In the Middle of the Water
The water is quiet. Only the gurgle of turtles coming to the surface break up the of screeching hum of cicadas. I paddle us out further to the middle of the pond where the muck can’t reach the sides of the boat anymore. I have never liked the smell of the muck. But I like the way it clings to the paddle and the way the water still ripples underneath like it doesn’t even notice that it’s there. I can feel the sun on my face, it feels like it’s soaking into my skin. I close my eyes.
“My shoulders are burning. This isn’t fun when we don’t bring the speaker.” Maggie’s voice cuts through the sun and I open my eyes. The clouds are thin and wispy. I don’t know where the birds are hiding.
“Did you put sunscreen on?”
“No.”
“Well, there you go.” I make a show of pursing my lips even though she’s sitting behind me. The cicadas chime in with me, a little bit louder than usual. “I think I’m gonna do it. I talked to mom about it. She said it would bother her more if I stayed.”
“But I want you to stay. Our kids were gonna grow up together.” She rocks the canoe, and the water ripples out in a big oval. It dies before it reaches the muck. Her voice is whiny.
“I don’t want kids.” I speak with too much of a bite. I think back to when we were little and she pushed me from the bunk bed ladder onto her Barbie doll and snapped the rubbery plastic hand. No more fingers for Barbie. She told on me, and I had no technology for a week. “I don’t think motherhood would suit me.”
“Probably not. They’d be like little soldiers.”
“Yeah probably.” I dip my hand into the water, picturing a deep-sea creature rising to the surface in a fantastic show, swallowing my sister whole. I would pet the creature after. I don’t know who would help me pick out my outfit for the funeral.
“I don’t think mom wanted kids.” She dips her hand in the water, swirling her fingers in a way that annoys me. Too much noise. “And people shouldn’t have kids if they’re only doing it to try and make up for what their parents did wrong.”
I think of telling her that it feels unfair to talk this way about our mom who always had dinner on the table and new books to read before bed. My sister thinks our mom is a narcissist. “I don’t know, I feel like she loves being a mom.”
“I’m not saying she doesn’t like it, it’s just why she did it that I have a problem with.”
“Why would you do it?”
“Because I need someone to obsess over if you’re gone.”
“Fair enough.” I watch a spider crawl over the lip of the boat, towards my legs. They’re looking rosy. I forgot sunscreen. The spider has a white sack hanging from the end of its body. I imagine the miniature spiders that would tear away from their mother if I popped the sack. Just a tiny little slit would do it. I don’t actually know anything about spiders, that’s just how it would go down in my head. I think about telling Maggie about the thing inching toward her, but her head is turned, and it didn’t find me interesting enough to stay in my part of the boat. Without the warning she will panic, and I will laugh at the dinner table when I tell our parents how it happened.
Reece Ludwig lives in Columbus and holds a degree in English and Creative writing from The Ohio State University where she received the R.L. Stine Creative Writing Award. Her work is featured in Sink Hollow Magazine and Deal Jam Magazine.