Subaquatic - Chapter 2

Iris

I sit on my windowsill thinking of everything that has happened and changed in the past two years. Every phase I went through and every friend I had. The beginning of seventh grade, my third year of middle school, I discovered punk music. This became my whole living and breathing passion. I made myself the victim of any situation I could find to try and find meaning in these songs of sadness and misfit-dom that I so clung to. Little did I know that in later months I didn’t need to make myself a victim to anything else but myself in order to feel the real meanings in the songs. The year was cluttered with bad eyeliner and way too short haircuts. I was terribly insecure and I think people could tell by the way I tried to act like I knew what I was doing and I was doing confidently.

Sam and I became close last year for the first time in years past. We grew up together. His mother was my preschool teacher, we went to the same church, we were in the same classes at school, and yet we never spoke. In the third grade, both his and my mom were diagnosed with breast cancer at the same time. That is the only time I can remember we had a bonding conversation. I played the scene out in my head.

“So your mom has it too?” I pondered to the silent boy sitting next to me on the playground bench.

“Yeah. I guess,” he replied quietly.

I looked up at the abandoned swing sets and chipped paint on the building behind us, the sun forcing it’s way into my eyes. Playgrounds were dreary after school hours. No creaking of the equipment. No squealing of excited children. Nothing.

“When is she getting her surgery?” he softly asked of me. I looked at him through my chocolate strands of hair and looked as his soft golden locks.

“Next week, I think.”

“Are you nervous?”

“Are you breathing?” I grinned at him.

“Yes.”

Even as a child, I hid behind my jokes. I hated situations that made myself or another uncomfortable in any way. Even there as a two ten year olds trying to support each other, I felt the need to crack a joke about breathing while both our mothers were on the verge of losing that privilege.

I fall back into reality when I hear my father’s voice from down the hallway. He does not speak loudly, in fact he speaks with a deep and soft voice, but I can always hear the low murmur from anywhere in the house. Nimbly, I replace the screen on on window and climb into my bed to pretend I am sleeping. This is a skill I have mastered after years of carefully avoiding situations that cause me discomfort. Pretend you are sleeping. Pretend you can’t hear them. Pretend you are sick. Pretend you are busy. Pretend. Pretend. Pretend.

My bedroom door creaks open and I see the silhouette of my father’s head peer into the dark room

“Iris?” he whispered.

I don’t answer and wait patiently for him to close the door. He does not. I hear his heavy footsteps as they approach my bed and I feel his presence hanging over me as he bends down and kisses my forehead. His stubbly chin feels rough on my pearly skin.

“Calm down.” he breathes.

He runs his heavy hand on my hair and my cheek and then exits the room. I know exactly what he means. That’s the thing, dad, I can’t calm down. No matter how hard I try.