Into This River I Drown

“You’re my dad,” I say in the cab of the blue Ford as I approach Big House.

I’m lost in years and it’s like my father is next to me.





Big Eddie nodded. “You’re damn right I am. So you should know by now

that I don’t give a rat’s ass if you’re gay or straight or one of those tranny guys that likes to dress up in a slutty skirt and pretend you have a vagina.”

My eyes bulged.

“You are my son,” my father said, ignoring my fierce blush. “The only one God saw fit to give me. As long as you grow up to be a good man, the rest doesn’t matter. We clear?”

I nodded.

“We clear?” he asked again.

“Yes, sir,” I whispered.

I thought that was it, I thought we were done. But then Big Eddie stood up, pulling me to his side. I wrapped my arms around him as he patted my back. “Dad?” I asked finally.

“Yeah?”

“You’re really not mad?”

“Really.”

“Okay.”

We stood there for a moment longer, watching leaves fall from the tree in front of Little House. My breathing evened out, my eyes dried, my heart stopped pounding a million beats a second. I didn’t know then that less than a year later I’d be standing under gray skies as my father was lowered into the ground, a stone angel his only guardian.

If I’d known… well, I don’t know what difference it would have made. I’m sure I would have held on for just a moment longer. I’m sure I would have done everything I could to put myself in the oncoming path of Death so it would not take my father. Time is a river, I’ve learned. Always moving forward. But for people like me, people who have loved and lost, the river is something we fight. We swim against the current, trying to get back to the way we once were, trying to hold onto anything to keep us from getting swept away. It’s exhausting and eventually we tire. Still we push on. I can’t let him go into the river and be swept away.

I can’t let him go.

I finally calmed down enough to drop my arms, but we stood there, side by side, for a bit longer, his arm on my shoulders.

Eventually, we got back to work on Little House.





I reach Big House and waiting for me, as she always is, is Nina. She sits on the

porch steps, the headlights of the truck washing over her worried face. I stop, trying to ignore the blue flash that flits off out of the corner of my eye. More and more frequently this has been happening, and I wonder if I should be worried. My luck, it’s not a ghost I don’t believe in, but a malignant brain tumor pressing against my occipital lobe. Eh. It’s probably too late as it is.

I stop the truck in front of her and she skips down the remaining steps, her sandals slapping against the heels of her feet. “You’re late,” Nina scolds me as I open the Ford’s door, her sweet face marked with lines that belie her condition. I often wonder if Mary ever felt guilty that she was not born with Down syndrome like her twin sister. Nina and Mary are fraternal twins, which is why Nina has Down syndrome and Mary doesn’t.

“You’re late,” she says again, poking me lightly in the chest. “Why were you late? I was waiting.”

I sigh. “Got pulled over,” I mutter, not thinking of my words before I speak them.

Her eyes go wide and she covers her mouth, her words muffled when she speaks. “Oh no! Did you get a ticket? Did you get in trouble? Did you get arrested?” She’s starting to get upset, her chest heaving slightly, the intake of her breath sharper.

I reach out and pull down her hands from her mouth. Tears are already glistening on her cheeks. I rub my thumb over her palms, the only thing that calms her when she’s upset. “It’s okay,” I say softly. “Nothing wrong. Sheriff Griggs just wanted to chat.”

She startles me when she sticks out her tongue and blows a raspberry. “I don’t like that man,” she snaps. “He was never nice to me when we were kiddies.”

I smile. “Can I tell you something?” I ask her.

She nods eagerly, the tears forgotten, curling her hand into mine as she pulls me forward to whisper it in her ear. She smells like strawberry shampoo. I kiss her head once before I whisper, “I don’t like him either.”

Nina turns to me, searching my eyes to make sure I’m not fooling her. I show her my sincerity with a small smile and she giggles, putting her hand up to her mouth again. “He’s a bad man,” she says in her laughter. “Bad, bad man!”

“Bad man,” I agree. I’m about to ask how her day was when she suddenly stops laughing and looks above me, her eyes wide. I turn, but there’s nothing there. “What is it?” I ask, looking back at her.

“Wow,” she says in awe. “It sure is bright today.”

“The stars?”

“Oh, no,” she says, a beautiful smile growing on her face.

“The moon?”

“Bless the moon,” she says, “but no. What did you do today?”

“I was at work, Nina. You know that. At the store.”

She shakes her head. “No, Benji. What did you do?”

