The Well

11

Austin was knocking at my door, rapping with all his might. 

"Wake up!" he shouted. "Are you up? Cam, are you up?"

"Just a second," I murmured.

"Cam, are you up?"

"One second!"

As if I had slept. I had spent the night sitting in the rocking chair on the porch, watching the horizon, moving to a constant, frenetic beat. A haze of tiredness tried to take hold, but my constant motion easily kept it at bay. As colour started to rise over the bend in the road, I stood up and headed to bed, hoping for an hour or two of sleep. I lay down on my back and closed my eyes, but no sleep came. The rocking continued within me; I was disjointed, off-balance. My  heartbeat leaped in uneven spurts. It thrummed throughout me, dismissing any thoughts of sleep, as the cooking-hot hours blurred into each other like clouds of choking steam. 

I saw and resaw and resaw and resaw Austin's impossible smile.

Too soon, too late, it was morning.

"I'm coming," I called out to Austin.

I sat up from bed, rubbing at my eyes. The haze of tiredness remained in place, blurring my vision as I stood up and opened the door. Something about the unruly layers of curls atop Austin's head prompted me to bury my hand within them; I couldn't help it. He squirmed one step back, just out of reach.

"What is it, Auz?"

"We're going to the well today, aren't we?"

"That we are. We don't have to go first thing in the morning, though. We could play some games first, if you want. Maybe not hide-and-seek, but what do you think about—"

He shook his head. "Mom said you needed to wake up."

I thought of the period I had spent caught in the steam. "What time is it?"

"Quarter after ten," Austin answered. 

I couldn't think of anything to say at first, couldn't think of anything to do but reach out and yank my blackout curtains out of the way. I looked at the sky as if it might dispute Austin's statement somehow, but it was clear, blue--mocking. The clouds were jeering faces. 

I rubbed at my eyes again. It seemed I had fallen asleep for a little bit after all.

Hours. I'd wasted hours.

Austin was still waiting for me to answer. A frown formed in-between his eyes.

"I grabbed the bucket already," he said. And he was swinging it back and forth in the doorway. "I want to carry it on the way back."

Austin, Mother and I took the three last sipfuls of water together. I went first. Austin moved to take his share next, but Mother insisted he go last. Her eyes roamed over his face as he lifted the almost-empty bucket up to his face. There were more gulps left than he expected. He sipped his share, then tilted the bucket back to her. She dismissed his offer with her hand, insisting that he finish it. "You have a long, hot walk to the well coming up," she said. I watched his face, absorbing him in, noting how his initial confusion ceded to relief, then pleasure, as he drank.

"How was that?" Mother asked Austin.

"It was nice," he said.

Refreshing. More than refreshing. I had needed my mouthful, had craved it. I had thought of it in the long minutes and hours before—a taste that was slightly metallic, but still lighter on my tongue than the hot air. I had only ever forgotten that constant feeling—and even then, only temporarily—when I had drowned in the loss of Austin.