I walk silently through deserted neighborhood streets alongside darkened houses. Only the moon shows the way.  The sandy beach takes me to the water’s edge.  The Ojibwe named it Gichi-Gami—Great Sea.  The French explorers that came later called it Lac Supérieur—Upper Lake. I call it home. Several hours south, my parents are getting a divorce, our family house and land sold, and little brother has dropped out of school.  

The Finnish settlers that immigrated here had Sisu. Whispered among the locals, Sisu is mental talisman against long, dark nights. It is a warmth during winters so cold and bitter that Sisu is the difference between living or leaving—a “strength of will, acting rationally in the face of adversity.” Some say Sisu is “not momentary courage, but the ability to sustain that courage.”  

Mom has the papers served to Dad after she’s packed and gone for good. He comes home to an empty house, and then later, a personal letter delivery. Twenty five years of we’ll always be a family shattered by one sheet of paper.

So, I live here during the summer, even when school’s out. The cards sent by my father tell me Stay there. We’re fine. I work odd waitressing jobs and for two week stints of time as a nanny.  Closing my eyes, I take a pull on my Marlboro Light, and let the bright moon of Gichi-Gami settle into me along with the nicotine. Smoking is a new habit, one that I try to hide from my roommates. I think they know. Do they know it all? The sleeping all day and missing work, the crying jags. The wanting to quit school even though I’m almost done. The counselor from the college I’m convinced to see puts me on an antidepressant. Looking at old albums, I stare at a picture of myself from that time. Thanks to the Zoloft, I’m finally able to shed the stubborn Freshman Fifteen I put on two years before. The smile on my face, however, is forced.  Maybe if I fool my roommates, I can somehow fool myself, too.

*

Julie, Jill, and I sit in the corner booth of the Italian restaurant across the street from our apartment. We have the same waitress every time we eat there: she’s a college girl, complexion so delicate it’s like porcelain. She’s kind, so we tip well. She’s just trying to pay her way through college like us.

“You guys don’t mind if I get your bill squared up, do you? My boyfriend’s waiting for me to get off, and you’re my last table tonight.” She nods her head to the next booth where a tall, nice-looking guy sits. We smile and dig into our pockets for our wrinkled bills. We watch our waitress, Krista, collect her boyfriend and walk out, giggling. I feel the prick of jealousy’s dagger deep in my stomach.   

The next morning the radio alarm clicks on to Ice, Ice Baby. My thoughts turn to home. Are my brothers getting off to school? With Dad’s early morning work shift, he’d surely be gone by the time the bus arrived. The weatherman brings me back, announcing “Temperatures today are going to be a real beauty!”  

I don’t have work. My roommates and I can pack a picnic, and then bike around Presque Isle Park. I quickly check Jill’s schedule on the fridge, and Julie’s next posted neatly on the door. We agree to meet at noon. We were all friends at first, then roommates, and strangely, after rooming together, we got even closer. How rare is it for three girls to get along so well within one apartment, with only one bathroom? 

Julie is a fire ball with a feisty spirit. Her bright eyes and athletic frame draws many interested guys to our door. She cuts and styles her hair in “the Rachel” and its short layers highlight her cheekbones. 

Jill is serene and peaceful, often the mother of our house. She works at the local sub shop and complains of always smelling like onions.

I’m the quiet one. I read a lot and walk the shore, looking for beach glass. I love finding the polished multicolored gems nestled in the sand and wonder at how time and gentle persistence can smooth something once so jagged and broken. 

Despite our differences, we are a “Friends” of our own, except instead of hanging out at Central Perk, we drink our coffee at the Internet Bagel Café below our apartment.

Presque Isle Park juts out into Lake Superior. The peninsula starts out level with the land, but as we bike further into the park, we pump our legs harder. The cliffs become steeper and more treacherous, the black rocks near the bottom more jagged.  

Superior is deceptive. It looks like a lake but acts like an ocean, and all the locals know about the Edmund Fitzgerald. A bulk cargo vessel—the largest ship on the Great Lakes—it hauled over twenty tons of iron ore on the night of November 10, 1975. Superior’s 110 mile per hour winds and 35-foot waves sank the Fitzgerald and all men on board. More recently, Julie, Jill and I knew of the loss of a fellow student, and Olympic athlete. While swimming near Picnic Rocks, the rip tide grabbed him, and wouldn’t turn him lose. What kind of power does it take to sink an unsinkable ship? To drown a gold medal contender?  

