The Year I Almost Drowned

The Year I Almost Drowned - By Shannon McCrimmon



Chapter 1

The tips of my fingers touched my mouse, dragging it back and forth on the dark gray mouse pad, scrolling up and down the computer screen as I searched Harrison College’s spring semester course offerings. The titles were intriguing if not unique: All About Austen; Yoga for the Inflexible; History’s Dirty Details; Shakespeare in Layman’s Terms; Economics for the Financially Challenged. After more than an hour of reading each course description and with a few clicks on my mouse, I registered for a full load of courses for the spring semester.

I could feel my phone vibrating in my pocket. I took it out and read the text message from my mom. “Happy Birthday, Finn. Did you get my present? I haven’t heard from you in a while. Call me. Love, Mom.” My mother had the innate ability to make me feel guilty with just a few typed words. I placed the phone back in my pocket and made a mental note to call her later.

A draft of cool air sifted through my Nana’s library, and I clasped the top button to my navy blue wool sweater. Nana had given it to me; it was my dad’s when he was younger and it had become my fashion staple for fall. I loved it even if it was old and tattered. The dangling pieces of thread and pin-sized holes somehow made me feel closer to him.

“Finn!” Nana called from the kitchen.

“Yes,” I answered with a raised voice. I picked up one of her aged books, flipping through the well-worn antiqued pages. Nana had a large stock of books–most of them very old–bought long ago. This was one of my favorite rooms in my grandparents’ house. I loved it for the wooden book shelves that reached to the ceiling, the oh–so–comfortable brown leather chair, and the smell. Nana’s library was a musty, sweet mix of leather and decaying paper.

“Come here,” she hollered again.

I put the book back where it belonged–on the shelf and in alphabetical order–and headed toward the kitchen. The sun shined into the bright, cheery room with its yellow cabinets and strawberry wallpaper that bordered the ceiling. Nana loved the color red. Her kitchen screamed this, with red curtains, red placemats and red rugs. They were all a part of the bold décor.

The smell of peanut butter and melted milk chocolate–a heavenly mix–filled the air. I watched as Nana sprinkled flakes of milk chocolate on top of fluffy whipped cream.

“Yum. It smells so good.” I inhaled again, my mouth watering. Her pies made me hungry even if I did have a full stomach. Just looking at them was enough enticement.

She picked up the mixing bowl and handed it to me. “Here’s what didn’t make it in the pie if you want it.”

I took it from her and dipped my finger in the bowl, gathering a heap of peanut butter and chocolate. I stuck my finger in my mouth and licked the sweet saltiness. “Delicious,” I said, trying to savor the taste.

Pointing to the peanut buttery, chocolate goodness, she asked, “Can you drop this pie off at the Rotary Club on your way to get your dad?”

“Sure.” I stuck my finger in the bowl for a third and fourth helping. My sweet tooth was going to be the death of me one day. I finished off the last of the chocolate and peanut butter remnants and rinsed the bowl before placing it in the dishwasher.

She wrapped her arms around me and smiled. Her perfume lingered in the air. It was a pleasing scent of jasmine and honeysuckle. “I’m so happy we get to celebrate your nineteenth birthday with you, Finn.”

“Me, too.” It was the first time I would ever celebrate a birthday with my grandparents and my dad, or at least one I’d remember. We hadn’t spent any of my birthday’s together since I was two and that was too far back for me to have any memories.

She tore saran wrap off of the roll and wrapped it securely over the pie before placing it in one of her baskets. “This is your grandfather’s favorite pie,” she said.

“I know.”

She tilted her head to the side and raised an eyebrow. “He’s not eating pie at the diner is he?” I avoided making any eye contact with her. My face got warm and turned a rosy red. It was an instant tell. “Thought so,” she said. “He shouldn’t be eating sweets. Don’t let him, Finn.”

My grandfather hadn’t fully recovered from the heart attack he had in the summer. I can recall every single detail the night it occurred. It was the night that my mom decided to come back to Graceville so that she could take me back to Tampa. She hadn’t been to Graceville since she left more than sixteen years ago.

