Lost

Into the kitchen and there's Philip, making something to eat.

"What 'cha doin'?"

"Making a sandwich."

Well, I could tell that much, but he's got other stuff out on the counter like he's making a bag lunch and it's Saturday.  So there must be more to it than that.  It's frustrating when you know you aren't getting the whole story.

"Are you going somewhere?"

"Maybe."

Hmm, I won't get any satisfaction here.  I stand there in the kitchen a minute longer, just watching.  Mom and Dad have gone to town with the little ones, to do groceries and probably to get some stuff for the boys.  I didn't ask to go this time because it's so nice out and I feel like doing something Fun, but there's no one around.  My neighbourhood is full of mostly boys and older girls - which works out great if someone (usually the Wilkers) organize a baseball game or something in the field, but not so great (for me) if they don't.  No one for me to play with.

I go outside, letting the screen door slam behind me since mom and dad aren't home and stand, squinting, on the front step.  The sun is bright on this warm spring morning and I feel like doing Something.  I hop off the front step and walk over towards the swingset, taking big giant steps.  With each step, I imagine all the blades of grass squishing under my giant foot; any unlucky bug or ant seeing my shadow running off in another direction.  As I pick up my back foot and twist to look back over my shoulder, foot in the air, I can almost see the footprint I left in the grass... but it quickly disappears as the grass perks up again, drawn to the sunshine.  I stand on one foot for a minute longer, lift my arms out like wings and dip forward, my other foot extending back like an airplane.  I dip around a bit, eyes closed and feeling the sunshine and warm breeze along my body, then open my eyes and attempt a mid-air foot-switch.  I land it but don't have the interest in continuing the game on my own, instead bursting into a run across the grass, along the garden and past the lilacs, towards the chicken coop.

I stand at the chicken-wire fence, watching the chickens as they scratch in the dirt and chase each other around.  Hmph, even they have others to play with.  I rip a small branch off a pin cherry tree close by, and throw little bits of stick and leaves into the pen.  Each new thing I throw draws the chickens closer, and each time one of them picks up the leaf or stick I've thrown and runs madly away from the others, being chased as they fight for the little bit of green.  My little brothers and I like to watch this sometimes and call it "chicken football", but today on my own I lose interest quickly.  I stay standing at the fence though, with my fingers through the round wire holes and my running shoes up against the bottom of the fence.  The chickens get used to my standing there and come over to peck through the fence at my shoes and knotted laces.

Standing there quietly, I hear the kitchen door slam again, and, fingers still through the fence, I glance over to see what's happening at the house.  Philip is heading this way with Paul following close behind.  I wonder what they're up to and watch as they walk across the grass, along the garden and right past me, towards the swamp at the back of the yard.  Where could they be going?

My hands drop from the fence, fingers red now from holding on the wire too long.  I know they won't want me along, but maybe I can follow and see where they are going?  After all, I can't stand here and play with the chickens all day.

Leaving the fence, I run on tip-toes over to the chicken coop and peek around the corner.  Philip is carrying a small pack - a lunch pack I guess, with Paul following closely behind.  I can tell that they're not just out for a walk, they are walking with purpose, like they have a job to do, like they are going somewhere Important, or Interesting, or Fun.  As they walk down the small hill leading towards the swamp, I suddenly re-consider my stealth and call out.

"Paul!  Philip!  Where are you going?  Can I come, too?"

Philip doesn't even pause or turn, he just keeps walking, still heading towards the swamp, their lunch in a small pack over his shoulder.  Paul, however, turns and as he sees me, his face darkens into a scowl.  I can tell that he's been invited and won't let me spoil it, but I ache to go too.

"You can't come," he shouts back at me, adding, "Don't follow us!"

But how can I resist - I break into a run, through the tall grass of the field down towards the swamp.  Paul, seeing me, stops and, turned towards me, waits with his hands on his hips.

"Aww, can't I come along?  I promise to be quiet," I add, as I pull up to a tentative stop in front of him on the trail.

"No," he says, face still dark. "You'll wreck everything."

"I promise I won't!"

"No, you don't even know the secret knock.  Besides," he says, his body turning away from me, but his face still watching me, his face changing from a dark scowl into a nasty grin, "it's only for BOYS."

With that, he turns away and bolts down the trail, catching up with Philip and I watch as the two of them disappear into the darkness of the trail into the swamp.

It's not fair, I think to myself.  Why did I have to be Just a girl?  The boys have way more fun.  I decide to follow anyway, but think I'll wait a bit so they can't see me following them.

I approach the swamp with not a little trepidation.  My parents have warned all of us of the dangers of going into the swamp, not to mention Francis almost drowning that time he fell into the swamp behind the neighbours' house.  By trying to follow Philip and Paul, I know that I am breaking at least one rule.  But I just can't bear to be left behind again.  And besides, it's a beautiful, sunny day, what could possibly go wrong?

I start down the trail; at least I think this is where Paul and Philip went in.  The scraggly balsams grow close together and the further down the trail I go, the darker it becomes.  The moss along the path looks pretty and so soft; I notice some lady slippers growing all together.  I know I can't pick them but I do stop to have a look.  I marvel at them, and think about how they're not like a regular flower at all.  I caress the moss with my hand, it really is so soft, light green and spongy.  It would make a wonderfully soft chair or bed if it weren't so damp.  I stand again and walk farther along, following where the balsams and moss seems to be lightest.  My runners are starting to get wet; each step I take leaves a very soggy footprint behind.