We park our bikes and spread a picnic on the ground, overlooking the edge of a high bluff. Superior usually pulls its grey blanket of clouds over Marquette, tucking it under cover for days at a time. Today is clear. The water appears a deep blue on the horizon, and looking straight down the cliffs, to the rocks below, the water shows itself as pale azure green.  

We munch on tuna sandwiches and joke about being single until we die.  The trail near our picnic runs close to the cliff’s edge, and my eye catches two bikers riding up the narrow path. I see a girl wearing black pants with white stripes down the side—Adidas. She’s small, and fragile looking—like fine porcelain.   

“Hey guys. That’s Krista, our waitress, isn’t it?”

In a small town the size of Marquette, it isn’t unusual to run into people you know, and often. She looks so sporty. She’s doing something—biking—that I envision doing myself if I had a boyfriend. She’s also wearing brand name clothing. Jealousy’s dagger pricks me again. I’m only able to shop at St. Vinny’s with its racks of stale smelling sweaters and worn-out jeans.

Jill looks at the now retreating figures. “Oh yeah—that’s the guy she was with the other night.  Her boyfriend? They’re kind of close to the edge, aren’t they?”  

We all nod in agreement, and the conversation changes to Julie’s upcoming bike trip.  Then I hear a sound shatter the still day.  It sounds strangely inhuman. 

“What was that?” Julie’s head snaps toward the cliffs.  “It sounded like a scream.”

“We should see if everything’s okay.” I answer.

We quickly jog over to where we heard the noise. Presque Isle is busy, but even after such a loud scream, we are the only ones who respond. We now stand in a small grassy field.  

I call out into the trees where the bike trail runs beyond. “Hello!  Everything okay?”

A crackling noise sounds and we turn to see a tall man break through the woods that surround the biking trail.  

“Oh, God. She’s dead. I think she’s dead.”

It’s the boyfriend we saw the night before in the restaurant. My mind clicks into overdrive.  “OK. Slow down. Who are you talking about?”

The guy’s eyes are open and wild. “My girlfriend, Krista! We were riding and then, she screamed, and she’s gone.”

“Where did she fall? Down the cliff?” I grab his arms and force him to look at me.  

“I don’t know! I don’t know! I didn’t look… Oh God, I couldn’t.”

As he speaks a string of salvia starts to run out of the corner of his mouth and down his chin. It hangs—swinging, translucent, suspended in the still afternoon air.

I’ve heard people say that in intense moments of distress, their mind clicks into survival mode.  The adrenaline kicks in, and they find themselves responding in ways that are unlike them. This is what happened to me—me who fainted at the sight of my own pricked finger in tenth grade biology class. It seemed that I was being controlled by a force outside of myself. 

“Julie, run down to the commons area. Tell the lady at the food court to call 911. Tell them there’s been a biking accident at the West Cliff area. Go!” I shove at her arm.

We have no cell phones—at that time they are still a rarity. “Jill, you stay here with him.  Let anyone who comes near this area know that we are looking for a person who fell off the cliff. She may be hanging onto a tree, or branch or something. Tell them her name is Krista.”

I start my way through the strangling trees toward the narrow dirt path that overlooks the lake and edges the almost 100-foot drop to the water below.  Trees and large rocks jut out of the sides of the steep embankment. I am hoping, with an edge of reason that if she fell, she managed to grab onto a small tree or root that would keep her from dropping to the rocks.  

“Krista!”  I scream down to the water.

Did I really expect her to answer? I don’t know. I didn’t even know what I was looking for, or what I’d find. 

I come to an area on the trail with fresh scrape marks on the dirt—bike tire skids.  Sickening bile rises in my stomach; I grab the trunk of a sturdy tree. Its rough bark bites into my hands as I tighten my grip further. I lean out over the edge and look down the steep cliff to the black rocks and water below.  

