Undertow

 

Charcoal gray clouds moved low across the sky that Saturday morning but my two best friends banged on my front door at 8am anyway. Out of the group of three, I lived closest to the beach so I was always the last stop. From the comfort of my bed, I heard my mom open the front door downstairs and greet Keri and Theresa. Then I heard footsteps pounding up the stairs. Theresa went straight to my bathroom to grab my one piece bathing suit off the hook where it usually hung, and Keri went directly to me. Even though my eyes were shut tight and my blanket was tucked up cozily to my neck, Keri grabbed me with both hands and rolled me back and forth anyway, until I surrendered. 

"I'm awake, okay, okay!" 

I put on my bathing suit, a coverup, and grabbed a towel and sun protection and off we went while I still wiped the sleep away from my eyes.

It would take us just five minutes to walk to the ocean from my house. We were eighteen at the time and although all three of us had cars, in the small sleepy beach town where we lived, we walked or biked everywhere. The sound of the ocean could be heard from all corners of the town. That was something I relied upon when my anxieties ran high. The constant sound of the ocean soothed me.

When my friends and I arrived at the beach, I was the one who couldn't wait to get into the water first. It was always that way. While they sunbathed, working on their tans, I would smother myself in 25 SPF sunscreen and run straight for the shoreline. I'd jump head first into the rolling waves that were barreling toward the shore. I was addicted to it. I heard a rhythmic strumming. Music filled my ears each time I dove into the ocean. I would hold my breath and stay under water as long as possible, trying to hear every note. 

So after a few hours at the beach, when Keri yelled at me from shore to tell me that she and Theresa were hungry and leaving to get something to eat, I yelled back that I was staying.  

They left while I continued jumping over the waves dolphin-style. But when I popped my head out of the water and looked toward the shore, it was smaller and further away than it had been just a few minutes earlier. I was too wrapped up in my own world to notice the strong undertow had insidiously pulled me out to the deep. The closest people I could see were just small lines on a distant beach.

“Help!” I yelled but the sound dissolved within the roar of ocean and wind.

My legs became weights pulling me down and I could no longer touch the ocean floor. I lifted my arms above my head hoping to attract attention, but that only caused my body to slip further underneath, into the fast-moving water.

When my head bobbed up, I could see though, in the distance, that the lifeguard on duty, with life vest in hand, was looking in my direction. 

“Help” I tried to yell again, only this time it came out garbled and I swallowed salty water, hard.

 After what seemed like endless bobbing up and down, into and out of the waves, and  trying to swim against the undertow, the lifeguard reached me. He grabbed me and pulled me up in one swift move into some kind of boat. I only realized once in, that the boat was actually a canoe. 

“You’re okay now.” He said as I continued to sputter and cough.

And as far away as the beach was, it seemed to take him only a few swift circles of the paddles before the canoe hit the shore and he was giving me fresh water to drink. He told me that since he saved my life, according to some Eastern philosophies, that means he's responsible for me forever.

 

That's the day I fell for Joe.

I'd seen Joe at the beach before and we often greeted each other with a nod or wave but now I saw him with fresh eyes. His gaze penetrated my being. I felt he could see me in a way nobody else could, all my vulnerabilities, every anxious thought. About a month later we moved in together because he was protective of me and with him I felt safe. He kept tabs on where I went at all times. He'd have a hand on me whenever we walked together. Whether he held my shoulders from behind or my arm from the side, he guided me and led the way so I didn't have to. Sometimes I even spotted finger sized bruises on my forearm leftover from his grasp. 

Danger suddenly seemed to be around every corner, and one wrong move could ruin a life forever. I stopped going to the store alone. I double and triple checked oven knobs and light switches every time I left the house. I began needing a night light to help me sleep. I definitely didn't go to the beach anymore. I depended on Joe to shield me from all life's risks. At first.

Ocean dwellers know that turbulent tides can kick up the sand, dulling visibility, and tossing swimmers upside down, causing them to lose track of which way is up. This sense of disorientation started happening to me but outside of the water. I kept trying to come up for air but swimming deeper into the water instead. I thought I needed Joe there to protect me but that was all about to change.

It started with the phone. 

I began to dread the ring of my cell phone because every time I heard it, I would soon hear Joe demanding to know who was calling me. At first I thought his motive was to protect me, but soon he started disbelieving my answers. “Who were you talking to really?” He'd always say in a singsong whisper that sounded more like a threat. "Who were you talking to really?"

Keri and Theresa would come to my house every Wednesday and we'd choose a different recipe each time to cook. We'd been doing this since junior high school and rarely missed a Wednesday in all that time. I thought Joe would be happy because he told me he wanted more home cooked meals. Afterwards, though, when my friends left the house to go home, I could see Joe's eyes squinting and his face shaded scarlet. 

"What did they say about me?" He'd order me to tell him every detail of every converation we'd had.

After a while he flat out forbade me to invite them over. They'd call me and want to know why I kept skipping out on our Wednesdays. I just couldn't tell them the truth and eventually they stopped calling me completely. 

During the holidays, Joe planned trips out of town for just the two of us. My mom called me crying, asking me why the family couldn't see me for Thanksgiving or for Christmas. She had hardly seen me at all since I moved in with Joe and she missed me. I couldn't tell her it was Joe's idea because I desperately wanted her to like him. And I couldn't convince Joe to cancel the trips in order to spend the holidays with my parents. I had to go along with what he wanted. If I didn't, he would throw plates against the wall, or tell me I didn't care about anybody but myself. In fact, he said that so many times I believed him after a while. I was the most selfish girl in town according to him.

