The Year I Almost Drowned

The Year I Almost Drowned - By Shannon McCrimmon

The tips of my fingers touched my mouse, dragging it back and forth on the dark

gray mouse pad, scrolling up and down the computer screen as I searched

Harrison College’s spring semester course offerings. The titles were intriguing if

not unique: All About Austen; Yoga for the Inflexible; History’s Dirty Details;

Shakespeare in Layman’s Terms; Economics for the Financially Challenged.

After more than an hour of reading each course description and with a few clicks

on my mouse, I registered for a full load of courses for the spring semester.

I could feel my phone vibrating in my pocket. I took it out and read the text

message from my mom. “Happy Birthday, Finn. Did you get my present? I haven’t

heard from you in a while. Call me. Love, Mom.” My mother had the innate ability

to make me feel guilty with just a few typed words. I placed the phone back in my

pocket and made a mental note to call her later.

A draft of cool air sifted through my Nana’s library, and I clasped the top button

to my navy blue wool sweater. Nana had given it to me; it was my dad’s when he

was younger and it had become my fashion staple for fall. I loved it even if it was

old and tattered. The dangling pieces of thread and pin-sized holes somehow

made me feel closer to him.

“Finn!” Nana called from the kitchen.

“Yes,” I answered with a raised voice. I picked up one of her aged books, flipping

through the well-worn antiqued pages. Nana had a large stock of books–most of

them very old–bought long ago. This was one of my favorite rooms in my

grandparents’ house. I loved it for the wooden book shelves that reached to the

ceiling, the oh–so–comfortable brown leather chair, and the smell. Nana’s library

was a musty, sweet mix of leather and decaying paper.

“Come here,” she hollered again.

I put the book back where it belonged–on the shelf and in alphabetical order and

headed toward the kitchen. The sun shined into the bright, cheery room with its

yellow cabinets and strawberry wallpaper that bordered the ceiling. Nana loved

the color red. Her kitchen screamed this, with red curtains, red placemats and red

rugs. They were all a part of the bold décor.

The smell of peanut butter and melted milk chocolate–a heavenly mix–filled the

air. I watched as Nana sprinkled flakes of milk chocolate on top of fluffy whipped

cream.

“Yum. It smells so good.” I inhaled again, my mouth watering. Her pies made me

hungry even if I did have a full stomach. Just looking at them was enough

enticement.

She picked up the mixing bowl and handed it to me. “Here’s what didn’t make it

in the pie if you want it.”

I took it from her and dipped my finger in the bowl, gathering a heap of peanut

butter and chocolate. I stuck my finger in my mouth and licked the sweet

saltiness. “Delicious,” I said, trying to savor the taste.

Pointing to the peanut buttery, chocolate goodness, she asked, “Can you drop

this pie off at the Rotary Club on your way to get your dad?”

“Sure.” I stuck my finger in the bowl for a third and fourth helping. My sweet tooth

was going to be the death of me one day. I finished off the last of the chocolate

and peanut butter remnants and rinsed the bowl before placing it in the

dishwasher.

She wrapped her arms around me and smiled. Her perfume lingered in the air. It

was a pleasing scent of jasmine and honeysuckle. “I’m so happy we get to

celebrate your nineteenth birthday with you, Finn.”

“Me, too.” It was the first time I would ever celebrate a birthday with my

grandparents and my dad, or at least one I’d remember. We hadn’t spent any of

my birthday’s together since I was two and that was too far back for me to have

any memories.

She tore saran wrap off of the roll and wrapped it securely over the pie before

placing it in one of her baskets. “This is your grandfather’s favorite pie,” she said.

“I know.”

She tilted her head to the side and raised an eyebrow. “He’s not eating pie at the

diner is he?” I avoided making any eye contact with her. My face got warm and

turned a rosy red. It was an instant tell. “Thought so,” she said. “He shouldn’t be

eating sweets. Don’t let him, Finn.”

My grandfather hadn’t fully recovered from the heart attack he had in the summer.

I can recall every single detail the night it occurred. It was the night that my mom

decided to come back to Graceville so that she could take me back to Tampa.

She hadn’t been to Graceville since she left more than sixteen years ago.

Everything happened so quickly. One minute I was having a very heated

argument with my mom, the next thing I knew, my grandfather was fighting to

stay alive. I was scared that I was going to lose him right when I just had him back

in my life. It took several weeks for him to recover. The doctor and my Nana

insisted that he cut his hours at his diner. But being the stubborn person that he

is, he told them in no uncertain terms was he going to stop working. She even

tried to compromise, asking him to let me run things on Saturdays. He only had

to give up one day a week. One day. That lasted all of two weeks.

Nothing could tear him away from his diner. It was his baby and had been for

more than fifty years.

She touched my long red hair and asked, “Is Meg cutting it later today?”

I held the pie in my hands and nodded a distinct yes. Nana was very touchy-feely;

I loved that about her. “Yeah. I don’t know what she’s going to do to it, though.”

My forehead creased. Meg was almost finished with cosmetology school and was

intent on giving me a more distinct style. Her idea of distinct could mean

something very drastic.

“I’m sure whatever she does will look good.”

