“You can’t swim without a lifeguard.”
The voice cuts through the hum of the lake. I crane my head and find a blur of bodies gathered around a campfire further down the shore. Their faces melt together into a smear of orange and brown above the flames. A girl—teenager, maybe—stands at the edge of the group with two hands outstretched on either side of her mouth. From this distance, her face is round and nickel-sized, and her features are impossible to make out, but she is dressed neatly: straight blond hair tucked behind her ears, a collared shirt buttoned to the throat. I watch as the blond coin nods towards a safety sign, overstating the dangers of rip currents, unsupervised swimming, and other predictable, related warnings.
I hadn’t counted on anyone else being at the beach. If it were warmer, maybe. But it’s mid-September. Kids should have better things to do. Or parents who believe they do. I fix the scowl on my face and raise my flask toward them. For all I know, they could be future students. First impressions linger like bad tattoos, Mother would say.
“Ha! Right,” I say, mostly to myself, and take two long sips. The vodka burns a cleansing, punishing path through me. When I open my eyes, the girl has vanished into the firelight.
It’s that vague hour between sunset and nightfall when the sun has almost disappeared, leaving a bruise of violet along the horizon. My clothes cling like plastic wrap. My braids—tucked under my shirt—drip slow tears down my spine. I must have stood out to the group: sitting alone, completely soaked through with a towel draped over my shoulders and jeans stuffed into Mother’s red rain boots. We’re not even the same size, but I took them to spite her. She wears them every day, even when it’s not raining. I grin, imagining them left behind on the sand, watching me sink.
A chill breeze curls past, smelling of salt and rot. I stare at the blanket of water stretched vast and dark, an illusion of warmth. It looks fresh and deep blue, but I know, not far from the coast, algae covers the water, thick as sickness.
I remove my boots and socks, letting my feet feel the lumpy, cold sand beneath them. The metal flask is cold and sticky in my hand; the last mouthful splashes loudly against the sides, and because I’m not one to waste, I swallow it down. The drink sends a warming fire through me.
With my hands, I dig a small grave for my things, tossing sand toward the water, sometimes toward the group of molten shadows. Nobody seems to mind. I stuff the little items on me—my phone, flask, rosaries, and car keys—into my sock-coffin and knot it tight, suffocating but safe. It’s a sacred moment, and I close my eyes, the bundle cupped in my hands. Then I bury it and set the boots on top of the towel like a headstone, toes pointed toward the lake. I wipe my cracked lips with sandy fingers and lick them dry, tasting dirt.
The pull is irresistible and hits me all at once. My legs move before I tell them to, first a steady walk, then I’m running, throwing one limb in front of the other like I’m rushing into the arms of a lost lover. Everything is quiet except my heartbeat, a drum parading through my head.
I open my eyes and watch as the water reaches for me, then pulls back. I jump. The cold hits like an electric shock. Up close, the water is more green than blue, and the stink of mildew replaces the sea breeze. Each wave breaks against me, sending a shiver of cowardice through my body. My clothes drag at my limbs, desperate to sink.
I close my eyes, and the world changes. I paint the sky black and the lake clear. I’m in control. I kick my legs up and float on my back as the water carries me into the dark.
***
There is something unclean about me. Not just on the surface—under my fingernails, clinging to my skin—but within. Like a disease that has seeped inward, swallowing me whole. Maybe that’s why I love the water; every bath is a baptism, a sort of renewal or rebirth.
I try to take baths at least once a week, sometimes more, depending on how I feel. Like this week, for example, today was my third bath, and it’s only Thursday. I was driving, not to anywhere specific, when I heard back from the school about the permanent teaching position. People would have celebrated in bars or with friends, but I’ve never needed attention like that, so I turned the car around and went home. I had good vodka at home, and really, that would be the only reason I’d be going out. I like to stock up at the liquor store on Sunday: seven reasonably sized bottles of Grey Goose. It’s how I made the most of my time when I wasn’t teaching, which was most of the time. The part-time teaching gig only keeps me busy from Monday through Wednesday. I always go to the liquor store near Woodbine Beach with the same two Ukrainian men operating the cash register. They’d call me “Mother Mary,” and laugh. Maybe because of the collection of rosaries around my neck, but I don’t see how that’s funny. With a wink, they’d charge me one bottle less.
