Breakthrough

Main Street is just as I remembered it when I left this town ten years ago. Same stores, same little coffee shop, and even the park in the town's square looked like the front of a holiday card from somewhere in New England. White lights hung around the gazebo, pine garland with big red bows. I suppose for most people, that would bring a sense of nostalgia, a sense of comfort. A welcomed homecoming.

Not for me. My palms were sweaty. I was nauseous. My heart was pounding out of my chest. Even though I had changed my name from Jason Harrington to Cole Black when I left this town ten years ago, I was full of anxiety that I would be recognized. I imagined the stares and the looks. And the comments. "Hey, aren't you that kid?" I had gotten worked up to the point where I just needed to stop somewhere and catch my breath.

"Knock it off, Cole. You're doing it again," I said to myself out loud.

The truth is, I never wanted to come back here. I missed my mother's funeral but had to come back to wrap up loose ends and put my mom's house on the market. My therapist said I should visit the site to get some closure while I am here. I am still haunted by that day. I am mournful of the childhood I lost. I am angry at what my parents put me through. So here I am, hoping to close that chapter of my life for good.

When I was young, my father taught me how to ice skate. He played pick-up games in a local hockey league. He would take me to this cemetery at the end of Main Street. It was an old cemetery, but it was an enchanting place. The headstones were dark and weather worn. The whole cemetery consisted of small, rolling hills, so there weren't nice, neat rows of graves. The outbuildings were all cobblestone, as well as the garden wall surrounding the front of the cemetery. The gate was tall and wrought iron. There was a pond in the middle of a graveyard, surrounded by brown and broken cattails, with some brush on one side. Once the pond froze, we were ice skating. I was always surprised that no one else skated there. It was such a perfect winter wonderland. On the other side of the pond was a small cobblestone chapel. The cross on the roof peak had bent, and there was one stained glass window. It was big enough for maybe one or two people to light a candle and say a prayer. It was exactly how I remembered it. In all the times that I had been there, I had never seen anyone enter that little church.

As I got to be about twelve, my parents let me go to the pond myself and with my friends. We always had fun. After a slight warm-up, my best friend Noah and I went skating on the pond one sunny winter day. That's when it happened.

****

"I don't know man, do you think the ice is safe?" Noah asked.

"Looks like it to me. There are no wet spots or water on the ice." Jason replied.

Looking around him along the edges of the pond, Jason found a big rock and chucked it into the center of the pond. It hit the ice with a thud and slid for a few feet. It didn't even make a crack. That was all Jason needed to see. He stepped out onto the ice, and before Noah could lace up his skates, Jason had already started a lap around the pond.

"Wait for me, asshole!" Noah yelled out

Jason stopped skating around the perimeter and cut straight across the pond to get to Noah. He passed the large rock he had tossed, and just as Noah was about to step onto the ice, Jason fell through. He fell through right in the spot the big rock had landed. He hadn't surfaced in what seemed like forever.

As he got to the surface of the water, he tried pulling himself up, but because his winter clothes were completely waterlogged, the ice just broke away.

"Noah, help!" He yelled, gurgling water out of his mouth.

As he was slipping under the water again, he saw Noah take off his skates, throw his shoes on, and run. Jason fought and fought to get back to the surface, but his heavy, soaked clothes made it difficult. The cold water had first made his entire body ache, but now it was just numb. He was holding his breath as long as he could, but his chest was aching for an inhale. His vision, already blurry from the sediment he had stirred up, was starting to go black. He felt a sense of peace as he accepted that he was going to die in that pond.

A split second before he was going to lose his battle with holding his breath, he felt a set of hands pulled him to the surface. This set of hands then pulled him up and out of the water, landing on solid ice. He was shivering, totally soaked, and trying to catch his breath. He army-crawled off the pond, and when he got to the shore, he laid there trying to figure out what the hell just happened. Once his breath finally caught up to him, the pain and burn of the cold started again. He sat up and looked around for the man who saved him. He caught a glimpse of the man walking into the old cobblestone chapel. He sat on the shore in utter disbelief. His mind couldn't process the whole incident. He knew that he was pulled out of that pond. He hadn't hallucinated that. He was upset that Noah took off as he was drowning, and he was perplexed. That is when Jason's parents showed up, with Noah, and an ambulance soon followed.