I remember the sound of the waves washing upon the shore more than what I saw. It was if they were calling me to look, to end my futile search, because they already knew. Long before Julie ran down to the convenience shop to call for help, long before I screamed Krista’s name through the tangled trees—the waves already knew.  The truth was absorbed with every wash of her dark blood upon the rocky shore. She looked so peaceful, so gentle floating in the water.

I draw back and steady myself. What will I tell her boyfriend? I can’t tell him what I saw. I had been brave up to this point, but when it comes to telling him… I will lie.

“Did you see her?”  His face is hopeful and frantic.

“No, I didn’t. I looked… but I didn’t see her.”  I avoid his eyes.

My heart burns with guilt. Even if the water has deceived me and it isn’t forming her watery grave, what good will my words serve him? There is no way to reach the cliffs below, except by water. 911 has been called; the Coast Guard will arrive shortly.  

He sobs into his hands. “I killed her. I killed her. It’s my fault. All my fault.”

What do you tell someone who says that?  How do you comfort a person who already knows what you seek to hide?  

“What’s your name?” I gently touch his back.

“Dave…”

“Dave, it’s not your fault. You didn’t do anything—It was an accident. An accident.” 

He collapses into himself, his shoulders buckling.  

“No, no it was me. Always me that had to look out for her. She didn’t think. She’d cross the street without looking—I’d reach out to stop her just as a car came.  I should have been watching out for her.”

“Dave, you can’t talk like that. You don’t know what’s happened. You don’t know.  We just need to have faith that she’s okay and wait for the ambulance. They’ll be here soon.”

The green trees above me sway in the sudden breeze, their small leaves clattering in unison. “Liar!” Their whispers hiss at me through the air, shaking me mentally to the ground.

*

Distant sirens can be heard, and Julie made it back from the convenience shop.  Growling engine noises rise from the lake; the Coast Guard has arrived. The blue Marquette squad cars are next on the scene, and I point the officers to the general area of where I saw Krista. They return, wearing grim faces and speaking into their radios.  

Julie, Jill, and I form a circle slightly away from Dave and whisper. “What should we do? Should we go? We’re witnesses. Besides, what about him?” Julie’s eyes edge toward Dave. “He’s all alone.” It’s true. Dave sits amid the busy hub of medics and police, sobbing into his hands.

An officer approaches us. “You girls here when this happened?”

“Yes.” We answer in quiet unison.

“I’ll need to get a statement from each of you. One at a time. You first.” 

He points a pudgy finger at me. I sit in the rear seat of the officer’s car and give my statement to the back of his head.

“Does Dave have anybody coming to be here with him?” I ask. His eyes meet mine in the rear-view mirror.

“Well, I am not supposed to say anything, but seeing how you girls been here from the start… his mom’s been contacted, but she won’t be able to be here for another two hours. All his friends are out of town for the summer.”

“I know this isn’t really done, and I can’t speak for the other girls, but do you think we could go to the hospital with him?”

“That’s usually reserved for family.”

“You just told me. He has no family here. His mom is two hours away.”

“Miss… I don’t know.” The officer sighs.

“Officer. I saw his girlfriend. I know.”

“Well…” I see his eyes soften. “I’ll leave that up to him.”

Jill, Julie, and I finish giving our statements. We slowly walk up to where Dave is sitting, his face cradled in his hands.  

“Dave, I know we’re strangers, but sometimes it’s easier… we’ll go to the hospital with you. But if don’t want us to—we can leave.”

Dave’s voice comes out in choked whispers. “I’d like it if you’d come with me.”

I walk toward the bluff where our picnic area lays untouched and chain our bikes to a tree. I look out over the unending blue of Superior and see the Coast Guard boat slowly making its way back toward shore.  On deck is a black body bag.

The three of us pile into the back of the squad car with Dave sitting in the front. We travel to the hospital silently, where he will await the news of Krista’s fate.

Once there, we are directed to a grieving room. The walls are a soothing lavender, supple chairs invite sitting, and small tables provide boxes of tissues. 

Grief has a silence of its own, which is often big enough to fill the largest room.  Dave, however, wants to talk.  

He talks about his love for Krista, how fragile she is. He’s worried that she will always have scars from this accident, and he blames himself. He believes that she never would've gone biking if he hadn’t asked her.

