Marianne, Greg and the American Dream

By Asha Thakrar

I was six when I first fell in love. Until that moment I had my life all planned out, my mother, father, brother and I would stay together in our new house with our new cat for the rest of our lives. Then, as though in a film, in walked a handsome stranger. His name was Greg and he lived with his older brother, Chris at the top of our road. It was the year we moved to Trumbull, where I would start elementary school in the autumn. Tommy, my neighbour and I were best friends already, despite the fact we'd only moved in late spring, we climbed trees, chased his dog and fell off swings, much to the despair of our mothers. Then the days started to cool, and instead of causing chaos we were dragged off to malls, our brown faces scrubbed as our mothers tried to save their reputations as good parents. I was a tomboy who had no time for dolls, but my tender-hearted brother always brought mine with us, holding its broken, twisted body so that it shouldn't get lonely at home.

Tommy and I hated 'proper' school, admittedly we hadn't been yet-but we knew we would. After all didn't it mean staying clean, minding our manners and working? I watched the days pass with a growing dread, ticking off days in my Barbie calendar, given to me by someone foolish enough not to realise that her perfect face would be scribbled over angrily in a tantrum. Silly not to know her white smile and blue eyes would be covered by our plans for a tree house.

But, of course, though we tried, we couldn't freeze time. We couldn't stop that final cross from being drawn and the new shoes being laid out as we were tucked in bed. Oh, I wept hot tears that night, as I was to do for the next few years on the last night of my summer holidays. It seemed to signal the end of my freedom; soon it would grow cold and snow. And then there would be snowball fights, cheered up slightly I drifted off to sleep.

Clutching my lunchbox the next morning, I was dragged out of the house, my small, grimy hand imprisoned in my mother's familiar, scented one. I planted my feet firmly in the carpet but they were new and slippery, so I slid across the floor and out the door. We crossed the road, walking to where the rest of the children were waiting; I was the only one to be escorted by my mother.

'You can go now,' I muttered furiously.

'But darling!' my mother exclaimed, loudly enough for everyone to hear, 'you were so frightened a second ago.'

Of course they all turned to look, the English girl and her English mother. The cowardly English girl with a scowl on her face and tears in her eyes. Tommy waved and darted forwards, only to be yanked back like a yo-yo by his older brother, Eric who had been told to mind him. My new patent shoes hurt my toes and my woollen dress was itchy, my lace blouse collar too tight.

'Have you got your lunch, dear?' my mother asked.

'Yes,' I said mutinously, 'it's here.'

'Look,' my mother hissed for the world to hear, 'there are two nice girls there. Go and say hello. Or you won't make any friends!'

'Tommy's my friend.'

My mother nodded patiently,

'I mean a nice little girl.'

My mother always believed that Tommy was responsible for the trouble we got into. I never troubled to correct her, not wanting to know her reaction if she knew it had been my idea to decorated the coffee table with blue finger paint and put slugs in the vase.

We heard the bus before we saw it, turning the corner, yellow and big and frightening. As it pulled up there were shouts and from the top of the road ran two boys. Both older than Tommy and I. Tall and skinny with green eyes and hair like straw and about as tidy. One was too old, I thought he must be at least as old as my parents and Eric. But the other was younger. He had stick out ears and a turned up nose-and I had never seen anyone so handsome.

But my eyes were torn away and my mother kissed my cheek and hugged me, muttering fiercely that I was to behave before she gave me a little push and I was carried along by the loud, yelling crowd, away from her outstretched hand and onto the bus.

School, it turned out was not so bad after all. I became friends with Jessica, a quiet girl with a peculiar sense of humour; she in turn introduced me to two girls on her road, Ashley and Fay. The two sisters sat at the back of the classroom and I have never seen two people who looked more alike than the twins. I had a brilliant teacher, Mrs T who encouraged my love of reading, who taught me to take delight in every word on the glue-scented page. As my love for reading grew as did my admiration for Greg. He was baseball and basketball champion, star pupil of 9th Grade. Every morning as my mother waited with me for the bus, Eric and Chris would talk to my mother about England, Greg occasionally asking the odd question. And every morning he would say 'hi' to me as he passed with Chris and Eric. If we saw each other at school he would wave and point me out to his big, loud friends, I was to them the little 'English' girl. I pointed him out to my friends but they only collapsed in giggles at his stick-out ears.

