The Passage

It’s a bit of a windy place, here on the lake. I place one hand on top of my hat that has been threatening to twirl off in the breeze for the past half hour. In front of me, I can see the dim shoreline of where I’m heading. I can see the shapes of the tallest trees and buildings, but besides that everything is a blur. The tops seem to blend into the orange sky, like my vision is a watercolor painter, getting a drop of water and spreading the colors perfectly messily.

I turn around and drop my hands on the railing lining the outside of the boat. I can see nothing from where I’m coming from. This lake seems like an expanse of time, rather than a place. There is nothing worth noting besides the future slowly approaching in front of me.

I stare out into the sea for a long while, as the boat chugs along. The woman driving the boat never seems to want to talk, but her occasional glances back to check on me fill me with contentment. She’s such an old woman, probably too old to be driving a boat to and from different places every day, but I doubt there is anything else she likes more in the world. Maybe if I were a sailor I’d be simpler and happier as well.

The woman’s gaze seers into the back of my head, so I turn around after one last glance at the orange and black and blue sea rippling behind us. She gives me a quick nod, then looks forward again. Her light head is contrasted weirdly against the dark of the land before us. I feel a shiver run down my spine.

The old woman pulls in the boat gently and precisely. After she finishes steadying the boat to the dock with a dirty old rope, I take a grand step onto the pier. I take a step back to look at the clear picture of the woman in the boat; it’s something I would want to paint sometime. The lady nods at me.

“Thank you!” I shout back, against the light, but noisy breeze. She goes to untie the boat, and I lean down to fix my shoelaces. My hat suddenly goes flying off into the breeze, twirling around like a ballerina until it glides into the water, a few feet away from the edge of her boat. The woman stops and looks back up at me.

A laugh shoots out of my chest. “No worries!” I say, waving my hand in dismissal. No worries at all, I think. There’s nothing to fear at all.

Joseph’s house is not far away, I believe. Either way, I stop by the old grey building by the edge of the beach first. I cautiously enter. The darkness of this building gives a gross contrast against the orange light shining outside. Somehow, just the presence of this building is very ominous, very concerning.

I find the toilets and enter the second stall – always the second, never the first – and stand for a second. Freezing cold anxiety flutters down my chest, then my arms, then my legs. I wish I wasn’t here at all. I’d much rather be at home, at my warm home with my brothers and my mother and my father, all there to take care of me. Nothing to ever change, nothing ever wanting to change from the bliss we all carry ourselves in.

When I glance in my underwear, there is blood.

I don’t know what this means. I’ve never been to the doctor’s for this before. I turn around and vomit, falling to my knees. This isn’t supposed to happen anymore is it? This isn’t supposed—

A strong gust of wind stirs me out of my thoughts and pushes away the feeling in my stomach. I rush out of the bathroom, rubbing my arm across my mouth, scrubbing my hands as fast as possible, and run back into the orange sunlight. Everything is okay again. Nothing was ever wrong in the first place.

I smooth down my nice pink dress, and fix my shoelaces for a second time, unconsciously stalling for my own arrival. I am afraid to see Joseph, the holy Joseph, and his family. One of the holiest names there are, and it has to belong to the man who belongs to me. Who, I presume, I belong to as well.

I give one last glance at the sea, who seems to be pushing me towards the inevitable. I give it a quick nod, and lightly, very lightly, jog over to his home.

Normally, I would stand at someone’s door before knocking, questioning myself for a minute or two whether or not this is really their house. Stalling again, probably. But I know from the first glance this is his home. It has a strange yellow exterior. It’s shaped like those vacation homes in Mexico or California, much different from how I would expect it to appear. But still, very much Joseph, very much how he describes his family. You know, the type of people who stress and work so much, but feel the need to always pretend to be calm and living the type of vacation lifestyle you see on television. It sets an uncomfortable feeling in my chest, but I ring the doorbell nonetheless.

An older man appears in the doorway just a moment later. He has just a grey tee-shirt on and worn blue shorts. His ocean-blue eyes offset the balding gray hair on top of his head. He looks at me plainly, somewhat threateningly, so I launch into greetings.

“Hello, nice to meet you!” I blurt out, taking a small bow. I internally slap myself for bowing to the man, then stick my hand out. “Penelope.”

He takes my hand slowly, then shakes it, just a bit too firm for my small hands. “Paul. Come on in.”

I walk in, kicking off my shoes clumsily by the front door. “Another holy name, huh?”

“What?” he says, glaring down at me. His mustache wiggles just a bit when he talks and it makes me want to giggle nervously.

“Nothing.”

I follow the man – Paul – down his hallway. There is nothing on the walls besides more yellow paint, and nothing anywhere else either, besides a thin, orange rug running down the hallway.

A light shines through the end of the hallway. It connects to a much grander room with a large table and a more modest chandelier hanging lonelily on the ceiling. The glass doors in the back of the dining room are wide open, letting the sun burst into it like an overly excited guest.

