Wanderer

Poppy

When I was five I followed my mother down to the river. It was early in the morning – before the sun had woken and I remember regretting my decision to not throw on a coat of some sort, it was always cool on those winter mornings and that particularly morning there had been a light spattering of frost on the ground. I didn't understand why she decided to go to the river, I tried to call out but she didn't turn. My last memory of my mother, before her death, was her long red curls bouncing off her shoulder and her silver-white silk nightgown blowing in the gentle breeze as she waded into the water until she was completely submerged.

At the time I had no knowledge of death or drowning or suicide. I called out to my mother again as those same bouncy red curls were now floating motionless in the water, when she didn't move I called again and screamed, I kept screaming but I knew nobody heard me, we had woken before my father had. I waded gently into the water, my pink cotton pyjamas suddenly gaining weight as the gritty dirt squished between my toes. The water was still and I walked a little further until I could feel the water on the sensitive skin behind my knees and my mother was maybe only a metre or two ahead of me – almost close enough to reach – I waded in a little further, all the while screaming and begging for her to respond. I only have vague memory of what happened next as it was too fast to realise what was happening but my once steady feet slipped along the slimy mud and I fell into the water next to my mother. I started kicking frantically, spluttering for air as my mother remained motionless, I struggled to keep my head above the water as I could hear someone – my father – shouting in the distance. I kept kicking and screaming and I could feel the dirty river water escape past my lips and in my panicked state I used my mother's body to push myself up towards the surface, pushing her further down in the process, she saved my life that day and sometimes I would wonder if in the process, I took hers.

It's been nearly thirteen years since she took her life. My father is still stuck in the same trance that he was in when he pulled her body from the water and I just follow his lead – I go where he goes. As of late it has brought us to yet another new town, much smaller than the last. Having moved to progressively smaller towns over the last thirteen years I had made it a point to not meet people and live the same reclusive lifestyle as my father. We would eventually fade away to become living ghosts and even though I was now nearly eighteen and had barely enough in my savings to plant myself somewhere, I couldn't bring myself to leave my father, not now at least.

I was sweeping the front patio when I heard the distinctive rattle of a bike chain as a figure approached from the distance. I hadn't met any of the neighbours yet, it had only been a few days since we'd moved. I quickly tucked my sweaty and slimy hair behind my ears and waved at the figure, I could see his head move and his eyes locked with mine briefly except it was more of a glare than a fleeting glance as he sped past the mouldy fence of our front yard. I was somewhat disappointed that he didn't introduce himself, I suppose in some of the small towns I'd lived in I'd become accustomed to people being overtly friendly. I was partially relieved though, I wouldn't have to try to be friendly and maybe I really could just hide away in this town.

I heard my dad shout as a loud crashing sound echoed through the empty rooms and I felt the corners of my lips turn upward in a slight smile.

"Poppy, mind giving your ol' man a bit of a hand here', He yelled from the second floor, his voice straining.

"I'll be right up dad", I yelled back as I dropped the broom on the still dusty porch and walked inside, the wind banging the door shut behind me.