Sarah Mitchell Short Story

BATHWATER

By Sarah Mitchell

I am standing in the kitchen, kneading dough. December sunlight pours through the window onto the floor, staining the white tiles gold. Outside, the wind promises cold weather yet to come, but the dough warms my hands.

Upstairs, I hear the sounds of my son waking, and I follow his footsteps through the ceiling as he stumbles from his bed to the bath. Tom is eighteen, nearly a man. Nearly the man his father was. Carl, my husband, drowned in the North Atlantic, years ago. Tom was very young at the time, and has few memories of his father. I wish I could say the same. I remember Carl, with his green eyes, and brown hair and his large hands.

A quiet splash tells me Tom has entered the water. He loves water almost as much as his father does. Did. I remember one afternoon, before Tom was born, Carl and I drove down to the west shore of the lake. We walked along the beach, talking of nothing and later fell asleep on a blanket under the dunes. We awoke to find the shoreline dark and empty, and Carl pulled off his clothes and dove into the water. I watched from the shore as he swam, moonlight glittering on the water around him. I stood and watched as he emerged from the lake, dripping liquid silver, his body gleaming and smooth.

Water swirls down the drain. I imagine Tom stepping out of the bath, naked and shivering. Would he look like Carl? Would he have Carl’s shoulders, his legs? Would he... I wrench my thoughts away. This is your son, I remind myself. Your son.

Tom appears in the kitchen, his hair disarrayed, and his ears still damp. Sunlight plays on his face and hands. I force my eyes back to the table, concentrating on the dough.

“Where are you going today?” I ask. Tom shrugs. He reaches up and runs a hand through his brown hair.

I remember the feel of Carl’s hair, how smooth and glossy it was beneath my fingers. My fingers move to touch Tom’s hair, but I restrain myself. He doesn’t notice.

“I’m going out,” says Tom, reaching for his blue jacket hanging on the chair. I am suddenly bold.

“It’s too cold. Take the brown jacket.” Tom turns to look at me.

“But that’s Father’s.”

“It’s no use to anyone sitting in that musty old cupboard. Take it.” My son hesitates, then opens the cupboard and brings out the coat. He shrugs into it, and I watch as Tom walks towards the door.

My son vanishes. For one moment, Carl is back. I wait for him to turn and see me, but instead he opens the door and vanishes into the sunlight.

Author's Bio: Sarah Mitchell is writer and student living in Montreal, Quebec. She has published in Radix magazine and several other campus publications. Originally from rural Southern Ontario, she is currently working towards a BA in Creative Writing at Concordia University.