Timothy ran his foot along the edge of a wave as it pulled away from the shore, leaving a thin crust of foam that eventually faded into the sand. It was a relief to be by the water’s edge, away from the sun-scorched sand that he had run over to get here. He looked up a moment to view the sea in its entirety, but it was too vast. To the left was a promontory cut off by rocks and overhanging trees; from the very tip of the cliff sprang a lighthouse, tower and balcony and all, like a bizarre overgrown mushroom. It blazed white in the sun. To his right, the bay tapered off in another series of huge boulders. It seemed as if the cliffs were breaking apart, however slowly, and falling into the sea. Timothy wondered with alarm if—the next time he came—the lighthouse might have followed the rocks too, becoming a fossilized wreck. It would be famous. People would visit it and say, “this is the lighthouse that fell into the sea.”
He frowned a little. He remembered that someone had held his hand; they had looked at the lighthouse and a voice from somewhere above his head had said to him, “People will visit and say, ‘this is the lighthouse that fell into the sea.’” He remembered that the lighthouse had been grey and crumbly then, with a little tree sticking out the balcony. The memory seemed as far away and as hazy as the ships at the horizon’s edge, so unattainable. He could not tell if the ships were floating on air or on water.
The moment passed and he plunged into the water, spluttering at its sudden coolness and the saltiness in his mouth, then gurgling with delight. Perhaps he could swim to the island in-between. Or maybe he would swim as far as he could to the left and climb up the rocks to the lighthouse. All seemed like possibilities—the weather so bright and warm, the sea so mild. Janice called to him: “Whoay! Don’t go too far!” She was already running down the beach towards him, hand on head to keep her favourite straw hat from flying away. He had asked her why she wore such a ridiculously floppy thing. She insisted it was style, “the way the movie stars do it.” He contemplated his English teacher asking him, “define: sister.” Sisters are creatures who panic easily and who like to imitate movie stars.
Timothy poked his head out of the water. What was the fuss about? It was then that he realized the current had pulled him further out than he had intended to go when plunging in headfirst; that the gentle incline which first fooled him had given way to a treacherous depth his eight-year-old legs could not reach; that even though Janice’s hair was streaming behind her as she ran, she didn’t seem to get any larger or any nearer. His right foot hit down and touched only cold water that dragged him down further. He spluttered, thrashed. He hit the air and gasped.
He heard a sound of splashing other than his own.
The sun threw a glare in his eyes and the salt water stung his throat. Turning away, he caught a flash of red and white. Ma was standing at the lighthouse and waving at him. It was just near enough that he could make out her figure in her favourite red dress. She could not tell, of course. He screamed, but the effort ended in a sputter of water as a wave rolled over his head in one tranquil motion. And then another wave, and another.
And there was a sound of splashing, but it seemed no nearer than it had been before. There was red, and there was white and there were the rolling green hills that pushed him under every time he fought to come back up. The sound of splashing became louder, but it was only his thrashing about in the water filling his ears.
And there was white and there was red and there was green; then the white and green came together and for one moment, Timothy saw the lighthouse brilliant and white in the sea’s murky depth, except it was so dark the lighthouse quickly turned grey. The person holding his hand had been in a red bath suit, saying, “Someday the lighthouse will fall into the sea.” Was it Ma, or Janice? The palm had been large enough to enclose his, and he had felt as if, should the entire cliff have fallen away in front of his eyes, he would not have been afraid. The cold gave way to tingling warmth that unfroze his limbs. Timothy kicked out, launching himself forward against the current. He kicked again, arms flailing on all sides. A hand caught his wrist and held it tight.
“Papa,” squealed Timothy.
“Hold still, you idiot.” It was Janice.
She wrapped his arms around her neck and swam back to shore, gasping painfully all the way. Janice did not have the strength to carry him so they both flopped over where the waves broke and lapped at their ears and hair. The salt water drying fast on his body made it itch, but he did not have the strength to scratch it.
“Whatever made—” said Janice in between breaths, “you cry out—Papa.” Timothy lay there confused. He could not remember when the time of having a Papa had been, and when it had ended. He had not thought of Papa in a long time—maybe since he was three, when Papa would hold his hand and tell him stories. He admitted to himself that he had forgotten.
They lay there panting until Ma rushed over with a towel, fussing over Timothy and then over Janice. Timothy found that she was dripping water, though she had not gone into the sea. They mingled with the water on his body, not allowing him to be completely dry. They were tears. All the time she was muttering, “don’t you ever do this to me, Timothy, don’t you ever, ever.”
In the bus on the way home, Janice told him, without Ma hearing, “not to ever upset Ma that way again. Once was more than enough when Pa—” but the rest was cut off by the roar of a passing truck. Janice looked so serious that he did not dare ask again because she had pursed her lips and set her chin the way she always did when something was final and could not be unsaid or re-said. And he did not wish to upset anyone more than he had that day.
