“Dream of Drowning”

By Catrina Prager

Dream of Drowning

Flooding in her nostrils. Chlorine in her eyes. Oddly enough, the water was the only place where she felt she could truly breathe. Took an active effort to keep her eyes off the wall clock. Not to swim out and look at her phone. Again. Abby knew her time alone was limited, and that soon enough a gnarled hand would reach deep, snaking its fingers around one bony ankle, and pull her back to reality. The claw usually invariably belonged to Grandmother Therese, who would park Abby at the pool every morning for an hour while she went to visit her friend, or get her hair done. Grandmother Therese wasn’t a woman given to worldly vices, but a stiff perm was her signature, as was the perennial, gut-turning stench of hairspray that always mysteriously wafted in after the old woman.

A kick on her side, then shuffling. A head popping above her in the blear. Apologies. Didn’t see you there. Abby wanted to tell the woman she couldn’t quite see that nobody did. So that made it alright. Abby’s own mother had only been able to see her very briefly. But then, she’d parked the stroller at Grandmother Therese’s house one day, and then forgot all about it.

Smell of her mother, who didn’t smell of anything tangible. Made Abby blink harder, rub her eyes with one well-marinated hand. She didn’t like wearing goggles ‘cause they dried out her eyes. So she’d abandon them on one side of the basin as soon as Grandmother was out of sight, and always come home with dull, bloodshot eyes.

“I hope I didn’t hurt you too badly.”

Was that a faint English accent, or was that just Abby’s imagination? For a few weeks now, she’d had a penchant for all things British, like the word penchant. But how had a posh British woman come to be swimming in a mud puddle in St. Ann Heath?

“No good things ever end up here.”

“What’s that, darling?”

It couldn’t be. Because suddenly, regardless how many times she blinked, Abby’s eyes still wouldn’t clear. And she looked at the woman, and thought she saw herself looking back. And there was that scent again, and there was that thought.

“This must be a dream.”

Uncomfortable. Of course she was. Abby had a knack for making grown-ups uncomfortable. With her weird obsessions, and her overly-long words, and her peculiarity. When Grandmother got angry, she’d sometimes yell out mean things at Abby. It was from her that the little girl had first gotten the idea that her mother had left because Abby was crazy.

“Wrong in the head. No wonder your mamma couldn’t be bothered to raise you.”

Nothing was ever said about Abby’s father. Presumably, he’d caught on early that his daughter would turn out with a few screws loose, and bolted the first chance he got.

“Did you change your mind?”

Abby was an excellent swimmer, yet now she was struggling to stay afloat.

“Excuse me?”

The woman, familiar yet strange, was looking around now, trying to spot the grown-up who must’ve accompanied Abby, so she could be rid of her. Again.

“Nobody’s here. I mean, there’s people, but Grandmother is somewhere else now. Still, she’ll be so happy to see you.”

“I’m sorry, I think you’ve got me confused, kid.”

Except that couldn’t be it, either, because Ally never made confusions. She knew things different than the other kids, sure, but she was never wrong.

And then, a moment that lasted for a lifetime. A moment that should’ve never ended, Abby later reckoned. The woman should’ve stayed motionless, and Abby, she shoulda never reached out and grabbed the woman’s hand.

It wasn’t Abby’s fault. She didn’t like others touching her, either. It was just, she couldn’t seem to get her balance back just then. Couldn’t stay afloat. And the woman smelled so much like her mother.

But then, the moment did end, and Abby’s fingers touched the woman’s plump arm. And the woman’s eyes widened, transitioning from friendliness to alarm, and she pulled away, forcing Abby’s head into the water.

Not for long. One. Two. A second longer than it should have, though. Submerged, Abby greedily breathed in the tepid, chlorinated water. Felt it clogging her pipes. Silencing her mouth.

Then, she was out again, just like that, and no harm done. And the stranger woman was looking around in alarm, and saying fast words that Abby couldn’t make out. Dragging the girl out to the side. Propping Abby on one of the green plastic chairs surrounding the pool.

And then, the woman who smelled just like Abby’s mother was gone.

After that, Abby never went near the water no more, so Grandmother Therese was forced to drag her along. To stuffy apartments with too many things, and old women who smelled like absinth. To the hairdresser, with its plush chairs that always made Abby’s thighs itch. Here, Abby sat, thinking about the woman and that day at the pool. Wishing she’d see the woman one more time, ‘cause she hadn’t gotten the chance to apologize, or explain it wasn’t her fault, really, that she thoughts were all messed up. Wasn’t Abby’s fault she was wrong in the head. Or was it?

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Catrina Prager is a young Romanian writer, blogger and freelance content creator. So far, her work has also been featured in Bridge: The Bluffton University Literary Journal. At present, she's working on her first full-length novel. When she's not behind the keyboard, Catrina is either swimming or traveling. You can follow her on Instagram at @grimmestthings.