“Mama, I feel like I’m drowning.”
By Erin Beck
Brin was always carrying around a pink Care Bear with a torn nose and a rainbow across the matted fur stomach. Somebody had always forgotten to tell Brin things other people just knew. Like, if you cut off that nose, it won’t grow back.
People get a strange look when you say that. “I feel like I’m drowning.” They look at you quick, and their eyes flash. But it’s not really confusion or surprise, even though what you’re saying doesn’t make any sense.
When you’re swimmers, like I was from a young age, it’s hard to imagine yourself drowning. When it’s still, you know how to handle the water. When it’s not, you know not to fight it.
She’d use her left arm to drag around the teddy bear by its arm, with her left shoulder slumped and her arm limp. When she was holding our mom’s hand with her right hand, she looked almost sideways. Left arm and teddy bear heavy, gravity pulling ‘em to the floor. Her right arm almost upright, keeping her up here.
The strange thing was, Brin never said “I can’t breathe.”
“You ain’t drowning, Brin. And your lungs are filling up and letting out, just fine.” Almost could make you believe in reincarnation, when someone talks like that.
My mother would always sweep her away when she said things like that. Instead of half-Brin dragging the ground and half-Brin held up by her right hand, Mama would lift her up, pull her all here.
…
Before school, I’d take her to swim team practice with me. She never did get past one of the first steps, kicking your legs while holding on the edge. Her legs would just be dangling.
And I’d watch her after school before Mama got home.
One day, she was spinning on a bar stool while I cooked her dinner – around and around and around and around, enough to make you dizzy when you stopped. But after ten or so minutes, she stopped and she was perfectly still.
When I tucked her in to sleep, she told me while she was spinning, she left our trailer, then West Virginia, then the United States, then the world and was looking down on the world from outer space. Almost didn’t know how to get back.
I didn’t even know 5-year-olds could know what the world looked like from outer space.
We’d set on the porch in the evenings and watch the river run on the other side of the road. Mama always said not to swim in that river – too much waste from chemicals and coal mining. But sometimes we did anyway. You do things against your best interest sometimes, just to feel like some things are still yours.
…
The flood hit on a Friday in June. Across town at the wine festival, the hillers danced while the creekers drowned. The hillers had enough money to build on top of the hills. The hillers lived on earth tougher than the will of the rain to tear things apart.
Come hell or high water.
Rain can feel cleansing with your feet on solid ground. Cheeks tilted up, a hand in yours, locking eyes with the moon.
Rain can feel cleansing when everything you know as just so is just so. The police are there to protect you, and so are the mountains. The coal miners are there to keep you warm, and so is the sun. And government officials tell you the truth.
When you’re underwater though, we’re all the same. No time for your mind to get in the way and think about all that. All your mind has enough energy to focus on is treading water. It’s just spirit and earth. Baptized by the will to live.
I’ve always said I felt the most like myself when I’m underwater. I think there’s part of me that remembers when this whole place was underwater, somewhere inside my bones.
The creekers lived in the hollers.
Silly girl, when I was little I did think mountains were there to protect me. No wind strong enough to blow us away. No need to look and see flat land turn to sky. This little piece of earth right here was ours, and it was enough.
In West Virginia, you know you can’t trust too many people, but we at least trust our people. We at least have faith.
The flood hit, and I felt like the whole earth dropped out of the sky. No sun to revolve around. Nothing solid to catch hold of.
Just spinning, spinning, spinning, spinning, spinning.
…
My friends and I were seniors, so we were allowed to leave school during lunch break. We sat on the steps of the Capitol and watched the wine festival across the river. Watched the hillers swilling wine beneath their umbrellas. Watched the sea of pastel sundresses waving, listened to the rain hit, almost couldn’t see the brown river rising. Raindrops and jazz music lulling you into a dreamy sleep with a sweet lullaby.
Walking home, the river itself had turned into a sea. It demanded attention, then. No more lullaby. More like rage. Rage at disrespect.
Wake up, silly girl!
I could see the river was getting higher and higher, dangerously close to swooshing over the bank and into the road. But Brin was walking even slower than she normally did.
Always having to tell her things other people just knew. “Hurry, Brin!”
She was always bothered more by the signs of disrespect around us. Picking up litter. Always wanting to save animals. Scrunching up her face and plugging her ears when oil and gas trucks hurled by.
She was worried about the river too, so she wanted to check on it.
“The river is upset,” she said.
“The river’s not upset, Brin, but it’s about to flood, hurry!”
She looked up at me sharp, and her eyes flashed. Let go of my hand and ran faster than I’d ever seen her. I didn’t know she had it in her. She stood on the edge of the bank, and looked. Left arm and teddy bear heavy, gravity pulling ‘em to the water. No hand gripping her right hand to keep her up here.
A wave from the river-sea lurched up and took that bear right out of Brin’s hand. And she just followed it in.
With all my years of swim lessons, I couldn’t save her. Mama found me sobbing:
I should have carried her.
I should have carried her.
I should have listened to her.
Later that night, I sat on the front porch and asked the river why it was angry. I didn’t hear an answer, but I saw the pink bear floating by, face-down.
