Written by Lucinda Guard Crofton
For Jen
She’s drowning. Exhausted beyond belief, wanting to be swallowed up, put an end to this purgatory. Over and over–the river calls her. The river doesn’t care: cry, tip over, run aground, wedge yourself on a log, get soaked, churn like a waterwheel, let the water carry you away, stroke fast and ferociously, sit back, meander. It’s all the same to the river.
“Row, row, row your boat gently down the stream, merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily…” Water surrounds her. The river lulls and calms. Her momentary reverie interrupted by ringing. She stops paddling to answer her phone. The disembodied voice belongs to her incarcerated son. All she has left of him is these staticky calls. He shares news. After this eternity of lost time, a judge has pronounced his sentence: TEN YEARS. Ten years. T e n y e a r s. T…n…y…earsss. The words separate and echo, turning into tears she holds back through sheer willpower. Her heart sinks to the river bottom. Thoughts swirl faster and faster, eddying around her. Half his life? If he’s lucky (lucky?), he’ll grow up in prison. But another fight with an inmate? The consequences could be worse than a cut-up mouth plus six more months to serve.
Uprooted by grief, wanting nothing more than to hug her manchild, she holds tight to a tree branch as the river flows around her kayak. She takes no notice of the bark digging into her palm, drawing blood. He is drowning. Be a rock, squeeze back the logjam of tears, be here for him. Gazing from one bank to the other, fishing for words, she offers up a description of the river. Then, gives him the weather report as if this makes up for him being locked inside all day and night. The realization: this tiny waterway is twice as wide as his cell, she keeps to herself.
Next week, her baby turns twenty-one. No cake, no candles, no gifts, no party, no birthday dinner, no celebration. All she can do–all she’s allowed to do is a three long-hour crydrive to the detention center. Arrive early. No excuses. Pretend it’s a TSA screening. If only she could board a plane to a faraway land. Instead, she’s ushered into a room with powerful internet, a big screen, a credit card reader, and a clock. Meantime, he’s ushered into the visitorless visitor’s room. That’s right, no contact, no touch—a touchless visit like he’s a car in a goddamn car wash. Neither a birthday nor good behavior rates a hug. All she gets is this chance to see and hear him—on a tv that doesn’t break up, or freeze, without their words turning into unintelligible static. The forty minute video chat starts now. Will singing Happy Birthday through cyberspace make this shit sandwich even worse, or rate a crooked smile?
Twenty-one years ago, she thought she’d split in two pushing this big baby out into the world. Blood poured out of her, soaking the hospital bed. Instantly, medical personnel rushed into their tiny room to help the two of them. Where is the help now? For years and years, she’s been breaking into pieces, sending up SOS after SOS, begging for assistance before he hurts himself, or someone else.
Their phone time runs out. The tears she’s held back burst out of her, raining into the river. A beautiful blue heron circles overhead, keeping her company as she plunges her paddle into the water again and again.
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Lucinda Guard Crofton lives and writes in the Driftless Area of Wisconsin between the confluence of the Pine and Kickapoo Rivers. Her work can be read in Streetlight Magazine, The Brevity Blog, and Short Reads, and is forthcoming in Under the Sun.