Often Eric, Greg and Chris would take Tommy and I to the park. Sometimes Tommy and Eric's sister Irene would come with us and whenever she came Greg and Chris would try and talk to her, allowing Tommy and I the chance to get into more trouble before we were caught. The boys were never so harsh with us if we had been naughty when she was there because our antics made her laugh and she always took our side, looking as saddened and dejected as we did if they told us off. I loved the lake, Tommy told of winter when it would freeze over and everyone went out skating, braving the cold and snow. I had driven past in summer, as my mother and father painted the house and unpacked the boxes, I had peered out of the window as people jumped into the sparkling lake, squealing and laughing. I could not wait for summer to come again when we would go down and swim like dolphins through the clear, beautiful water. Me and Irene, my older 'sister' and the four boys who were the older brothers I would never have.

I spent hours by the lake, throwing stones into the shimmering water, as mesmerising as my mother's best silk dress and as blue. Often Chris would have to bribe me to come away and go home with sweets and ice-creams, I could have spent hours, standing on the edge, looking down and watching the rare silver fish flash past.

The leaves fell from the trees, after school I would help my father rake the leaves into piles. Sometimes if it was windy you could spin around and around under the trees as the red and golden leaves fell around you, until your whole world was a warm, glowing blur.

Afterwards laughing we would throw ourselves onto the pile and my mother would sigh as we came in, leaves in our hair and clinging to our clothes. One morning I woke up to find the naked trees black against the white ground. It was the first snow of the year. Every morning I asked whether the lake was frozen enough to skate on and every morning she said 'no'. I cried, I screamed, I had her escort me down there and wait while I threw a stone onto the fragile sheet that kept the water still, but the ice shattered and I admitted defeat.

One day it had snowed so much that we were let off school. After a long snowball fight with Tommy I was sitting wrapped up in a warm blanket with a mug of hot chocolate by the window. I watched the occasional person go past, holding a shovel, going to assist a neighbour with blocked drive.

Later that afternoon, as my brother and I were playing we heard the sirens of police cars and ambulances. It was not until the next day, when we went to school again that I learnt what had happened. A girl in Eric's class, Marianne had gone skating. Her mother had become worried when she had not returned and at five o'clock they had pulled her drowned body from the lake. I was shaken. Hadn't I wanted to skate? Hadn't I watched the tiny waves of the water lap at the sand? Hadn't I dipped my bare feet in the cool, harmless water?

That night as I sat in the bath, I remembered Marianne. I watched a toy of my brother's sink through the bubbles and I started to cry, the water shaking with my sobs. My mother hugged me and asked what was wrong. I was too shaken to answer and finally fell asleep, warm and safe in her arms with my fathers soothing voice in the background. When we went swimming at the local swimming pool that weekend I couldn't go in the water; where a week ago I would have joyfully jumped in, raced my brother and picked keys from the bottom I could now only sit shaking at the side, breaking into sobs at the sight of it.

Tommy and Eric came round the next day, Greg and Chris standing on the pavement, all of them hardly visible through scarves and hats and thick warm coats. I went with them, of course. I wanted to, I had forgotten the lake. But as we entered the park and walked over the crunchy ground I remembered. I looked at the black water, and remembered thousands of clips from scenes I had seen at night when my parents thought me tucked up in bed, pictures of drowning and fear. I imagined the pretty girl's fear and helplessness and I wept. Tommy and Chris hurried for my mother. Eric searched through his pockets frantically for a tissue; Greg looked at me, concerned,

'What's the matter?'

I could only stammer out the words: ice, Marianne and something along the lines of how frightened I now was. But he understood he nodded and sat me on the frozen bench. When I was calm enough, he and Eric took my hands and led me to the water edge. I looked down at it, the cruel water who had so needlessly taken a life, the cruel jagged pieces of ice that had cut the thread of Marianne's life like the three Fates in Greek mythology. But I was safe with these two boys who cared about me holding my hands, and as long as I was wise and cautious, this water would never hurt me. I wouldn't drown in the pool with my friends and families there, and I would most certainly not drown in the bath. My mother came up behind us, but even her anxious voice was quietened by our calm silence, my rare serenity. The four of us stood there for a long time, then Tommy came up and hurled a snowball and with sudden screams of laughter we turned and threw four snowballs back at him, every one hitting its target.

As I had stood there, watching the water twist and swirl at our feet I had come to realise that though I had fallen briefly out of love with water, I was falling back in love again. But a different love, different from my wide-eyed reverence of Greg, different from my deep, adoration of my parents and brother, different from my relaxed care for Tommy. It was no longer a fascination, it was that too but also a love built from awe and respect and fear too. A love not different from that felt for God, deep and respectful. Coming from deep inside. It was only water but it had a hold over me, I would always love the water, I would always be drawn to the sea and I would always, always smile when I saw a blond-haired boy with a small turned up nose, freckles and stick out ears.

THE END