I walk the river tonight. It always makes me think of Elsie. The river walk was very different when we were young. Tonight, its warm, and the breeze is up, and I let my mind wander where it shouldn’t.
Elsie died when I was 15. She was the little sister everyone imagines when little sisters are brought up. Sweet
and sour, fun, annoying, with the energy of a thousand whirlwinds tucked into a ponytail and red cheeks. She was 7.
We grew up in a small farming town, and our tiny, unsuccessful plot was on the edge of town and the edge of a small river. When the weather went cold, the river froze, and the punishments grew meaner. My father had a special one he doled out if he felt we put a toe out of line. He would say, “Emma…Elsie…I got to make you walk the river…”. It was usually both of us like that, shuffling on the frozen water, afraid we would hear a crack and the punishment would be done for good. Sometimes it was only one of us who had angered him, our worn coat pulled tight, no hat, shivering and duck walking until he was satisfied we had learned our lesson.
Elsie, being young, hadn’t yet fostered the full-on hate that burned inside me, but she believed me when I
told her I would get us somewhere better, somewhere warmer, if it was the last thing I did. She kept the secret as I took a few coins here, a dollar there, from the pants pockets, purses, wallets left around when they were sleeping. I kept a small bag packed for each of us, hidden behind boxes in my closet, that I filled and emptied over and over to avoid suspicion. In my head, I wanted to be ready when I gathered enough money, or when it got so bad I couldn’t stand it anymore.
It was a bitter February day, and Elsie had a half day of school. She had gotten home before me, and must have been acting like a kid, doing something that angered my father. He decided she needed to walk the river. A warm couple of days the week before had worked its magic on the ice, and it wasn’t as strong as it needed to be to hold up her small body. By the time I got home, the house was in full swing – police, ambulance, one lone fire truck. I got the news in flashes and phrases. She was punished. She fell through. By the time my dad noticed, he couldn’t find her. The firemen found her body and tried to resuscitate her. She was blue, rigid, beyond rescue. One policeman with a sad and kind face told me to get a bag packed, child protective would be picking me up soon. My father was led away in handcuffs, his face a blank of confusion, while my mother wrung her hands in the kitchen.
I didn’t cry. I didn’t take the time until later. I went upstairs, grabbed the bag I had packed, and Elsie’s bag as well. I took the money I had scraped together and fled out the back door. I didn’t look back.
I made it to the warmer place. No one ever looked for me, as far as I know. I live like this, small jobs, small
towns, small apartments. I live where its warm. I hold her small bag of belongings close, the one picture I have of her. I walk along the river almost every night, and the memories are knives. We should have left sooner. I didn’t protect her.
Now I fill my pockets with stones, then take them out again. I decide that tonight isn’t the night to join her.
I walk the river back home.