On A Clear Day

I talk to the lake.

Not aloud, of course not aloud; that would look a little odd, wouldn't it? But we still have our conversations. We understand each other. Not with so many words, no. I just... Well, I just know. I know what it wants, what it will allow and what it won't, and it knows what I need. And the knowing is as much a part of me as my breath or my skin.

But the lake has the upper hand.

* * *

1974. Summer. Nothing underfoot. Overhead are blue sky and green trees. I catch a startled glimpse of them just before the water closes over me. I flail my head back, struggling against the water invading my lungs. Breaking the surface, I wave a frantic arm towards my family lounging on the shore. I cannot speak. I cannot scream.

My mother waves gaily back at me, smiling, not understanding.

The water sucks me back down, enveloping me in a cool implacable fist. I resist long enough to gasp one more choked breath of air.

I go down for the third time.

Silence.

Shivering. Coughing water. Damp gritty sand clinging stubbornly to my bare toes. The towel around me is thick and warm but I don't feel it. My tears are surprisingly hot. My family's voices are far away, discordant and meaningless.

It's all too much.

I want to go back.

* * *

Pulling around the corner on the streetcar each morning I am rewarded with a broad, expansive view of the lake. I try to evaluate its mood while it judges mine. Some days, often while it is still quite early, the lake is almost pale enough to slip away under the horizon. Those are the mornings it wants nothing to do with me. I don't know why. Those are the mornings when I am undeserving, unworthy, and on those mornings I quietly ache for the lake's forgiveness.

Other mornings are better. The water is dark slate, and I know I am welcome. Or at least I would be welcome, if I could only forget my fears long enough to cross the footbridge to the waterfront.

And I want to go. The need for it pulls me, constant and unrelenting. I want it to cleanse me, to feel the lake wrap itself silkily around me like a glove.

We are two halves.

We should be one whole.

I make another silent promise to it, both of us knowing full well that I will break that promise again, and again, and again.

* * *

Once I came down to the water and walked to the end of the first pier I came to. I sat down on the concrete edge, swinging my legs over the side. The railing I leaned against was cool rust against my cheek.

It would only have taken a moment to slide under that slight, rippling suggestion of waves, only a single moment.

But it was broad daylight; anyone could be watching, watching and waiting breathlessly to spoil my moment. I can hardly stand the yearning to immerse myself in the lake, but I cannot -- I will not -- take the chance of an uninvited bystander.

I stand up. There is a long orange smear of rust caught in the weave of my sweater.

Again, the promise: "I will come back."

* * *

I never learned to swim, you know. I tried, over and over I tried, but my heart was never really in it. Let others learn; swimming was for those people who could not be content to stay still and silent underwater. It was certainly not for me.

When anyone asked, I would say, "I'm just not a water person, I guess."

* * *

On a very clear day you can see right across the lake. It's much too far, of course, to make out specific landmarks, but if you look very hard, there is a definite dark smudge at the horizon.

On a clear night, minute beacons of light haphazardly dot the opposite shore, skirting around the outline of the land, silently declaring the boundary of earth and water.

* * *

A friend of mine owns a condo on the fortieth floor of his building. One night we stood at the huge floor-to-ceiling windows, smoking cigarettes and counting off the stars we knew. It's so much easier to pick out the constellations when you're right among them.

From our height, forty stories above the ground, the lake looked as cool and smooth as a swatch of black silk.

"Look," says my friend, jabbing a finger towards the glass. He is very slightly drunk. "See those lights on the far side? That's New York state."

I look for a long time.

* * *

One more overbright winter morning, the whitecaps throwing froth over the breakwater. The sun is already high, glinting icily off the glass-and-steel monoliths that litter the downtown core. My breath hangs in the subzero air. There is not a single cloud in the sky.

I stand at the edge of the lake and stare as hard as I can at the dark, accusatory line on the far edge. New York state, I think, dropping my gaze a fraction of an inch to the level of the water. The brilliant glare off the waves threatens to burn itself into my retinas.

One foot in front of the other... Left, right, left, right.

And suddenly it occurs to me that today is not the day either. I am terrified of choosing the wrong moment and the fear is exhilarating. Five minutes later I find myself boarding the streetcar.

Once I am seated, I turn to look out of the window. Again I whisper, "I swear I will come back."

The water is indigo, the colour of my jeans.