Down the Rabbit Hole

Water Talker

A very rough start to something, a bit darker but hopefully fleshed out enough to become an actual working draft soon....

I don’t remember the first time I drowned. My mother always refused to talk about it. Apparently, the trauma from my near demise was so deeply rooted that even the mere mention of the incident would drive her into a fury after which she would retreat into a migrained-fueled gloom for days. I have managed to gather the details through family friends and a handful of reluctant witness who were at the lake that day. From all accounts, one minute I was a carefree, raven-haired toddler running up and down the beach in the sun. I was full of mirth and frantic energy, playing with my gaggle of older cousins at the water’s edge. Suddenly my mother bolted up from her deck chair, her highball glass slipping from her hand, her face registering sheer terror. She was already weeping, already screaming my name before anyone else even realized something was wrong.

“Rina!” she screamed, shoving my dazed cousins aside as she plunged into the cold lake water, her eyes frantically searching the surface for some sign of her baby girl.

It was my cousin Ryan who found me, about eight yards off shore, underwater. My mother dropped to her knees, wailing as he laid my limp body on the beach. He gave me mouth to mouth for what seemed like endless minutes before my breath returned and I vomited ribbons of dark lake water into the sand. My name is Nerina, named for my great grandmother. It means “water” in Greek. I find that most ironic since that summer was the last time we went to the lake, it was the last time my mother ever let me near the water.