I smile at the blinding sun, then at Joseph, who appears in front of me in just a moment. He kisses my cheek, and I let him, still grinning at the happy light flooding the room.

He takes my chin and turns my face towards him. “Where’s the little hat you were going to wear?” he asks sweetly.

I wrap my arms around his middle and look up at him. “Ah, I did wear it, but it fell off into the water when I got off the boat.”

He leans down to kiss me, but I turn so he only gets my cheek again. The memory of me throwing up just minutes before feels odd in this nice, though worrying, setting. “We can get you a new one this weekend.”

I go to respond when a voice from outside calls my name.

I release Joseph from my hold and go to walk out when he grabs my arm. “Wait, Penelope, I have something to tell you.”

I turn back and nod. “What is it?”

His eyes are big and blue and worried. I can feel my eyebrows furrow closer together, making that crease between them that he always rubs when I am anxious. He doesn’t do it now though. He leans forward, just inches away from my face.

“I’m sorry, but I—I had to—”

“Penelope!” his father shouts from the doorway. “Come!”

I come obediently and wait in the doorway with him. He gestures grandly out into the backyard. “This is the family.”

Out back is a field of green, soft grass, snuggled under the toes of men and women of varying ages. I see two younger women, presumably his sisters, two pairs of older people, and a couple random family members that I can’t seem to sort in my head. Joseph’s father lazily points at each family member, saying names I won’t remember just a few minutes later.

I smile to each one of them as nicely as I can, and anxiously smooth down my dress again. I wish my hat hadn’t fallen off. It’s much easier to hide in a hat, to avoid others’ wondering eyes.

I dip my eyes down awkwardly after a moment of silence. Joseph appears behind me—I can feel him smiling behind my back.

“Come sit with us, honey!”

I look up and one of the old women is smiling, waving me over. I smile back and head over, grateful for the end of my pathetic performance.

“Oh, hello Penelope, how are you!” the woman asks, patting the seat next to her. “It’s a beautiful day, innit? Perfect day for you to come over to see us all!”

I agree and sit down on the chair gently, resting my fists on the glass table in front of me. The colorful umbrella above our heads casts nice light down on us; the orange falling on me, red on the woman next to me, and yellow on Joseph, who has just arrived. He instantly puts his hand over mine, relaxing my fist into a regular position. The position of a calm, young woman, one who hadn’t felt like she was going to die from fear just minutes prior.

The old woman, Joseph’s grandmother, I think, turns back to me and smiles again. “So how did you meet my sweet Joseph, honey? Is he treating you alright?”

“Ma, of course I am!” Joseph interjects. “She loves being with me, right?” he says, looking down at me as I turn back around.

I smile up at him yet again. What a pretty boy, I think. His blue eyes are like God Himself has captured the roaring waves beneath his pupils. What a wonderful, dark, powerful color.

There is a cry for food, and everyone around gets up and piles to the table by the house. Joseph takes my hand and leads me there. “Everything will be alright,” he whispers, “There’s nothing to worry about, so just relax and enjoy.”

I can feel the slight edge in his voice, like he’d rather me be saying this to him right now. I look up at him, but his eyes are already preoccupied with something else.

After we get food, I settle back down into my seat. The sun has set a bit, tinging the sky slightly darker. It feels like no time has passed, but all the time in the world has gone by at the same time.

The grandmother speaks very loudly, but I like her loud voice. If I could have anyone’s personality, I think it would be hers. She seems to bold, but sweet, and honest. I am only sweet, of those things. I lie to preserve feelings, I am too weak to tell the truth. The weight of this bows down my shoulders.

“I love you,” Joseph whispers in my ear.

“I love you too.”

His grandfather, who is seated across from me, gets up, grumbling to himself. I giggle at his strange demeanor and turn to the woman next to me.

“Is that your husband?” I ask.

She clucks her tongue. “That fool? Not anymore. We divorced a long time ago now.”

I feel my arms tense. “Oh, I’m sorry for asking. I didn’t know—”

“Wine!” her ex-husband shouts abruptly, making me jump in surprise. Everybody is suddenly looking over at our table; the new girl and the crazy old man.

He shoves a bottle opener into the cork, and yanks it out, causing some to go flying in his direction. He laughs loudly and pours into his empty cup.

“Jesus, Will, you already act like you’re drunk. What do you need alcohol for?”

“Oh, shut up,” he replies, pouring the glistening golden liquid into her cup as well.

He looks at me suddenly with powerfully dark eyes. “You as well?” he asks, much quieter than before.

I laugh lightly, awkwardly. “None for me, thank you.”

He ignores me, starting to fill my glass.

“Really, I’m good,” I say, starting to pull my glass back. Again, he ignores me. The wine approaches the top of the glass.

“Damn it, Will, don’t give her any; she’s pregnant!”

