In Bloom

by Paul Tremblay

From the apex of the Bourne Bridge, almost 150 feet above the Cape Cod Canal, the undulating, fluorescent-green water bullying the shores looks alive.

Even this summer, which will be the hottest on record, until next summer. Even with water temperatures in the ponds, saltwater riverways, and bays averaging more than ten degrees higher than they were fifteen years ago.

Dad’s name was James—never Jimmy. He’d get angry when anyone called him Jimmy, and not the joking, ironic kind of angry.

Perhaps like most stubborn men, he didn’t know how to admit to being wrong without foolishly feeling like he was negating himself and everything in which he believed.

I know my memory of this exchange has been colored, altered by time and circumstance, but it’s still how I remember it.

There was an overpowering, tangy smell, a room full of lilacs with none of the sweetness, though the smell was swampy too, the moldering of vegetation and sediment brined in vinegar.

At the shoreline, in the muck and mire, assorted players and fans were in what we called as kids a dogpile, and they roiled over and on top of each other, clutching, grabbing, flailing their arms, moaning, yelling gibberish, clicking their teeth to some secret rhythm I couldn’t quite latch on to. Two audible, breathless words bubbled up from within the tumult: help and please. I remember thinking yes, without thinking the word, if that makes sense.

Dad and I shared a look. I like to imagine we shared recognition, if not reconciliation. I fear the truth is, without me adding the weight of years and regret, what we shared was a blank look, a vast, terrible blankness that I long to forget someday.

I understood there would be no saving him, no saying goodbye. Still, despite everything, I wanted to join Dad. I wanted to join Dad and the creature. That’s why I followed.

Heidi has learned never to underestimate the mysteries of the whys, truths, and lies we tell each other.

There’s an oversweet, tangy smell like burning antifreeze, and she hopes it’s the car in front of her and not hers. Her mouth is dry, and a weird taste starts in the back of her throat. She regrets not having filled her water canteen at the café or eaten more than half her sandwich.