JEAN CLAIRE DY
 

By Jean Claire Dy

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With each passing week, the sea advanced, while she cleaned blood off her gloves in the clinic. Unaware of the cause of their bleeding gums, the patients grinned. She told them to floss more, adjusted the overhead light, and grinned back. However, the air has been tainted. Not in aroma, but in pressure: the weight that accumulated behind the eyes before a downpour. Her dreams of molasses-coloured water and riverbed silt bloomed in her lungs as she slept at night. Coughing and holding her hand to her chest, she would wake up tasting mud.

She was known as Mariel. Keppel Bay was the town's name, but the bay itself had undergone three name changes since it was settled, each one attempting to obscure the previous one. She had spent six years here. Long enough to determine which patients needed the radio on and which ones preferred quiet while cleaning. Long enough to stop feeling alien at the grocery store, but the sensation returned as abruptly as the weather. Two blocks away from the water was the clinic. She watched the tide come in between patient appointments from the second-floor window. The coast had been changing. Everybody agreed. Every season, the council erected fresh markers. Water was at the doorsteps of properties that had been on the beach for decades. The locals blamed the moon, king tides, and La Niña. As if silence could keep the sea at bay, no one uttered 'climate change' out loud.

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Mariel observed more things. On the instruments she had sterilised the previous evening, rust developed overnight. The suction tubes continued to smell brackish even after bleaching. She would hear patients swallowing during procedures; it sounded like thick, sediment-filled waves retreating from the coast. She mentioned it to Dr Brennan once. He touched her shoulder and laughed. Sydney seemed unattainable. "You're working too hard, love. Take a weekend. Go see Sydney." Every city did so. She now needed water close by. Even if she had never visited the ocean, she had to know its location. When her mother called about the house, the dreams began. Not the Keppel Bay house with the weatherboard siding and the year-round-fruiting lemon tree. The Tacloban residence. The house that was no longer there. Her mother said, "They're building a mall," her voice crackling over the line. "Right where the kitchen used to be." Mariel had watched condensation form on the mirror while standing in her Australian bathroom with her phone pressed to her ear. It had been fifteen years since she had returned. I hadn't wanted to see what the water had taken or what Yolanda had done. She had said, "That's good," and meant it. Meaning: a mall is preferable to a ghost.

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But she had a dream about the earlier flood that night. That childhood one. In 1997, Rosing was a typhoon. Being nine and small, she could squeeze between her father’s arm and ribs when they went up to the roof. The water had quickly risen. She was eating breakfast one moment. The floor was a river in the next. She recalled how the floodwater smelled strongly of rot, sewage, and earth. Everything had silt in it. their locks. their airways. Weeks later, the food they ate still had that flavour. When the water came, her father was wearing his inexpensive house slippers from the market. Two blue shapes tumbled against the brown as she watched them drift off in the current. The sight had made him laugh, a sound like shattered glass. He had said, "At least they'll travel together." She was that child again in the dream. However, the water continued to rise above the sky and the roof. The silt was too heavy for her to swim. It filled her mouth and her clothing. It was like forgetting as she sank. Gasping, she awoke. Her linens were wet. Her hair stuck to her neck. Bending over the bathroom sink, she coughed nonstop for ten minutes, certain that she would bring up mud. All that emerged was ordinary, transparent spit. It was only a dream, she assured herself. Just a flashback brought on by her mother's call. But the dream came back the following night. And the following night. The water level increased each time. She sank further into the silt each time.

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She turned into a barometer. One morning, her skin was as tight as drum leather and her ankles were swollen. The swelling had spread to her hands by noon. She was unable to hold the scaler securely. She had to request that Dr. Brennan handle her afternoon appointments. He said, "Allergic reaction?" She shook her head, asking, "New soap? Latex sensitivity?" Her body was familiar. This was not the same. She examined herself while standing naked in front of the mirror at home. Her skin appeared altered. Even when dry, damp. Strangely, light struck her as though she were submerged. A tiny moon of pressure remained where she pressed her thumb against her thigh. During the procedure, she began to cough. tiny, covert coughs at first. Then she was doubled over by deeper ones. The patients appeared worried. She would dismiss them, blame the air conditioner, and the dust. However, she tasted it and found it to be older than both salt and silt. After a routine cleaning, she took off her gloves one Thursday and discovered they were completely soaked. The underside of her hands was dry. The gloves leaked onto the ground. When Dr Brennan passed the puddle, he scowled. He said, "Leak in the ceiling again?" She glanced up. It was a dry ceiling. Fluorescent lights hum, solid white tile. "Must be," she uttered.

