This was written long long ago, when I was at the very end of a marriage that was dying … (prior to 9/11/02)
She has been rowing for so long that the blisters on her hands are numb. Sometimes she glances down at them and sees the blood running off them and thinks to herself that it's worse than it's ever been and she should stop rowing, she should stop trying, she should stop doing whatever it is she's doing, ... but her fingers won't let go of the oars. So she keeps rowing and stops looking at the damage and just repeats again that 7 years isn't that long to row.
He never rows the boat. He rocks it. That's all he does. Just rocks it and sometimes throws salt water in her face just to see her shake it off. Sometimes he laughs when she cries.
It was a stupid mistake, to let him in the boat. It was a stupid stupid mistake. And then, the children boarded and that made all the difference in the world. Once they were aboard, her only concern was for them. She just wants to deliver them to the other shore without endangering them. She just wants to get them to the shore as safely as possible, in the best shape as possible. That's all she thinks about, getting to that shore.
A long time ago she stopped expecting him to share the load. A long long time ago she stopped hoping he'd row, take his turn, let her rest, or care about the blisters. And every time she plays each new scene over and over in her head, it gets more twisted and more warped. Every time she asks herself about that shore, she has a harder time finding the clear answers. She's not really sure where the lighthouses are anymore, she lost the map.
And she stares at the children as they grip their seats and they don't form the question that is on their lips, the one that she can see without hearing ..... "You wouldn't leave him behind, would you?" Of course not. They're just going to grow up thinking men don't row boats. They're just going to grow up thinking this is semi-normal. Every time she hints to them that it isn't, that for some strange reason, this isn't normal, they cling tighter to their seats because that's all they know. This pathetic little rowboat seems to be safer than the water. Sometimes she hints to them that they would be okay if they had on lifejackets, but they shake their heads no violently and beg her to stop talking like that.
So, she rows. And she thinks to herself that 7 years isn't really that long. She thinks to herself that there is plenty of room in her head to find happiness. And she thinks to herself that if she ever reaches that shore and lets go of those oars, she will never stop walking and putting distance between her and him. There isn't enough land to distance her.
And while she lifts the oars out in another endless rhythmic loop, she asks herself one more time why he didn't go with her in the car, when she was terrified for the baby's life? Why did he stand there and pick up that shovel again? Why didn't he rush in the house to shower and follow her in the other car? Why was she alone for over an hour, only to get a phone call at the nurse's station from him ... asking how everything was? He finished his work on the house first. That came first. When she drove in the next day she realized that he finished the work first. He didn't rush to her side. And then, days later when he told the story, he said how worried he was and he said that he could see it in the child's face, how serious it was, used the word "we" when he said that, and he glanced at her to see her steel gaze and she just stared at him while the blood poured off her hands staining the oars in an ever widening circle, a little deeper into the wood.
