The Girl on the Swing

The girl in the photo on her wall blinked.

I rub my eyes. Look again. No movement. Just a picture. A young girl on a swing, red curls framing her face, toothy grin aimed at the camera. Eyes wide. Fearless.

“Earth to Ben.”

Abigail hands me a glass of merlot. It’s only our third date and we’d had a bit too much wine at dinner. She invited me back to her fifth-floor walk-up just north of downtown, surprisingly roomy for the neighborhood.

“Cheers,” we say in unison. Glasses clink.

“It’s good,” I say, then nod toward the photo. “The girl?”

She smiles. “That’s seven-year-old me. My dad was a carpenter. Built that swing set from scratch. I’d scream ‘Higher! Higher!” and he’d push as hard as he could. I’d hold on tight, squeeze my eyes shut, and soar to the clouds. My plan was to be an astronaut, exploring the wonders of the universe, travelling faster than light.”

When I don’t say anything, her eyes return to me. She can tell there’s something more.

I hesitate. It sounds crazy. I take another sip. I taste the fruit, but it’s nowhere strong enough to explain what I saw.

“The thing is, I swear when I looked at the picture just now—”

Her eyes crinkle. “What?”

“Well, it seemed like the girl on the swing, that you, were looking right at me. And that you…you blinked.”

Abigail’s takes a half step toward the photo. I decide to go all in.

“There’s more. For just a second, I thought I was there. It’s like I was pulled into the photograph. I could smell the grass, like it was newly mowed. Your father, he took the picture, right?”

Abigail looks at me, “Yeah, but how did you know—"

“And he was a big guy, with sideburns and this bushy mustache—”

“—Wait. Hold on. You must have seen a picture of him somewhere around here.” She starts scanning the room for proof, for logic.

All I can think is that she isn’t getting what I’m saying. I put my glass down next to hers. I keep going.

“There’s more. Behind your father, I could see your house. It’s the house you grew up in, right?”

“Ben, that’s not in the picture either. You’re starting to scare me.” She takes a seat on the sofa, runs her fingers through her hair, exhales, seems to decide something. “OK, Ben, fine. Describe the house.”

I sit next to her and scramble, trying to recall what I saw. “Green siding. White trim on the windows. Multi-level wooden deck off the back porch. Wind chimes hanging from the eaves. And there was someone else there, too. On the deck. A woman.”

Abigail leans forward. “Describe her. Describe the woman.”

“About seventy, maybe? Stern looking. Seemed like she was looking straight at me, a look like…like I don’t know what. She held out her hand—"

“And—”

“And that’s when you came over with the wine and I was back here, in this room. The whole thing probably lasted just a second or two, but somehow it felt more than that. Like time just slowed down or shifted for a bit.”

Abigail is staring at me hard. “Tell me more about the woman.”

“I don’t know—”

“Tell me.” Her voice is quiet but firm. It’s a new side of her.

“Well,” I stammer, “I can’t explain it, it felt like she was watching over you. Protecting you.”

“Ben, this isn’t some sort of joke?”

“No, Abigail. I swear.”

She stands, disappears down the hall. Click as a light goes on. Drawers open. When she returns, she’s carrying an old photo album, already turned to a page.

“This her?”

In the photo, Abigail is around fifteen. She’s standing beside the woman I saw. I blink—and I’m in the picture. I can smell the woman’s perfume. She reaches out, takes my hand, folds it around Abigail’s.

Then I’m back. Abigail hasn’t noticed.

“Yes,” I whisper. “That’s her.”

Abigail sinks into the couch. “Grandma Anna. Tarot cards. Crystals. She’d tell me stories about her life, fantastical stuff, stuff that even as a girl I knew was mostly make believe. But she taught me a lot. Promised she’d always be with me, even after. She died the summer after this picture was taken.”

Abigal takes a deep breath, fights back tears. “She said one day I’d meet someone who wouldn’t just love me. They’d believe in me. She said I’d know by the way the world, my world, bent around them.”

I reach for her hand. She doesn’t pull away, but after another moment a single tear forms.

She glances at the empty tissue box, says “Be right back” and disappears down the hallway.

Alone, I flip through the album. Photos of her family. Her mom in a sunny kitchen. Her dad, unmistakable. Her grandmother. And on the final page—a photo of Abigail, standing on the old bridge just outside of town. It’s where we met, three weeks ago.

She’s alone, gazing out over the water. She’s wearing a dress I haven’t seen before.

Then I hear it. The river.

I smell honeysuckle.

And I’m there—on one knee, before her. Her eyes lit with surprise.

A blink and I’m back in the apartment.

I close the album but keep a finger marking that page.

My head spins. That photo, the last one, hasn’t been taken. Not yet.

A vibration. I glance down and watch as the closed photo album expands, page by page. They pile on fast and then, a moment later, stop.

Abigail’s still down the hall.

I open it to where I left off. She’s where she was, still on the bridge.

I’m about to turn the page. I need to know what comes next.

But then I stop.

To look would be to steal the joy, the tears, the mystery of what our lives might be.

And so I don’t.

The future, our future, will come soon enough.

William Glewicz

@WJG

The Girl on the Swing

WJG