Below (3 page)

I was seven then. I sat in the corner and listened. I watched while Mom’s students nodded and frowned and did what she told them. They had mock debates, making arguments
for
and
against
. They compared maps of the old town and the new one, writing essays about what was the same and what was different, what had been gained, what had been lost.

I walked around the classroom. I looked over their shoulders and remembered my drawings of Atlantis, of our drowned family, faces obscured behind a thick wall of blue.

This was my town, I thought. This was the place where my family grew. The place I came eight weeks early to see and missed by less than a day.

I collected photocopied clippings that the big kids had finished with. I cut up leftover photos and made scenes to fit them into. I drew maps and diagrams. I wrote a story about the day of the flooding, based on eyewitness accounts.

At first, Mom smiled. She called me
her little historian
. She held my work up in front of her classes and said they could all take a page from my book. She said if I was one of her students, she’d be giving me an A.

Weeks later, when I was still working on my maps, redrawing them over and over to add new details, when I had broken a month’s worth of Dad’s plates hunting through the old newspapers he had wrapped them in, when I couldn’t sleep at night for dreaming about our house being engulfed by layers of silt and mud, Mom said it was time to stop.

She said what I had done was great, but now it was getting unhealthy, that I needed to think about other things, to live in the present.

Enough,
she said,
was enough.

Together, we packed it away into a box —
out of sight, out of mind
. I stopped drawing maps and poring over photos. But I kept dreaming — about the town, about Atlantis. I couldn’t stop myself from doing that, even if I had wanted to.

And when I walked through the town, I felt the old one behind it. I could stand on Main Street and see Tucker’s Supermarket the way it used to be — the wild orange and yellow rather than the new, tasteful blue. I could pause at the entrance to the pool and see the old timber mill, smell the earthy warmth of freshly cut wood, hear the whine of the saws that had stopped working before I was born. On the edge of town, I had to stop myself from looking up to find the old fire lookout, the tree with its circular staircase of pegs disappearing into clusters of leaves.

When I closed my eyes, Old Lower Grange was there, like that echo of light that sits inside your eyelids, etching shapes into quiet, secret spaces.

And every now and then, I pulled the box out from under my bed. Every now and then, I snipped something from the paper and added it to the pile, just because it seemed important not to let things go.

I didn’t tell Mom. I wasn’t sure she would consider it healthy. But whatever it was, I wanted to keep it.

I reached into the box and riffled through some old newspaper articles. They were mostly photocopies Mom had made for her class, the paper shiny and smooth in a way that seemed at odds with the stories they told. But there were a few that weren’t copies. They were older, brown and brittle with age and bearing traces of the clay they’d once been packed around and between.

When I came to one of these, I stopped. It was an article about the lake, almost as old as I was. There was a photograph of the wide, calm surface. Trees and bushy scrub hugged the water’s edge, and you could see the dam wall in the distance. A family was picnicking on the bank up at the Point. A couple of kids were messing around in a canoe.

And off to the right, a shadow. Something that could have been a glitch on the film or the blurred border of the photo.

It wasn’t either of those things. I knew that because I’d been there with Dad in a canoe once, all the way out in the middle, where the sounds of people yelling and calling on the shore faded so far into the background, they sounded like the edges of a dream.

I remember Dad stopping the canoe. He brought it around in a flurry of back-paddling into an urgent, swooping arc, as if there was an invisible line there in the water, as if crossing it would mean something to someone.

It was just a metal pole. Just a sign, bobbing lazily out there on a floating buoy.

NO SWIMMING BEYOND THIS POINT
, it said.

“We’re not swimming,” I pointed out, but Dad shook his head.

“It doesn’t just mean swimming,” he said. “It means no recreation area. Off-limits.”

“But why?”

He shook his head again. There was no point asking. It was just one of those rules.

He back-paddled. We headed for shore. And we didn’t go out that far again.

It was silly, anyway, according to Dad. It was reckless. What if something had happened when we were out there, such a long way from anywhere and anyone?

I ran a finger along the shadow on the photo.

I probably wouldn’t see the pole tomorrow, not from where I planned to be. I wasn’t going to take the road all the way around to the Point, where everyone else swam. Even though that would be quieter than the pool, there could still be other people there — yelling and splashing and churning up the surface with Jet Skis. And it was too far on a bike. To get there, you needed a car, a plan, a family outing.

Tomorrow I’d be taking a shortcut. It had been years since I’d been that way, and I’d never done it alone. The path had been tricky enough to spot back then. Now it would probably be completely invisible.

But I wasn’t worried about that.

I was sure I could remember.

On the way, the signs were so weathered I could hardly read them. Rust had eaten tiny holes in the metal, so it looked like someone had shot them over and over with a pellet gun.

That didn’t matter. I knew what they said.

NO ENTRY. TRESPASSERS PROSECUTED
.

That one was on the barrier just off the main road, the barrier I could easily lift my bike up and over onto the overgrown track that led up the hill.

AUTHORIZED PERSONS ONLY. ACCESS PROHIBITED
.

That one was right up the top, hanging loosely from the padlocked gate of the wire-mesh fence.

The gate sat at the end of an old dirt road that wound its way around and around the hill, occasionally crossing the steep path I had taken. I supposed authorized persons needed to come up here sometimes, although I wasn’t sure what for. Maybe just to check if there were any trespassers who needed prosecuting. The dirt road was completely overgrown, too. Elijah and I had never seen anyone up here, and it didn’t look like that had changed.