Everything happened so quickly. One minute I was having a very heated argument with my mom, the next thing I knew, my grandfather was fighting to stay alive. I was scared that I was going to lose him right when I just had him back in my life. It took several weeks for him to recover. The doctor and my Nana insisted that he cut his hours at his diner. But being the stubborn person that he is, he told them in no uncertain terms was he going to stop working. She even tried to compromise, asking him to let me run things on Saturdays. He only had to give up one day a week. One day. That lasted all of two weeks. Nothing could tear him away from his diner. It was his baby and had been for more than fifty years.

She touched my long red hair and asked, “Is Meg cutting it later today?”

I held the pie in my hands and nodded a distinct yes. Nana was very touchy-feely; I loved that about her. “Yeah. I don’t know what she’s going to do to it, though.” My forehead creased. Meg was almost finished with cosmetology school and was intent on giving me a more distinct style. Her idea of distinct could mean something very drastic.

“I’m sure whatever she does will look good.”

“Yeah,” I paused and then said, “I hate missing work today.”

“Don’t be silly, Finn. Your grandfather can manage the diner, and he’s got plenty of help –both Hannah and Meg are working today.” She squeezed my shoulder and said, “It’s your birthday, you should have it off. Now go on and take that pie. I’ve got a house to decorate for a special birthday girl.” She shooed me away.

***

I stepped into a colorful blanket of leaves that covered my grandparents’ front yard. I heard a crunching sound as I made each swift step. I placed the top of my shoe at the base of a hefty pile and kicked the tip of my foot forward. The leaves flew up like confetti and then slowly fell to the ground, finding another place to lay in the yard.

A soft breeze from the north caused the trees to dance, their leaves falling by the second. Autumn had arrived. Leaves in vibrant shades of red, yellow and orange were seen on every tree in the distant horizon. The air was cooler and crisper. Front porches were decorated in a cornucopia of harvest themed items: carved pumpkins, scarecrows, and bales of hay. The long, sunny days of summer were gone. This was my first time experiencing a true fall season–one where the leaves changed and the temperature dipped below the 50s at night. There was no such thing as fall in Florida.

My dad’s 1977 teal green Chevy Nova was parked in my grandparents’ driveway. By default, I had inherited it. He hadn’t driven it in years and said he’d rather I drive it than it just rust away sitting in my grandparents’ garage. I preferred driving it over my grandfather’s old truck–with its unreliable engine that tended to die on me in the middle of long, rolling hills. After coasting down hills more than once, I had enough of it and was relieved when Dad told me I could have his car.

I turned the ignition, a low chug, chug, chug noise pervaded. My legs vibrated against the vinyl seat as the engine purred. Goosebumps formed on my arms and legs even though I had on jeans and a sweater. The car was cold. I turned the heat on knowing it’d be a while until it actually blew out warm air. Its air conditioning was basically a fan, and the heat was a poor imitation of hot air.

The sun’s rays bounced off the satiny white wooden siding and the red shutters of my grandparents’ beautiful farm house. The swing on the front porch swayed side to side from the morning breeze. Yellow and orange potted mums sat purposefully on each porch step. It was picturesque and welcoming, and it was now my home.

***

The Rotary Club of Graceville was located in an inconspicuous spot, way off the beaten path and nowhere near anything. I had my own idea about the club and concluded it was some secret society where people wore black cloaks and stood around a blazing fire during a full moon chanting crazy things that didn’t make any sense. It was just odd to me, that the club’s headquarters were nowhere near town. Nana had given me directions, but I still found myself lost out in the country. The roads were unfamiliar, and I had a bad sense of direction anyway. I hadn’t had enough experience driving on the terrible roads in Graceville. Most of them were unmarked and those that were marked turned into another road right in the middle of the road you were driving on.

I held the piece of paper with Nana’s directions. I glimpsed at it again, trying to decipher exactly where I was and then looked back again at the road. All ahead of me were acres and acres of peach orchards. There wasn’t a house, a building, or any other sign of civilization within sight.

