Blinding light slices open my eyes. Something about the room has changed. I hear the familiar sound of waves rolling outside. Breathing propels me to the realization that she is near. A low glow warms my stomach, as tears of ecstasy grow behind my strained gaze. A melody sweet as honey floods the dark watery walls. I’m looking everywhere without turning my head—searching. I can sense what is about to happen next.
“MIA!” shouts the teacher, Ms. Leo.
“Present,” my lips automatically conjure up their well traversed word of daydream-defense. My eyelids blink rapidly adjusting back to the present florescent lights illuminating the slightly amused disgruntled faces of my fellow classmates. Ms. Leo raps her ruby nails on the thick black book resting on the podium. I feel myself gulp, lifting my vision to meet her tired worn eyes.
Two football players snicker to one another, while three girls giggle. I feel my cheeks burn, “Sorry, I thought—uh, er…” I stumble to find an excuse out of my mental escapade, but all my brain can muster is the image of a green light shimmering on the chalk board. I drop my gaze shamefully to my folded hands and hope that she just moves on.
“Mia, I am not taking class role, like I did this morning on this lovely day of February 27th.”
I grin secretly to myself—I always prefer the smart aleck approach.
The old fraying lady runs her fingers through her moppy silver hair that falls to the small of her back, “The question I was asking you, Miss Malone, was if you knew what the three properties of seawater are since that may very well be one of the questions on your exam this coming Monday.”
My mind fills with gallons of marine bio info that we’ve covered over the last few weeks. I swim around in my thoughts trying to find the right avenue that will help me to formulate an answer.
“Uh,” I stammer looking down at my chicken-scratched notes and doodles of eyes that I’ve come to acquire an obsession for drawing. They’re digging into my soul trying to figure me out as I attempt to configure a timely response. “The three properties of the seawater are its density, temperature, and…” I pause. I know it has to do something with taste, “and, uh—salinity!” I cry triumphantly over the impatient whispers of the aggravated audience of students.
Ms. Leonardo closes her eyes, brings two fingers to the top bridge of her nose, and lets out a sigh, “Good job, Mia,” she observes through tight lips repressing somewhat of a smile, “just please pay attention to our lesson, you’re not the only one in this class.”
I nod my head understandingly, pretending to write that fact down on my weathered notepad while shading in the tip of an eyebrow. At this point, most of my teachers have gotten used to my severe spaciness. I’m not sure what it is. All I’ve witnessed is that my mind seems to go off on these tangents of strange heavy thinking-cycles as well as to these peculiar places, which always translate some kind of message that parallels what I dream at night. I’m not too sure what it means, but these visions are never bad, like night terrors or paranoia related to psychotic problems, thankfully.
When I was younger, my dreams used to be very vivid and prevalent. Those were some of the most beautifully intricate and intensely real dreams I can ever remember. It was usually the same or at least the same theme. It would always start with this undeniably excited feeling I would get. Like the feeling you get right when you’ve finally reached the top of a roller coaster, right when you know you’re about to drop. It’s like an adrenaline rush but more natural and comforting. I feel like something has been waiting for me—or rather someone. I feel this feminine presence emanating from the four corners of the room to which I’ve awoken—my bedroom, yet it is not my bedroom. Instead of light yellow walls enveloped in sunlight streaming through the windows, there are cool placid watery markings dancing on the interior walls and creating a magically gloomy affect. There is a slight salty taste on my tongue that compliments my damp hair. That’s when I hear the most peaceful music that simultaneously stimulates and lulls every sensory muscle of my being. I can’t understand what she’s singing for it’s neither words nor any type of human language that I can discern. The best way to describe it would be like she is sending intuitive musical signs or auditory messages of great meaning and phenomenal urgency. It seems to be an emerald light glimmering on the surface of the moonlit floor. As I stare at the warping pattern, a wonderful sensation of pure ecstasy courses through every channel in my body. I feel elated and at home. That is when I see this pair of the brightest aquamarine eyes staring right back into mine. At first I am predictably taken aback in their breathtaking beauty, yet there is something more that piques my interest. There is some type of story being told—something that seems to go beyond. My pupils dilate as I attempt to make sense of this fascinating narration. That’s always as far as I get. After that small epiphany, I wake to birds chirping relentlessly outside my sunny window. I return each time consistently more curious than the last.