Eventually, a priest enters the room. His large, soulful eyes speak of his understanding. He mentions that Dave’s mother will be arriving shortly. Later, two short raps sound at the door and a small woman enters. She immediately seizes Dave, and wordlessly, we know our time is done. As the door closes, I hear Dave say, “She’s dead, isn’t she, Mom?”

As we try to leave the hospital, a detective stops us. We speak separately, in a waiting room off the hospital’s main corridor. Because Krista fell, it was possible that Dave pushed her. The detective asks details. When did we hear the scream? Was Dave riding in front of Krista or behind her? I rewound my memory. I remembered them riding by—yes, he was in front—he was riding first. Later, the detective examines the bike trail. A large tree root juts out of the ground right where Krista fell.  

As time goes by, we seek to recover from that horrible day in our own separate ways. Julie trains for an upcoming marathon. Jill picks up extra shifts at the sub shop. I bury it.

But when I close my eyes, I still have flashes of that day. I tell myself I’m weak.

The next evening, the nightmares start. I see Dave and Krista ride by on their bikes. I know what’s going to happen, but just as in real life, I am powerless. In my dream, reality twists and instead of Dave and Krista on the bikes riding toward their fate, it becomes my mom and dad. I wake tangled in my sweaty sheets, gasping for breath. It isn’t Krista’s scream that jars me from my sleep, but my own.    

I leave that afternoon, gripping my car’s steering wheel in silence. My friends own a farm outside of town. Their quiet yard holds a small red barn and horse pasture. I arrive; the house is empty, so I pull up a chair on the back porch.

The trees above the house rustle in the breeze. The birds chirp a melody of sweetness; white throated sparrows echo their call of Clear Sweet Canada, Canada, Canada. The horses munch their afternoon meal of hay. Their snorting nostrils are a welcome sound of companionship. I let the quiet settle into my spirit. Soon, a gentle calm washes over me, small wave by small wave—tiny ripples of sensation tingle through my hands. A quiet voice within me whispers, “It’s okay to let go. It’s okay. Let go. It’s okay…”

Tears trickle down my cheeks. As each of their quiet drops fall onto my jeans, the stress unfolds from my body. Slowly, like the ebbing of the tide, the pain begins to drift away.  

I cry for Krista, and I cry for Dave, but I also cry for my parent’s divorce and my hurting little brother. I rake my sleeve across my damp face. I ask myself: If Fate can be kind enough to place three young girls to help a grieving man, can it not also be kind enough to help a broken family heal and move on?

Slowly, I rise to my feet. My legs feel weak and off balance, but the ragged edges of my heart feel less jagged, the sharp corners a little more smooth.   

That evening, I place a call to my father. I’m coming for a visit, Dad. I need to know you’ll be ok. And then, silently, I need to know that I’ll be ok, too. It will take time. And it will never be the same. But near or far, I will always be there. 

*

Two months pass. One cloudy morning, my roommates and I each receive a letter in the mail. It is postmarked Michigan, but its return address is blank. I walk down to the beach.  Standing along the shore, I reach into my coat. Gichi-Gami roars to the land in unyielding waves that lap hungrily at the sand. No beach glass today. Unfolding the letter from its small square, I make out the small handwriting etched along the lines in faded pencil.   

I don’t want to bother you. I got your addresses from the police officers. I wasn’t even sure that you guys even existed at first. I want to say thank you. Thank you for being my angels that day. —Dave

Holding my fingers tightly around the paper, I turn into the steady wind. Its breath strengthens. Superior’s gray-green waves race faster, whipping my hair around my face.  

The tang of cold moisture fills the air. Snow. Tiny flakes speck the leaden sky. The long dark nights and bleak, cold-filled days have started now.

My voice finds itself. Out of the trenches of my heart, I cry into the wind. Sisu! Snowflakes float up along the lake’s smooth shore, their small and delicate bodies dancing in the breeze. I stretch my face to the endless grey sky and smile.

Works Cited

“Our History &; Heritage.” Finlandia University, https://www.finlandia.edu/about/heritage/. Accessed 8 Mar. 2024.