Annie
So, yeah,
I almost killed my kid.
Hold up, not like that. Love your children, don't kill them, is a surely a good motto to stand by.
This is a different type of killing; the type where a distracted father has a terrible lapse in judgement, makes a split second mistake and - as he's been rightly accused - was so distracted by his mobile device that he almost drowned his youngest daughter.
There are times one is just plain lucky in life, and this is hands down the luckiest I've ever been - so lucky, that the moment serves as the content of my nightmares, to be re-lived over and over and over like the flipping of an old movie newsreel. This happened nearly twelve years ago and yet, still, many nights, most nights, the memory haunts to me as I close my eyes to attempt to sleep.
Annie was almost four at the time and I was a newly separated father nearing a divorce, still learning the dance of being a solo parent. A walk along the esplanade in Boston and, along with her older sister, we approached one of the docks settled into the Charles River.
I'd like to offer that this was the idyllic setting of quality time with your children - but maybe more realistic was this was another way to burn some long hours of parenthood.
Was I bonding with my kids or was I watching my blackberry?
My recollection is as follows: there was a loud splash and my oldest daughter Stella shrieked.
Annie wanted to touch one of the docked boats and leaned palm forward; at her age, she misjudged the distance and found only the emptiness of air, and dumped into the water, topsy turvy and cracking her head on the boat or the dock or something else, I don't really know.
Annie is sinking fast into the murky depths of the Charles; she is staring up at me, bewildered, confused, needing her father never more than she has before. She's sinking into the darkness, she is so innocent, she doesn't deserve this. One tiny arm is extended upward, less seeking the rung of a ladder or attempting to swim, and more reaching for safety, reaching for the only light she can see. Her eyes are wide, bulging, and she is almost gone.
This is all exactly as it happened.
And then, in my nightmares, she spirals down; I fail on grabbing her wrist and yanking her free. She sinks, in between the dock and the boat, settling into the blackened depths of the Charles. I'm frantic. Panicked and frozen. She's unreachable. Her older sister is bawling. I'm shouting for help, screaming incoherently (anger being my most accessible emotion at the time); onlookers arrive to witness the commotion. But it's too late.
It's the father's fault. Her father who was distracted by his mobile device. Her father wasn't able to save her.
This would have been called an accidental killing, sure, people would say that. But this would be a death fraught by the specter of blame. This would carry sadness and guilt so burdensome it would be crippling for life.
Her mother would never forgive me.
Her sister's life would be defined by the loss of her younger sister in early adolescence. People would whisper when I arrived, and treat me as different; as damaged, as an incomplete puzzle.
But I did yank Annie out of the water.
She crying, blood pouring out of the back of her tiny head.
I did yell at one of the onlooking boat captains: give me a towel, dammit. I did wrap Annie up I did carry her -sprinting - to a hospital nearly half a mile away. Her mother arrived, concerned and disappointed, but mostly thankful, and took over. Apparently they gave Annie a lollipop and then - surprise! - popped a staple into the back of her head - at which point she punched her mother straight in the eye.
I am Rodion Raskolnikov, forever burdened by my negligence, and the requirement to return to the scene of the crime over and over is my punishment.
And yet, in the darkest of these recollections, I find some solace. They bring to the surface emotions that too often remain unsaid. They remind me just how much I love my daughter; of how I'd give anything to protect her, to be sure that she is safe. They remind me that a father's job is to be present for his children.
They remind me how fortunate I am that I did get incredibly lucky that afternoon - and that every day is a perfect day to hug your daughter and remind her that you love her.