By Erin Beck
Brin was always carrying around a pink Care Bear with a torn nose and a rainbow across the matted fur stomach. Somebody had always forgotten to tell Brin things other people just knew. Like, if you cut off that nose, it won’t grow back.
People get a strange look when you say that. “I feel like I’m drowning.” They look at you quick, and their eyes flash. But it’s not really confusion or surprise, even though what you’re saying doesn’t make any sense.
When you’re swimmers, like I was from a young age, it’s hard to imagine yourself drowning. When it’s still, you know how to handle the water. When it’s not, you know not to fight it.
She’d use her left arm to drag around the teddy bear by its arm, with her left shoulder slumped and her arm limp. When she was holding our mom’s hand with her right hand, she looked almost sideways. Left arm and teddy bear heavy, gravity pulling ‘em to the floor. Her right arm almost upright, keeping her up here.
The strange thing was, Brin never said “I can’t breathe.”
“You ain’t drowning, Brin. And your lungs are filling up and letting out, just fine.” Almost could make you believe in reincarnation, when someone talks like that.
My mother would always sweep her away when she said things like that. Instead of half-Brin dragging the ground and half-Brin held up by her right hand, Mama would lift her up, pull her all here.
…
Before school, I’d take her to swim team practice with me. She never did get past one of the first steps, kicking your legs while holding on the edge. Her legs would just be dangling.
And I’d watch her after school before Mama got home.
One day, she was spinning on a bar stool while I cooked her dinner – around and around and around and around, enough to make you dizzy when you stopped. But after ten or so minutes, she stopped and she was perfectly still.
When I tucked her in to sleep, she told me while she was spinning, she left our trailer, then West Virginia, then the United States, then the world and was looking down on the world from outer space. Almost didn’t know how to get back.
I didn’t even know 5-year-olds could know what the world looked like from outer space.
We’d set on the porch in the evenings and watch the river run on the other side of the road. Mama always said not to swim in that river – too much waste from chemicals and coal mining. But sometimes we did anyway. You do things against your best interest sometimes, just to feel like some things are still yours.
…
The flood hit on a Friday in June. Across town at the wine festival, the hillers danced while the creekers drowned. The hillers had enough money to build on top of the hills. The hillers lived on earth tougher than the will of the rain to tear things apart.
Come hell or high water.
Rain can feel cleansing with your feet on solid ground. Cheeks tilted up, a hand in yours, locking eyes with the moon.
Rain can feel cleansing when everything you know as just so is just so. The police are there to protect you, and so are the mountains. The coal miners are there to keep you warm, and so is the sun. And government officials tell you the truth.
When you’re underwater though, we’re all the same. No time for your mind to get in the way and think about all that. All your mind has enough energy to focus on is treading water. It’s just spirit and earth. Baptized by the will to live.
I’ve always said I felt the most like myself when I’m underwater. I think there’s part of me that remembers when this whole place was underwater, somewhere inside my bones.
The creekers lived in the hollers.
Silly girl, when I was little I did think mountains were there to protect me. No wind strong enough to blow us away. No need to look and see flat land turn to sky. This little piece of earth right here was ours, and it was enough.
In West Virginia, you know you can’t trust too many people, but we at least trust our people. We at least have faith.
The flood hit, and I felt like the whole earth dropped out of the sky. No sun to revolve around. Nothing solid to catch hold of.
Just spinning, spinning, spinning, spinning, spinning.
…
My friends and I were seniors, so we were allowed to leave school during lunch break. We sat on the steps of the Capitol and watched the wine festival across the river. Watched the hillers swilling wine beneath their umbrellas. Watched the sea of pastel sundresses waving, listened to the rain hit, almost couldn’t see the brown river rising. Raindrops and jazz music lulling you into a dreamy sleep with a sweet lullaby.
Walking home, the river itself had turned into a sea. It demanded attention, then. No more lullaby. More like rage. Rage at disrespect.
Wake up, silly girl!
I could see the river was getting higher and higher, dangerously close to swooshing over the bank and into the road. But Brin was walking even slower than she normally did.
Always having to tell her things other people just knew. “Hurry, Brin!”
She was always bothered more by the signs of disrespect around us. Picking up litter. Always wanting to save animals. Scrunching up her face and plugging her ears when oil and gas trucks hurled by.
She was worried about the river too, so she wanted to check on it.
“The river is upset,” she said.
“The river’s not upset, Brin, but it’s about to flood, hurry!”
She looked up at me sharp, and her eyes flashed. Let go of my hand and ran faster than I’d ever seen her. I didn’t know she had it in her. She stood on the edge of the bank, and looked. Left arm and teddy bear heavy, gravity pulling ‘em to the water. No hand gripping her right hand to keep her up here.
A wave from the river-sea lurched up and took that bear right out of Brin’s hand. And she just followed it in.
With all my years of swim lessons, I couldn’t save her. Mama found me sobbing:
I should have carried her.
I should have carried her.
I should have listened to her.
Later that night, I sat on the front porch and asked the river why it was angry. I didn’t hear an answer, but I saw the pink bear floating by, face-down.