Song of the Swamp

When I was three days old my momma tried to kill me. Mimi was gutting fish in the kitchen when she heard the splash. She said momma was at the edge of the small dock watching as I sank into the muddy water. When she realized what was happening, she came running. Momma fought and screamed. Mimi ended up with a scar on her left hand from where momma bit her. Paw heard the commotion and tackled Momma to the ground. 

Momma ended up being put in one of those head hospitals, and I grew up in the house where I almost died. On the nights when Mimi insisted on opening all the windows, I heard the swamp. The croaking frogs, and rumbling gators all laughed at me for thinking I had escaped. 

On my sixth birthday, one of momma’s doctors called Mimi. They claimed Momma was doing better, and that she had been begging to see me. They promised that it would be fine, and that it would even be good for her treatment. No one asked if it would be good for me. Paw said it was a bad idea. Mimi put both her fists on her hips and tapped her foot at him. 

“Every girl needs her momma, even if her brain’s been boiled by the devil.”

A week later we walked up to the brickstone building. I asked about the bars on the windows, and the man in a wheelchair who jiggled his hand in his pants. Mimi told me to keep my questions to myself. When the nurse opened the heavy metal door to Momma’s room, I froze. The room was small and smelled like cleaner and paint. In the corner a raggedy easel held a half painted canvas. Every inch of the room was covered in detailed paintings that were straight out of my nightmares. It was like she had painted every inch of the swamp at all the different hours of the day. Momma was on the bed looking like a swamp creature herself. Her hair was unbrushed and hung in front of her eyes. Her skin had a pale green look to it, and I noticed the long sharpness of her nails where her hands twitched against her knees. 

“Ariané.” Mimi called out to her daughter, clearly just as disconcerted by her looks as I was. I clung to Mimi, praying that she wouldn’t want to go closer. Momma’s green eyes, the same color of the swamp in the summer zeroed in on me, and her head cocked to the side. Mimi stepped towards the wall closest to us and I let out a whimper as she was no longer between me and the monster on the bed. My attention was pulled towards one painting in particular. It was the only one of its kind. It was the swamp, but from underwater. Everything had a pale green haze over it, and you could see the sunlight from the surface. The cypress tree roots woven together in chaotic knots creating a million different holes for swamp creatures. The swamp floor was covered in bright green mosses and aquatic plants. 

“Why would you paint these,” Mimi breathed quietly. Momma didn’t acknowledge she’d said anything, continuing to stare into my soul. I felt the first tear slide down my face, and that’s when she leapt towards me. I screamed and tried to back away but she grabbed me and pushed me over. She crawled on top of me, her greasy hair falling into my eyes. She bent forward so that her lips were just over my ear. Mimi was screaming for help in the background, but she sounded distant, as if I was hearing her through the thin walls of our house. 

“You’re cursed,” she said, her voice rough from disuse. “You belong to the bayou, and the bayou takes what it wants.” Then she was pulled off of me. 

Mimi cried silently the entire ride back home. She never asked what Momma said to me. When we got home, I bolted to the giant oak tree on the side of the house and climbed, and climbed, and climbed. It was the safest I ever felt, like that was the farthest I could get from that evil swamp. It didn’t take long before Paw came out to find me. 

“Come on down and tell me ‘bout it,” he called up to me. I pressed my eyes together. 

“No! I’m not safe down there!” 

Paw lifted his fishing hat and rubbed his balding head. 

“Clementine Fournier! You come down outta tha’ tree right now. Ya hear?” It was rare for Paw to raise my voice. So foot by foot, I descended the tree and stood before him. He tilted my chin so I was looking at him. “Now. Ya’ tell me right now what the hell happened.” 

“Momma says I’m cursed. That the swamp is gunna take me,” I cried, shoving my face into his overalls. The reeking scent of fish enveloped me. 

“Aw Cher, come on. Now look at me.” I obeyed, peeking up at him. “You’re Momma don’t have no clue what she’s talking ‘bout.”

“I hear it at night, it wants me Paw,” I cried. 

