He Won't Go Near the Reservoir

My son learned to swim at three and would fling himself at any water on the map: pools, seas, questionable fountains. Except one. The reservoir on the west road out of town — a manmade lake, popular, ringed with barbecue spots — turns him into a different child. It did from the first drive past, before he could talk: back arched, monitor-shattering screams, inconsolable until the water left the mirrors.

We chalked it up to some noise or light thing until he was four and a half, when we made the mistake of trying a picnic there with friends. He would not leave the car. He gripped the door frame, white to the lips — a child we literally could not peel — and when I crouched down to do the calm-parent voice, he put both hands on my face like grown men do in war films and said: 'That's where I went under. When I was big. The boat hit my head and nobody saw me until it was dark.'