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That evening, still in her scrubs, she poured two inches of water into the bathtub and lay down. She felt the porcelain against her back. She shut her eyes and allowed her mind to wander. She heard her father's voice in the void between consciousness and slumber. 'Diri ka mahadlok' is his gentle and urgent Waray. Don't be scared. Naa ako. Here I am. He was dead, though. It was eight years ago. Heart attack. Rapid. In a way, kind. In Keppel Bay, she had scattered his ashes. At the time, it had seemed perfect. She now questioned whether she had been asking the water to take him or returning him to it. The patients started talking in code. Mariel was holding the scaler at her gum line when Mrs Chen, who was in for a six-month checkup, sat back in the chair and remarked, "The water remembers, you know." She stopped. Mrs Chen said, her eyes closed and her voice dreamy, "Sorry?" "The water." Mariel completed the cleaning in silence, saying, "It knows what was here before. It knows what's coming." Then it was the retired postmaster, Mr Kowalski. Did she hear it at night? he asked. Mariel rinsed the suction tube, saying, "Hear what?" "The pipes. The suck and slosh of it. Like something's trying to come through."

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She was aware of it. Naturally, she had. As she lay in bed with the house settling around her, she heard water moving through walls that shouldn't have any water. She had inspected for leaks. made a plumber call. He looked at her as if she were a waste of time after finding nothing. She said to Mr Kowalski, "Old houses make noise." He parted his lips to accept the polish. She could see the pale geography of his soft palate, his molars, and his fillings inside. And beneath—or did it pass through? —a gleam. similar to viewing heat haze over asphalt. She gave a quick blink. It vanished. She used her phone to record while she slept that night. She listened to it on her headphones in the morning. Nothing for 20 minutes. The creak of the mattress and her breathing. At 3:47 AM, there was a noise. Not close. In rhythm. Like waves smashing against the coast, but muffled, as though they were passing through fabric. Five times, she listened to it. The sound remained the same. stable. Kindly. Hold on.

That morning, she observed the changes as she strolled down Beach Road to work. Sandbags were now ringed around previously dry properties. The foundation of the community centre had been raised two feet. The elementary school set up pumps. In the waiting room, people discussed it. values of property. rates for insurance. Who was leaving, and who was purchasing? They spoke cautiously, as though the wrong words could bring about catastrophe. Mariel was aware. Her family had spoken in this manner following Rosing and Yolanda. circling the cut without giving it a name. The water was already inside; she wanted to let them know. The gaps between their thoughts, their lungs, and their mouths. How high they built didn't matter. She was the dental nurse, however. overseas. Still. She gave them clipboards while grinning and remaining silent. Her body continued to change. One morning, she woke up unable to fully close her hands. Her fingers were curved as if she were holding invisible water, and her joints were swollen. She gave a sick call. Dr Brennan seemed irritated. She checked herself once more in the restroom. Her skin had become translucent. Her veins, blue rivers beneath the surface, were visible to her. She felt like her chest had turned into a reservoir when she pressed her sternum.

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She pictured the homes on Beach Road, their foundations gradually collapsing. She recalled how the water had seeped into every nook and cranny of her childhood house, blurring the lines between inside and outside. She recalled how her father had embraced her so tightly on the roof that she could feel his heartbeat against her back. How he had made a joke and gestured to his floating slippers to stop her from crying. Even as a young child, she had realised that humour was just another way to drown. She began to doze off in the bathtub. The porcelain felt perfect against her back, but she was unable to explain why. After adding two inches of water to it, she would lie there for hours, alternating between waking and sleeping. She was nine years old again in those interim moments, clinging to her father on the roof. But now she knew what he had been muttering. It's okay to let go, but don't be scared.

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Mr Cadwell was the one who broke her. On a Wednesday, he apologised for a broken crown. The ideal patient. Always punctual, tidy, and paid without hesitation. She lowered the chair, adjusted the lamp, and seated him. She inquired, "How have you been?" His voice had the easy cadence of someone who had never had to say, "Can't complain." She studied the tooth. slight fracture. Easy fix. His mouth changed when she reached for the scaler. It did not physically enlarge. The measurements didn't change. Suddenly, however, depth appeared where it shouldn't. She was staring into his mouth, seeing past the mechanics of speech, past the teeth and tongue. She noticed water. The water is brown. heavy with silt. Her father's hands, reaching up through the flood towards a sky he would never touch, were now visible to her instead of his slippers. She noticed the partially submerged bamboo fence of their former home. She saw her own childlike expression, mouth hanging open in an unfulfilled scream. Her gloves were tugged by the suction tube. The sound intensified. That hungry gurgle, that slosh and suck. Her vision wavered. She could smell sewage, mangrove rot, and liquid earth.

