Under Water

Last night, lightning exploded the sky and thunder rocked the earth. Our lights went out, blinked on, then out again. The television that we stared at most nights was black. It seemed like that was all we could ever find the energy for anymore, so without it we figured we might as well go to bed. We turned off the flashlight, tried to block out each other snoring, and the dog cowering between us in the blankets. We drowned ourselves in sleep.

I dreamt about the letters that arrived in the mail. The ones that warned us our house was not our house for very long. In my dream, the house, the mailbox, the yard, everything rested at the bottom of a fish tank. All of it was under water. I was swimming to the mailbox, trying to hold my breath long enough to retrieve the mail.

We woke up at dawn, though it was still flashing midnight, midnight, midnight on the clock. The air smelled aquatic. Our house was by a lake, and when it rained the scent of fish was so harsh it was like were living inside one.

“The power is back,” said Tara. “That was some storm.”

“It scared the shit out of the dog.”

“She always hides from thunder.”

“No,” I said, looking at the pile on the rug. “I meant it literally.”

“Sadie!” Tara said. She went to the bathroom to grab some tissues to clean it.

The dog ran out of the room in shame, then ran back in a minute later soaking wet and jumped in the bed.

“Oh no,” I said.

“The bed!” Tara said.

“The basement,” I said. “I need to check the basement.”

I spent the morning in filthy water three inches deep. Sucking it up in a shop vacuum and dumping it down to let the sump push it outside. It took all morning and even after I was done I felt like the filmy water was still on my skin.

“I need a shower, but I don’t want to see water for a week,” I said.

“Take a shower,” said Tara.

“The day is ruined.”

“Ben, take a shower. Please,” she said. She was walking around the kitchen in just a t-shirt looking for particular pots and pans. “I’ll make breakfast.”

The prospect of bacon can get me to do anything, so I showered. She came in the bathroom while I was rinsing my hair.

“I burnt my thumb,” she said. She opened drawers and cabinets, then slammed them shut.

I turned off the shower and grabbed a towel to put around my waist. “There’s no band-aids,” I said. “Run cold water on it.”

She did and watched me stepping out of the shower, holding a tower, and dripping water on the tiles. I watched her leaning over the vanity, running a tap over the blister already forming on her thumb which she held there as if she was hitching a ride.

“What are you smiling at?” she asked.

“Was I?” I said. “You look like the Fonze,” I said, giving her a thumbs up right back.

“It’s not funny,” she said, and laughed because it was funny.

“That shirt is short,” I noted.

“Is it?” she said. “Strange you should notice.”

“Kind of hard not to,” I said. The towel started to feel unnecessary in my hands. I approached her as the doorbell rang. The dog tore down the stairs, barking as if the intrusion had ruined the moment for her too.

“Don’t move,” I said.

It was the first time in a long time I felt like we weren’t going to spend the rest of our lives trying not to drown. That when we’d come up for air, we’d look around and find the power was on again, and in the light we would see each other like we used to again.

I could see from the stairs there was a heavy-set man I didn’t know standing on the front porch. Immediately, I realized there was no good reason for him to be here. Just like that, the tide was crashing down again, and my body felt too tired to fight against the current.