As soon as I walked in the door, my heart was racing and thudding so loudly I didn’t hear Mother moving through the upstairs. I went into the kitchen, which was messy and dated. The brown cabinet doors gaped open, sagging on loose hinges against a frayed orange floral wallpaper. White plates with colorful smears of food sat fermenting in the metal sink, and the tiles on the floor were piss-yellow, stained from wear. I took out a new bottle of vodka from one of the open cabinets, removed the plastic wrap around the cap, and filled an entire glass with it. I swallowed it down in one gulp, filled a second glass, and drained that too. I felt immensely better after that. I love the pureness of vodka; it’s burning, rejuvenating clarity. It makes me feel alive—a new, steady woman.
In the rush of it all, it took me a moment to register the cake on the counter: vanilla cream with a mess of raspberries coating the top. The school must have called the house initially—I’d say it was a fair assumption. I used the same cup to remove a slice of cake. I’m not sure when Mother began screaming. Maybe while I was eating, maybe after. I screamed back; I know I did, because my throat still hurts.
“The cake was for Father,” she said, weakly gripping my shoulders with both hands as if to steady herself. “He would have been 50.”
Mother’s face was so red, and I watched as little droplets began to swell around her eyes. Slowly, she shrank into a ball on the ground. But, despite her size, she had a way of filling the spaces she entered, even when she wasn’t saying anything.
Suddenly, I felt hot and cold as a surge of that familiar pollution began to somersault through my insides and crawl up my throat. I didn’t care about anything anymore. I left Mother on her hands and knees and escaped to the upstairs bathroom. I knelt to vomit, but nothing came out. So, I filled the bath with scalding water, and stepped inside—clothes and all. I watched my body turn light pink, then darker shades of red. “Thank you, thank you,” I whispered to the water. Finally, I slid under, holding my breath. I liked to blow out all the air, watch the bubbles scatter away from me and run for the surface. I liked the sting in my lungs, the ache of nothing to breathe. Even now, I remember how tempting it felt to breathe in. Eventually, my head floated to the surface, and my body vibrated with breath. Above the water, Mother’s wails hung in the air, stealing the privacy of my moment.
I peeled myself out of the tub and wrapped a towel around my layered body. My clothes lamented a heavy stream of water on the bathroom floor and left a trail down the stairs, past my weeping Mother, out the door, and into my car.
***
I float on my back until the water can no longer tolerate my weight, keeping my eyes closed the whole time. In the water, the earth is still—no breeze or waves. Just quiet. I trace little circles into the water with my fingers, and my sweater dangles from my sleeve, splashing against the surface. If I’m shivering, I’m not aware of it.
Eventually, my legs begin to sink, and water spills over my stomach. I let my body slip under, until it’s only my head above the water. That’s when I bend my legs and force myself under, accepting the water’s embrace. The outside world fades to a distant hum. I crouch to stay submerged. I release control, now weightless—twirling like a wheel. My clothes parachute around me, releasing my braids from beneath the layers. The water is shimmering, crystal-clear, but most of all it’s mine. I wave my arms against the dense weight, taking up as much space as I can, disrupting the calm. Something wraps around my leg, and in an instant, I push up hard. The air outside hits like a spray of glass shards, piercing straight through to the bones. I reach for my leg and feel a plastic bag. I kick the disgusting thing away.
I’m surprised I can touch the ground at all, that my head is still above the surface. It felt like I’d been floating for an eternity, but looking at the beach, I’ve barely moved. The campfire is still meters away, but no attending crowd. I scan the shore and spy the swarm of shadows near the water’s edge. The sky is hanging on to the last scrap of daylight, but it’s still too dark to make out their faces.
They’re a considerable distance from the fire. Had it grown out of control? Is that even possible, with nothing to burn? A bunch of kids should never have been trusted with a fire.
“You alive, lady?” someone calls across the water.
I turn toward the beach. They can’t be talking to me. The water is so still, inviting. Kids these days don’t even know where help is needed. Look at your hungry fire.
I shout back, No, and wade deeper, picking up speed. I came out here to be alone. The thought of being watched makes my skin crawl.
The water glides around me, gentle and easy. It’s so beautiful how it calms itself for me.
***
They say there’s a current that runs wild in this lake. The Toronto Star ran a whole spread about it in May for Water Safety Month. Every Saturday, the paper included a new story about a family whose lives were affected by the current, acting as a sort of honorary bulletin board.
