Anchor

One summer, long ago, I drowned. It was summer and my parents took me to the local pool for some fun. I was only seven at the time, just a little less than four feet in height. Standing under the scalding summer sun, I desperately wanted to jump into the cool, crystal clear water but my parents said no. They said since I didn’t take the swim class at school, I should stick to the shallow end. I didn’t want to stick to the shallow water. I wanted to be with the big kids playing in the deep end. Being the ever so confident child, I thought since I’ve seen and read about swimming I could pick it up easily. It turned out that my parents were right and I was wrong.

I drowned.

I don’t remember much during or after drowning, probably due to the lack of oxygen, but I remember seeing past memories as the chlorinated water burdened my small lungs.
It feels like I’m in that moment again. Instead it being a summer at the pool, it was snowing in the middle of winter; instead of memories of parents and books, it was moments between Caleb and I. I guess you could say, I was drowning all over again.

Still clutching Caleb’s ragged jacket, I rolled onto my stomach and buried my face into my pillows. My cheeks were stained with tears from tonights, or shall I say yesterday’s visit from Caleb.

“I did it because I love you.”

He said some awfully big things and I couldn’t digest it.

“He loves me. Caleb loves me,” I whispered. Just whispering those words raised my nerves.
From the birds chirping outside and the sounds of kitchen clatter downstairs, I could tell, despite being under my covers, it was morning. I can’t stay like this the entire day.

I removed my head from under the pillow and sat up on my bed. The mirror across from me reflected back a worn girl with disheveled clothes, statically hair, and red, veined eyes, exponentially worse compared to my normal morning appearance. Mess was just an understatement. I looked at the mirror in disgust. Reaching over to my bedside table, I picked up a comb and ran it through my hair. I pulled up my bra strap, adjusted my sweater, and pulled up my pajama bottoms. I looked into the mirror again. My current reflection wasn’t presentable but I was much more composed.

Caleb’s jacket sat right next to me, splayed out on my pillow. I gently took it into my hands and carefully folded it, placing it at the foot of my bed.

The navy blue jacket was large. It looked as if it were his dad’s at once. I mean, it’s definitely
old. The hem was fraying at the sleeves and some patches of blue were faded. The most important detail was that it smelled like sugar and flour. It smelled just like Caleb.
Why do I feel like this? I remember when he said he loved me I was full of hot rage. I was ready to slap him there and then. But there was this little speck in me, a little monster in me that cheered elation when those words formed on his lips.

I am a scientist. On paper, the most rational reaction is to hate Caleb. He slept with another woman the day I left for college. He was the reason I couldn’t come home for six years. He was the reason I haven’t had any romantic relationships lasting more than a weather season. But I don’t hate him. It feels like all reason has jumped out the window.

I needed a semblance of my life, the life where I’m mature and clear thinking. I reached over to my old wooden desk and picked up my phone. There was only one person I could talk about this to.

“Sarita?”

“Hey Lilly! How’s the holiday with the parents so far?” Sarita was my roommate of three years and fellow graduate student, albeit her specialty being psychology.

I sighed, “Horrible, not due to my parents though.”

“Let me guess,” Sarita paused. “…is it a boy?”

I nodded softly.

As if she were in the same room and saw me nod, Sarita continued. “Okay, tell me the story and then Almost Dr. Sarita Onday will give you some great advice.”

So I told her the whole story; from that summer six years ago all the way to last night’s walk. Some of the moments I told Sarita about I haven’t thought about in years. There were sometimes when I would get stuck on one part of the story like the first time we met, the first time he held me, or the first time we slept with each other. Those parts were especially hard to recant.

“So, this Caleb said he loved you?”

“Yeah.”

“And how long have you been dwelling on this?” Sarita asked.

I looked at the clock. It was one in the afternoon. “Eleven hours,” I said, warily.

“That’s more time I spent studying for my quals!”

I fell back on my bed. “Yeah, I know.”

“Well, it’s obvious you still have feelings for the guy, whether they are romantic or not, only you can tell. But may I remind you, anything worth having is difficult to get. You have to work hard at it and you may get hurt in the process but the result is worth it.”

I laid there silent, taking in every single word.

“Nothing worthwhile is ever easy,” I muttered.

“Yes. I hope you take those words to heart. I’m sorry, Lilly. I have to go now. I’m almost out of
minutes and it’s only the beginning of the billing cycle.”

I nodded, “Thanks Sarita. I’ll see you in January.”

“Bye, I hope you get this thing sorted out,” Sarita said before hanging up. I shut my phone and placed it back on my desk.

I looked out my window. There was nothing but white snow. I took in a deep breath and remembered the words Sarita told me.

Nothing worthwhile is ever easy.