Mary Ann’s Dream

Ashes jerk in the wind, dusting the smoky campfire air around me. Not one trace of the icy blue water, the red-singed cheeks, or the infamous two-stroke boat is left. I swipe at an ember on my sleeve, snuffing out the burning pinprick on my cotton-white t-shirt. It leaves a tiny hole, but I don’t care. All I can concentrate on is that I can’t believe she’s gone. My childhood, my floating sanctuary, my favorite memory now ceases to exist outside my mind. A mind that one day will grow forgetful, and just like the windswept ashes, my memories will too scatter into nothingness.

But I had no other choice. Believe me, if I did, I wouldn’t have resorted to this. It was equally out of necessity and desperation. Though if I’m being honest with myself, one more so than the other. Mary Ann’s Dream wasn’t just a boat. She was every Sunday after church with Grandpa, skipping along the waves with a catchy hymn stuck like sap on the walls of my impressionable mind. She was sprays of water on my face, cherry-soaked cheeks from the whipping wind, and the overwhelming excitement of a tug on the line. She was and always will be the bond between a grandfather and a grandson. That boat, that sun-drenched two-seater was found buried beneath the frigid Michigan lake water early this morning. Every news crew across the state came crawling along the lakeshore like cockroaches scattering from a lifted rock. They’d finally found the boat that was linked to the unsolved murder of a deranged Michigan man. A man who was so cruel he’d slap a woman for talking back, flick his cigarette at his crying child for being hungry, and use their only dime left to buy drugs.

My heart roared in my chest as I stood in front of the TV watching the breaking news coverage this morning. Tight knots gripped my stomach with worry and the sudden urge to do what I should have done a long time ago cemented in my mind. Grandpa rocked in his chair on the covered front porch completely unaware of what they found. Though these days his mind has began to slip slowly away from him. Bit by bit, memory by memory. I’m not sure he would care either way.

It was bittersweet to see the faded blue pinstripe and the elegant scroll of her name painted across the hull. They pulled her out of the water as if she was as interesting as the Titanic wreckage. Through the lens of a camera, she appeared abandoned and weak. God only knows she was loved and strong. If they looked closely they would find our matching initials etched into the wooden floorboard. I can still hear the whoosh of the waves rocking us from side to side as goose pimples danced across my chilled skin. I was used to cold days out on the lake, but sometimes the bitter nip in the air found its way to my skinny arms. Grandpa always warned me about the power of nature. He’d say, “Mother Nature always gets her way, try as we might to stop her.” Even with near frozen fingers, anything was better than home. Anything.

There were some days on the boat when there wasn’t one word that passed between us, yet those were the moments we grew closer. Grandpa knew I was stuck in a bad situation. He never mentioned it or forced me to talk about it. I think he always knew that I used our fishing trips as a mental escape. A necessity I relied, arguably, too heavily on. I used to hope and pray that we’d skip along the water one day and never come back. The cuts would fade into scars, the bruises would yellow, but my fears embedded themselves into me with their freshly sharpened fangs every single day I returned home. When my foot crossed the threshold, I never knew if I’d meet the end of a fist or drunken snoring. Mom finally took off one night, and I thought I was done for. I don’t blame her for leaving, I fantasized about doing the same thing many times. But I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving Grandpa behind in that sad sad house. He’d never say it, but I know he missed Grandma more than having breath in his lungs. I was the only person left who cared about him, and I think he secretly stuck around to watch over me. He would never interfere with Dad’s anger and sometimes I worried he wasn’t fully aware of the abuse. Some cries were impossible to drown out. Little did I know he was waiting for the right time.

We haven’t talked about Mary Ann’s Dream since the day Dad went missing. I lost something so dear to me that day but in turn, I gained priceless freedom.

The constant creak of the rocking chair against the wooden porch reminds me I’m doing the right thing. Orange flames dance inside the fire pit and cast shadowy figures on the lawn, destroying the evidence hidden within the burnt photo of our beloved boat. I had to destroy my favorite memory in order to protect the man who saved my life. The only photograph of Mary Ann’s Dream is now reduced to scattered ashes across our lawn. I snapped that photo only moments before Grandpa cranked her to life. It was the last time the rumble of the motor sent excitement to my core. He didn’t tell me what he was doing as he drug Dad’s limp body down the dock and rolled him into the boat. He didn’t need to tell me. Dad didn’t flinch nor stir. The crushing weight of fear began to lift off my shoulders, forgiving years of calcified anxiety.

I snapped the Polaroid of the infamous two-stroke as it carried Dad’s drunken red-singed cheeks across the icy water and never brought him back.

I turned back to look at Grandpa. He nodded and kept on rocking.