My ears can't take the silence anymore as I sit knee to my chest at the far end of my father's boat. It creeps in and sits with me like an unwelcome friend. I have come to expect its company more often over the last few days. But today, I don't appreciate the blanket of silence that wraps me in.
It is the sweet spot of the day. The time of visible change between night and morning. The sky is the color of wine and the air is crisp as autumn leaves. The calm lake beneath me rocks the boat like a baby being put to sleep - slow and steady. Unlike a baby, I am unable to relax. Rather it feels as though the further I go away from the certainty of solid ground, the tighter my chest becomes.
To ease the knot in my chest, I start humming to a song my father and I used to sing. I don't remember the lyrics, but the melody is tattooed on my brain. My voice echoes as its tune fills the air. This song, if I recall the lyrics, will be part of a collection of things my father left me. The most important being his green jacket that I have on and a small box with a scribbled note attached that reads:
Robin, time to see what is on the other side.
Last night, I finally gathered up enough courage to go into the basement after weeks of ignoring the calling door. His remaining clothes had already been folded and kept in a box with his name written in black permanent marker. I opened it and took out the first item on top, his favorite emerald green bomber jacket. It smelled like old wood, just like him. Underneath the jacket was the note and a small box the size of three fingers in length and two in width.
The box and I have been on the boat for almost an hour judging by the orange sky. At this rate, I would not get to my destination before noon. I have been moving my arms as fast as I can, paddling in constant motion, just like my father taught me. One, two, three, and pause, then repeat on the other side.
I remember the title of the song now. It Must Be Lovely on The Other Side. It was the only thing that could get me to sleep after we moved from the city. I was eight then and I begged for the bigger room with the wider windows, but I didn't think I would have to face the demons of my imagination. The night was dark with no moon in sight and when I went to bed, the lake was all I saw through those wide windows. It hovered over me like a giant monster with eight long legs, spikey teeth, and daunting yellow eyes. Even after turning away, I could still feel it watching me. It took me some time to appreciate the scenic view of the lake and the sunrise I had every morning but on that first night, it didn't seem like I had won the lottery on the best views.
My father knocked to say goodnight. I didn't respond but pulled the blanket further over my head. Worried, he came in and sat beside me.
"Are you finding it hard to sleep?" he asked, his voice soothing as a hug.
"The water is watching me, Dad. There are scary things out there." I said, the blanket till over my head.
"But what if there are nice things out there? Think about that."
"Things like what?"
"Whatever you want, my little girl."
"Flying fish? Mermaids?" I popped my head out of the blanket.
"That's possible."
"So anything I want?"
"Anything you want." He took my face in his palm and kissed my forehead.
"It must be lovely on the other side." I smiled with the new knowledge that my imagination could create wonderful pictures and not only frightening thoughts. Together, we came up with beautiful and calming descriptions of what the other side might look like. We sewed them into a song which he sang to me until I fell asleep.
Right now, I'm at war with my memory trying to remember the words to the song but nothing has come up yet. The words are floating around in my mind, but I can't quite reach them.
I pick up the box, with hope that maybe the contents might strike a memory. I twist it, hit it, even smash it on the side of the boat. It doesn't budge. There are no visible openings. If there was any doubt of my father making this box, it's all gone. He loves to make everything a puzzle. I can see his handiwork, from the type of wood he chose to his signature mark of a star engraved on it. I imagine he spent hours making it just like he spent days locked up in the garage building the boat.
The day he finished working on Carrie - that is what we named the boat - we put on our summer hats and took her into the water without wasting a second. We stayed on the lake talking for hours only realizing that time moved once the sun had set. We hoped to catch some fish too. I don't think there is any fish in the lake because we never caught anything remotely alive. Then again neither of us knew anything about fishing but we pretended we did whenever anyone asked.
A sad realization is that I have very little strength to keep Carrie going all by myself. There have been days when my unwelcome friend visits me and I start to think of all the things I must have missed. Of his teachings I unconsciously blocked out of my memory and all the parts of him that would fade away slowly as time went by. I never imagined that there would be a day when we wouldn't be together on Carrie. But good things have to end as they say.