“I… I don’t know what you mean, Nina.” Goosebumps sprout on my arms. “Nina?”

“Oh, Benji,” she whispers in reverence, her eyes sparkling in the moonlight as she watches the space above me. A wind picks up, blowing through the trees.

“What do you see?”

“Blue,” she says. “There is so much blue.” She sighs. “It’s been around you for a long time, but now it’s just so blue. You did something. It’s why I wait, you know.”

“Is it?” I choke out.

My aunt glances at me before looking back up. “Yes. Every night you come home, there’s a bit of blue that follows. Sometimes it’s faint. Sometimes it’s bright. But it always dances, Benji. It always dances after you. I’m not sure if….” She becomes distracted again.

I don’t believe this, I think. This isn’t real. There’s nothing there. I see nothing. I feel nothing.

But that in itself is a lie. That which I do not believe has been there ever since I returned to Little House. The hand I don’t feel on my shoulder. The breath I don’t feel on my neck. The flash of blue that isn’t there. Ever since that night, I’ve come home to find her waiting on the porch, her hands folded in her lap, waiting for me. She’s always delighted when I pull up in the Ford, clapping her hands and laughing. I always thought it was me, that she’d been happy to just see me. And while that may be part of it, it seems, for her, there is more.

This isn’t real. This can’t be real. Reality isn’t flashing blue or disembodied hands. Reality isn’t the feeling that someone is always there, that I’m never truly alone. Reality isn’t—

I stop, cutting myself off.

Nina giggles and claps her hand. “Whatever you did,” she tells me, “it sure is something. I’ve never seen it so bright.”

“Nina?” I croak.

“Benji?”

I can’t ask. My throat works.

She waits.

I have to know. I can’t not know.

“Is it him? Is it….” I can’t find the words to finish.

She appears startled as her gaze finds mine. She takes a step toward me and reaches up to cup my face, her hands soft and cool against my flushed skin. I stare down at her wide eyes and tell myself the flash of lights I see reflected back aren’t there, that I’m hallucinating. I’m tired. I’m sad. I’m f*cking lonely and I’m making up shit that isn’t there. I’m seeing things that aren’t there. I’m losing my f*cking mind—

“Big Eddie loves you,” Nina says, rubbing her thumbs against my cheeks. “Sometimes, I think he’s closer than even you could imagine. But this? This is blue, Benji. Different.”

“I don’t understand.”

Her brow furrows. Then, “Secret?”

Secret? This game we played when I was a child? This word I haven’t heard

from her in years, and hearing it now knocks me off my axis. She flexes her fingers against my skin. “Secret?” she insists.

I nod.

“Cross your heart?”

“Hope to die,” I tell her as I make an X shape on my chest with my finger.

“Stick a thousand needles in your eye,” she finishes solemnly. She pulls on my face until I’m lowered to hers and her lips are near my ear. I shudder as she breathes.

Finally, she says, “The blue follows you because it worries. The blue dances to make you notice. The blue flashes to make you smile.”

“Worries? About what?” Not that I believe a damn thing she’s saying. This is ridiculous. I shouldn’t be feeding these fantasies of hers. She’s obviously deluded herself into thinking—

“You, Benji. It worries because of the river. You’re drowning.”

I jerk my head back out of her hands, and for a moment she leaves them outstretched in front of her, as if she’s offering herself to whatever it is only she can see. I take a step back, because she’s too f*cking close, and I can still feel her breath on my skin.

Nina lowers her arms and opens her eyes, those damnable, intelligent eyes. She’d been born with Down, yes, but fell into a category that only affects a small portion of those afflicted: mosiacism. During her gestation, some of the cells in the Down’s embryo were able to revert back into their normal chromosomal arrangement. Which essentially means that while she still has Down syndrome, her intelligence is above others with her same condition. I’ve grown used to her insights, knowing she is much smarter than most people will ever know.

But this?

“What did you do?” she asks again, but as if she is speaking to herself. “What changed? Why today? Why now and—” She stops suddenly, a sharp intake of breath. She slowly raises her eyes again, passing over my face until she’s looking above me. She’s silent. Then, “I see.” Pause. “And you would do that? For him? Oh. Oh. Yes. Oh, yes. So lonely. Like you? Like… you.”

I am rapt, unable to look away. A tear slips from the corner of her left eye and down her smooth cheek. I reach up and rub it away and she comes back to me, whatever conversation going on in her head now over. Or at the very least on hold.

