Helen Murray | 2017
The clear blue water laps at your chest as you scan your surroundings. Where did she go? You could have sworn she was right next to you. She was right next to you! You are treading water under the big warm sun but inside, you feel cold. You see splashing, you spot a hand reaching up trying to get your attention, clawing at the water’s surface as if it could be grabbed and held. It can’t. The hand fails at each attempt, becoming more and more desperate. You begin to swim over but you can’t swim fast enough because you feel your muscles crying out with each rapid stroke. But you must. You must reach her. That thought echoes in your mind with each stroke.
You must reach her.
You must. Reach her.
You Must.
You feel as though you yourself will slip under the surface. Each and every muscle in your body feels as though it is on fire. Your entire body is screaming. She must be screaming twice as loud beneath the surface, but no one can hear her.
She manages to get her head above the water for a moment. Her eyes meet yours for only a moment as she yells, “Please! Please he-” before the water takes her again. You can see her frantic movements under the surface of the perfect clear blue water as you paddle towards her, trying to maintain your speed. Her perfect face is contorted into a grimace from the effort she is exerting to try and get above water. Then, all of a sudden, her face relaxes. You somehow find a burst of energy and push your crying muscles to keep going so you can dive under the water to try and grab her. You have her perfect, smooth hand in yours, but then it slips. You can’t hold on. You try again, this time grabbing her wrist, the fingers on her limp hand curling as they float under the water, brushing your arm. You shiver. As you start to swim upward towards the surface she slips again, but you are out of breath. Now it is your lungs’ turn to scream. You must come to the surface if one of you is to survive. You breach the surface and gasp for air but go under one last time to try and make one last effort to save her. You are swimming as fast as you can as you see your love starting to drift to the bottom of the perfect blue ocean, just out of reach. She is eerily beautiful in those last moments, with her shining blonde hair floating around her face. Her long limbs through the water as she sinks to the bottom. She told you she couldn’t swim. Why didn’t you believe her?
⋯
You are on an airplane. You are going to her funeral. Her family invited you. This is the first and only family event you have ever been invited to. Even though you had been living with her for almost a year at that point, they had never approved. Even though she loved you and you loved her, that wasn’t enough.
“Greetings, passengers, we’re just about to touch down in Atlanta, Georgia. If you could please buckle your seatbelts and turn off all electronic devices that would be just lovely. Welcome and enjoy your stay! If you’re coming home, welcome back!”
You rub your eyes and look around. On the flight you ended up in the middle of a fat balding man who snored and a small mousy woman in a skirt suit who had stepped on your toes with her stiletto heels as she made her way to the bathroom. Twice. Both times you asked yourself who would wear stiletto heels on a plane? To be fair, you had been staring out the window at the sky thinking about how it was almost the same color as your love’s eyes. Not quite. That’s what you get for booking your flight last minute. You’re not sure if you’re glad you decided to go. Maybe you should have stayed home. It’s too late to reconsider now; it’s time to get off the plane.
⋯
Your car pulls up to the funeral. It is at a church, and you can’t remember the last time you went to a church. You never went to one like this. You can see the tall stained glass windows already, and the smooth stone foundation has weathered with age. After thanking your driver, an old woman who gently interrogated you about where you were going as she drove too slow on the highway, you step out in your knee length black dress and most conservative black heels. You also wear a cheap black cardigan you bought yesterday after your plane landed because you realized that maybe your dress wasn’t conservative enough. It’s made of a cheap synthetic fabric blend that makes you feel itchy. The necklace She gave you for your third anniversary glints in the Georgia sun. You place your hand over the teardrop shaped stone and close your eyes. It is going to be a long day.
You walk inside, wrapping your cardigan around yourself as it lacks front closure, and realize you never anticipated to see your love staring back at you from behind all these unfamiliar faces. Her piercing blue eyes glare at you from all sides. Her slender nose wrinkles at you as you walk by. Her slim lips are downturned in your direction. You decide to try and ignore them for the time being and look around, taking in the grandeur of the church. The summer sun streams in through the stained glass windows, but it brings no warmth to the interior of the church. The rows of pews are full of blonde people with blue eyes dressed in black sitting and waiting. You’re not sure what they’re waiting for until the priest ascends the steps to the altar, surveying the scene before him. You have never seen so many crucifixes. You have never been under a ceiling so tall. You feel small.
“Beth, please, have a seat.” A woman you believe to be your love’s mother says to you as you stand there, dumbfounded. You didn’t realize you were still standing until she spoke. You slide into the nearest pew. The blonde haired blue eyed man sitting closest to the end scoots away from you slightly. You don’t pay much attention to the service until they start talking about Her. Their memories, how they met, what they’ll miss.
