A Walk With Aleesa

While away from school, I consumed much of my free time with the girl next door. She was my age and the proximity of our homes promoted an almost obligatory friendship. But Aleesa and her family were quite different from my own.

Aleesa’s family was wholly wealthy. Aleesa had that one doll that I asked for continuously. Aleesa had that car that kids can actually drive around, with a motor and a battery. Aleesa had everything she wanted without regard to essentiality. Her parents had an updated car annually, while we drove the same one, the wagonie, we called it, for years. The wagonie was one of those ancient, boxlike, three-mile-long station wagons. You know, those ones that sometimes have the false wood paneling on the sides. Yes, really, one of those. That was our vehicle, until a trailer truck ran it over while my dad was driving it home, one night. Thankfully he wasn’t injured, but sadly, the wagonie didn’t survive. So we proceeded on to the next acquired car, while Aleesa’s parents bought themselves another. Despite their assets, it wasn’t only the money that made me want to be her. Aleesa had a family.

It consisted of she and her younger brother, her mom and dad, two cats and a dog. Her mom stayed at home to cook and housekeep and of course cart Aleesa and her brother to wherever they needed to be carted. It was dance class, music lessons, basketball, tee-ball, soccer, swimming lessons, and any and every other extra activity which might promote Aleesa or her brother’s status above that of their peers and could be slammed or smashed into the already overstuffed schedule.

I couldn’t see then what I do now, that their marriage probably wasn’t the healthiest, and that that little girl who I envied so much, was probably not going to have anything like what I would for morals by the time she turned eighteen. Yet, as most any child would, I longed to have what she had. I longed to have what everyone I went to school with had. They had two parents who showed them love. They cared for them, played games with them, fed them healthy meals, could afford to put them in extracurricular activities, loved them. I think that was the root of my envy, really. I could see how much their parents loved them.

One afternoon, Aleesa and I had taken a walk. Our financial differences and opposing upbringings had yet to separate us. She brought along her pure-bred golden retriever and I brought our mutt that we’d acquired from a family who was relocating and had needed someone to takeover caring for their dog. It was springtime, and in a valley town, spring equates to higher water volumes from snow melting off of the surrounding mountains. Naturally, the excess water runs into the streams and eventually empties into the rivers. I remember the day as exceedingly warm, one of those that invigorates the soul. The sun was bright at midday, glowing upon us with each animated step. We’d just broken out the shorts and as always after a long winter, the first warm temperature was rejuvenating. We soon came upon a river to stick our toes into. It was chilly, but at no more than ten or eleven years old, it didn’t feel nearly as cold as it would to my now so sensitive nerves. The feeling of fearlessness and invincibility that youth gives us is something which I often crave these days.

After a short time had passed, we decided it wouldn’t be so bad to fully enter into the water. Being intelligent, but still too youthful to take much caution, we commented on the strength of the current and the rapids which we should avoid. We tied up the dogs then told one another to stay in close proximity, to be safe, as we jumped in. After swimming about for a while, we became a bit arrogant and more daring than we should have. In an attempt to swim across to a log that looked like a particularly comfortable place to set, as it was firmly lodged into the earth and surrounded by water, we became ensnared in a current far too powerful for our pre-teen bodies and swept into water much deeper than our toes could reach. Aleesa called for me, and I for her, each of us mostly submerged, reaching.

Seeing the struggle, Aleesa’s dog broke her leash and came in after us, while my dog tried to do the same. The water was too strong and she was forced back to the bank. Aleesa was unreachable when one of my hands ultimately caught a branch. She continued floating further away, so I let go and followed. Eventually we were both brought close enough to a seedling rooted on the bank but far enough into the water that we could pull ourselves ashore.

There, we caught our breath, trudged back upstream alongside the water, gathered the dogs and began the trek home.

We were shaken as we became aware of the fact that we could have been in very serious trouble. We were over a mile from our homes, with no one else close by. Had it been necessary, help would have most likely arrived too late.

There was only silence until we returned to the main road. The realization was simply that we could have drowned. One or both of us could have died. Aleesa repeated the phrase to me. I somberly agreed. Consequently, I looked at her and asked, with complete sincerity, as if it were a standard, conventional question, “would anyone have cared”?

She stood still, confused by my question. She couldn’t possibly have understood the words. The tone of her voice was that of a child who’d been told she was important, who knew that she was loved, as she instantaneously yelled and squeaked out “What?! Of course”!

I tried to laugh it away and told her that I was joking. We spoke no more for the last few paces to her house. We parted ways, both equally thankful for our lives and concurrently dismissing the experience, so as not to be tainted by any sort of fear that might discourage our future sense of adventure. I waved goodbye as she walked down her flawlessly groomed, paved driveway and in solitude I proceeded down the hill to our driveway, a dirt and gravel, pothole covered path.

To be truthful, I hadn’t been joking at all.

The drama of that tumultuous day isn’t what I remember most vividly, although the images are sharp. What I remember, as if it were only moments ago, is asking Aleesa if anyone would have cared if I had died that day, if I had drowned. I knew that it’d be national news if anything had happened to Aleesa. She would soon become the coveted, most popular girl in school. But me, I genuinely didn’t think anyone would have even noticed, excepting maybe a teacher at my school.

I never told anyone about what had happened to Aleesa and I at the river, because I didn’t have anyone to tell. There wasn’t anyone to tell me to stay away from strong currents or that water that time of year could cause hypothermia. There wasn’t anyone to tell me to avoid the deep woods alone. I didn’t have anyone to tell that I could have died a few hours prior, because no one would have cared to hear it anyway.

A child shouldn’t ever ponder a question like that. A child should always know that he or she is loved. I understand now, that I had felt worthless for years before I’d ever acknowledged it, perhaps before I even understood the word. Useless inadequacy was just what I was. It wasn’t something that I felt inside, it was what I comprehensively believed that I was.