She grasps my hand and says, “You see it, don’t you?”

I shake my head before I can stop myself. “Nina, I don’t know what you’re talking about. It’s not real. There’s no blue. There’s no light. It’s just a trick your mind is playing on you.” Because that is what I must believe. Please believe it too.

She gives me a knowing look.

“There’s nothing up there,” I tell her, trying to keep my voice level. “There’s nothing there. You know this. You’re better than this. You’re smarter than this.”

“Apparently the smarter of the two,” she retorts.

I sigh. “Nina—”

“Benji, it’s here, no matter what you do. Open your eyes.”

“My eyes have been open for years now,” I say bitterly, not expecting her to understand. “They’re open. You can take my word on that.”

She suddenly rushes forward and throws her arms around my shoulders and buries her sweet face in my neck. She starts to cry quietly and I hold her while she lets it out.

After a time, she looks up at me with bright eyes and a watery smile. “Oh, Benji,” she says. “I’m sorry you feel so lonely. I didn’t know. I didn’t know it was that bad.”

A tremor threatens to rise through me, but I push it away. I kiss her forehead instead. “How can I be lonely when I have you?” I ask her.

Nina laughs as she pulls away, wiping her eyes. “It’s my bedtime,” she tells me suddenly and turns back toward Big House. I watch her reach the porch and am about to head back to the truck when she calls out my name.

“It won’t be much longer,” she says. “Pretty soon, I think you’ll see.”

Chills flash down my spine. “What’s soon, Nina? What will I see?”

She smiles and it’s kind. She thinks for a moment, as if trying to carefully decide what to say. Finally, she decides on a single word and says it aloud before she turns back and opens the door to Big House, then closes it behind her, leaving me in the dark, the sounds of crickets and the wind through the pine needles fading, as the one word echoes back to me, the only thing I hear.

Everything.





Little House is empty. Nina spooked me more than I care to admit, and I

go room to room, turning on the lights, checking under beds, in cabinets. Closets.

Drawers. Nothing. There’s nothing here. No one. Little House is empty. And at the same time, it’s not.

I can’t help but feel someone behind me everywhere I turn, like I’m being

followed. I catch myself in the mirror, my skin white, my eyes blown out, black overtaking green. I look detached. I look like I haven’t slept in days. Weeks. I look insane. I look unreal.

“It’s empty,” I mutter to myself. “This whole place is empty.”

I’m lying to myself.

Without letting myself think about why, I leave the hallway light on and my

bedroom door cracked, so a little sliver of light lands on my bed. I’m exhausted. My head hits the pillow and I think I’ll drop off immediately. I’m ready for today to be over.

Twenty minutes later, I’m still awake.

Blue. There is so much blue.

You’re drowning.

Into this river—

You are my son.

Cause of death: asphyxia due to suffocation caused by water—

It isn’t true! He can’t be dead! He’s not gone, you bas—

Do you know who I am?

You’re my dad—

I sigh and roll on my side, trying to shut my brain off.

I open my eyes.

A river runs next to my bed.

As soon as I see it, the roar of it hits me, assaulting my senses. Water crashes

against rocks, rapids carrying chunks of debris onward. Mist hits my face. I lift the blanket from my body and put my feet on the ground. Grass beneath my toes. Stones. Dirt. Mud.

I stand.

Little House collapses around me with a groan and suddenly it’s an early gray summer morning, weak light shining through the thickening clouds. Rain starts to fall, and fat drops splash on my shoulders and head. Dream, I think as I stick out my tongue, catching a raindrop, clean and fresh, free of grit. This is a dream. I turn on the riverbank. My bed is gone. The embankment stretches up behind me at a steep incline, and at the top, just over the rise, a rectangular green sign peeks out. A mile marker. I can see the tops of two numbers, two horizontal lines. Seventy-seven.

“Benji,” a voice says quietly, deep and rough. It should startle me, but it doesn’t. I feel warm. Alive. The voice makes me feel alive. More than I’ve felt in years.

I turn and there’s a flash of blue, and a great noise, like the flutter of something huge. I look up, rain falling into my eyes. A single feather, a foot in length, falls toward me. I raise my hand out in front of me, palm skyward. The feather lands on my hand, brushing against my fingers. It’s a deep navy blue that causes my bones to ache. It feels like the softest silk against my fingertips. I lift the feather to my nose and inhale. It smells like the rain around me, wet and wild. Full earth. Pungent. Strong.

