Wendy Swift

I’m driving home from my morning shift at the Red Dog Cafe and listening to the radio when I hear Kelly Clarkson is nominated for an Emmy. I remember how much I adored her music when I was in middle school, but now I cringe to hear her voice. It’s not so much her music I despise ― it’s what I am reminded of whenever I hear her sing.

I remember waking in a sweat that Sunday morning because the air was heavy with the unexpected heat of a spring day. It was late and I hurried to call Lucy so we could figure out a plan. Lucy was my best friend and I both envied and adored everything about her including her hair and the way Conor lavished her with attention. When we were in eighth grade, she wore her dark hair in one long braid and her blouses never seemed to fit quite right with a gap between her buttons flashing her school-girl white bra. It was no surprise Conor was obsessed with her, but it bothered me because I wanted Conor to want me, but back then I was too self-conscious to say anything.

It was Lucy’s idea to hike at Southford Falls. That was where kids went because the river gushed over boulders with twenty foot waterfalls forming gorges deep and wide enough to dive without hitting your head. I haven’t been back, but in early spring the river was swollen and the rocks were slippery so you had to be careful not to slide on your rear. My parents worried we would topple in and be carried away until we washed up along the banks of the Housatonic. I promised we were simply walking to the river to dip our toes. Anyway, it was too cold to swim despite the unseasonably warm forecast. They didn’t like the idea of us walking alone through the woods, even if it was a place where tons of kids hung out. Lucy came up with the brilliant idea to invite Conor because if our parents knew we were going with Conor, they would feel safe. She said, “Tell them Conor knows Southford Falls well because his family often picnics along the river.” My parents knew nothing about Conor’s wild spirit, how he rarely did homework and was barely passing eighth grade. They did know his father was a doctor and that was as much credibility as they needed. He was new to our school, and acted shy and quiet in class, but when we played four square, he cursed and said lewd things for a boy not yet fourteen. I suppose he knew this stuff because he had older sisters who talked about things they did with their boyfriends so they wouldn’t get pregnant. We didn’t know what a blowjob was, but we figured it was dirty. I liked Conor’s irreverent nature and snarky sense of humor. He made me laugh and that was important because my parents were the type who believed if I got a C, it portended rejection from the elite college I might one day want to attend. Their plans did not include a daughter who moves every six months waitressing or working as a cashier at Walgreen’s, flipping boyfriends like burgers along the way.

Lucy’s parents picked me up around noon and we drove to Conor’s place. We waited on the driveway while he rummaged through the garage looking for rope. Conor had told Lucy he would bring rope to tie to a limb so we could swing into the water. He knew just the spot. We wore bathing suits under our clothes, but still, I wasn’t sure how I felt about plunging into the icy river so early in the season.

After being dropped off, we hiked a dirt trail, careful not to trip over exposed roots of hickories and maples. In the distance we could heard the roar of the river and high pitched voices carried through the forest. Conor held the rope across his shoulders. Although the path was shaded, we were getting pretty warm as the temperature neared eighty. That’s when Conor told Lucy to take off her shirt so he could see her bathing suit but she refused. She told him she’d take it off when we got to the river, but he wouldn’t stop bothering her, saying things like, “you’re hot and I know you’ll feel better without your shirt.” He tried to flirt with her so she walked ahead, but then he commented on her shorts, how he could see her ass sticking out from under them. Lucy got annoyed and told him to stop acting like a jerk. You could tell he was hurt because he reached for her braid and tugged hard. She fell against his chest and he said, “Oh, Lucy, I knew you wanted me.” Lucy really tore into him then, saying he was an idiot and to stop or she would call her father to pick us up. And finally, to eliminate doubt, she snapped, “I don’t like you Conor, not like that. I like you as a friend ― so act like a friend and stop being a dick. Don’t you know I’m going out with Jake Addison?”

That was it. Nobody talked for like ten minutes. Whenever I think about those few minutes, I wish we had called Lucy’s dad. Finally, to break the silence I said, “Hey Conor, I’ll take my shirt off.” Lucy looked at me like I was out of my mind but Conor didn’t hear me because he sprinted towards the river. It looked like he was over it because he yelled to hurry. He found his secret spot where we could tie the rope swing. We chased after him and caught up when we found him in a clearing, beside the river where the water was dammed and swirled in a small dark pond. An oak towered with wide branches arching some fifteen feet above the chasm. I remember thinking how perfect it was. No one was around, the water looked deep and the branches were strong enough to support a rope swing.