These fantasies or dreams stopped for a brief period between the ages of 13 and 16, but on my 17th birthday, they started back up again. They’re the same dreams, but the tone changed. They seemed more hurried in a way and more immediate. I always paid attention to these dreams wondering what they could mean if they did mean anything at all, despite my constant complaining about them to my therapist. Her name is Doctor Thomas. Doctor Thomas loves me. I think I fulfill some type of surfacing desire of inner satisfaction in relation to why she entered the field of psychology. My mother makes me see her in reaction to my consistent whining about these phantasmagories.
The bell screeches loudly pulling me back fully to the reality that awaits me outside these doors. I gather my things slowly in the midst of the bustle, and begin to make my way toward my locker to gather my things for swim practice. I saunter through the hallways toward Monterey High School’s ginormous pool. The halls are dotted with high schoolers doing high-school things. I’m able to pick the brown-headed bundle of energy out from the crowd easily, despite her swarm of friends.
“Meredith!” I shout over the gurgle of lockers slamming and thunderclaps of cackling, waving my hand wildly over the sea of heads.
Meredith parts the congregation and moves over to my side, “Hey, I’m not gonna be at swim practice today.”
“Again?” I inquire heatedly, concerned and flustered that I’ll have to attend yet another practice without my sister.
“Yeah, I just—” Meredith turns back her head to face one of her countless followers.
“It’s fine, Mer,” in an attempt to relieve her of her terrible guilt over the situation, touching her shoulder in understanding, as she turns back to face her friendly fans.
I continue on my way, watching the time meticulously. That’s just how my sister is, very much like me—stubborn as all get out. When I set my mind to do something, that something gets done. When Meredith sets her mind to being best on the team, by God she is the best one on the MHS swim team—number 25 in all of northern California. For when we set our minds to not doing something, one can only guess!
I’m not sure what has captured Meredith’s attention lately to prevent her from being the superstar of swim. I’ve theorized a boy, but then again Meredith never really got sidetracked in that way—a project of some sort, maybe school related. Whatever it is, though, it’s keeping her from being home from school until midnight, so really the only interaction I’ve with my sister is in the mornings when the main focus is catching up on last night’s readings and attempting to absorb some type of nutrition that will hold us long enough until lunch.
When I ask Meredith where she goes, she always gets this far off look in her eye and lets out a small giggle. She has always been spacey in that way, I suppose. Granted not to the eccentric level I dwell, which has allowed her to be better adjusted to her world. Her mysterious absence only recently started occurring this year—her sophomore year, and me my senior. I dismiss it as just a phase and hope it’s not a boy.
I timely arrive in the locker rooms and swiftly change into my sleek suit. I tie up my blonde waves into a careless bun, slick a tight cap around my skull, and unravel my goggles.
“Hey is Meredith not coming again?” My friend Sheila asks me, strapping on her goggles securely over her course tight curls.
“Nope,” I answer absent-mindedly as I scurry to shove my belongings in a locker, ignoring the painful looks Sheila is injecting into my back and fitting my goggles over my lump of a head.
We scuttle out to the turquoise pool and dive right in. The instant the cool water splashes my skin, I feel like I can breathe again.
When I’m in the water, I feel like time slows down. I go through the motions meditatively and let the laps of water hypnotize me.
The water is where I can be free.
The hours drip past and before I know it, I surface to the coach blowing his silver whistle signaling to towel off and to meet for notes.
“Finally,” Sheila exhales as she follows behind me to the benches. We towel off catching our breath. I notice again tiny colorful glimmers on my skin, not sure if it’s a trick with the lights reflecting the water droplets. I wipe harder with the towel, but still they remain. I try never to give them much thought, but as much as I try I still see a green light or hear the sound of an angelic croon. I wrap the towel around myself as we take our place on the cold bench, shivering from the overhead fan whipping our wet skin.
“Good job today,” Coach Becker begins. “Wanna see more utilization of that water space—don’t be afraid to expand your limbs to get a greater range of motion. Also, good job breathing today and remember to get a steady rhythm going that works best for you,” he pauses to scratch his red untamed beard. “Practice is postponed Thursday of next week due to another storm that will be crossing over, which I’m sure you’re all aware,” his eyes sweep across all of ours as he fixes the whistle around his thick neck. “I hope you all have a safe weekend and get some good sleep.”
With that we’re dismissed, and Sheila and I make our way out to get dressed into our dry warm clothes.
“Do you wanna come over tonight? My mom is making a pizza from this new cookbook she ordered for her new Paleo diet. We could watch Netflix and have a sleepover,” Sheila proposes as we gather our swim and school gear.
I shake my head regretfully, “Can’t, Aaron’s coming over tonight. We’re gonna watch a movie,” I cock my head at Sheila anticipating her response.
