Penance

Edward hears the scratching of pencils all around him. He sees faces screwed up in concentration, tongues poking out of mouths as more and more words amass on their papers.

He looks at his own paper: aggressively blank.

His sixth grade teacher is a nice lady with a kind demeanor. Though Edward is a new student, she has made him feel as though he is not, and this does not escape his notice. With his world recently upended into something bitter and dark, Mrs. Limbaugh has made him believe that maybe there is a tomorrow, and it may not be as bleak as he expects.

But she has done him a great disservice by assigning this essay prompt that makes him sweat. It feels disloyal to ask such a thing of him.

“Tell of a time you were scared and overcame your fear.”

Does she not know what he must write about? Since she wrote the assignment on the board, he has searched all the corners of his mind for ways not to tell the story. But it screams at him to tell someone; anyone. He tries to shove it down back to where he had buried it. The pain of even thinking of it is unbearable to Edward. And yet, it claws at him to be let out.

He swallows, determined, and starts to write about being scared of a neighbor’s dog that turns out to be friendly.

But his hand slows as he knows the words he puts onto paper are empty and silly. No, there is no way around it. He must write about what happened.

“30 minutes remaining!” Mrs. Limbaugh calls out.

The other children scratch on. Edward takes out a new piece of paper and puts his pencil to it.

Mrs. Limbaugh,

I know I am not supposed to address this essay to anyone, but I think I need to write as if I am talking to a friend. I hope we are friends. Please don’t look at me differently after you read this.

We moved here from North Carolina last month. I tell people it’s because my mom got a new job, but it’s not. I feel very guilty sometimes, and I think telling you what happened will help me let some of that go. A sort of penance, I guess.

I will take you back to the day.

It was a Wednesday after school. My little brother and I were home by ourselves, which was normal because my mom didn’t get off work until five.

It had been raining for days. When the school bus driver dropped us off at our house, he said, “Y’all be careful with this rain. Flood waters rise quicker than you can say James Earl Ray.”

I didn’t think anything of it. Rain was only rain, right? But everybody at school had also been making a big deal of it. They said it was from a hurricane in the Atlantic, and it was only going to get worse. Mom told us to stay put at the house no matter what until she got home, so that’s what I planned on doing.

I wish I had some common sense, Mrs. Limbaugh. Done some critical thinking, as you like to say.

Lenny and I were in the kitchen eating some leftover ham and beans, like normal. Lenny was always really hungry after school. Mom says he’s hitting a growth spurt, so let him eat what little we have.

Suddenly Lenny craned his neck as if he was listening to something. He ran through the living room to the back door.

“Edward, look!” He cried out, pointing to the floor. Sure enough, water was seeping in under the door.

We raced to the front window and saw that our road had turned into a creek, moving fast and rising fast. It had only been an hour since the bus dropped us off.

Lenny started to tear up. “How will Mom get home, Edward? There’s cars being swept away!”

I grabbed his shoulders and looked at him. “She can spend the night at work and come home in the morning when the flood waters die down. She told us to stay in the house, and that’s what we’ll do.”

But already there was water pooling around our ankles. Brown, dirty water that was cold. I looked around, feeling the panic in my chest rise up like the water. I had to get Lenny to safety.

“C’mon; upstairs,” I told him as I grabbed his hand. We climbed and sat on the landing.

The next ten minutes were silent between us as we watched the water climb each step, like someone coming to get us.

I watched the movie Titanic one time with my mom. Have you seen that movie? There’s a part where the lower-class passengers are trapped on the lower decks while the waters rise, and the workers won’t unlock the gates to let them escape. Well, that’s how we felt. That ugly water was rising, and there was nowhere to go.

“Lenny?” I said.

Lenny looked at me with big, watery eyes. He wiped his nose with his shirt sleeve.

“We’re gonna have to go up into the attic. Remember when we used to play hide and seek up there? It’ll be just like that," I said.

He nodded, unable to speak.

I pulled on the string that opens the ceiling door and releases the old wooden stairs. Up, up, up we climbed. With each stair putting more distance between us and the water, I felt a bit better. Like I was a good big brother who knew what to do.

“The water keeps rising! Oh, Edward, why won’t it stop? Why won’t it stop?” Lenny said, distressed.

“It will be okay," I told him. "The water can’t keep rising forever." But it seemed to. It seemed like it wouldn't stop until it got to the highest heaven. I looked up.

“We have to get on the roof, Len. Help me find some furniture to make a ladder to the vent,” I said.

“The roof? No! The storm hasn’t stopped! What if we get struck by lighting!” Lenny argued desperately.

“We have no choice,” I said, trying to keep the panic out of my voice. Oh, how I wished Mom was here. How I wished anyone else was here so I would be free from making these terrible decisions.

Together we stacked a chair on top of a dresser and scrambled up the shifting tower. As I opened the vent in the ceiling, rain pelted our skin. Reluctantly, I pushed Lenny up out of the vent to stand on the roof, then I pulled myself up through it.

And Mrs. Limbaugh, I know you tell us to be descriptive in our writing, but I don't have many words for what I saw standing on the roof of my house. I'll try, though.

What I saw was ugly, powerful rapids washing away my world. My brother and I clung to each other, shaking as we watched trash cans, cars, trees, and life being swept away.

I want to stop here and tell you we were rescued. I want so badly to tell you we were both rescued because I made good decisions.

But I didn’t.

As the waters crept over the lip of our roof, I told Lenny to stand on the higher side to the right. Already the house was leaning, and my feet were in the water.

“Go to the point of the roof, up to the very top, Lenny!” I screamed at him through the driving rain.

Cautiously he went, continually turning around to look at me.

“Keep going!” I shouted, batting my arms.

And that’s when it happened.

Our house broke in two. The part I stood on remained on the foundation, while I watched Lenny get carried away. While I watched my only little brother swim with all his might back to me through the rushing water. While I watched his head go under. While I watched as the deep, dark flood waters ripped apart my world and drowned me with remorse.

I stayed on the roof. Why did I stay? Why did I not jump in after him?

Shivering and alone and filled with hatred for myself and Mother Nature, I saw a boat cutting through the water in the distance. I wondered if my brain was making it up. There were people with bright green clothes in it, and they made their way toward me when they saw me.

As I stepped into the arms of brave strangers, the only thing I could think was that Lenny should be the one on this boat, and I should be the one buried in the bitter, churning water.

Since then, I have not told my mom how we lost Lenny. She knows, of course, it’s because of the flood. But I have not told her I made Lenny stand on the edge that broke off. I have not told her I did not try to save him. I can’t.

Mrs. Limbaugh, there is no fear that I overcame that day. I let the fear swallow me whole, and I have paid the price of it each day I have lived that my brother hasn't.

But I will complete the essay prompt so you don't think you read this for nothing. What I overcame was the fear of keeping the story in, of nobody ever knowing the way Lenny died.

There is freedom in sharing a story that's been hiding deep down, like someone pulling the drain plug just when you thought the waters were going to consume you.