Creative non-fiction by Eryn Hiscock - Room Magazine

A Confession Three Decades After the Fact
ERYN HISCOCK
It w a s a d ay at t h e d e a d e n d o f Fe b r u a ry that showed all variations of the
colour grey: ashen branches stripped of leaves, cement-coloured clouds,
steely frost, the opaque pane of ice under my feet, a window into the river
translucent enough to suggest its gunmetal current. My brother crossed
first to get to the other side of the river. He was at least one decade older
and a hundred pounds heavier and made it across fine, so I started after
him, almost slipping a few times because it had been warmer these past
few days and the ice was slick. The scarf around my chin and mouth
smelled like musty wool and rebreathed air.
I was nearly to the other side when I must have stepped on a thawing
spot, like the slat that triggers the hitch at the carnival’s dunk tank, and the
next thing I knew I was planted shoulders to feet in frigid, rushing water.
My brother stood on the river’s bank on a rag-coloured heap of sodden
snow. “Grab those roots,” he called to me, pointing to the nerve-work of
trees where mud had sloughed off and they jutted and glistened with an
icy skin. It was like trying to catch a fish with bare hands but the wool of
my mitten finally froze to a branch.
“Good,” he said. “Now, can you hoist yourself?” My brother pushed his
palms downward, miming someone pushing themselves up. I splashed and
struggled briefly before settling back.
“I can’t,” I said and moved my arms like a snow angel, as if treading, my
jacket already bloating like a surfacing drowning victim’s.
“I’m coming,” my brother said and bellied down, inching toward me.
He lifted me carefully from the water and then squirmed again on his belly
back toward the shore and over the ice, towing me by the scruff of my
coat.
At the shore, he released me and I crawled up on the river’s bank. He
took off my sopping coat and wrapped his own dry, warm one around
me. His coat was huge on my slight, seven-year-old frame; its sleeves
dangled beyond my wrists. I’d never be allowed to wear it normally, I was
never allowed to touch any of his stuff; it was all off-limits to my fumbling,
primary grade hands. As we hurried home, he looked at me worriedly and
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didn’t even tell me to pick up his coat’s sleeves, which were dragging in
the snow.
At h o m e , h e m a d e c o c o a as I changed into warm, dry clothes. My brother
made pancakes, a special treat, and even got out the ladder to retrieve
my mother’s serving plate, reserved only for guests. He let me stack the
pancakes high on it and pour syrup over all of them like they did on TV
commercials. Normally, this would be a waste of perfectly good pancakes
because it made them all soggy, but that afternoon, my brother let me do
whatever I wanted.
We sat in the living room, steam rising from chipped ceramic mugs of
hot chocolate dissolving like vaporous clouds between us, and I thought
of telling him that as I stood in the cold, gushing water, my boots were
planted on the river’s bed the whole time and I could have walked to shore,
but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.
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