Sheila raises one untrimmed brow at me and shakes her head, “You think he’s really gonna show up this time?”
I feel a sharp pang ricochet off my ribcage. I inhale sharply, “We hung out this weekend.”
Sheila just shrugs her shoulders, and we stroll back through the chilly California air to our small suburbs in the still winter silence.
The indigo sky is stained with blue puffy clouds as I hug Sheila goodbye. I take out my headphones, as if on autopilot, and start listening to one of my Pink Floyd playlist songs. I hope that this will be enough to deter my mother from grilling me with questions about my day.
I swing open the wood door allowing the hall light to flood onto our front porch. Sunday, our orange kitten, comes bounding up to my legs, meowing heinously for someone to feed her. I scoop her up in my arms feeling her fuzzy little body warm my sore chest.
We make a beeline straight for the pantry passing my mother who whips her head up from watching television in the family room.
“Hi, honey,” my mother perks up, “How was your day?”
I halt with Sunday wriggling in my hands, who has gotten restless on this tiresome 30 second journey. “It was good,” I recite nonchalantly releasing the flailing kitten to the carpeted floor. I attempt to follow the scurrying Sunday in pursuit—
“Yea? Where is Meredith?” My mom sets down her wine glass. “Did she show up at practice today?”
“Nope,” I look down and pretend to be fascinated with my neglected nails.
“Is Aaron coming over tonight?” My mother asks.
“He’s supposed to,” I retort defensively.
My mother and I exchange a moment’s look of bitterness, and she turns back her head to resume watching “Dancing with the Stars.”
More or less sadly, my mother chooses to cope with her free hours of life, when she’s not at her private practice helping people accept their dreadful life events, by watching reality TV and drinking wine or living vicariously through the extraordinarily talented and charismatic Meredith. She definitely doesn’t win Mom-of-the-Year, but she is my mom. Our father died when I was only a few months old. I don’t remember him at all, but I have seen pictures. When I was little I pretended he was there with me as an angel, and we would engage in the most spectacular conversations.
I set my pack down on our huge couch deemed the “fly-trap” and traipse over to the kitchen. I pour out a generous helping of dried cat food. I tried cat food once when I was little and quite inquisitive concerning the unconventional. It was gross.
I refill the bowl with clean water from the tap and set it down for Sunday, who is scarfing down her supper.
My stomach growls in deliberation. I rise from my crouched position of cat contemplation and head over to the fridge to find remains of last night’s dinner wrapped in tin foil balancing on top of an egg carton.
I tear open the covering to a porcelain plate (my mother has always emphasized the importance of having fine china in one’s household) revealing a fat pink piece of salmon, stick it in the microwave, punch in a minute, and hit start.
Pouring myself a glass of lemonade, I watch from the kitchen window into the living room at the glaring screen. The hurricane signals radiate underneath the flickering image of colorful dancers.
As if on cue my mother calls out over the judge’s appraisals, “Mia, did you see there’s gonna be a nasty storm that’s supposed to hit on your birthday this week!”
“Yeah, our teacher told us.”
The microwave beeps, signaling my dinner is served.
“Do you have much homework this weekend, sweetie?” My mom shuffles into the kitchen in her nightgown focusing on making it to the sink.
“Not so much,” I set my warm fish dish on the round wooden table and begin to dig in, “Just studying for my marine bio exam this Thursday and reading more for English.”
“Oh, what are you reading?”
I slice a side off the salmon and blow on it, “The Lost Art of Compassion.”
My mother nods her head, and begins talking about one of her many cases she sees throughout the day, Stacy. I half listen and half tune out, not really wanting to know too much about Stacy and her relationship with Uncle Sam.
I gulp down the remaining drops of lemonade, clear my dishes and put them in the dishwasher, while I feel my mother’s eyes bore into the back of my head. I spin around to bid my mother goodnight.
As I begin to leave I hear my mother’s quivery voice, “Just make sure Meredith is back tonight, ok?”
I sigh deeply, “Ok.”
I don’t turn my head back because I wish not to see my mom’s distressed expression. I push away the tormenting thoughts which ensue with this religious occurrence, clearing a path for the really awful ones yet to begin.
Margaret Marcum lives with her cats, Adam, Alice, and Angel. She was recently awarded an MFA in creative writing from Florida Atlantic University. Her literary interests include ecofeminism and healing the collective through personal narrative. Her creative writing has appeared in literary magazines as Amethyst Review, Scapegoat Review, October Hill Magazine, and Children, Churches, and Daddies, among others.