For four terrible weeks, Mother sat at the kitchen table every morning, cutting out photos of the lake’s victims and writing their names on the back. If the article included a contact email for the journalist, she’d jot that down too. Then she’d line up the pictures on our fridge with cross magnets, a reminder to grieve. The photo collage sat above our weekly grocery list and pictures of my parents early in their relationship.
She was a mess when the paper arrived, and I made the mistake of coming downstairs that first Saturday morning. Of course, I could hear her from upstairs, but she’s always out and about with her grief on display, so this was hardly cause for concern. I followed the path of carpet from my room down the narrow staircase and stopped on the last step—hidden from view. I peeked around the wall and saw her there, unravelling into a glass of God-knows-what.
She sat cross-legged on the chair, arms outstretched on either side of the paper, bathrobe half open, black makeup clustered around her eyes. Newspaper clippings surrounded her, scissors in her lap. I honestly didn’t know what she was doing, but that’s not an unfamiliar feeling. I stepped into the kitchen’s view; her eyes shot sideways, tracking my movement, but she made no effort to turn her head.
“Oh, honey, did I wake you?” She ran her fingers under her eyes to catch the tears, then combed her hair back in one motion. “I saw this feature about my old schoolteacher—his wife died in the lake.”
I circled the table to where she sat. She’d cut out a wedding photo of a woman, about my age, though clearly from another time. I wondered if it was laziness on the journalist’s part—not bothering to find something more recent—or if the woman just hadn’t done anything photo-worthy since. I guess it didn’t matter, since she was dead. Thankfully, I took my graduation photos last year—a bit cliché for a feature, but at least they’re current.
“I’ve called the priest about mentioning her at mass tomorrow,” she said, blinking hard. On the counter, a carafe of coffee sat beside an open bottle of whisky.
“That’s nice,” I said, reaching for a mug.
“I thought I’d call the journalist,” she continued, flipping the photo over. “See if she could connect me with the family. It’s hard losing a spouse.”
I hesitated, fingers hovering over the whisky. Mother blankly stared ahead at the pages, mouth open like a fish. I resigned to the coffee, and she pushed the cream closer to me.
“You know I don’t mix,” I exhaled. “Do you think he’d want that—to hear from you?”
I took a sip, letting the heat burn through my tongue, gums, and throat. Outside, the sun was hiding, the sky coated in clouds. Then Mother slammed her hands against the table. I left without looking at her—it was obvious she didn’t want me there. Behind me, a glass bottle clinked, and she whispered to the bride: it’s the kindness that kills us.
***
I’m thinking about that day, and whether Mother will put a picture of me on the fridge, as I float through the lake. I’m still a comfortable distance from the algae, but I’ve moved further away from the judging eyes of those pests on shore. Do people still call kids pests these days? She’d keep it somewhere available to the eyes of others—maybe in her wallet or car—but definitely not on the fridge. We don’t accept guests at home—what would be her reason? I bet she’s already packing my things away. There was only ever room for her and Father in that house. Maybe once I fit into that equation, but not anymore. That’s fine. I don’t even want to fit.
All at once, the expanse of water feels like a bathtub of mildew, claustrophobic and filthy. I haven’t reached the algae, but the lake seems thicker. My clothes drag at my limbs, willing me to sink. I need to move, but I can’t risk going deeper. I clench my eyes shut, and the black world spins. I reach for the floor and balance on tiptoes, tilting my head back to keep my mouth above the surface. Every ripple sends a splash against my lips, tasting of compost and rain.
I sink and scrub my skin, squeezing my limbs. My eyes sting. My skin burns. I gasp for air at the water’s surface and fall back under. All effort is futile. I will my body forward, but barely move. I slip out of my jeans, and the cold pinches up my thighs. I feel lighter, but the neckline of my sweater coils around my throat, tighter and tighter, strangling me, weighing me down.
But this is my moment. I kick forward, tug at my sweater, and tear through the lace of my undershirt. I’ve broken skin, but I don’t care—I’m light and agile, a breeze over the water. I spin, glide, and pirouette. Moving further and further away from those filthy, heavy clothes.
The smell of manure and decay comes out of nowhere. I gag, swallowing clumps of algae. I spit out what I can and lick the dirt off my teeth. I will myself backward, but it’s no use—my body drifts forward. I need to stay in the clear water. Nobody would look for me in this sludge. I’d be all alone, a pile of bones by the time anyone could find me. So, I turn, swimming parallel to the coast. It’s further now. The fire is no bigger than a lit matchstick.