Here's the thing though, I actually enjoyed those out of town trips. He and I went to a mountain cabin and celebrated Christmas with champagne and my favorite chocolates. We didn't fight or argue at all.

Also, when I was sick with the flu and confined to bed, I felt helpless and gross, he told me that I was beautiful to him no matter what. He took care of me, feeding me chicken soup that he made himself and taking off work so he could cater to me.

Five months after we moved in together, he proposed marriage to me. He had taken me to our favorite Greek restaurant. Everybody in the entire place knew what was happening as he got down on one knee and presented me with the ring. He said he'd never met anybody like me before and that the day he saved me at the beach was the best day of his life. My answer to his proposal was yes. I said yes before he could change his mind about me. I said yes because I was 18 years old. I said yes because I was scared of everything but that day I felt safe. I said yes.

At first marriage changed Joe. While he still didn't like people coming over to the house, his temper decreased. I changed also. I started making homemade dinners every night, which put him in a good mood. We had date nights once a week and would usually go see a movie, his choice then my choice, we'd alternate weekly. We even started talking about when we would be ready to start a family. 

But exactly one year after we were married, everything changed. It was our first anniversary. We had just come home after eating dinner at that favorite Greek restaurant where Joe had proposed. I was joking around and told him if he wasn’t careful I would leave him. I was kidding though. Of course I was. I was even laughing when I said it. We were joking up until that point. He was teasing me first, telling me that I’d put on a few pounds so I teased him back. That’s all.

His brown eyes turned to black stones, his forehead crinkled with heavy lines. I thought he was just pretending to be mad. I gave him the slightest of shoves and said, “Come on!” And before I could blink he hauled off and punched me in the left eye. I saw floating shapes for a split second until I shook my head. Then he punched me again in the same eye. I fell to my knees this time and looked down at the floor. I covered my head with my hands, shielding my face from more possible punches. My heart pounded like a drum. Something about the quickness of my beating heart made me cry, it was as if the heart beat were coming from somebody else, somewhere far away. I could hear Joe stomping his way around the apartment, knocking things over, punching walls and doors, breaking things. I wiped my eyes and crouched down in a corner, staying as quiet and still as I ever had in my life. He approached me anyway and I shielded my head with my hands. “You should be more careful about what you say next time,” he said. 

Next time.

Next time turned out to be two weeks later when I burned the pot roast. I hadn't been paying attention to it. I was watching a tennis tournament on television and my favorite player was winning. By the time I took the roast out of the oven it was inedible. Joe had just arrived home from work and said he was starving. He walked into the kitchen and when he realized I'd ruined dinner he grabbed the plate with the burnt food and threw it at the wall right next to me. Shards of plate and goopy meat flew into my hair and onto my clothes. I tried to escape to the bedroom but Joe blocked my path. 

"Where do you think you're going, I'm not done with you yet." He yanked my arm toward him and I tripped and my other arm flung into his body as I fell forward. "What? You're trying to fight me now?" he said. and twisted the offending arm backwards until I thought it would break. I tried to shake my head and explain it was an accident, but he backhanded me in my jaw. At that moment he let go of me and I took the chance to run to the bathroom and lock the door. I could hear him ranting from the living room about how I was misery to all who knew me and how he had never lost his temper before he met me. He was yelling that I was not cut out to be a wife and I was lucky that he had chosen me but he was getting ready to leave me because I wasn't worth it.

In the quiet that always followed a fight, I used to wonder what if Joe had just let me drown that day at the beach. The undertow would have pulled me out past the point of no return. My legs would have tired from treading water and trying to swim against the riptide. My head would start staying under longer and longer and the salt water would eventually enter my mouth. I’d spit it out when I bobbed up. However, the time would come when my head could no longer rise above the water’s edge. Underwater after holding my breath for so long, I would have to gasp reflexively and inhale water which would make my lungs feel like they were exploding. After just a few minutes all would go black. The music would end. In those days I often thought that would have been the better outcome.

Domestic violence is a neverending circle. Here's Joe shoving me on the ground for making soup he doesn't like. Then here's Joe sending me flowers at work to apologize. All that time, I thought my behavior was the problem. If only I acted a certain way, then all would be safe and happy. 

Then one day, Joe surprised me by saying he didn't mind if I got a cat. I went to the pound. An 8-year-old orange striped cat won my heart. His name was Tom and he had belonged to an elderly woman who had recently died and now he needed a home so I adopted him. 

I longed to give this cat a peaceful place to live out the rest of his days but every time Joe raised his voice to me, the cat ran under the bed to hide. This cat who lived a calm life for eight years was now being terrorized by Joe's unpredictable rages. That's when instead of seeing Joe as a work in progress, I finally started seeing him as a monster who scared and scarred the vulnerable. I heard the heartbeat of somebody else outside of me. The cat and I moved out. I found the courage to file for divorce.

Today, years later, I still live in the same sleepy beach town, although all my friends have moved to bigger cities, and Joe is long gone. I still visit the ocean every so often to listen to the strumming of music underneath the water. I never take my eyes off the beach for too long though because if you aren't careful, the ocean's pull can topple you, turn you over, leaving you alone and stranded, too far from the shore, and not knowing which way is up. I vow I'll never get pulled out by the undertow again.