Into This River I Drown

“I see him in you,” she said, her voice atremble. “God, those eyes….”

I didn’t stop myself then as I gathered her up in my arms, this tiny woman who was a shell of her former self. She was stiff against me, startled at my brazenness. It was awkward at first, but then I felt pieces of her that had come loose start to break away, and she collapsed against me and shook, clutching at my back with her hands. Pulling, clawing.

I held her, for a time.

I pulled up in front of Little House, switching off the truck. I sat there, staring

up at the house, for an unknown length of time, willing myself to go in, telling myself that enough time had passed, that Big Eddie would no longer be a part of Little House, that he’d no longer be infused into every corner, every nook and cranny of the house he’d built. I told myself that I’d moved on. Those three months in Eugene where I’d let myself go, where I’d drank to the point of blacking out as much as my body could stand it, where I’d wandered rather than attending class.

I didn’t have the heart to tell my mother that I’d already been flunking out of the U of O, even only after three months. I couldn’t tell her about the rathole of an apartment I’d moved into off campus. I wouldn’t tell her about the nameless men that I’d brought to my bed almost nightly, more for the touch of something human than the sex. I wouldn’t tell her how feeling skin against mine was the only way I maintained my sanity—the soft trail of a tongue at the base my spine, a quickened breath in my ear as someone thrust above me.

I couldn’t tell her how I had obsessed over the accident. I couldn’t tell her that I’d called Shirley who worked as dispatch for the sheriff’s department. She and I had gone to school together, and she was sympathetic. I’d gotten a copy of the police report on my own, its contents telling me nothing more than I already knew. Shirley was able to get me scene photographs, showing my father’s truck upside down in the river at mile marker seventy-seven, showing his tire marks on the road and gravel, the scarred boulder down at the river’s edge that had struck the left front tire of the truck, breaking the axle and causing the truck to flip. It also showed a second set of tire tracks on the road, but noted no other debris was found. The river would have washed away any paint transfer as the truck stayed upside down underwater, the tail end sticking in the air at an angle.

I read my own statement that had been provided, and my mother’s, both of us saying Big Eddie had no enemies, that everyone worshipped the ground the man had walked on. I don’t remember speaking with the police, but I could see the anger in my words, could feel the heartbreak I’d felt, the denial.

But it was the coroner’s report I was most interested in. The coroner’s report that showed my father had suffered a broken clavicle from the impact and broken ribs, one of which had punctured his right lung. He had a splenic abrasion, a tencentimeter laceration on his right forearm. Another, smaller laceration on his forehead. A broken bone in his left ankle. None of which were life-threatening. No drugs or alcohol were found in my father’s system. His heart, the coroner said, was slightly enlarged, but otherwise he was a healthy forty-seven-year-old man when he died.

Cause of death: asphyxia due to suffocation caused by water entering the lungs and preventing the absorption of oxygen to cerebral hypoxia.

Which is a fancy way of saying that my father was alive when his truck came to rest upside down in the Umpqua. We were told that most likely he was unconscious as the water levels began to rise in the cab of the truck. It would have been fast, they said. He wouldn’t have felt a thing, they said. That the accident didn’t k

ill him, but that the river had. My father had drowned.

The longer I looked, the more I was sure my father was awake when the cold water filled his nose and mouth. His lungs. This thought became an obsession.

The police investigation had concluded it was a single-vehicle accident. There was no evidence of another vehicle involved. The black skid marks on the roadway had been partially washed away by rain that had begun to fall shortly after the accident would have occurred. Given the amount of water in my father’s lungs, the coroner thought he’d been in the water anywhere from four to six hours before he’d been discovered by a motorist who just happened to look down at the river as he passed by.

Possibly he’d fallen asleep, they’d said. After all, he’d gotten up at four that morning to head up to Portland to meet up with some friends.

Possibly he’d gotten distracted, they said.

Possibly he’d swerved to avoid a deer.

Possibly it was weather-related, given how great the storm was that day. Everyone was surprised it hadn’t flooded. They were sure it would. The town’s contingency plan had been put on notice. Sandbags were made ready. The Shriner’s Grange had been made available in case people needed to escape the rising waters. None of that had happened, of course. The river did not flood anyone or anything. Except my father.

So many possibilities, they said. We may never know, they said. But it didn’t appear to be foul play, they said. There was no evidence to suggest that. Everyone loved Big Eddie.

I didn’t tell my mother I thought that was a lie.

I gripped the steering wheel and stared up at Little House.

He’s gone, I told myself. He’s gone. He’s not here anymore. There’s no reason for him to be here anymore. He’s gone.

I opened the door, grabbing my bag off the seat next to me. I closed the door to the Ford and clutched the silver key in my hand as I forced one foot in front of the other. I ignored the way my hand shook as I slid the key into the lock. And for the first time since Big Eddie had died, I opened the door to Little House and stepped inside.

I didn’t know I was holding my breath until I realized I wasn’t breathing. I let it out slowly and reached over to flick the light switch. The lights flashed on overhead. The entryway lit up in front of me. Living room off to my left. Kitchen, off to my right. Hallway ahead led to bedrooms. I waited. I listened.

Nothing except the normal settling of Little House.

It hurt to be in there, yes. It hurt because I could look at the walls and tell you the exact day they’d gone up. It hurt because I could look up and see the exposed beams overhead and tell you how I’d held the ladder for him while he hammered away. I could tell you about everything having to do with Little House, the house my father built.

My heart thundered in my chest.

I hung the key on a key rack. I closed the door behind me. I set my bag down. I took a step forward.

And a hand that wasn’t there touched my shoulder.

I closed my eyes as I trembled. No, I thought. He’s gone. He’s not real. This isn’t real. Big Eddie died and this is my house now. Little House is mine, and oh my God, someone is breathing on me—