The River

Over the bridge, down the steps then I’m back on the path. The mist is thick. I can’t see the far side. It’s very closed in. I’m closed in. The trees are taking over, overhanging, hiding the river. Leaves lie slippily on my damp path and twisting roots lift its surface. I suck in the musty smell of the end of a long hot summer.

The river’s still. Everything is. It’s early, no one around. I reach the bench, it’s damp under the dripping trees. The sky is invisible.

Although there’s no-one around, I’m not alone. I’m watching a ball roll slowly along the path. It’s small and red and coming out of the mist. It stops at my feet. I pick it up but drop it smartly, and shiver. It’s a rubber ball, cold and slimy. It bounces away.

Things happen. Heading down towards the lower bridge, at intervals, I glance behind and pause listening for footsteps. I like to keep to the same path, go the same way. I don’t like change. And I like to straighten things. Anything. Close to the far bridge I feel a rush of air and I can hear gentle giggling. Things happen, but I can’t stay away.

Hello you, back again, gliding along with your minky black hair, always alone. I do like watching you. You’re early today. Don’t mind the mist, the damp. Sometimes I walk in your shadow.

I’ve reached the far bridge. There’s no sign of the girl today, though I feel she’s here, restless.

Heading home, I walk away from the river, but walk towards it too. Once, on a street map, I traced the river with my finger. It flows in a long narrow loop around the old part of the city, round its heart.

The cat comes padding out to meet me. I don’t know how she knows. Sitting at the gate, looking out, just waiting. Her white fur glistens in the damp air. We called her Moon because she’s no ordinary cat. She turns and heads for the door, tail in the air. I follow. She’s not so slinky now. Inside, everything’s the same, but nothing is. It’s cold today. And the clock is keeping funny time.

I hang out on the bridge, just watching people. Me, I don’t like to be alone. I need to be right in the middle of it. Silence sucks. And it’s hard to stop still. It hurts. The bridge is best. I hang around here then head off down the steps and along the riverbank. I’m usually further down when you come.

I was always running. Running’s good. It’s almost flying. But there’s the stopping, the coming-back-down. Sometimes I was scared to stop. One day, I promised, I’ll keep on running and see how far I get. But then one day I ran down the steps.

I was the middle one. Dad was good at telling stories. I was his pet. The stories stopped. My hands and feet are tiny, though my fingers are strong. I was always the smallest in class. I used to get left out. So I would try harder, laugh louder, push in. That just made it worse. A new girl came. Things were better till she left. I was alone again, hanging on the edge. My favourite lesson was games.

I ran down the steps, it had rained hard, the steps were slippy but I was looking at the river. I remember thinking, ‘Now this will hurt!’ and held my breath.

Right the way down I fell. When I opened my eyes, I felt nothing. Nothing at all. ‘Get up, Stacie, you’re okay,’ I heard Mam say, like she did when I was little, so I get to my feet, and wonder what they’re all staring at, standing round, whispering. I’m starting to get a weird feeling. Then I see it’s me. I’m lying there. Me. Stace. An old lady was knelt beside me, holding my hand. I peered over her shoulder. It was like I was sleeping.

‘It’s okay, I’m over here, look!’ I shouted. But I couldn’t hear myself.

I heard a siren way off, coming closer, getting louder. Then it stopped. An ambulance. People watched as they came and took me away. They took me away, but left me behind. I watched them go.

Now I’m stuck here. No-one sees me. It’s hard for someone like me to be dead.

It still feels strange being here alone. At least the cat’s good company, even if she spends all day curled up on the old chair. I spend most of my time here, too. It was our favourite place. The huge family table, stuck in the middle, fills the room.

I close my eyes and breathe in the smell of lemons. Nothing’s changed. The oven’s warm from the weekend’s baking, warming the whole kitchen, warming me. Scones, fresh out of the oven, lie cooling on the rack and I slice one open, spread the butter thick and bite into it. It’s warm and salty and some butter trickles down my finger and I’m licking it and the currants sticking out are crispy and taste slightly burnt but that’s simply perfect then we’re all laughing at one of Tom’s jokes and I’m laughing so much I’m holding my sides . . .

Above the old iron fireplace there’s a picture that always draws me back. The more I look, the more I see. My eyes follow the path as it winds out of sight. Then I see the trees, those two large trees. It’s winter. There are no leaves at all. As I near the path, I notice it’s stony in places and the colour of the sky. When I’m close, the sky looks full of snow. Freezing fog’s creeping in.

Layers of dust have settled on the top of the frame. I wipe it on my arm and replace it next to an old black and white photo that curls at the edges. I’m smiling at Dad as he takes the picture. On the back, fading, in his copperplate writing: ‘Isobel, the girl with the black hair.’

It hurts, still, looking at the other one, the one in which we all look so happy, when everything was right.

I avoid the gilt oval mirror.

There might be a mouse―I’ve heard strange scrabblings at night. Most of the time I don’t mind being alone. But sometimes it’s just too quiet. I can touch the silence. Sometimes I’ve got to get out.

Night time, and I’m standing in the middle of an enchanted garden, staring up at the moon. It’s huge. I can’t take my eyes off it. Neither can the cat who is now silver. Flowers flop everywhere. The hedge is out of control. An owl shrieks, I can’t see it, but it’s close. Three bats fly over the moon, then swoop down and drink from the silver pool.

I do not like the night. Or the dark. Can’t wait for the day. I’m not alone when the people have gone. I’m not even the youngest. But tonight the moon is out. We drift together and stare at the moon. It looks unreal. We’re the ones who died at the river so the river is where we belong. We’re stuck here, forever, never growing old, though some of us fade. We fade away to nothing if we don’t watch out. Who knew it’d be like this? When dawn comes, we’ll drift back to our own stretch of the river. Death―it’s like a dream and you never wake up. Never had a dream like this.

Today the air crackles. That track, plays in my head, the one like ice melting at the end of a long hard winter, when the thaw speeds up and every thing glints in the sun. I look around, everything becomes clear and the air tingles.

The sun is shining. The sky is as blue as Moon’s eyes. They’re Egyptian blue. And there are no clouds at all. The river sparkles as the surface ripples in the slight breeze. The air is electric and I’m fizzing.

Sometimes I see things. If you don’t look directly but let things in from the margins, you see what’s slipped between time. Look too hard, and you only see the present. I’m sitting on the bench with Jane Eyre, half reading, half waiting to see if she comes.

The Devil’s in me today. I wouldn’t say I’m bad. I’m just stirring things up. Don’t be boring with your head stuck in a book. Coo ee I’m here, in front of you. I snatch your book, throw it in the air. You catch it! You’re looking at me from the corner of your eye. You’re not supposed to look at me. People don’t. Now you’re on your feet, heading for the bridge. I run to get there first, through the dry leaves, sending them flying in an amber snowstorm. Beat you! You stop to look at the river. A bird swoops low and rises with a fish. You’re looking in the river and I’m right behind you. The river waits. I don’t want to hurt you, but you’re so cool, and I’m afraid I don’t want you to go.

The main photo above, “misty bridge” is copyright (c) 2012 Benjamin Lehman and made available under a Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 2.0 license