“No. I don’t think so. If what your momma said was true, then Mimi wouldn’t have been able to save you when you was a baby. The way I see it, the bayou gave you back to us.” I had nothing to say, and he took my silence as his success in comforting me. 

I grew. I forgot about my Momma, and her paintings. I went to college in California where there were no swamps. I flew Mimi and Paw out to me so I never had to step foot in Louisiana. I met a man who was kind and sweet, and we got married. Paw died first. A heart attack while he was out fishing. I tried to get Mimi to come out to California, but she wouldn’t leave that cursed house. I found my fears from childhood rising once again, and I began avoiding all water in general.

Then Mimi died, and I couldn’t avoid that swamp any longer. My husband and I flew back to the small parish where I grew up. I had to force myself to step into that house. My husband didn’t understand, telling me I was ridiculous and paranoid. We began sorting through the stuff in the house, deciding what needed to be trashed, what could be sold, and what would be donated. As the sun set, I went in search for Paw’s summer fan. I was no longer used to the southern humidity. The extra room that had always been used as storage was locked. I frowned at the handle. I couldn’t remember any time that Mimi or Paw had locked doors. I searched the house for a key but found none. My husband used a credit card to slip the lock back and the door swung open. 

There, leaning up against the walls in rows were every single one of my mother’s paintings. The hair on the back of my neck stood up, and coldness swallowed me whole. Suddenly, for the first time since we had arrived here, I heard the swamp. The crickets screamed, and Paw’s blue fishing boat knocked against the dock. My husband walked into the room and unknowingly picked up one of the paintings. 

“Wow, these are really good. Who did them?” 

I lunged, smacking the painting from his hands. “Put that down,” I hissed. His brows knit as he looked down at me, and then the wind picked up. Without saying anything I began gathering the paintings, awkwardly shoving them into my arms. 

“Clem, what are you doing?” 

I didn’t answer him. Once my arms were full, I rushed to the back door, kicking it open with my foot. It only took me a few steps before I was on the dock. All my rage and fear driving me to the spot where my own mother had tossed me away. I chucked her paintings just the same. I ran back into the house, and gathered another armful. My husband was yelling at me, asking me to stop and explain. Between the emotions, the tears, and my determination, I couldn’t stop. Not at that moment. 

When the last of my mother’s paintings sank beneath the waterline I let out a scream. A scream filled with everything that I had kept bottled up for years, and for once, the swamp was silent. I returned to the house and fell into my husband’s arms. Through sobs and a snotty nose I told him about Momma. He held me and listened intently, and when I was done, all he did was kiss me and say “I understand.” 

The next day, when I woke up, the house felt lighter, The air was breathable, and the murky water smell didn’t permeate the walls. I called out for my husband, but he didn’t answer. I searched the house, my anxiety growing. Then out the kitchen window I caught sight of him. I opened the back door and called to him again, but he didn’t turn. He was standing at the edge of the dock looking down into the water, as if hypnotized by the minnows that zipped just under the surface. I approached him and placed a hand on his arm. 

“Honey, what are you doing out here?” 

When he turned to me, something about his face was off. “I see it now.” 

“What?” My heart began racing. Every alarm bell in my head telling me to run, but my feet were stone. 

“You were never mine.” The bullfrogs began to croak. “I never understood why until now.” Something large splashed in the water nearby. “You belong to the bayou.” I could barely let out a scream before he attacked. We fell off the side of the dock, a tangled mess of limbs. I  tasted the foulness of the water and struggled to stand. I somehow got up, but as I tried to catch my breath his large hands wrapped around my throat. The birds overhead screeched, echoing my own despair. I swung and kicked with everything in me, but it was no use. He flung me down into the water easily. His entire body weight falling into the pressure on my neck. Everything became blurry, and I could no longer feel my limbs. I realized I was dying. I forced my eyes open one last time, and saw the swamp. It was momma’s painting, the one that had called to me in her room that day. My nightmares and life collided before my eyes. I stopped fighting, resigning to the fact that Momma had always been right. My life always belonged to the swamp.