I suck in my breath and instinctively grab Joseph’s hand. The chatter from nearby tables ceases immediately.

I start to speak, but stop. The silence of everything interrupts me.

Everything is suddenly rushing around. Everyone is yelling and moving and pushing and I just sit in my seat, trying to breathe. Trying to force the air in my lungs to work, to go out and in like I need it to.

Joseph is standing next to me. His knuckles are white with his strong grip on the edge of my seat. I never say him as the strong type. “It’s not your kid, Dad! Leave it alone!”

“You’re nineteen, how are you going to take care of a child!” I hear in response. “You had a life before her,” he screams.

The feeling I had earlier in the restroom returns. The feeling of explosion, chaos, confusion. I stand up and look to the sky. The sky is red now, the air smells of gunpowder.

I press a hand to my stomach. I don’t even know if there’s anyone in there, I think. So why are they all so angry?

Suddenly, Joseph is pushed backwards into me, and I catch him under his arms. He turns back and presses his hand on my neck. “I’m so sorry, Penelope. I’m so sorry, please—”

I can feel him talking, but not his words. Instead, I am calm, focusing on the smell of gunpowder, the bloody sky above my head. The contrast of this feeling to this setting disgusts me. How can people pretend to be in paradise, when they cause their own pain? How can they be so fortunate, but so undeserving?

I step back, away from the people yelling. No one comes to see me, to look at me at all. I am the problem, but no one is coming to solve me. I am so significant and chaotic, but I am the only one not engaging in this brawl. I am so sweet and kind, but I am the breaking apart of this family.

I will myself to listen to them, but only hear individual words. College, baby, education, women, unfair, enough, money—

Father.

Joseph’s feeling towards that word is palpable. I can feel the static from his emotions, his confusing, swirling emotions, tingle my skin. I rub down my goose bumps.

He looks at me once more from the crowd, this time with a gaze of confusion rather than pity or love.

Pity or love. Those are the same things to this boy.

Our baby would be raised on pity and grooming, like a sad doll. Put makeup on her and set her up in her little doll house. Pretend she’s happy, make her feel as if she is happy, though she really isn’t. She doesn’t even know herself. This is his whole world. Pretending to be something you’re not. Imagine that, a sad boy raising a sad child, trying to paint a smile on his face though he’s never had a real one for himself. Something that he has always wanted, something that he will always want.

He is my doll and I am his. We were only raised to be objects for one another’s enjoyment.

If there is one thing I would want for this child, it would be to be as far away from that as possible.

I am running, sprinting away from this house. No one notices, because the anger has taken back the status of doll-baby, and into pure selfishness. I crave for someone to hear me, to wait for them to open their mouths so I can shove myself down their throats. Regardless of my own opinion, everyone there was wrong. Wrong to be so loud, so angry, so forceful so…

So unlike myself.

As I’m running, the sun suddenly pulls itself down, hiding from the things it has created. How a mother looks at her son, hiding from him and his lies and secrets as he grows old.

The smell of gunpowder grows, and I can practically feel it on my hot, wet skin. I can feel it, something isn’t right. This world, it seems to be on the brink, about to dissolve into itself, or explode into bits of nothingness. The stench of gasoline fills my nostrils, and I cover my mouth and nose against it.

I rush into the grey, stone building, standing cold and unforgiving in the slowly dimming light. It is always there, cold, but somehow still guiding and deep down wondering about how you are. Like a father, the father of any doll. The husband to a white-faced, red-lipped doll-maker.

I slam the door behind me and follow the slim trail of sunlight into the next room. I can still smell it in here, but I feel safer. After entering every room, I slam the door behind me, again and again. I get deeper and deeper into the maze of this building before I settle down into a small room, somewhere in the back of it all, I’m guessing. I press my head into my knees and wait. I can feel the explosion coming. It reminds me of pictures of Japan after the atom bomb, the black and white photos I saw in books at school. The silhouettes of people disintegrated by the light.

The tension rises in the atmosphere, like the buildup of an adrenaline rush or an orgasm. Almost there, nearly there, nearly to the end. I press myself into my legs and—I can’t take it anymore.

I reach out and open the door next to me, letting the light shine through the opening—

I take a gasp of air in, filling my lungs with ocean air. I’m on the boat again, the sky orange in front of my face. I sit up slowly, rubbing my temples with slim fingers.

In the front of the boat is an old man. The rational half of my brain wonders if this is the old woman’s brother or husband, but the other half of me knows it is not. I stand up slowly and pick up my hat from the bench along the edge of the small boat. I press it onto my head and go to stand next to the man. In front of us is nothing, no shoreline waiting for our arrival. Behind us is nothing, just empty water. I lean over the railing and look down into the lake, the ocean, the sea.

“I bet it goes down endlessly, huh?” I say quietly, looking over at the old man.

He doesn’t look back at me, but nods silently.