It began with the silent breakfasts and the quick dinners and then he was sleeping in the basement after a while, he wasn't sleeping at home at all.
"You promised to stay!" I yelled at him when he told me he was leaving.
"Robin, listen," He said calmly, which made me even angrier.
"I've been ignoring the awkwardness between you and mom. I thought it was all in my head. But now you're leaving?"
"Please listen,"
"Is listening going to make you stay?" I said barely holding in the tears.
He pulled me in for a hug.
"So this is it?"
"Your mom and I have not been on the same page for a while. But you and I, we have our own thing going on. I promise I will come here every weekend and we can go fishing. I'm not gone forever."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
He kept his promise and visited on weekends and holidays. It became a routine I grew into but never one the twelve-year-old me felt comfortable with. When we talked, he would tell me about his day and I would tell him about my nights knowing he wouldn't be around to witness them. I sometimes wished the sun would pause in the sky so he wouldn't have to leave.
I picked up the habit of drawing whenever we were out on Carrie. At first, I wanted to have one more thing I could share with my father but as time went on and our weekend trips became monthly escapes, I began to crave these moments even though they were just black-and-white sketches of random stuff I saw like a bird perching on a tree or a weird looking cloud. I sometimes sketched him when he wasn't looking. But I never showed him or anyone the finished product. That was my mistake. I wasn't impressed with the drawings myself and I couldn't imagine anyone would think otherwise so I tore them up. I tried again the next time he was around and tore those up too. Eventually, I gave up.
On his fortieth birthday, we stayed on the lake longer than we normally did, this time actually hoping to catch some fish for his birthday dinner. There was nothing as usual. After hours on the water, he packed up his gear and said we should get going. I refused.
"It's getting dark, Robin, we have to go." He said.
"Our baskets are empty, Dad." I argued.
"It's not a big deal, we would just have to eat chicken again today."
"That's not enough. Let's wait for five more minutes."
I could tell he had lost hope for the fish but went along with my demand.
"Why don't you draw anymore?" He asked amidst the quiet.
With my hands and eyes still holding onto the fishing gear, I look at him. "I didn't think I was good enough, so I quit."
"Can I see them?"
"They were trash."
"Nothing you do is trash, alright." He shook his head.
I shrug. "I doubt that but okay."
"Don't say that."
"You say nothing I do is trash but I can't even get you fish for your birthday." I dumped the fishing gear back on board.
He chuckled, "You have to give it time."
"I thought it would be easy. I thought I would be a pro by now but I've been patient for years and I still can't figure out anything."
"Are we still talking about the fish?" he looked at me.
"No," I sighed "Mom wants to do medicine like her."
"And I'm guessing you don't want to."
"I don't know. For a while, I thought drawing might be my thing but is it even worth pursuing if I'm just average? Taking the safer option might be the best option."
"Okay, let's do this, close your eyes"
I did even though I had no idea where this was leading.
"When you close your eyes, what do you see yourself doing on a regular Monday?"
"Honestly?"
"Honestly."
"I want to be a tree."
I opened my eyes to his stunned face.
"Okay, we can make this work." he said trying hard not to laugh.
"You don't have to me feel better. It makes no sense. It's a stupid thought."
"Sometimes things don't have to make sense to work. So tell me why do you want to be a tree?"
"Trees have it easy. They don't have to worry about things like school or chores and not about their parents separating."
"Ah, I see what this is about." he sighed, "Your mom and I couldn't make things work because we didn't have anything in common anymore."
"You have me in common."
He smiles. "It's not that simple."
"A tree doesn't have to worry about all of these things. I wish I were a tree on the other side." I looked
"You're going to be fine, I know it." He pulled me into his arms and we paddled back home.
Somehow I feel his arms around me now. I am halfway across the lake. This is as far as we've ever gotten on Carrie so I have no idea what the other half of the journey would be like. We loved the thrill of knowing we could continue and find all the answers we wanted, but we chose to leave it up to our imagination, to keep the sense of mystery alive. My father loved mystery, which is probably why he made the box difficult to open. I'm more curious to find out what is inside now. Mission accomplished, Dad!