I pushed my bike through the undergrowth, hunting for the break in the fence, the panel of loose wire you could peel back and slip quietly inside. Elijah and I found it together years ago, by accident. We were walking around the lake from the swimming area, talking and skipping stones and letting our feet carry us along the shoreline. At some point, we looked back at the tiny figures swimming and jumping and picnicking on the grass and realized that without meaning to, we had come almost halfway around. Halfway from the Point, halfway to . . . where? And we realized then that there
was
a somewhere else, that you could just keep going through the trees and the scrub and past the invisible line of the
NO SWIMMING
pole and find yourself somewhere that might even be worth going to.

That’s how we found this place, on the other side of where we were supposed to be, a secret shore all our own.

I was worried about being there at first, worried that we would get in trouble. I pointed out that we had crossed the invisible line.

But Elijah just shrugged and said, “So what?” Even when we found the fence through the trees, the concealed path leading down the hill, the signs that yelled at you to stay away.

“People shouldn’t worry about fences and signs,” he said. If you let a see-through fence stop you, you mustn’t have cared much in the first place.

After that day, whenever he jumped on his bike, his towel stuffed in his backpack, and asked if I wanted to come “for a ride” with him, I always said yes.

It was nicer around this side. It was still and quiet. You didn’t have to watch out for Jet Skis or speedboats. There was no one to tell you to wait thirty minutes before going in the water because you had eaten a single slice of apple.

But there was something else, too.

There was Old Lower Grange.

The swimming area was over the outskirts of the old town, over paddocks and bush and the occasional shed. But here you were closer to the town itself, to the buildings and the roads and the houses where people had lived, where they had gotten married and pushed children on swings and tormented each other with gobs of flying mashed potatoes.

It was all out there somewhere. I watched the way the ground sloped down to the water’s edge and beyond, and thought about it all there, underwater.

We swam along the shoreline, Elijah setting the pace, his long, measured strokes between me and the deep.

We floated on our backs, looking up at the cloudless sky, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that there were things down below, things I shouldn’t turn my back on.

Sometimes we stood in the shallows, skipping stones out across the water, seeing how many skips we could get until they sank out of sight. Then we’d guess where they’d landed — the town square, the school, our very own drowned tree house?

Sometimes we found things that might have washed up from the old town — a plank of wood from a fence, an old cookie tin, the wheel from a bike — but there was no way to be sure. For all we knew, they could have just been bits of junk that people had dumped there later.

Once I saw a road — the weathered edge of a sheet of dark stones, tightly packed, leading down and away.

The maps I had drawn in Mom’s class clicked into place inside my head. We were on the west side of the lake and on high ground, so it could be the Old Lenton Road, where it ran up and away into the hills. That would make the school over there and the supermarket over there and our place would be . . .

I turned and scanned the water, the old streets laying themselves out like a jigsaw puzzle before my eyes, every piece perfectly formed to fit only and exactly in one rightful place.

It made me feel strange, shivery. I couldn’t help imagining myself following it, putting one foot in front of the other, all the way down into the dark underwater town.

But Elijah shook his head. “That’s not a road,” he said. “See?”

He scrambled down the bank and kicked at the stones. They came away easily under his shoe, and I saw that they weren’t black, not tightly packed, but loose and irregular, a patchwork of colors. Just a random assortment of stones masquerading as a way to somewhere.

“But there could be roads,” I said.

Elijah shrugged. “I guess.”

“We could find one,” I said. Now that the idea was in my head, it was difficult to shake. “We could follow it.”

Elijah laughed. “It’s not Atlantis, you know.”

I knew he wasn’t laughing
at
me, though. He had one of my old drawings stuck to the inside of his closet where he thought I couldn’t see it.

“Anyway,” he said, “it wouldn’t work. You’d just keep bobbing to the surface.”

He was right. But I didn’t want him to be. I wanted to believe that somehow my feet would stay suctioned to the ground, that if I found a road, it would lead me down.

Maybe, I thought, I could make myself heavy. I could put stones in my pockets and bundle them up in my T-shirt.

“You want to weigh yourself down with stones and walk into a lake in the middle of the bush?” This time Elijah
was
laughing at me. “Idiot. This is why Mom doesn’t let you swim on your own.”

That night, I dreamed about Old Lower Grange. I saw the streetlights hung with lake weed, dark fists of mud, punched into the holes in the road. Crabs and crayfish made their homes in the hollowed-out buildings, and fish cruised the streets, pausing at intersections to politely wave each other through with their fins. I couldn’t help wondering what kind of life was going on down there without us.

I never walked into town, though.

We never found a road. I kept half an eye out for sheets of stones but never saw anything. Then the rain came and the water level crept up, and even the pile of stones I kept going back to have a closer look at disappeared under the surface.

I stopped going up to the lake.

Elijah moved to the city for college, and Hannah started working for the town council. And she wasn’t the kind of person who would walk past signs and slip through a hole in the fence. She was more likely to redo the lettering and tighten the wire.

Soon after, Mom started letting me go to the pool on my own. As long as I was sensible, she said. I was old enough now, and the pool was safe. It was much better than a lake. It had lifeguards and clear water. There were no shifting depths or hidden dangers, unless you counted people randomly jumping on you or slamming you with tennis balls. And it was clean as well, unless you counted the Band-Aids.