“Benji,” a different voice says, and the warmth I’m feeling vanishes. This voice is dark and wet. My name is gargled on its tongue. I clutch the feather in my hand as I look up.

“Benji,” the river says again.

I take a step toward it, the feather hardening in my hand.

Then, above the rushing water, above the rain, above the voices calling out my name, comes a different noise. It is low, guttural. An engine roars. I hear brakes squealing, the crash of metal against metal. I spin around, my feet sliding on mud and grass. There’s another crash, this sound greater than anything around me.

A red truck sails over the embankment, rolling to the left in midair, its engine racing. It lands seven feet from me on its left tires, before it crashes down onto all four. But the momentum is too great for it to stop and it bounces toward the river. A great boulder rests on the river’s edge. The truck starts to veer right, as if trying to avoid the impact, but it catches the left front tire. There’s a loud crack as the axle breaks apart. The truck flips and lands in the river, water splashing high over the banks. The tires continue to spin seconds later, until they slow to a stop, the truck on its back and nose down in the water, the tail end sticking up at a sharp angle against the gray sky, the brake lights at odds with the fading light.

The feather is burning in my hand.

Without thinking, I run toward the river’s edge. The water is fiercely cold when I jump from the bank, knee deep. The second my feet hit the soft riverbed, mud rises up around my ankles and begins to pull me down. I fight it, wrenching my left leg up, feeling pain as the muscles in my legs shriek from the strain. My right leg follows. But every time I bring my foot down again, the mud wraps around me.

“Dad!” I shout through the rain.

The engine floods and cuts out. The truck shifts within the current and scrapes against rock. The sound causes my jaw to clench, my ears to ring. I stumble when my foot becomes stuck, splashing my face down into the water, the cold a numbing thing, immediately forcing its way down my throat. I scrabble into the riverbed with my left hand, but it too becomes entrenched in mud. I gag and start to choke. I force my eyes open, blinking away the sting, but I can’t see, the water is moving too swiftly. The more I fight, the more tired I get. Lights begin to flash behind my eyes as the water enters my lungs.

My right hand floats up near my face. The feather is still there, clutched tightly. The silky blue flutters slowly. It brushes my face. Oh, please, I think. I’m drowning. Oh, please. Help me.

A big hand clamps down on my shoulder, the grip tight and biting, and all I can see is blue and all I think is blue and all I can hear is blue. My head breaches the surface, water spraying in all directions. I vomit a thick stream of river and begin to gasp for air. I open my eyes and the sky around me is filled with feathers, all dark, all blue, all raining down from the sky.

The hand slips from my shoulder and wraps around my chest, pulling me back until I’m pressed against something large and warm. I look down at the arm around me, thick and strong, a fine layer of auburn hair running up to the back of the gigantic hand. I’m lifted up with this one arm, pulled up the body behind me, through a shower of blue feathers that continues to fall. I struggle, but the strength around me is too great, and I catch a last glimpse of the truck upside down in the river before my vision is blocked by a moving wall of dark blue from either side of me that carries a rustling that sounds like wind over bones. I’m wrapped into this cocoon and I breathe it in. Earth, I think.

“You shouldn’t be here,” a voice says in my ear, the arm around me clenching tighter. “This is not a place for you. You are not ready to cross. You will drown. I cannot allow that to happen.” As he speaks, his lips scrape against my neck and I shiver, droplets of water falling from my hair.

“But—”

The two sides of the cocoon flash open in front of me, and even as I recognize them for what they are, there is a bright flash of blue and I am flung upward, toward the gray clouds above me, the sky bending inward, to a point, as if being pulled from the other side. I fly up through this apex and feel a flash of extreme vertigo as my world flips upside down and I fall from the ceiling of Little House and land in my bed with a crash, the frame groaning beneath me.

I sit up, gasping, my eyes flashing open, kicking the covers away from me, pushing up against the backboard.

A dream. It was just a dream.

My skin is slick with sweat, not wet with river water.

My legs are not covered in mud.

I did not almost drown.

I did not just witness my father’s accident as if it just happened.

I was not pulled from the water and wrapped in a cocoon.

But even though I know this, know all of this, even though I am a rational person living in the real world where nothing extraordinary ever happens, even with all of this, I am at a loss to explain what is in my right hand.

A large feather, of the deepest blue.

Not a cocoon.

No.

Wings.