Water Shroud

by: RDV


The quiet road lay packed on either side, alternately, with family cars. The two-way fare, barely resembling what it was meant to be and looking more like a zigzag obstacle course, seldom received indifference from its residents; there were always complaints filed against the parking situation of the village and only passersby felt cushy enough to pass its inroads.

Selma pulled over an acquaintance, who appeared to be another baby-sitter from the block. The latter had the baby strapped in a stroller, securing it with the belts as if not learning how to walk weren't enough. Anchored by Selma's clutch on the other hand was two-year-old Sammy. Selma thought Sammy would behave well enough by her side. It was a Thursday afternoon; the orange sky looked pretty and there wasn't a need for an umbrella to be shielded away from the sun. It must have been a perfect day for howdy-do's.

Selma and the other baby-sitter chattered on as both their minds marched off to somewhere they could relate to, a common ground on which a conversation could be enriched, on which to detract attention.

Being a full-time baby-sitter had had its ups and downs. Mainly it was the downs that were often seen and so to forget that, one should color her afternoons. For Selma, a little walk and exchanges right and left always gave her a clear presence of mind. She had done this more than sometimes, enjoyed it and considered it part of her job, humble as it was.

They were in the middle of the talk, quite unfettered, when Selma marked the vacancy of her hand. Flinging her eyes sideways, Selma couldn't locate Sammy. Her eyes instead, as if programmed to, veered to the direction of the street where a high landscape was engineered and whereon a swimming pool, six feet deep at most, was not fenced. Since it was a quiet afternoon, it must one of those days when a sign that read 'no swimming' was propped up beside the pool to inform the people that it was currently undergoing chlorine treatment. Hence, no swimming.

Selma stopped dead, knowing half of what came to pass, hardly accepting it and simultaneously dreading it. Sammy probably vamoosed away when she wasn't looking. But yet, when was she looking? Selma stood stock-still as though the atmosphere changed its hue and rendered her motionless. By then her friend had noticed her mumness and subsequently read her. Then by instinct or by impulse, Selma, not giving it the benefit of the doubt, ran up the grass that led to the pool. It didn't take long to discover that what she guessed and feared wasn't upset. She rocked back, still quiet. She didn't want to utter what she saw because saying it would make it true and tattooed on her history.

Away from Selma's nightmares, there on the surface was Sammy. She floated peacefully like a victim would after a long and tedious struggle and eventual surrender. Selma knew that it was too late but she was detained in that moment in time where the shock comes in trickles, silently, so it can be digested. Selma didn't say anything or move, because if she didn't everything would be as it was, which was much, much better than what's to come next.

The next thing she was that she was circumscribed by the family to whom she owed a debt unpayable. They were in the living room, drenched inters, every single one of them. Selma launched a thought hard but all thoughts and reasons repeatedly backfired. And when they did, they struck hard. She could hear a raspy weeping, whatever was appropriate for such occasion. For the first time, she failed to embrace Sammy's presence. She's completely gone now, Selma resolved amidst fountain of tears.

A blow landed on her stomach just then. Doubling up, she could see Sammy's father's face, taller than ever, lachrymose, which lent him mastery. He said something worse than a condemnation but of course his mouth seemed choke by sponge. There was no use to parade her guilt in any of the various ways she practiced; this family, it'd curse her whether or not they saw the end of things. And what excuse was adequate?

Sammy was their baby, the only girl in the family of three boys. Looking at them, Selma could find no view of happiness, in the present or otherwise. Their faces seemed to solemnly vow to never forget and Selma, more than any of them, knew the incontestable truth behind it. They loather her now, in more ways than she could keep track of.

It was then a thought closed in on her like parentheses. There at the far end of the room was the mother, on her throne. Somehow Selma knew that she would be there. She was and was worse a sight than anyone. She was howling continuously like a parrot that’s been cackling too long it has already forgotten how to stop. She was looking so frail she could’ve been knocked down with a feather. True, she was of more sensitive constitution than the rest combined.

Now with Sammy gone to where none dares follow, trying to absorb what remained of her family proved to be too much. They were at a back-to-one mechanism. From then on they would pick things up in reverse, retracing their steps to when the girl wasn’t yet born. They would learn to value more profoundly the things they could lose, or forsake, with the substance of mourning coursing long inside them. They would find ways to retrieve happiness, having been left with no strategy for such a heartbreak. But things would never be the same.

Alas now, Selma learned how it felt like to ruin one’s family in one go. Given half the chance she would like to be hurt more because one punch wasn’t justice. She wanted to be bludgeoned at their hearts’ content but that too wouldn’t do. Perhaps the reason she was there was not to be punished physically, but to be tortured by the sight of grief, plenty of it. Yes, it would be better had she died and gone straight to hell; worse, she was alive and in hell.

Wiping her tears, she stretched up to pack her things. None said a word, nor did they know what was on her mind as she dragged herself away.