“Yeah,” I paused and then said, “I hate missing work today.”

“Don’t be silly, Finn. Your grandfather can manage the diner, and he’s got plenty

of help –both Hannah and Meg are working today.” She squeezed my shoulder

and said, “It’s your birthday, you should have it off. Now go on and take that pie.

I’ve got a house to decorate for a special birthday girl.” She shooed me away.

***

yard. I heard a crunching sound as I made each swift step. I placed the top of my

shoe at the base of a hefty pile and kicked the tip of my foot forward. The leaves

flew up like confetti and then slowly fell to the ground, finding another place to lay

in the yard.

A soft breeze from the north caused the trees to dance, their leaves falling by the

second. Autumn had arrived. Leaves in vibrant shades of red, yellow and orange

were seen on every tree in the distant horizon. The air was cooler and crisper.

Front porches were decorated in a cornucopia of harvest themed items: carved

pumpkins, scarecrows, and bales of hay. The long, sunny days of summer were

gone. This was my first time experiencing a true fall season–one where the leaves

changed and the temperature dipped below the 50s at night. There was no such

thing as fall in Florida.

My dad’s 1977 teal green Chevy Nova was parked in my grandparents’ driveway.

By default, I had inherited it. He hadn’t driven it in years and said he’d rather I

drive it than it just rust away sitting in my grandparents’ garage. I preferred driving

it over my grandfather’s old truck–with its unreliable engine that tended to die on

me in the middle of long, rolling hills. After coasting down hills more than once, I

had enough of it and was relieved when Dad told me I could have his car.

I turned the ignition, a low chug, chug, chug noise pervaded. My legs vibrated

against the vinyl seat as the engine purred. Goosebumps formed on my arms

and legs even though I had on jeans and a sweater. The car was cold. I turned

the heat on knowing it’d be a while until it actually blew out warm air. Its air

conditioning was basically a fan, and the heat was a poor imitation of hot air.

The sun’s rays bounced off the satiny white wooden siding and the red shutters

of my grandparents’ beautiful farm house. The swing on the front porch swayed

side to side from the morning breeze. Yellow and orange potted mums sat

purposefully on each porch step. It was picturesque and welcoming, and it was

now my home.

***

beaten path and nowhere near anything. I had my own idea about the club and

concluded it was some secret society where people wore black cloaks and stood

around a blazing fire during a full moon chanting crazy things that didn’t make

any sense. It was just odd to me, that the club’s headquarters were nowhere near

town. Nana had given me directions, but I still found myself lost out in the country.

The roads were unfamiliar, and I had a bad sense of direction anyway. I hadn’t

had enough experience driving on the terrible roads in Graceville. Most of them

were unmarked and those that were marked turned into another road right in the

middle of the road you were driving on.

I held the piece of paper with Nana’s directions. I glimpsed at it again, trying to

decipher exactly where I was and then looked back again at the road. All ahead

of me were acres and acres of peach orchards. There wasn’t a house, a building,

or any other sign of civilization within sight.

The sound of a police siren blared from behind me. I looked in my rear view mirror

and saw flashes of blue and red whirling in a circular motion. My heart thumped

wildly and my sweaty hands gripped tightly onto the steering wheel. I’d never

been pulled over by the police. Not once. Not ever. I glanced in the rear view

mirror again and saw that it was Cookie, one of Graceville’s oldest police officers,

shuffling my way.

Everyone called him “Cookie” because he sputtered things out that sounded like

they had been stolen from a Chinese fortune cookie. Cookie was a Graceville

institution of sorts and probably should have retired years ago, but since

Graceville’s crime rate was dismal, he was able to keep his job on the force. He

and my grandfather had met in elementary school and had been friends ever

since. They played bingo together, and Cookie was a regular in the diner. I liked

Cookie even if he did say strange, philosophical things that didn’t seem relevant

to the discussion. He was a kind, trusting man and probably should have chosen

another

line

of

work.

I felt a sense of relief seeing that it was him coming my way. I knew if he was

pulling me over, once he saw it was me, he’d give me a warning for whatever it

was

that

I

did

and

tell

me

to

go

on

about

my

business.

The relief was short lived. I peered into the rear view mirror one more time and

saw another police officer approaching my car. This one was well-built, tall, and

much, much younger than Cookie. I didn’t recognize him. My heart started to beat

a mile a minute.

Cookie peered down in my window and motioned for me to roll it down. “Hi, Finn,”

he said. He spoke slowly and enunciated every single syllable with a long

southern drawl. A toothpick hung out of the corner of his mouth. Cookie was very

thin and appeared older than he really was. Lines and creases inundated his face,

his skin loose and sagging. His white mustache covered his thin upper lip. There

was very little hair left on his small oval shaped head. “Confucius once said ‘Be

slow in your words and earnest in your conduct,’ Finn.”

Whatever that meant, I’m not sure. I had to keep myself from rolling my eyes at

him. The other police officer lowered his head to the window, his caramel-colored

eyes met mine. A subtle five o’clock shadow showed on his youthful face. He was

a little older than I thought, maybe in his mid-twenties. Golden streaks blended in

his short light brown hair. “License and registration, please,” he said in an