I close my eyes and keep swimming, one arm over the other, my toes kiss the water. My bare skin gliding against the water feels invigorating. The chill sends life through me. I feel alive and tingling. Free as a fish. Faster than a fish—faster than anyone.
Then—impact. My arm slams into something solid. I didn’t see any large rocks earlier, maybe a buoy? Pulsing fills my head and pours into my body. The force disorients me, sending me backward. I reach for the ground but can’t find it. All of the exhaustion hits me at once, and I let my body sink to the earth. My pruned fingers clasp my head, and I curl into a ball. This isn’t how it was supposed to happen.
Suddenly, a hand wraps around my arm, and I float toward the surface.
***
Together, we glide through the water. The world has never been so dark, so I keep my eyes closed. I don’t know where the shore is, and I want to say we’re going deeper. That there’s still time to turn around now—the algae is so vile, please don’t bring me back. But soon, she leans me upright, and I’m standing. The water’s up to my chest, her shoulders. A gust of wind cuts across us, and we both flinch, ducking lower for warmth. Everything hits me at once, and I feel remarkably horrible. Opening my eyes feels like setting them aflame; my skin burns from the cold air, and I don’t realize I’m vomiting until I try to speak. If I don’t die in this lake, I’ll die before I reach shore—hypothermia or hepatitis, maybe both. I dig my numb, tingling toes deep into the sand, looking for heat that isn’t there.
This reedy girl bears my weight. One hand grips my hip, her arm holding me upright, while her other hand traces vertical lines along my back, down and up.
“I would have taken us to shore if you hadn’t been so sick,” she says between chattering teeth. I watch as she pinches the bridge of her nose and blows a gooey stream of snot to the water.
I stare at her thin, grey arm over my bare stomach. It would be easy to wiggle free, to keep swimming endlessly. If only I were alone in the water. But she came all this way. Could she be here for me? I smile up at her, but her head is turned. Her short blond hair is glued to her neck, bleeding dirt down her back.
This girl is all bones. They jut out like bolts at her joints. She’s still in the collared shirt, but she’s undone the top buttons. It hugs her body, making her look more naked—vulnerable. I step closer to her, balancing on the uneven rocks as bits of debris swim past, tickling my legs. I look at my body. It is purplish red and wounded in some areas. But I hardly feel embarrassed. I find my hand holding her hand, twitching violently, and my body burns.
“Why come?” I ask through a fit of coughs.
She doesn’t answer for a while. Her skin is so pale it glows. An angel, who flew past all the other people on earth, picked me. A smile tugs at the edges of my mouth.
“You’re Eileen’s daughter, right?” she says finally. “I saw the boots earlier and assumed. I—well—I volunteer with her at church. She’s always talking about you.”
My ears get hot. I try to speak, to shape a word, but nothing feels right, so I stay quiet and bob my head. So, she knows about Father. Maybe she came in to finish me off herself. I think about pulling away, but her grasp is so gentle and kind.
She tells me her name is Caroline and starts talking about my mother—how they are just so close. She tells me how my mother helped her through her father’s death. Ha, I think. She tells me that my mother supervises her volunteer work at the church, and that they go to lunch after mass once a month. Stories I’ve never heard. And she’s still going. She doesn’t say she’s better than me, but it’s there—in her tidy life and how easily Mother fits in. I should swim away while she’s still holding on; take her down with me. It wouldn’t be the first time.
“She doesn’t hate you, you know.”
I don’t even realize I had been holding my breath until I exhale. I turn to face Caroline; her nose and ears are red-tipped, and an angry rash has covered her thin limbs. She stands, shivering and hunched, with her chin tucked, melting into water.
“I never said she did,” I say, sharper than I intend.
“She knows you blame yourself for it,” she whispers. “Your father’s death.”
Her black eyes fix on me. I can’t bear it. I break her gaze, and my legs tremble under the water. I crouch lower and lean my head back, looking up at the sky. The lake is so still and quiet. Caroline loosens her grip around me and begins to rub her hands together. Now’s my chance to escape. But I stay right where I am.
“I mean, you were so young,” Caroline continues. “It’s not like you caused the car accident. Or knew that would happen—”
All at once, the lake turns. Waves slam into us, sudden and wild. The water crushes from every side, folding over itself, like four walls closing in. I keep my eyes shut and reach absently through foam and mildew. The world is white and roaring.
