Waterlogged Innocence
Sarah Jane disappeared when I was seven years old. Today her body washed up on shore, as Lake Superior coughed up another of her dead. A sodden child in a tattered dress lays broken upon the sand. True to the frigid nature of the water, the corpse is quite recognizable; a fact that aggravates the discovery and the town is tossed into tumultuous grief all over again.
I remember the first time clearly.
The town mourned as one. Women gathered on corners while the men collected in the bars. Flyers were hung on every post, building, and parked car. Schools called in therapists for general assembly. Paranoia ran free in our little tourist town and children were no longer allowed to play unsupervised. That was the year innocence was lost, and my dad started locking the door at night.
Crying for justice, they mumbled prayers for Sarah Jane Preston, my childhood best friend. I was the last person to see her alive, playing down by the train tracks at the water’s edge that day. The late October afternoon was growing dark, and I wanted to go home. She didn’t. We fought briefly before I took my brother’s fishing gear and strode home to forget the whole thing. To forget about Sarah Jane. Until now.
Accompanied by the smell of thawing decay, the town gathers at the waterfront. I remember what happened as they look at me. In their eyes I see a strange blend of sympathy and a silent plea for answers.
Anxious, the gathering crowd pushes at each other for a better view. The scent of fear and curiosity intertwine and hang in the air around us. Some are too young to remember, others too old to forget. And here, at the front of the crowd is Mrs. Preston, a crumpled image of her former self. Ever positive, ever hopeful, she sits now with red-rimmed eyes and a slack jaw. My hand rests on her back in silent support, shaking in revelation rather than sympathy.
Police move away from the body briefly and the onlookers gasp in unison. Her flaccid gray skin is pockmarked with bits of decay. Her golden hair is all but gone; the few strands that remain are drained of color. An officer slips in the sand and jars little Sarah, causing her head to roll this way. Her empty eye sockets look at me, through me, and I straighten as if slapped.
I wonder whether or not DNA can survive twenty years in the cold depths of shipwrecks and sturgeons. I silently question if anyone else sees the small black marks around her neck, still evident after all these years. Do they realize they were made by the hands of a child. Do they remember I was the last to see her alive?
I recall that day like it was yesterday, and wonder if I smell like fear, or curiosity.