Leap of Faith

On the tenth anniversary of Jack’s death you take a final glance around your temporary home. The lumpy sofa bed, the two ring hob with its sputtering gas flame, the grubby walls that weep with damp come autumn. Steadying yourself on a chair, you breathe in the brackish stink of the Liffey and wrench the sky light closed.

On the bockety wooden table, you’ve bundled the photo albums,  bread crumb trails of your early lives.  Your Mum and Dad, dazed and smiling with one baby, then three.  All of you on the boat, hands trailing in the water. You and Jack splashing in the river, his eyes scrunched closed, his mouth open in a wide grin. You place the house keys on top of the tottering pile.  

You think of your sister in Australia. Her calls have dwindled to Christmas, your birthday. You hear her kids, your niece and nephew, screeching and laughing in the background.

“Please come, even for a visit” she always says.

“I will” you always reply.

“Are you really ok?”

“I’m ok.”

You started a letter, to explain, to tell her you’re sorry.  A few lines in, you scrunched it up and balled it into the bin. You can’t explain. You’re not sorry. Relief, that’s what you feel. Relief, a sensation under your ribs, as welcome as the gentle lapping of the river’s edge on a calm day.  You’re moving on, you’re letting go.

Your bus ticket and a folded 20 are stowed in the back pocket of your jeans.  You give your jacket a final pat to confirm your photo ID, in its waterproof pouch, is inside your zip pocket. Fixing Jack’s old baseball cap on your head you pull out the door.

You make the bus with minutes to spare. Placing your jacket on the outer seat, you rest your forehead against the rain-smeared window and stare out at the darkening sky. At  the arrival depot, the bus driver shook you awake. For a moment you have forgotten where you are and why you came. When you remember, there’s a rush of relief touching the inner blankness you’ve felt for such a long time.

Outside, fast food chains with neon signs and mini marts have replaced some of the old shops but it hasn’t changed much. You start walking, past the  main street and off towards the river. You are taken aback by the occasional half-smile, a head tilt or a nod of recognition from passers-by. Faces, coming at you out of the gloom, at first unfamiliar, slipped sharply into focus and men and women with older faces and extra pounds are revealed as classmates and former neighbours.

Moving onto the quays, it was quiet except for the odd burst of laughter and easy chat from evening ramblers turning for home. From the overhead bridge there was the distant hum of meagre traffic, casting its few lights against the falling dark. The river was an oily darkness, seething in the gloom.

On a bench on the far side, you passed an old man, bundled into a tattered coat, his gnarled hands cupping an unfiltered cigarette. He hacked out a cough and raised a hand in greeting.  A scrappy dog, his leash a faded blue rope, lay at his feet, his mournful eyes looking out at the river. The lift and slap of your  worn boots echoed out into the night as you walked on, alone with your memories.

The day Jack died was one of those perfect sailing days, river and sky fused together without a joint and the water shimmering like old window glass.  The wind picked up so gradually you didn’t notice at first until there were billowing gusts  strong enough to whip the water in all directions, spray reaching high into the air. The bow of the skiff heaved high, then slapped back down, over and over. Your head felt as choppy as the water. When the skiff over-turned and you were both plunged into the sucking, swirling river. Jack pushed you towards the ramp and you grabbed on, your free hand reaching out for him. He wasn’t there. It was two days before the divers found him. A closed casket.

“It’s not your fault. What happened to Jack” your Dad said, after the funeral. He squeezed your shoulder, his eyes ringed a livid red.

“Jack should never…”

You opened your mouth to explain, to stumble out what happened.

A neighbour appeared with two cut-glass tumblers sloshing with whiskey. He handed one to your Dad and both men turned to stare at the strip of shimmying river visible from the window.

You never spoke of it again.

It was your idea to borrow the skiff from the boat club. There was a girl you wanted to impress. She lived in one of those tall Georgian houses with the long sash windows fronting onto the river. Jack didn’t want to do it. He did it anyway, for you. Peas in a pod. The twins. Inseparable.

Standing at the curved stone wall you unlace your boots and kick them off, you  peel off you jacket , your jumper, your jeans, and drape them on the jacket. You climb over the wall and onto the stone steps. You descend four steps, on the fifth your right  foot breaks water. You flinch and  take another step, it is  up to your knees, your hands touch off the slime on the wall, you feel the sway of the water and you’re ready to let go.

Then you hear it. A splash, the water breaking, and from the river’s edge the yap, yap, yap of a small dog. The city lights throw misty halos on the river and you can make out a head rising briefly above the choppy water. It  went under again and the tattered coat swirled out across the water. You strike out towards the sound, you saw the old man reach for you, his rheumy eyes wide and scared. You grabbed for him, you missed, you reached again and got hold of him. You pulled him hard, his grip tight around you. The water rose again and you were both submerged. Then you heard it, shouts from the bridge and two figures running towards the river’s edge. You only have to keep him from falling away beneath the seething water. You strengthen your grip on his arm to let him know. You hold him with  fierceness. You will not let him go.