When I force my eyes open, a sheet of water hits me, and I see her shape a few meters away, already being tugged further. I throw my arms toward her, not even sure I’m moving the right way, until my hand closes over her arm. My jaw unclenches for a brief moment, and I pull her close, wrapping my arms and legs around her. The water is too wild. The thought comes that we could just let go and sink. I try to keep us still, but she’s thrashing, trying to break free. A breaking wave pulls us under. She gasps, slightly parting her lips, and I watch her inhale a stream of water.
She jerks once, then folds, slamming hard into the water. I feel her body go soft, like a limp tulip. A cold panic moves through me. All I can do is hold her and wait for some release.
***
We didn’t speak a word to each other on the drive home from the hospital. When we got home, I found myself unable to lift myself out of the car seat. I bit my tongue hard until it bled, but I wouldn’t wake up from the nightmare. Mother rushed to the back seat, unbuckled me, and carried me out of the car, across the lawn to the front door, up the stairs, step by step, to the bathroom. She maneuvered my frail body in one arm and turned the bath to the hottest setting. She dropped me into the empty tub, and my lower back slammed against the ceramic.
Eventually, the pool of scalding water grew until it surrounded my limbs and burned through my flesh. My mouth tasted of copper, and I clenched my tongue to keep from screaming.
She didn’t bother to take my uniform off; she just began to wash my hair, muttering that he was driving to pick me up. Why did I always leave the house without showering? At fourteen, I was old enough to walk to school. To wash my own hair.
Soap clung to my clothes and stung my eyes. Before the tears could spill, I sank into the tub, and for a moment, her hands pressed down on my shoulders, holding my place under the water.
***
The crashing stops as quickly as it began. The current spits us out near the shore. The water is shallow, and I can crouch and keep my head above the surface. Everything is black. I wait, blinking hard, until my eyes catch the campfire—an orange spark surprisingly not too far in the distance.
Caroline is wilting in my arms. I press my hand to her soaked shirt, searching for a sign of life. A faint thump beats under my palm. I exhale. I undo the top of her dress shirt, so her throat is clear. She looks peaceful, thoughtless—like a doll. Lucky girl.
I haul her up and drape her over my shoulder. I carefully move from my knees to my feet, and just as I am about to stand, the world tilts. I press my hands into the sand to steady myself. I need to be a rock. I try standing again, but Caroline’s weight pulls me backward, and I crash into the sand, landing in my own bile. I’m heaving again, throat raw, lungs scrape for air. The lake stretches out on either side, still and silent, as if it were never violent at all.
When I’ve emptied everything inside me, I crawl forward, dragging my body through the shallows. My mouth is sandpaper. The shore is right there, it’s always right there, never here. Only the cold is here.
“Help,” I call. My voice is so hoarse that it barely leaves me.
I try again, pushing harder, but my voice won’t carry. Eventually, help becomes Mother. Then Mom. Nothing. My voice cracks. Tears moisten my lips. I sit down and pull my legs into my chest. My knees jut out above the water, and red goosebumps coat my legs in a second skin. I fold my body around my legs and hug my prune toes for extra warmth. The shore is right there, but I resign. My body is numb, tingling, and ice cold, screaming at me to be still.
“There’s someone over here,” a voice cries out, interrupting the whistle of the lake.
Soon, a flood of figures emerges along the coast, closer than I realized—about two school buses away. The shouts echo and murmur across the water. One shadow leads the group, and eventually begins splashing toward us.
I look down at the red boots before I feel her arms wrap around me. She holds me just like she did that night, firm hands steadying my shaking body. She calls out for help, saying that it’s not just her daughter, but Caroline. Both are barely alive. More figures splash toward us, shouting voices and white flashlights wandering across the water.
I close my eyes and roll my head on Mother’s chest, away from the noise and moving shapes. She breathes warm, damp air on my face and smothers my body into her arms. The rumble of voices grows louder, and suddenly, many hands are prying our bodies apart.
Mother chokes and presses her damp forehead to mine.
“Give me your kindness,” she whispers, already loosening her grip. “I can carry it.”
Rosemarie Rotundo is a Canadian writer based in Toronto. In her professional work, she writes for the Centre for Addiction and Mental Health, Canada’s leading mental health teaching hospital. Outside of work, she primarily writes literary fiction about contemporary life, exploring intimacy, trauma, and identity.