The sound of a police siren blared from behind me. I looked in my rear view mirror and saw flashes of blue and red whirling in a circular motion. My heart thumped wildly and my sweaty hands gripped tightly onto the steering wheel. I’d never been pulled over by the police. Not once. Not ever. I glanced in the rear view mirror again and saw that it was Cookie, one of Graceville’s oldest police officers, shuffling my way.

Everyone called him “Cookie” because he sputtered things out that sounded like they had been stolen from a Chinese fortune cookie. Cookie was a Graceville institution of sorts and probably should have retired years ago, but since Graceville’s crime rate was dismal, he was able to keep his job on the force. He and my grandfather had met in elementary school and had been friends ever since. They played bingo together, and Cookie was a regular in the diner. I liked Cookie even if he did say strange, philosophical things that didn’t seem relevant to the discussion. He was a kind, trusting man and probably should have chosen another line of work.

I felt a sense of relief seeing that it was him coming my way. I knew if he was pulling me over, once he saw it was me, he’d give me a warning for whatever it was that I did and tell me to go on about my business.

The relief was short lived. I peered into the rear view mirror one more time and saw another police officer approaching my car. This one was well-built, tall, and much, much younger than Cookie. I didn’t recognize him. My heart started to beat a mile a minute.

Cookie peered down in my window and motioned for me to roll it down. “Hi, Finn,” he said. He spoke slowly and enunciated every single syllable with a long southern drawl. A toothpick hung out of the corner of his mouth. Cookie was very thin and appeared older than he really was. Lines and creases inundated his face, his skin loose and sagging. His white mustache covered his thin upper lip. There was very little hair left on his small oval shaped head. “Confucius once said ‘Be slow in your words and earnest in your conduct,’ Finn.”

Whatever that meant, I’m not sure. I had to keep myself from rolling my eyes at him. The other police officer lowered his head to the window, his caramel-colored eyes met mine. A subtle five o’clock shadow showed on his youthful face. He was a little older than I thought, maybe in his mid twenties. Golden streaks blended in his short light brown hair. “License and registration, please,” he said in an authoritative tone.

My hands subtly shook. “What did I do?” I asked Cookie. I pulled my license and registration out of my purse and almost dropped them before handing them to Cookie.

“You were speeding and you ran a stop sign,” the stranger answered.

“I was?” I said in a surprised tone, still looking at Cookie.

Cookie nodded his head and frowned.

The stranger studied my license and said “You were going twenty miles over the speed limit. It’s thirty-five, Miss Hemmings,” he said, making direct eye contact with me, “not fifty-five.”

“I didn’t see a stop sign and I thought the speed limit was fifty-five,” I protested. I know it’s not prudent to be argumentative with a police officer, especially when he is holding a stack of tickets and a ball point pen in his hand, but I was confident that I was absolutely right in this case.

“If you’ll just step out of the car, I’d be happy to show you the stop sign and the speed limit sign,” he ordered more than asked.

I had a very bad feeling that I was about to eat crow. He backed away from the door, allowing me to get out of the car. He was very intimating and stood well-above me, blocking the shining sun from my watery eyes. He gently touched my shoulder, motioning for me to stand in the same direction as him and pointed to the sign which read in big, black bold lettering 35 MPH and then slowly moved his index finger in the direction of the large, red octagon shaped sign with white letters spelling out STOP. I looked away, embarrassed, but also a little annoyed. He didn’t have to be so arrogant about it.

I glanced in Cookie’s direction. “A closed mouth will gather no feet, Finn,” he said. “There’s not much you can do about it.” He scratched his chin and stood there watching the other officer fill out a ticket.

“Humph,” I muttered under my breath.

He tore a copy of the ticket and handed it to me. “I’ve written you a ticket for careless operations. You have thirty days to pay or contest it. You’ll find the traffic court information on the back.” He turned the ticket over and showed me. “I was letting you off easy, Miss Hemmings. You could have gotten two points on your license and a ticket for $474 dollars. As you can see,” he pointed to the amount on the ticket, “you have no points and the amount is $243. Speeding and failing to stop at a stop sign are serious infractions. Please drive more carefully. Next time, I won’t be so generous.”

