Macy Delasco

Macy Delasco

Deep

By all accounts, he was a normal guy. He was painfully quiet these days, but given what had happened, it was understandable. Every day, he went to work and came home, went grocery shopping every Saturday, visited with friends once in a while, and that was about it.

He had one quirk to him that was rather unusual but by no means punishable. He would sit at the edge of the dock on the lake behind his home every evening. When the sun would be setting gold and the breeze was pulling the leaves of the trees ever so gently, he was there. When the days were short and the rain was beating down with the wrath of an angry god, he was there. His feet were in the water, and his head was tilted downward.

At the same time of every day, he would see them. They were two small, pale faces coming up from the murky water, never coming close enough to the surface to be touched, but just far enough to be visible. Far beneath the water, they appear as though they glow. He sees one is a woman, with fine, red hair that dances around her in the water, every so often gliding across her staring face. The other, a child. A look of longing rests on his chubby face as he clings to her. They say nothing, and he says nothing, and after a few moments, they sink back down out of his view. This is the worst part. He sighs, stays a moment more, then reluctantly pulls his feet from the water and makes the lonely short walk back to his home.

“Someday,” he’d say to himself. “But not yet.”

Every day for seven years he would do this, the same ritual, unchanging. On days he would miss the visit, he would be unable to sleep the night, racked with guilt. He would think of the last time he spoke to them, his wife and child, years ago, over and over and over. “Be safe, a storm is supposed to be rolling in in the evening. Take life jackets.” They had only just moved here. They didn’t understand just yet the power a raging storm can have on a wide lake and a tiny wooden canoe. They were just so excited to live on the water and enjoy their new life. His wife smiled and jokingly rolled her eyes. “All right, all right, we’ll take some.”

For whatever reason, she didn’t, and the storm arrived earlier than it was forecasted. Their boat was tipped and the mother and son did not make it. It was a couple of days before they were found. At least, people would whisper, they died together. This wasn’t much condolence to the man who was now left behind.

His days that followed were full of solitude and replaying old, cold memories as though they were on tape. Each night he watched his own wedding through his mind’s eye, the birth of his son, the way she broke her heel on their

first date, and how excited she was to show him her newly dyed hair. Each morning he would remember his son across the table, his mouth full of cheerios with a spoon gripped tightly in his left hand. His life now felt like a rewind, his scrambling mind never allowing him to take another step forward without them.

His only respite was seeing their faces at the dock, and so he sat there every evening. He told himself he needed to see them as not to forget what they looked like. One year melted into the other, but he never really noticed. All that existed was the desire to see them and have them be a part of him once more.

Finally, on the first day of the eighth year of visiting the dock, he decided it had been long enough. He walked to the dock, sat at the end, and waited. His heart beat a little faster this time, though he kept his composure.

They came as they always do, silently beckoning him to come to them, their young innocent eyes telling him he is missed. With his clothes and shoes on he slipped off the end of the dock and into the freezing cold water.

At first, he felt nothing but cold as he waited patiently to sink. Then, a hand. And another. He opened his eyes, but through the murk and fog, he could barely see more than he could above. But he knew. He touched the soft, round faces of his wife and child for the first time since the day they drowned, and together they went further and further into the depths. The cold had never felt so warm and inviting. For the first time in eight years, his shoulders relaxed as the tension and guilt seeped away. Every poisonous thought of how cruel the world was slipped from his mind, being replaced by memories of love and light.

“I love you,” he said, his last words. They came out as three oblong bubbles rising up to the light of the surface. The silence following echoed the only peace his mind had had in years. He slipped down into the dark depths without a single doubt or concern, just thankful to finally have a conclusion to his pain.

He was found the next day, bobbing up and down in the gentle waters like an apple. His corpse had a melancholy smile and small red lines across his hands. He looked at peace. Locals shook their heads slowly in sadness when it hit the news. “It’s too bad he died alone, ” they would say. By all accounts, he had seemed like a normal guy. Painfully quiet, understandably, but normal nonetheless.

This lake is known locally for its freshwater jellyfish. They are small, pale creatures that come up from the murky water, never coming close enough to the surface to be touched, but just far enough to be visible. Far beneath the water, they can appear as though they glow.