After the Flood

After the flood, we spent every morning tramping through the swampland with flashlights in the dark silence of the early morning. I gently unlocked my front door, attempting to muffle the click with molasses-slow movement. The front porch creaked and my heart stopped as I imagined my mother and father wrapped tightly in their bed. Time elongated as I held my breath. After a painful moment of eternity, nothing happened. They never woke, but still the moment of fear froze me. They hated me to be out of their sight, and the morning was the only time I could be free.

With a light heart, I slipped through the front yard until I saw the misty figure of John coming down the street. Without words to cut a path, we met and quietly shuffled towards Mary’s house. Just a small smile, little wave, and we were on our way.

The light of that hour is hazy and unfamiliar. Even mundane objects shimmer as if seen through the gauzy edges of a dream. And perhaps we were in a dream; the cement never felt completely solid beneath my feet. The ground was a sleeping creature at that early hour, patient and calm. Walking through the cool air, I closed my eyes and enjoyed its touch, like a compress against the flu. It bit crisply into the hidden pinkish insides of my chest, creating a void warmed by the contentment in my belly.

I couldn’t articulate these feelings to John. We didn’t talk, we felt. Still, I’m sure that he enjoyed the relief of the morning air, too. He moved differently during those early trips; his gait was softer, looser. When patrolling later in the day, with the regular watch, he seemed tougher, hard. Perhaps we were different people in the light of the misty dawn, people not yet awake and thus wiser in our dreamlike state.

Meeting Mary, though, a spell was broken. A dark determination clouded her face. She wanted much more than John and I did. The morning was not a relief to her. She was not free. And, as she tramped through the streets, the air lost its velvet. We floated, a few steps behind.

She brought the flashlights, prepared and eager to search. I wondered why she insisted on using them. The light only grew stronger the longer we walked.

“This one’s low on batteries,” she warned, handing it to me. Luckily, we were in no short supply of batteries. The generators were well-made, built to last a lifetime. Mary’s face was stony in the growing light, dusted with no shadow of fear.

Her house was next to the swamp. In earlier days, we’d slept in her backyard, looking out at the chaotic landscape, chilled by fears of the dark unknown. We weren’t allowed to go near it between dusk and dawn in case of crocodiles or other nameless dangers. It looked different when we approached it older and more experienced. I wasn’t afraid anymore. Instead, a morbid fascination had grown, encompassing the swamp in its spindly arms.

Still there was a point, a footstep, which separated the swampland from its surrounding neighborhood. When we crossed the point of no return, when we passed into a land made of different molecules and cells than the ones we were used to, I held my breath. Like throwing spilt salt over my shoulder, the ritual calmed me. Like jumping into a freezing pond, I took the step in one breath. And then we were in.

We followed Mary’s lead, clicking our flashlights on. Though it wasn’t necessary in the early morning light, the action felt natural.

“Have we gone this way yet?” she asked.

“No,” John or I said, regardless of the direction. It wasn’t a real question, Mary knew where she wanted to go, and giving her reason to question her decision would only pop the protective bubble of calm that shielded us.

I kicked at the undergrowth and roots with nervous feet, not eager to put much attention into the search. Broken bottles, chipped china, soiled clothing; the mess was overwhelming. The shadow of “what could be” lay beneath the detritus, ever ready to turn into “what is.” Though I wanted to help, of course, I was nervous to look too closely. I pulled my hair into a ponytail over and over again, adjusting and readjusting, not satisfied with the pressure on my skull, trying to yank myself away from the specificities of fear. Mary didn’t notice my anxiety. Though we were together on this search, we were in different worlds.

That morning, a gasping moan, like a wounded animal’s cry, echoed ahead of me. Eerily, it filled the dense air. I pushed forward. Bringing up the rear, I finally saw Mary, kneeling on the ground. She was miniature, dwarfed by the gray trees. John stood behind her with his flashlight, still as his surroundings, frozen like a deer in a bath of headlights. With each step, my feet sent out a gunshot crack, disturbing the blanket of a wail.

It was him, for whom we had searched so long, of whom I dreamt nightly, half hidden between dirt and roots.

It wasn’t his rotting face or any recognizable clothing that gave him away, but the small heart locket clasped around his bloated neck. Mary grasped it in her shaking hands, linked to him once more, and cried a flood. She gulped for breath as we rocked her in our weak, inadequate arms. As she shook, a lonely word repeated in the air, as if not spoken by any of us: “daddy, daddy, daddy.”