The Woman in the Pond--A Short Story

I used to see her often, back when I was too young to understand tragedy. She would emerge from the pond crowned in dragonflies, frogs buffering either side of her, deep blue dress tattered at the hem, pond grass tangled in her long, dark hair. She would walk up the steep hill towards the house, yet not once did her steps become uneven or ragged. It was as if the hill didn't exist at all. Up and up, closer and closer until she climbed up the back porch and waited for me beyond the screen door.

I would go outside when my parents were sleeping, and we would play by the pond. She would float above the water, summon fragile, cloudy bubbles in her withered, dripping hands hands and sling them at me. I would squeal and try to dodge them; but she was a good shot. Come morning, I was as soaked as if I'd swam in the pond instead of frolicked at its edges. I learned not to stay out once the sun turned the sky gold. Momma and Daddy would be stirring by then, and I had to run inside to change and towel dry my hair.

"We'll play again tomorrow!" I called to her once I'd made it to the back porch. I would wave at her. Not once did she wave at me, but I felt her watching me. As I turned, I heard the frogs returning to the pond, and the dragonflies began to drift over flowers that were as yellow as old, hard butter. I always made it back to bed just as Momma came to wake me for school.

We played this game for years and years until, one night, she did not come. I was thirteen and had just gotten my first period. I wondered if I did something wrong, if my first menses had frightened her away. I knew I felt different: breasts budding on my chest, hair where there used to be skin, arms and legs aching with growth. I felt as if I was transforming into a new creature, one too wizened for our usual, childhood game.

Then, she came to me one last time.

I went to the back door, and there she was. But now her hair, which had once always hung in her face, was pushed back and revealed a face gone sunken and skeletal. Her eyes were so blue, they frightened me, bloodshot and searching my face for something familiar. I never knew if she found it. I opened the door and stepped onto the porch; but she did not lead me to the pond for our game. Instead, she took my hand in one of her own, and I felt the slime of the pond, the bite of the bones as she clung to me as hard as she could, surprisingly strong for someone so frail.

She opened her mouth, and small moths drifted from between the gaps in her teeth. Her breath smelled of wet mold and things left to rot, of dirty water and mud.

"Remember me," she said. She touched my face and I shuddered at the coldness of her hand. "Remember me."

I didn't know what to say. I wanted to promise, tell her that I would never forget, couldn't forget. My voice lodged itself in my throat. I swallowed over and over, desperate to say something to the playmate that had once made my nights magical.

All I could say was, "Don't worry. I won't become you."

Not a promise of remembrance, but perhaps something that satisfied her still? For she retreated to the pond, and I never saw her again, thought I spent many nights looking and hoping for her damp procession.

I'm in my thirties now, and I think about her often, here in my apartment, far away from my childhood home. I wish she would come to me once more, just so I could show her what I've become. Would she be proud of me? Would she hate what she saw? I would tell her, "See? See? I left my mark. I left my mark."

And perhaps, just perhaps, that skinless face with its haunting eyes would look at me, and I would know that she was smiling.