I stop under a larger balsam and look down the trail... only it doesn't seem like there's any particular trail here.  I can see deer poop along some of the moss and wonder which is the people trail and which is the deer trail... it's like I am in a swampy maze.  Standing under the tree now, on the roots of the balsam, every direction seems wet.  The sunshine doesn't reach this far into the swamp, and I'm feeling a little cool in my t-shirt and shorts.  Where did they go?  How far could it be?  Like in my back yard when I was on the grass, footprints disappear in this damp landscape.  There's no hint to which direction they might be.  I don't even know how long I've been following them, or how far back into the swamp I've gone.  I take a tentative step out towards one trail, and immediately the water surrounds my shoe.  I pull my wet foot back quickly and my footprint fills with water, disappearing.  I try another direction and actually feel the moss give way as my foot drops below the roots of the balsam - I pull my wet foot back again, panicked.  I'm stuck here.  I think of Francis and how mom said that when she jumped in, everything was black - she couldn't see him, but she felt him.  I don't want to be taken by the swamp, with no one here to find me!

I lean back against the trunk of the balsam, not caring that the sap is sticking right through my shirt to me.  Maybe the balsam will help keep me from the murky swamp water.  How am I going to get out of here?  Any tentative step away from the balsam sinks my foot deeply into the moss.  I decide to try calling on my brothers.

"Paul!  Philip!  Paul!..... Philip!.....Paul!....PAUL!.... PAUL!!"

Shouting into the darkness of the swamp isn't like calling off the front step of the house.  Rather than having my words echo along on the breeze around the house and across the field, my words are cut short and absorbed into the swamp itself.  There's no chance of them being heard.  My brothers are long gone, I think to myself, my cheeks getting hot as tears begin.  They don't want me around, anyway.  Maybe there isn't even a fort, maybe they just brought me out here, knowing I'd try to follow, to lose me.

I imagine my family at the dinner table, not missing me.   I think of Mom calling the Boys for dinner (she never calls Girls).  Someone might wonder why its more quiet than usual and they'd just pass the potatoes and shrug, not noticing that I'm not there. I think of the room that I share with my sister, and how happy she'd be, not having a little sister poking into her stuff all the time.  Tears flowing freely, I sob as my knees give out and I slowly sink to a squat against the tree, smearing sap and tearing my t-shirt along the way but I don't care.  No one loves me, anyway.

I cry for awhile, feeling sorry for myself, sobbing alone there in the dark swamp, trapped with the balsam trees in the middle of the moss that stretches across and between the trees, covering a deep, dark, mucky lake.  A lake that eats children, one that almost had my little brother Frances.

Geez, why would anyone live here, anyway, I wonder, as I mop my face with my shirt, tired out by all my fuss.  I realize that I'm starting to feel hungry and wonder how long I've been stuck here.  I hadn't planned ahead, like Philip had, with a lunch.  I tentatively take a step and again I'm forced back to the tree by the threat of the water.  I decide there's only one thing left to try, and so I start again, this time shouting for HELP just as loudly as I can.  I am determined that I'm not going to be lost forever in this swamp.  I pace myself and just keep yelling HELP... count to 25... HELP... count again... HELP... hEEEllllppppp... hhhhEEEELLLLLppppp..... HHHEEEEllllpppp.... hheeellllPPPP....

Suddenly a man appears in the swamp and I stop shouting and stare at him as he approaches, a big man with a dirty white t-shirt, jeans, and big black rubber boots.

"Is that you making all that racket out here?" he asks me as he approaches, "You're scaring my kids!"

"I'm stuck here," I manage, as he comes closer, stepping along the moss, water up to the boot tops.

"I figured that," he says, and holds out his arms.

Tentatively, I grab on to him as he hoists me up along his side and turns to slog back through the swamp towards where he came from.  He's not familiar to me, but that's not surprising since most of the dads in the neighbourhood work, like mine, and mostly you only see kids and moms.

Embarrassed, I don't say a word as he carries me back through the swamp.  It's a surprisingly short walk before we get to where the swamp ends and a back yard starts.  Waiting and watching in the back yard are a woman and three small children, the Bannisters, about 4 doors down from my house.  Mr. Bannister puts me down and I can barely look up at him as I say, "Thank you".

It's all I can do to not bolt away up the hill, wishing I could just disappear as the little kids are looking at me with their big eyes and mouths open, like I had three heads.  Even Mrs. Bannister is still just standing there, looking at me.  Only Mr. Bannister has the decency to ignore me and has gone back to his gardening.

"Are you okay, dear?" Mrs. Bannister asks, finally breaking the silence.

"Yes, thanks," I say, with a short glance up at her.  I guess I don't look that great with my streaky tear-stained red face, and ripped and sticky t-shirt.  I am SO embarrassed about having to be rescued; I also can't imagine the trouble I will get into at home if my parents find out I was in the swamp and had to be rescued by one of the neighbours - I'll get the wooden spoon, for sure.

I dash the rest of the way up the hill, past their house, along their driveway and back to Tetroe Road.  I slow to a walk and mop my face again, trying to clean up the tears.  The hotness in my face is cooling down, I don't want to get home and have everyone asking questions.  I reach our yard and see that my dad's car is back in the yard again, that means they're all back from town.  I can see John, Francis and Scott in the front yard, playing in the sand, and I've never been so happy to see them.

Running up to them, I shout out, "Hey, want to play a game?"

"What game?" asks John, and Francis looks up too, interested.

"How about Store?  I can make pies and Francis can be the storekeeper and you can be the Dad who comes to buy the pies?"

"I want to make pies!" says Francis, engaged at once.

"Okay, you make pies and I can be the Storekeeper..."

"I want to be the Storekeeper!" says John, now buying in, too.

"Okay great, and Scott can be the Dad and I'll help him to pick out the pies!"

Scott smiles, diaper drooping, and says "Pies!"

And the game begins.