I examine the box for any crack or keyhole however small, but there is none. When I shake it, I hear an object moving inside the hollow space, something tiny like a stone or a gem. I knock it against the wood so hard it almost flips into the water. But on the upside, there is a crack. It's open. My face lights up as I pull apart the sides as if I'm unveiling a hidden treasure. It is a small seed.
I'm frozen in awe. Tears swell up under my eyelids. My determination to reach my destination has now doubled. I place the box on my lap and focus on my rowing. The orange sky is gradually turning grey as the howling winds unwrap the blanket of silence. The winds grow stronger, causing the water to push the boat side to side like a toddler on a swing. I tighten my fingers to the oar but the box topples under my legs. I bend over to look for it and the oar leaves my grasp. In an attempt to chase after it, I dip my arm into the water to fetch it but I am startled by the chill. I watch it sinking deeper into the water. Suddenly, the lake feels twice as large and the boat twice as small.
I search for the box, the only thing right now that gives me hope, and find it at the other end of the boat. Just as I stand up to grab it, a strong gust of wind blows out of nowhere making me lose my balance and I fall into the lake.
Falling is not the problem, it's the landing. The drop from safety to injury only takes seconds but seems like an eternity in between. Once I hit the surface it feels like a pile of brick pillows.
While I'm under, silence visits again. In its arms, it whispers the truth to me: My father is gone for good and not just for the weekend. His oncologist told us he didn't want to be a burden to us. At that time, I didn't know what pain to endure; the pain of him leaving or the pain of him choosing to leave. I didn't have the strength to pick the lesser of the two so ignored both. It had been three weeks since his funeral and I never cried once. Over time, the pain multiplied and transformed themselves into tears. I let them go and reach for the surface calling to me.
I push my head out of the water. It takes all of my energy to move my limbs but I reach for Carrie. I rest my arms on her for a bit before climbing aboard. Every bone in my body is shivering. I didn't have enough hands to wrap myself in. I hum the tune of the song as I rock myself on the boat.
Even after three weeks, the weight of reality still hits like a pile of bricks. When my parents separated, I knew he was going to be there. I knew when I called he would answer. I should have cherished those moments, soaked them in. I now think back to my drawings in all their flaws and wish I had continued. I can tell my mother feels guilty too or at least disappointed she didn't make it work. She has a lot to say but she is holding back, maybe she thinks her sixteen-year-old daughter isn't the right person to handle the grief.
I mount onto the boat even more eager than ever to finish my journey. I use my hands as oars and continue. Although my hair and clothes are dripping with water and my hands are shivering, all my mind can focus on is getting to the other side.
A choir of trees comes into view as the boat approaches. Their leaves looked majestic against the rays of sunlight passing through the clouds. The other side that had frightened and intrigued me for years is here. It is a place with silent whispers of life in the trees and squirrels running around. When the boat reaches land, I step out onto the sand holding the box like a beating heart in my hands. Dum dum dum dum.
I choose a spot close to the water and dig a hole. I placed the seed in the ground. And next to it, I sit watching the grey clouds disappear. I notice there's a piece of paper folded in the box. On it are the lyrics of the song:
"It must be lovely on the other side.
Tree fingers must paint lovely pictures against the blue all day.
The sun stays in the sky a little longer
The ground feels like walking on clouds.
And rain droplets as ornaments on the skin.
I wish I could be but a tree on the other side.
It must be lovely on the other side."
I need a minute to take it all in, still in my father's jacket, I guess I don't want to let go of his presence. I sing to keep my lips from trembling. The memory and thoughts of him flood my mind as the words leave my lips.
I close my eyes and allow the cocktail of sounds in the flapping bird's wings, the rustling of leaves getting reading for autumn, the breeze running through my hair, and the bouncing squirrels. I am in awe of this moment I get to experience, and it somehow feels like he is with me weirdly enough. I let it all in.
The sky is bright blue now. I bury the note safe where I can find it when I come back. I break a branch and use it as a paddle to start my journey back to the other side.