiny tendril through my chest, wrapping tightly around my lungs. I am brave, I am brave, I am brave. No threat of frostbite would ever be as strong as the tendril that squeezed. Squeezed as I slipped off my boots and crept through the house in thick yellow socks. Squeezed as I flicked on each light, checked each closet, under every bed, behind every chair.

There’s a body in the pond. A body in the pond. In the pond. In the pond…

The house was warm when the bus squealed to a stop outside; the lights were on to greet Darcy as she clomped up the stairs. As the bus pulled away, I leaned my hands on the counter, willing my mama heart beyond the door and onto the porch. You are brave, you are brave, you are brave.

“I am home!” the announcement was unnecessary as it accompanied my daughter, the wind, and a handful of dry leaves in the door.

“Welcome home baby!”

The door slammed gloriously loud behind her, shaking the wall, shaking me. I jumped out of my composure, out of my safe place, right back into a thousand angry moments. Slam, stomp, stomp, stomp. My stomach turned as my mind helpfully substitute the crisp fall air with the stench of gin. I covered my face. Damnit. Damnit. Damnit.

“Today was a great day at school.” Her hand patted my arm, her voice stronger then I could be. “Benton brought his lizard but he didn’t tell Ms. Claire, guess where he kept him all day!? In his shirt! I told him he smelled like lizards and lies.” She chuckled at her own turn of phrase, her steady stream of useless school drama drowning out the slam, stomp, stomp.

There’s a body in the pond. A body in the pond. In the pond. In the pond…

We played our favorite game, Candyland, even though Darcy said I made up the rules, even though she said she was too big, too old, and too cool for Candyland. The radio played country soft and low in the background, eating up the silence that crowded around us. I insisted on tucking her into bed, even though she was too big, too old, and too cool for a kiss goodnight. Right before I turned the lights off she murmured to her pillow. "I am not sorry. Not sorry. Not sorry." My mama heart was full of things I couldn’t quite define, but I recognized as I closed the door, that I wasn’t sorry either.

Winter was tranquil, our lives frozen as solid as the pond. Each sliding footstep home brought me closer to assurance, self-reliance, and composure. I can do this, I can do this, I can. Some days were hard, some habits deeper, some pain bred into the bone. Some days were easy, impulses blocked, neuroticism deferring to aspiration, light illuminating darkness. It had been months, scabs become scars, bruises become memories, and memories bow to time and routine. No one knew, how could they, how could they know?

Today my first sliding boot slurped instead of scraped. Slurped. Water? Yes. Damnit. Damnit. Damnit.

There’s a body in the pond. A body in the pond. In the pond. In the pond…

Today was the long way home, slurp, slurp, slurping through the mud as I crossed the yard to home. I sat on the porch; I stared at the ground, at the tiny seedlings blooming near the base of the first step. The audacity of the world to keep on turning astounded and infuriated me. Time, time, time, I want more time. The low rumble of a distant bus told me I had 2 minutes, maybe less to savor my righteous anger. When Darcy dropped down off the last step and smiled at me I dismissed the last remnants of pity and held out my arms. Her hug was cautious, our routine broken. “Mom why are you out here, it’s cold!”

“I know baby, sit with me for a minute.” I pulled her thick coat sleeve, nudging her to the porch. We sat for a moment, she leaned her head on my shoulder, sniffing and twitching in the cold air.

“What’s for dinner?”

“Darcy, do you know how much I love you?”

If eye rolls were sounds, they would be a slow sliding wa-wah scale, “Moooom.”

“We don’t have to talk, but we have to talk.”

“What does that mean?” she pushed off my shoulder, twisting so I could feel her eyes on my face.

“It was a warm day today; the weather is starting to change.”

“I know, I can’t wait, I am so tired of walking around with 10 extra pounds of clothing.”

That we could agree on, I shuffled one heavy boot on the step, “Warm weather would be nice.” The tremor in my voice must have clued her in; I saw the head tilt, as she followed my line of sight to the pond. Her body stilled next to me, realization dawning.

There’s a body in the pond. A body in the pond. In the pond. In the pond…

“I am not sorry.” her whisper was vicious, and her hand fastened to mine. “I am not sorry and neither are you.”

“I am not sorry.”

We sat on the porch till our noses ran and our ears rang in the silence, unapologetic, terrified, together.