Fiction by Madelyn Furman
I didn’t know the lake could look so desolate. So dead. The sun is completely buried by the clouds. No heat or rays of sun are allowed to escape. The forest of trees that surround the lake in a semicircle are now just skeletons of what they used to be. The water and air are completely still. Every once in a while, there’s a rush of frigid air. And it’s silent. The kind of silence that makes you too aware of the sound of your own breathing.
It’s unseasonably cold, and my fingers around the fishing pole are numb. There are two other docks in the distance that I can see from here, but each is empty. We are the only two people choosing to suffer here.
It’s already been an hour and a half. I shift my weight in the old lawn chair that I’m sinking into and pull my sleeve over my freezing hand. I don’t think I can be bothered to hold my fishing pole anymore. I set it down on the ground next to me. My father, on the other hand, genuinely looks as if he thinks a fish is going to bite. He sits on the edge of his chair and stares at the water, looking anywhere but my direction. His dark eyes focused, eyebrows slightly furrowed. He adjusts his grip on his fishing pole, ready to reel in. Just any second now.
I lift my feet onto my chair and hug my knees, trying to make use of the small amount of body heat I have left. When I do, he breaks his focus for just a second and glances at me. He lets out a short, annoyed sigh. One that would be undetectable in any other circumstance, but here, it’s loud. And I know it was directed at his apathetic daughter. It’s the same kind of judgment I’ve received my whole life. I don’t move from my curled-up shape. He clears his throat as if he’s getting ready to say something, but he doesn’t. We both know why we’re here, but neither of us will say it.
The lake is unrecognizable from the last time we were all here. The trees used to be thick with dark green leaves. The sun was warm. The sound of birds chirping and other families laughing were in the distance. Each night, we watched distant fireworks from the cabin porch. It was fun for a spontaneous family trip two hours from our house, but it’s not like we did anything that special.
One night, after the fireworks, we stayed up late playing card games around the coffee table. I sat on the ground, and they sat together on the couch. They tried to team up against me, sharing their cards with each other and scheming through whispers, but I won every single round. After, I told them that I was looking at their cards in the reflection of the mirror behind them, we all laughed until we had tears in our eyes.
In the mornings, Mom and I sleepily followed my father as he marched onto the dock, three fishing poles in hand. Every time he started reeling in a fish, he did it as if it was the first time he caught one. Mom and I exchanged looks every time. Rolling our eyes, but smiling. I still don’t know what it was about that weekend trip that made her love it so much.
Being here now, I can’t help but think about that trip. Maybe that was the point. Maybe that’s what she wanted. If we both came back here to relive one of the last moments where we actually got along, everything would fall perfectly into place. But more likely, we’ll just replace the fond memories with worse ones. He’ll tell me that I’m not making the right choices, and I’ll ignore him until I can’t anymore. Then we’ll argue for hours with no one to break up our fights.
Today marks one year. But it feels like it’s been way longer than that. One year, plus the sixteen months of hospital stays and endless treatments and frequent appointments. It was impossible to balance my classes with driving back and forth to the hospital seven hours away. Every time I managed to be there, I was given these judging glances from my father. Always subtle, always from the corner of his eye. But I saw them.
He was at the hospital every day. I wish I could’ve done the same, but I only visited every other weekend. He didn’t like that I wouldn’t put school on the back burner. He had asked me to drop out once and never brought it up again. But I knew what he was thinking. How could I spend my time studying while my mom is sick?
He never asked me about myself, my classes, my life when I was there. Our conversations were only ever about her. That’s how he preferred it. And mostly, so did I. His world revolved around her. Apparently, I didn’t manage to inherit the traits that he loved about her. Only the ones that make me completely unbearable. And the ones that make me look like her clone.
“So, how’s school?” he asks now, breaking the barrier of silence. He still stares at the water, watching intently for any signs of movement. I hold back a scoff. Instead, I roll my eyes.
“Classes won’t start for another two weeks,” I say. He nods like he’s interested. Is this question considered an effort even if you don’t care to know the answer?
“But I’m looking forward to them.” Another nod.
The painful silence returns. He reels in his line and casts a new one. I watch the ripples on the water as they melt away until the water is perfectly still again.
The last time I talked to her was three days before she passed. I walked through my childhood home that had been partially transformed into a makeshift hospital. Medicine on every countertop, a machine to help her breathe. Medical equipment I didn’t know the name nor the function of. She was lying in bed, the frailest I had ever seen her, struggling to keep her eyes open. We had a short conversation about nothing. Every time I spoke, she opened her eyes to look at me. After our conversation, the room fell quiet for fifteen minutes. I thought she might have fallen asleep. Out of nowhere, she asked me a question.
“Do you remember the lake?” she asked quietly. I didn’t at first. Did I remember one random summer weekend at a lake a year and a half ago? Kinda.
“Kinda,” I said. I saw the faintest smile on her pale face. Neither of us said anything for a few minutes. I tried to remember the weekend. Late nights, fireworks, mandatory fishing. “Why?” I asked finally.
Again, her smile returned, her eyes still closed. It took most of her energy just to show me she was happy. She breathed in. “I hope the rest of your lives feel like that,” she said. I grabbed her cold hand and held on. I held on until she finally fell asleep.
Now, I dab a tear away with my sleeve. I shake my head. I can’t think about it for too long. I don’t want to have to think about it. But here, it’s impossible not to. The only sign of movement near this lake just came from me, but he still stares at the unmoving water. He always told us we were too emotional.
A couple more minutes of silence, stillness. I readjust my position in my chair and rest my head on my hand. Sleeping would be a more productive way to spend my time right now. With a sigh, he finally relaxes, no longer on the edge of his seat waiting for a fish that is sure to bite any second. Has he finally given up? We both sit quietly doing absolutely nothing. For the first time this afternoon, he looks away from the water, taking in our lifeless surroundings.
“This place–” he starts. I wait for him to finish his incomplete thought. I lift my head to listen. “It’s just different. Without her, y’know?” My heart sinks. I turn and blink away the tears that fight to return. He looks at me, unsure if I heard him or not. I slowly nod.
“Yeah,” I say after a minute, tucking my hair behind my ear. “Everywhere is.” I see him nod from the corner of my eye. I take a deep breath in. The water on the lake remains still. So does the air. The clouds finally allow a few rays of sun to shine through. Only a few.
