On September 15th, my cousin drowned at Lake Almanor, California. This is day seven of my experiences during the week that followed.
My aunt calls. Search and Rescue isn’t on the lake. I go into minor freak-out mode and hear myself sounding a lot like Josh on the The West Wing. Or my uncle from Chicago. This is our window. This is all we have. Someone needs to move. I begin formulating plans to recruit friends with boats, but the whole thing quickly gets cleared up, and the search starts.
It turns out they’re having a bass fishing competition at the lake. This is so weird. We’re grateful to have so many more eyes out there, but I hope to god someone’s told these poor bastards what they could come across.
My brother and his family arrive. If it weren’t for the fact that he’d planned this trip for such a horrible reason, it would feel like any other arrival. His son and daughter run toward us like contestants on The Price is Right. We greet each other happily. But we all know this is anything but normal.
We drive up to the lake. I drive the girls in one car, and my brother drives the boys and his wife in another. My husband has to work, so he can’t come with us. I’m bummed. I hate driving. I hate this road. I hate that he’s not with me. I hate being a grown-up.
We arrive and all the peace and quiet of the place evaporates. It’s summer camp.
My aunt is. . . exhausted. She’s floaty. She doesn’t even cry that much any more. None of us do. I think we’re all numb.
Another one of her friends is here. This one came from four hours away. People are amazing.
My dad and his girlfriend decide to spend the night. This is a big deal. My dad hasn’t wanted to be here since my mom died, three years ago. This cabin is turning out to be quite the symbolic locale.
My aunt tells me that my son confided in her that he didn’t know what he was going to do about his hair. “Logan did such a good job, and I liked the way he cut my hair. I just don’t know who’s going to cut my hair now.” You have to love my son to cut his hair because he’s a pain-in-the-ass. But Logan still did it. My son gave Logan so much grief every time he cut his hair — he pouted and groused and whined. Except, incredibly, the very last time. I wonder what he thinks about that.
I end up sleeping with the kids and the dog. They all almost end up duct taped to the walls. My son won’t stop bugging my daughter. My daughter and niece talk in their sleep at the same time, resulting in some bizarre, incoherent conversation with bouts of screaming. And the puppy runs away from me in the middle of the night, probably to try to find the dead fish he’d rolled in earlier. We survive the night but just barely.
Read the next chapter: Saturday — The Search Yields…Roses
Tammy Soong is a writer, wife, and mom from Reno, Nevada. She takes an absurd amount of pain medication, but not enough to have actually named her children "Newt" and "Elfie." She spends most days stressing out over clutter, writing stuff for this place, and working on podcasts with her gal pals, the Blogging Betties.