I didn’t think $243 was being generous. I was about to say something but common sense prevailed. It wasn’t worth another ticket. My blood was boiling; I was fuming. I didn’t appreciate his condescension, his know-it-all attitude, and the fact that Cookie just stood there and let the whole thing unfold.

I recoiled and uttered a quick superficial, “Thanks.” It took all I had in me to say that one word.

“Thank Cookie. He asked me to be easy on you.” He strutted toward the police car.

I gave Cookie a “thanks a lot” expression and placed my license back in my purse. I wanted to crumble up the stupid ticket and throw it out on the road but decided against it. Instead, I just sat there for a long time trying to keep myself from crying. It was turning into a horrible birthday. I had only been nineteen for a few hours and already I had received an expensive ticket and was lost in the middle of god knows where with a mission to deliver a pie. The emotion of it all came over me, and the tears started to fall. I couldn’t help it.

The police car pulled up beside mine. I glanced over in its direction and saw “Mr. Pompous Pants” himself looking at me. His head was tilted and his lips were twisted in a thoughtful expression. He opened up his door, got out and walked over to me. I quickly wiped my eyes and tried to make it appear as if I hadn’t been crying, but there was no way to hide that with my pale white skin.

“Miss Hemmings, are you okay?”

“Yeah.” I sniffled.

“Are you sure?”

“Well, actually, I’m not. It’s my birthday and now I have a ticket and I have to deliver this pie but I can’t find the building!” I tried not to cry but it happened anyway. I felt ridiculous for being a blubbering crying mess in front of a complete stranger who had just helped ruin my birthday.

He stooped down so that we were eye level and quietly asked, “Where are you trying to go?”

I looked at him and wiped my eyes. “3100 Tifton Drive.” I don’t know why I told him. Maybe it was his trusting face?

“I know where that is. Follow our car, we’ll get you there,” he offered.

“That’s okay.” I didn’t want to accept any favors from him.

He sighed. “There’s no sense in you driving around getting lost, just follow me.”

“I’m fine, really,” I lied. I knew my face was blemished. Every time I cried, that happened, and I hated my alabaster skin for it.

“Are we really going to do this all day?” His caramel eyes peered into mine.

I averted my eyes from his, annoyed, but knew that he had a point. He wasn’t going to relent. We’d be there all day arguing about this.

“Fine.”

“Good.” His lips turned upward. “Just follow me.” He stood up and got back into the car. I followed the police car for a few miles, making a couple of turns here and there and before I knew it, we had arrived at the The Rotary Club of Graceville. I turned the car off and got out carrying Nana’s pie in my hands. I looked over at him. He rolled down his window.

“Thank you.”

“No problem. Can you find your way back?” he asked.

“I’ll have someone give me directions.”

He shook his head and said, “Tell me where you’re headed. I’m from here and know most of the roads like the back of my hand.”

I told him my father’s address. He pulled a note pad out of his pocket and wrote down explicit directions, along with a thorough diagram of signs and things to look out for. He was being helpful and it made it really hard to dislike him. I studied the directions he gave me and gave him an appreciative smile. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he said and rolled up his window.

***

I found my dad’s house without any complication. The directions the police officer had given me were incredibly thorough. Dad was pacing back and forth, while smoking his pipe. Jack, his yellow lab, ran toward my car, his tail wagging. I opened my door and was jumped on immediately.

“Jack, down,” Dad ordered.

“Hey, Dad,” I said. I reached over to hug him. He smelled like chestnuts and cherries from his pipe tobacco.

He frowned and looked at his watch. “I was getting worried.”

“I’m sorry. I should’ve called. I had to deliver a pie for Nana and I got lost,” I said, purposely leaving out the part about the ticket. I didn’t think he needed to hear that detail. It would just make him worry and really, I was embarrassed about the entire incident and wanted to put it behind me.