“She was always the sweetest girl. So kind, so gentle, so loving. But God must have a reason for taking her from us, right?” You bite back tears. No one looks at you. You look down into your lap.
“I remember, we met in middle school and I was sitting alone but she came over to sit with me. No one but her came over to sit with me. We’ve been friends ever since. Well, we were friends. She’s gone to a better place.” You can’t see how there could be a better place than here with you.
“She was the maid of honor at my wedding. She helped me plan it even when I turned into an absolute bridezilla. She was so patient with me.” You shift uncomfortably in the pew. Wedding. You look down into your lap and pick at your cardigan which has already begun to fray.
“She was always so beautiful, dare I say she was the most beautiful of my daughters. But that beauty was not just an outer beauty. She had an inner beauty, as well. I believe her kind soul made her the beautiful woman that she was.” You knew how beautiful She was more than anybody. Even right when She woke up in the morning. The bed head and bleary eyes and croaky voice only made Her more beautiful to you.
“She was such a fun loving girl. She would try anything, go anywhere, talk to anybody. She just… she just couldn’t swim, I guess,” And that was when everyone decided to turn around and look at you. And those piercing blue eyes, they brought back memories of the perfect blue water, and you realize you can no longer remember the exact perfect blue color of Her eyes. That specific blue. You can feel it slipping away from your memory. Your breathing speeds up and soon you find yourself out of breath and then all the sudden you’re running. The tears are flying off your face almost as fast as you can cry them. Through the door and down the steps you run and you run.
It’s your fault.
Your fault.
You sit down on the curb, take off your cardigan, and throw it down next to you because it’s itchy and it’s 80 degrees outside and you let yourself cry. You let the tears that you had been holding back for what felt like hours fall and drop onto your lap. You touch your teardrop pendant. Then you hear the church door open and you wonder who it could be. You turn around, ready to get up and walk away or yell or whatever it is you have to do. One of Her cousins is standing at the top of the steps. She seems familiar. You must have seen her before.
“I’m sorry my family hates you,” she proclaims, her long sleeved black dress, which was pulled down over her hands, blows in the wind. Her blonde hair is stuck to her tear stained face. “I don’t hate you,” she continues, walking down the steps to sit next to you. She unsticks the hair from her face and tucks it behind her ears and then slides her shoes off and encourages you to do the same. You do, gladly. “I know she loved you, and that’s good enough for me. What was she like when she was with you? Tell me your favorite memory of her,” She moves to put her arm around you, and you flinch away. She places her hands in her lap. You pick up your head to look at this girl. Your brown eyes meet her blue ones and in her eyes you find you can remember Hers. They share exactly the same shade of perfect blue. You quickly look away before she notices you staring.
“What is your name?” You ask, after you realize you don’t know.
“I’m Amy,” She replies, “Don’t worry, we’ve never met, but she told me all about you. She showed me pictures. She told me when you two were having trouble. She confided in me because no one else would listen,” No one else would listen. You had never thought about her family from her perspective. You had never thought about how much it must have hurt her. Your family had, at least, been welcoming to her but it must not have been the same. You had always thought that maybe someday your two families would come together and accept the two of you, together, but there was no chance for that now.
“It’s my fault she’s dead. She said she couldn’t swim and I jus-”
“Shhh,” The girl says, “Remember? Grandfather said she would do anything,” You remember. You sit and think for a moment, and Amy sits there beside you. You turn to her a couple times, trying to find the words for what you feel right now in this moment.
“Then why wouldn’t she live for me?” You say, tears clouding your eyes, yet again. She hands you a tissue and you dab at your face, trying to save the last of your makeup.
Amy notices and surveys your face for noticeable flaws. “You look fine. It’s a funeral. No one looks good. We’re all crying. Come on, let’s go back inside,” she says, wiping her own face. You didn’t even notice the tears that fell down her cheeks as you spoke about Her.
“How can I? I’ve made a fool of myself. And besides, they only see me as the one who took their precious, beautiful daughter away from them, and then let her die,”
“You didn’t take her. She made her own decisions. She would want you to be here. If she would want anyone to be here, it would be you.” The two of you sit for a while, listening to the sounds of the noontime bustle. The sounds of thousands of lives going on, unaware of the life that had just recently ended. But how can you continue without Her? How can you even look up into those eyes that are the same as Hers. The same round, blue eyes framed by long pale lashes. The perfect blue. They crinkle in the same way hers did. The eyebrows knit together in the same way. You almost can’t look, but you force yourself to and she says, “You have to keep living for her. Don’t stop caring, don’t stop trying. Keep going.”
“Why?”