Conor pointed to a solid branch overhanging the pond and announced that was the one. We watched him scramble up the tree, walking his sneakers along the grooved bark until he reached the limb where he stood on top and leaned against the trunk. He made a double knot and dangled that end over the water, wrapping the other end around the limb, finishing it with a strong knot to hold our weight. Extra rope draped atop the branch. I think about those knots, how the rope was neatly wound and tucked, tight and secure. Too bad we didn't have a knife with us like the little pocket one I now keep close in my purse.

“Hey, look at me,” Conor shouted from his perch. And, like a tight rope artist, he started dancing on the limb, picking up the rope’s unknotted end in his right hand. He swayed his hips and held the rope to his mouth as if it were a microphone. Lucy laughed and pulled out her phone so she could take pictures of him balancing on the branch. I blasted music from my phone ― Kelly Clarkson because I loved her song, “Since You’ve Been Gone.” He was hilarious strutting on the branch, lip syncing “I can breathe for the first time, I’m so moving on…” Lucy must have taken fifty pics of Conor experimenting with different poses. But when the song stopped and he waited for me to pick another, he started playing with the rope. He flipped the end around his neck and crossed it over and under a loop until he made a slip knot, positioned at the center of his sternum.

I can still see him now, shouting, “Look at me now, I’m a boy scout! Bet you guys can’t make a slip knot.” Lucy suggested he hold it up. She thought it would be funny to take a shot of Conor posing for a mock hanging. Always wanting to please Lucy, he lifted his right arm and held the knot above his head and marched along the limb. We took pics and stupidly encouraged him to walk backwards. And he did exactly what we told him to do, but after he took a few steps, he lost his balance and fell sideways with the slip knot tightening around his throat.

He tried to grasp the branch, but he was under it, too far to reach the limb from which the rope hung and it was choking him. He dangled, struggling to catch hold of the rope. He clawed at the knot around his neck. I remember screaming at him to stop, as if this was another prank to get our attention. I tried to grab his feet, but he was hanging over the water where the ground sharply dropped. Lucy climbed the tree, flip flops falling from her feet as she traced the steps Conor had taken moments before. When she finally made her way to the limb, she sprawled across the branch and held her arms towards Conor, trying to catch hold of his body. She couldn't. His body was spinning. She tried to unknot the rope but Conor had done too good a job of securing it strongly. She tugged at the knot but it wouldn’t loosen. She pulled on the rope to raise him toward her, but because it was a slip knot, she tightened it further around his neck. I screamed at her to stop and she did. Conor continued to jerk and gasp.

I couldn't stand there watching him twisting and flailing. I was thirteen. How could a thirteen-year-old watch the boy she loved die. Maybe I could have climbed on the branch with Lucy and together we could have jumped on it hard to make it break. That’s one possibility I’ve thought about. But I didn't and that probably wouldn’t have worked. After all, the limb was solid ― carefully chosen by Conor to support our weight so we could swing from it. I didn't stay to watch or help. Instead I ran ― from the tree, from Conor hanging, from Lucy’s desperate attempt to save his life. I turned and ran, tripping over roots and rocks. Like a coward, I ran.

I turn off the radio as I pull into my apartment complex. After throwing my bag on the couch, I flip open my laptop. I want to find Lucy. I need to see how she turned out after all these years. I imagine or maybe hope, she’s gone full-on punk, cutting her hair and dying it pink or maybe she’s a religious fanatic who says stuff like “let go, let God.” There she is on Facebook― a mom, which is weird. She has a baby named Ethan. He’s a sweet looking two-year-old, blond as sand with a dimpled smile. I can’t believe she’s a mother. I will never be a mother. How can I be responsible for another life when I can barely manage my own? She married Jake and I guess that makes sense. They’ve been in love since eighth grade, so maybe having a baby at twenty-six works. She looks good, older of course, with hair cut to her shoulders, snuggling with baby Ethan in almost every shot. It makes me feel a little sick. If I'm honest, it makes me angry, but I try not to react, at least not in the moment. I guess I’m getting better like that.