Writing Prompt - "Swimming Pool"

JAN 2020 – “Swimming Pool”

Liz has lived much of her younger years in this neighbourhood, and has passed this street more times than there are days in a year. The street is lined on both sides with similar-looking one-storey houses, apart from their colours and garden landscapes. Some of the kids in these houses went to her school, so they made it a habit to walk together in the mornings. All but one of them - the girl who lived in the house at the end of the street.

The house at the end of the street stuck out like a sore thumb; not because it was odd in appearance, but because it was much larger and built on elevated ground. Despite its size, the house seemed warm and inviting, never intimidating. It was painted in white - a humble choice, Liz thought - and the gates were carved with simple motifs.

Liz could not help herself but to peer into the white house every time she walked past. And there she would see it: the swimming pool, glistening in the morning sun. Sometimes she would catch leaves floating, especially during autumn when they shed the most. The pool was surrounded by neatly-trimmed grass, and a lawn chair sat next to it.

The pool would be put to use almost every weekend, by the girl who went to her school and a younger sibling of hers. She owned a duck-shaped buoy whereas her brother owned a giraffe-shaped buoy. They splashed about in the water on Sundays, and Liz would occasionally watch, wondering if she could ever join them.

"We could take you to the community pool if you wish," Mom once said after Liz mentioned the house and the pool to her. "It's fine," Liz replied, because it was not the act of swimming which Liz was interested in, but rather, that particular pool, that particular house, that particular family, that particular life. It was picture-perfect. Liz watched them with an odd sense of longing, not because she disliked her family - in fact, she adored them very much - but because what they had was different. More.

Looking back, the signs were surfacing but Liz was too young to notice them, much less process them. One summer, the girl from the white house came to school with a bruise on her left cheek. Her eyes were red and swollen. She was hunched over and spoke very little that day. She proceeded to speak less and less over the months. Liz was never really her friend, and it felt improper and presumptuous to intrude on her personal life. Liz never asked.

First it was the arguments between the parents. Liz could hear them from next door but she could not make out most of the words. Then again, in such situations, it mattered not the words which were being spoken, but the manner in which they were spoken.

Next came the absences. The girl started missing school more frequently, and when she did come, she looked like she didn’t have much life in her. Liz noticed it was not just the girl who was less sighted, but also the red Honda belonging to her father. Sometimes he would return home very late at night, sometimes not at all.

The breaking point was the day the father packed and left. It was quite a scene; difficult for Liz to watch, and far more difficult for the girl to be in. She and her brother stood by the door, with confused and sunken looks. Her mother was crying, bawling even, and begging on her knees. “Please don’t do this. Think of the kids. Please don’t leave.” The father did not spare them a glance. He had his mouth in a tight line, tossed a small luggage into the backseat of his Honda, and drove off. The mother helplessly watched him go, and went on crying for a few minutes. Eventually, she stopped, stood up, walked towards her house, looking much sadder than when she was crying.

Because Liz observed them often, she noticed the subtle changes within the household. The mother started serving lunch and dinner either late or infrequently. The lights were turned on during irregular hours, sometimes in the middle of the night. Liz imagined the mother rummaging the basement, unboxing boxes filled with mementos. The kids stopped swimming during the weekends. The pool was left alone, and eventually the leaves covered the surface of the water.

Liz was woken up one night by a commotion on the street. The view outside her window was all flashing lights and curious neighbours in pyjamas – the police were here. Specifically, the police were outside the white house. So were the ambulances. So were the ambulances. So were the ambulances.

The mother had drowned her kids. Out of sorrow, she drowned herself too. Their bodies were retrieved from the pool and carried away on stretchers, covered with cloths as white as their house. The house which so many dreamed of living in, now a husk of a tragedy.

Liz had recurring nightmares after the incident. She saw the three of them in her dreams – dead, blue, bloated. She saw them living, crying. She saw them living, laughing. Eventually it was too much for her to bear alone. Liz and her family moved away by the time she was eleven and she started seeking therapy the year after.

Liz went back after eight years. Nobody bought over the house, which was understandable. The grasses were overgrown, the paint was peeling off, the pool was empty. The house was no longer recognizable. Liz still thinks about the family from time to time; about what went wrong in their marriage, about how the kids never got to grow up the way she did, and about the father. She wondered if the father was ever consumed by guilt. She hoped the father was consumed by guilt.

Liz hopes the guilt chokes him. She hopes the guilt drowns him. She hopes he lives every day gasping for air. One day, he, too, will return to the waters. Only then will it be fair.