****

The rest of my life from that moment on was torture. My parents didn't believe me. The doctors said I hallucinated the mysterious man. The local paper reporting on the incident put out a call for the would-be hero to come forward. No one ever did. I became somewhat obsessed with finding this man who saved me. I would go to the cemetery every day, hoping to see him. I started skipping school to stay at the pond all day. I was having constant nightmares, and my parents took me to a shrink. I was prone to rages, and my parents were at the end of their rope. I agreed to go because I thought maybe he could help. He put me on medication, no doubt so I would be easier to handle for my parents. I spent most of the rest of my childhood medicated and in a fog. I was hospitalized once for three months when I was sixteen because I said I would rather die than be drugged. They said I was suicidal.

I was an outcast in school because of my insistence that someone helped me out of the pond that day, and I wouldn't waver from that. The teachers all treated me differently because word got around town that I was crazy. Everywhere I went, there were whispers and snickers. My father said I was embarrassing the family. This incident destroyed my life. I didn't feel like a survivor.

As I pulled into the cemetery, I noticed a young woman taking imprints of headstones with paper and charcoal. She didn't seem to notice me. There I was, standing at the edge of the pond that had almost swallowed me whole. There are "no ice skating" signs posted around the pond and two benches that weren't there years ago. I sat on the bench, staring out over the pond—the whole incident unfolding in my mind.

"Hi, I'm Emma." A voice said behind me. I was startled and turned around to see a young woman with long curly blond hair walking towards me.

"You must love cemeteries too, to be out here on a day like today. I love this cemetery. Creepy, right? Most people think so," she added.

"I'm not fond of cemeteries. Just stopping by a place I used to come to a lot as a kid."

"Oh, the pond?" She asked.

I was agitated, anxious, tired, and didn't want to be there. I felt like telling her to fuck off, but I didn't. She sat down next to me, looking at me, waiting for an answer. She wasn't going away.

"Yes, my father taught me how to skate on this pond."

"Did you ever hear the story about the groundskeeper who drowned in the pond? No one knows what happened. The ice was thin that day, so no one knew why he went out on it. His body was found by some kids the next morning. Shook the whole town."

"When was this?" I asked.

"In the 1950s. Also, a boy named Jason fell through the ice about fifteen years ago, but he survived. He claimed a man pulled him out, but that he didn't really see him. The police turned up nothing after they searched the entire cemetery for this man. He didn't exist or just wasn't found. It messed this kid up, and he was hospitalized and put on all sorts of medication. I guess he had schizophrenia, from what I heard."

"There WAS a man there, and I am not schizophrenic," he snapped at her.

She looked at him in disbelief, brought her hands up to cover her wide open mouth. We just sat there and stared at each other for a minute.

"You're Jason Harrington? I had no idea. I'm so sorry. Not sorry as in you are Jason Harrington, sorry because I was running my mouth." she finally said.

"It's okay. I go by Cole Black now. Left town when I turned 18 and never looked back." I said.

"Well, what are you doing here then?"

"My mother passed not too long ago, so I am dealing with her affairs. Also, my therapist thinks it will help bring closure. You were right about one thing; it certainly did mess me up," I said with an agitated tone. "Well, it was nice to meet you, but I have to get going."

I stood up from the bench, and she did too. Just as I scanned the layout of the area again, I saw him. Standing there as plain as day.

"Look, there he is! He's the one!" I exclaimed as I grabbed her arm.

"I see him!"

"Hey, mister, stop!" I yelled across the pond.

He stopped, looked at us, tipped his hat, and walked into the little chapel. I started running around the pond to get to the chapel and entered the doors once I got there. It was empty. No one was there.

"What the hell is going on? Maybe I am crazy."

"Well then, that makes two of us. I saw him too." Emma said. I hadn't even realized she was behind me.

We looked around the small chapel for anything. Any clue. Any secret doors. There was nothing. This man walked in here and disappeared again.

I was dumbfounded, actually re-considering my sanity.

We turned to leave the chapel when Emma saw a plaque on the door.

"This chapel is dedicated to the memory of George Jacobs, who perished on the cemetery grounds on February 17th, 1950."

-Donated by the town of Uxbridge.

Under the plaque was a faded black and white picture, affixed behind glass. It was a picture of the man who saved me. And he had been dead for seventy years.