Bullfrog by S. M. Rosen

There’s a smell, a humid kind of smell. Wet concrete—car fumes. A fire hydrant cracked open, cool water steaming on the New York July sidewalk. I remember because my feet were burning. Cool water on too warm concrete soles.

Mom says I must have had an eidetic memory when I was that age. I don’t think so. Everything just felt worth remembering back then. Like—there was this tree outside my bedroom window, right? And when it rained, the leaves looked like a green-haired, bearded dragon, breathing fire-water into the gutter. But I don’t remember that because my brain is special. I remember because the dragon was special. Cool water, cracked-car-fume-concrete was special.

I don’t remember everything. That’s what eidetic means. You remember everything. I remember most things. Steel trap. Mom calls my brain a steel trap.

Mom stares blankly at me from the living room couch. Her brain is Swiss cheese.

Don’t look at me that way.

Don’t look at me like you don’t know me.

There’s a smell. A humid kind of smell. Wet cracked concrete—Mom brushes city dust off my shorts, they were blue, with dinosaurs. The dust collects in the cracks of the hexagon park path tiles. Sprinklers in the playground. Whizz. Spray. Wet pinpricks flick the back of my tiny neck.

I don’t remember everything. Just most things.

I remember when her dim, grey eyes were bright and blue. When they sparkled with a wild delight—Mom, in her favorite dress, catching rainbows in the garden hose. We were drenched, head to foot, because it was hot and I was bored. I mustn’t be bored, she demanded, before chasing me through the yard with a neon green water-gun. She said that was the cardinal sin of childhood. To see the world yet somehow miss the magic. We drank from the brass hose nozzle; it could have been the elixir of life.

There’s that smell. A wet concrete kind of smell—but with something else now. A neglected kind of smell—Mildew summer camp towel, bunched up on the clothesline. Crickets instead of car horns. Bullfrogs in the black. Croak! Croak! Croak! Alone in my pyjamas, standing at the edge of a lake I can barely see, I am homesick for the city. Croak! Croak! Croak! The darkness was altogether empty and full of screams. Croak! Croak! Croak!

“Are you comfortable? Is there anything you need? Mom, is there anything you need?” She doesn’t recognize me. I can see it in her dim, grey eyes. “Okay. Mom, I’m going d-o-w-n-s-t-a-i-r-s. Yes, downstairs to find whatever is making that smell. I’ll be right back, just give me a minute.”

The red, houndstooth carpet on the basement stairs has been frayed for as long as I can remember. Its peeling fibers brush my shoes as I head down—One time, Mom hid a box of donuts on that step right there. She was hosting a party and wanted to save us some for later. We smashed them into our mouths, like greedy carpet goblins, grinning through pink icing as we hid from the guests above.

“Do you want to hear a story about a frog?”

“Ew, a frog?”

“What’s ew about a frog?”

“Gross.”

“Oh—I see! You haven’t discovered the magic of gross things, yet.”

“Too slimy.”

“Yes, very slimy!”

“Ew, Mom!”

“Okay, the magic of pink donuts is fine for now, but one day, you’ll see.”

“See what?”

“That the magic of gross things is even better.”

She never got around to telling me that story before the dementia set in. I would have remembered.

There’s the smell. A wet-concrete, camp-towel kind of smell. A slush of rust and grit swirls across the basement floor. Puddles in the linoleum gaps. Gross.

I—wait. Metallic. Something metallic a long time ago. Metallic red on the floor. Frayed but not like carpet, like feathers. Yes, frayed tendrils of metallic red. I can’t…I can’t quite see it.

I don’t remember everything. Just most things.  

There’s a mop in the basement. I grab it. The strings float in the icy, brown water before growing heavy and sinking beneath the surface of the slurry. I wonder if a pipe burst, that can happen, you know, during this time of year. When the snow falls on the city like a thick blanket and only the ploughs can get through. They freeze and crack open. I hope that it’s just a pipe. Water pools around my feet. Gross. I feel it in my socks.

—Yes! I remember now. Slimy in my socks. Little white socks. There was once metallic red in my little, white socks.

I swirl my mop through the murky water, it’s no use. I can see it oozing up, creeping toward the baseboards. There’s a crack in the concrete. A crack in the foundation itself. We knew it was there, I just sort of hoped, I suppose, that we had more time to fix it. The linoleum squeaks under my feet, warping and buckling. I retreat.

“Mom.”

She doesn’t answer. She can’t answer, anymore.

“Mom, there’s a leak in the basement.”

Please look at me like you know me.

“I need to try and stop it from getting worse, so just stay here, okay?

Just stay here, Mom.”

I hurry back down the stairs.

The water is creeping. I can see it moving slowly up the walls, soaking the edge of the plasterboard. There’s a pile of old towels in the cabinet. Maybe if I stuff them along the edges of the room, it could buy us some time, stop the damage from spreading. In seconds, they are soggy and useless—

“It’s going to be okay, my darling. I need you to hold that there.”

“Mommy!”

“Yup, just like that. Perfect. Don’t be afraid. No need to be afraid.”

“It hurts.”

“Breathe in through your nose. Yeah, just like that.”

“It’s too red!”

“Keep holding the towel on your arm or it’ll keep bleeding.”

“But it’s so slimy.”

“I know, I know. But you need to help me hold it there while I get help.”

“It’s in my socks.”

“Don’t worry about the socks.”

“Mommy!”

“Okay, I’ll hold it. I’ll hold it for you. Put your arm around my neck, I’ll carry you.”

I feel the grit catching on me as I slosh through the dark water. There’s a lever somewhere down here that turns off the flow to the pipes. Over there in the shadows. Yes! That must be it. I wrap my fingers around the crusty metal handle and pull. It shifts with a squeak and croak!

—A jar of tadpoles, how could I have forgotten that? A jar of summer tadpoles scooped from a puddle by the park. Mom said we could watch them grow up together. That it would be magical. Oh. But I dropped them. Yes, I dropped them…Glass shattering everywhere, sharp edges flying. It cut my arm; there was so much blood!    

The oozing, icy water stops and settles around me. A sound wells up in my chest. I laugh. I laugh at myself, catching my breath. I laugh, covered in rust and grime. I laugh as the mildew smell creeps into my clothing. Gross. Oh God. I laugh. And I laugh. It is magic.

“You were right, Mom.”

 wipe the grit from my hands. I can see the faintest shadow of a scar on my arm.

“There is nothing I wouldn’t do for you.”

The water drains back down through the crack in the foundation. I squeeze the towels out in the sink. But the plaster is still wet to the touch, the damp spreading up in tendrils towards the ceiling. Damn.                 

“The leak is sorted, but the damage may be done. We’ll have to wait and see.”

She doesn’t answer. She can’t answer, anymore.

“Hey, Mom?”

She doesn’t answer.

“Do you remember the story about the frog?”

“Can you hear me, Mom?”

“Do you remember?”

The silence between us is altogether empty. But I remember when it wasn’t.

“That’s the magic of gross things, isn’t it?”

“That when you love someone enough, there is nothing too gross, too hard, or too painful that you wouldn’t do?” 

There’s a smell, a humid kind of smell. Wet concrete, damp plaster, inching closer. I hold her hand as the water creeps up to meet us.

“There is nothing I wouldn’t do for you, Mom.”

S. M. Rosen

A version of this story appeared in the Reedsy Weekly Prompt Contest – “A Matter of Time.” https://blog.reedsy.com/creative-writing-prompts

Image by Ravi from Pixabay – the head and eyes of a large bullfrog peeking out of the water. Green, gold and brown and really rather lovely.