“Well, I’m glad you’re here. Next time call.”

I nodded. “I will. Are you ready to go?”

“Hang on,” he said and went inside his house. He came out holding a large square shaped item wrapped in brown parchment paper. “Your birthday present.” He patted it and moved toward the car. “Open the trunk.”

I suspected what it was, but wasn’t going to spoil his fun. Dad was an artist, a very talented artist, and what he had put in my trunk strongly resembled the shape of one of his painted canvases.

“Let me put Jack inside,” he said, as Jack trailed behind him.

He came back out, opened the passenger door and sat down next to me. He held a thermos in one hand and tapped his fingers against the door with his other hand.

The strong smell of freshly brewed coffee filled my car. “Nana has coffee, Dad.”

“I know, but I like mine better. Hers is too sweet.” He took a sip of his coffee and looked around the car. “Do you like driving it?”

“Yeah. It’s better than Grandpa and Nana’s trucks.”

He chuckled quietly. “I’m glad you can get some use out of it since it was just sitting all those years,” his voice trailed off. I looked down at his twitching hand. At times it would subtly shake–a side effect from his medication for treatment of bipolar disorder.

It took years for anyone to figure out what was wrong with him, why his behavior was so inconsistent–flip flopping from extremely happy to beyond depressed. By the time I was two years old, my dad’s behavior had become so erratic that everyone thought he was addicted to drugs. He’d spent all my parents’ money and was even arrested for drunk driving. My grandparents had to bail him out of jail. My mother didn’t know what was wrong with him, why he had these moments where he was on top of the world, full of so much energy–to times when he was so depressed he couldn’t get himself out of bed. It wasn’t him. She said he wasn’t the man she had fallen in love with. He had become a stranger to her.

And then he left, in the middle of the day, while Mom was at work and I slept peacefully in my crib in my room. He left me all alone in the house, at the helpless age of two. My mom doesn’t know how long I lay in that crib. She said that when she came home, I was screaming at the top of my lungs and crying out for him. It was like I knew he was gone. How a two year old can be that intuitive is beyond me. I don’t remember any of this. My dad told me he kissed me goodbye when he left. But I don’t recall that, either. He said that he got in his car and drove straight to Atlantic City where he gambled the rest of my parents’ money away.

I don’t know what else happened, where else he went, what else he did. He hasn’t told me, and I thought it was better not to ask. I know it’s not a pretty story and is probably filled with too much heartache for me to hear and for him to tell. Some things are better not known. Some things are better not repeated. In this case, I’d rather focus on him being healthy, on knowing who he is now rather than all of the mistakes he made in the past.

My grandparents suspected that when he left, he just died from a drug overdose and was laying on the side of a road somewhere. I can’t imagine what they must have gone through thinking that. They lost their son and had no idea where he was and if he was alive. When my dad left, my mom simply gave up. She chose to run away from it all–to Tampa, Florida, a place far enough away from Graceville, South Carolina so we could start over. She never looked back.

That’s when the lies started. From that point on, I grew up believing that my father had died in a car accident and that my grandparents, his parents, didn’t want anything to do with me. That’s what my mom wanted me to believe. But they had been trying to contact me for years, and she just shut them out. My mother said she was trying to protect me, but her sheltering of me nearly smothered me. It took sixteen years for me to discover the truth, for the secrets to unfold. On the night of my graduation, I found a stack of letters from my grandparents hidden in my mother’s closet. That’s when everything changed–when I got on a bus in the middle of the night from Tampa, Florida, to Graceville, South Carolina, seeking the truth. Before I found those letters, I was stuck to my plan: go to college, become a doctor, get married, and have kids. But going to Graceville this past summer made me view things differently. For once I saw that I couldn’t plan everything in my life because life has other plans for me.

It was going to be a good birthday; it had to be, despite the ticket, getting lost, and having a near breakdown. I wanted this birthday to be epic. It was going to be the first time I’d be celebrating my birthday with my dad and grandparents, and I wanted it to be memorable.