By Sophie Dalton, Mount Holyoke College
Lately, I have been seeing animals everywhere. They lurk in the shadows, the trees
behind my vacation house, howling and crying as the train rashes behind us. The train makes the
whole house shake, the foundation ripping from the bottom all the way to my bedroom upstairs,
where my big queen bed rocks back and forth. I cannot sleep in times like these, a fever is
creeping behind me, begging to be noticed.
Right before it was time to leave, I decided to walk out behind the house. It was early
morning, the summer dew flooded my sneakers, and the bees buzzed around my head. Maybe
they mistook me for a flower, something sweet and tender. The small river behind the house
flows, I imagine, towards the Hudson or Vermont, the wide banks clearing out to a vastness to
the Empire State Building. Suddenly, I notice a deer and its doe, several feet away from me. The
doe frolics in the morning grass, not a care in the world while its mother looks on, alert. When
she notices me, her eyes meet mine as if to say: Who are you? What are you doing here? It is like
she is pleading with me not to make a sound, a noise, not to disturb this moment with her child. I
back away, our gazes still attached, our heads both cocked to the side.
#####
A while ago, I traveled with my aunt, uncle, and their two young kids home from a
family vacation. My youngest cousin, Eleanor was only six months old; tiny for her age, fitting
into 0-3 months clothing. Going through security was a nightmare, TSA agents would glare at
my aunt and her youngest child, threatened by the task at hand. The men searched her breast
milk like it was going to explode, that its substance was contaminated. They looked at Eleanor as
if she wasn’t a real baby at all. Instead of their gaze meeting Eleanor’s they met mine. I was
becoming angry; angry at these male TSA agents for their theater. It seemed like people in the
airport, when they saw us, were always annoyed, making comments and faces at the children, at
my aunt and uncle. In childhood, I had refused to meet stranger’s gazes, to stand up for myself
on the playground or school bus. Here though, I held the gazes of strangers when they
complained about my cousins crying on the airplane or us being first in line, as if to say Try me.
Something deep and primal was awoken within me, a need to protect, to get us through this
airport unscathed and unscattered.
Eleanor was a sickly baby, and throughout our trip kept coughing and sneezing. Often,
while my aunt and uncle attended to my other young cousin, Arthur, I watched over her.
Particularly, at this moment Eleanor was crying up a storm and I was trying to give her one of the
many bottles of breast milk my aunt had so delicately prepared. At one of our gates, a man, not
much older than me, came up to me and said
You are such a good mom, you smile and talk to her like a real person….just like my wife.
Although apprehensive, I smiled at him and thanked him for his kindness. But I didn’t correct
him, in fact, I was flattered. But I didn’t correct him. As Eleanor’s eyes would later continue to
meet mine, I knew something within me reached the precipice. This thing, this feeling, which I
cannot name, except as love, just kept flowing from me. Its arms reached us across international
terminals and toddler meltdowns on Covid-filled planes. She needed me and in many ways I
needed her.
##
Sometimes I go swimming at night. The water always welcomes me, lapps at my feet,
and begs me to submerge myself. In the water, I am light, and with my breath as my guide, I can
swim lap after lap. When my lungs start to burn, when I can taste no longer chlorine, but the salt
of my own breath, I stop and let the cool, humid air take over. Tonight, you are there, shining
under the fluorescent lights, illuminated by your lifeguard-red shirt. We have met before, worked
together on school projects as our hands would touch under desks, a light flicker of electricity
circulating between our cool hands. You have never seen me naked, but tonight in my swimsuit I
might as well be. I see your eyes go up my spine to my head and back again, a stoic expression
on your face. You are watching me take breath after breath, lap after lap, stroke after stroke in
this sticky humid college-sized pool. On occasion, our eyes meet briefly, usually as I come up for
air mid-stroke. Underwater I always look away, eyes closed tightly so chlorine cannot sting my
pupils. When I finally meet your gaze, heat reaches up my body and back down again. Yet, I
don’t look away, and you don’t either.
I talk to you usually after my swim. Sometimes we talk about the weather or our shared
classes, maybe if things get personal – our hobbies. I always feel your eyes bearing into my back
as I walk away. I never meet them again till days later, while we are both working in the library
or passing each other on the way to class. Masochistically, I want to keep looking, to keep
feeling my insides twinge and tangle, as our gazes meet. I know that one day, it can stop
abruptly, maybe after sex or a semester, maybe because I am no longer considered interesting to
you. Yet, we both keep looking.
There is always someone else in the pool though, an older man, possibly retired. Before I
knew better, I would wear a smaller bathing suit, so you could see my lines curving, cascading
through the water. Now though, he wants to look instead. He stays underwater gazing at my
figure for a long time, too long in fact. As I swim my laps, the once-cool water becomes sticky
and unbearable. I am trapped between desires and gazes, unable to release myself from its
blanketing water weight. In these instances, I am no longer primal, able to take on a government
agent or an unruly baby. I am the deer and its doe, always on alert, and frozen. Tonight though I
won’t stop swimming. I keep going up and down the lanes, my breasts, which this man is
obviously looking at bouncing up and down in my suit. My breath is hot, the stinging
unbearable, my wet hair is in my mouth, but I keep going and going. Too stigmatized to free or
flee; I am no longer swimming. Drowning in the gazes of others, their silent eyes always are
asking, always beckoning for more. Tired, I crawled my way back to the locker room, back
arched, hair draped over my face. I am on all fours, my wet soggy knees digging into the tile. I
want to stop, to cry out for help, maybe from you or another lifeguard on duty. All I can muster
though, is my silent plea for a towel; something to dry off the old man’s gaze. Instead, I remain
quiet and still, dragging my wet body blindly across the tile to the women’s locker room.
#####
Recently, I saw a fox, a rare sighting for my congested college campus. I noticed its tail
first, shining under the one light near my dorm. Its shadow was sleek, but it wasn’t until I got
close up, until our gazes met, that we recognized who each other was. Once it saw me, it didn’t
move, just looked as if to ask a question, as if to say, You are not meant to see me. And I knew, I
had always known