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The chair was wet when she blinked. She was aware that it wasn't what others would consider real. knew that Dr Brennan would see a dry chair, a typical patient, and a nurse experiencing some sort of episode if she called him over. But the water was there for her. Thick and brown, it trickled past her ankles and gathered under the tray. It transported silt. It had memories. Before a typhoon, the suction hose let out a whine. Mr Cadwell asked in a distant voice, "You alright, love?" Her response was a nod. She was sinking, though. Not outwardly. Not quick. Only... straying. Her feet slipped on the ground. The clinic's lights went down. She tasted silt, salt, and grief that was so old that it had become stone. The water wanted her right here. wanted her all along. She dropped the instruments. She was the only one who saw them fall into the flood. Mr Cadwell continued to speak, his words distorted by the distance. Dr Brennan materialised in the doorway, scowling at her while his mouth moved in unintelligible questions. Her waist was submerged in water. Her torso. Her cheek. Then she was beneath. There was complete silence. Exactly. The silt poured in as she parted her lips. That was the sensation of drowning. not harsh. Not abrupt. Just a gradual erasure, layer by layer, until you were unable to recall the sensation of breathing air.

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She managed to end the day somehow. She filed the charts, cleaned the instruments, and locked the door after herself. She was sent home early by Dr Brennan. She'd declined. Fearing that she would never return if she left. She was afraid she wouldn't leave if she stayed. When she went to the car at six, she ended up heading towards the water rather than her house. It was a thick, purple evening. The horizon was filled with storm clouds. The air had a copper taste. After parking at the beach access, she sat for a while while the engine cooled and ticked. She watched the tide approach through the windscreen. It was more than it ought to be. The water appeared to be carrying more than just salt because it was too thick. The flood crossed her mind. Through brown water, her father's hands reached up. His slippers, a tiny act of kindness amid the mayhem. of the mall that had replaced the house. With every departure, she left behind a different version of herself. The rooftop girl. The ash-scattering daughter. The nurse whose mouths were as open as doors. They were all drowning in different types of water.

She left the vehicle. She removed her shoes. One hand held them. The sand was cold and damp. With constant greed, the tide was tugging at the coast. Feeling the foam lap at her toes, she moved to the water's edge and stood there. She had dispersed her father in this area. where she had attempted to let go. To her ankles, she waded in. Her thighs. She was surprised at how warm the water was. It had a familiar scent. similar to the river that was behind their home prior to the storms. similar to the soil after rain. 'The water remembers,' she recalled Mrs Chen's statement. Now she comprehended. It was all carried by the water. Every departure, every loss, and every version of yourself you believed to be dead. Patient and unstoppable, it rose and fell with the tides. It never forgot. It simply awaited your cessation of running. She dived further in. The sea was serene, almost tender. The storm on the horizon hadn't arrived yet. Might not arrive at all. She thought of her swollen hands, her translucent skin, and her chest full of hollow spaces. She thought of the sound in the walls, the water in Mr Cadwell's mouth, and the dreams that wouldn't stop. Her body had been trying to tell her something. That she was already drowning. That she had been for years. That grief was just another kind of water, and you could only hold your breath for so long.

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That night, she left the clinic barefoot. Shoes in hand, she walked to the dunes. The sea wasn't wild, only waiting. She sat at the water's edge and leant forward until her forehead kissed the surface. In the dark, her reflection dissolved—face braided with stars and silt. The water was warmer than her skin. She let it hold her weight. Let it take the heaviness from her joints, her chest, and her throat. She didn't know if what happened next was real or if her mind had finally given her permission to feel what she'd been holding back for years. She only knew that when she opened her mouth and let the ocean in, it didn't burn. It tasted like salt and sediment and something older than memory. Like surrender. Like relief. For the first time in months, the air—or was it water—filled her completely. No coughing. No dreams. Only a slow exhale, as if the ocean were breathing her back. She stayed there, face submerged, until her lungs demanded she surface.

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When she finally lifted her head, gasping, the stars had multiplied. The storm clouds had passed without breaking. She was soaked through, shivering, alive. She walked back to the car with water streaming from her hair, her clothes, and her open mouth. She drove home. Slept dry for the first time in weeks. In the morning, she woke to silence. No rushing in the walls. No taste of silt. The swelling in her hands had gone down. Her skin looked ordinary again, solid, opaque. She went to work. Held mouths open. Cleaned teeth. The patients smiled and she smiled back. But something had shifted. The air in the clinic felt lighter. The instruments stayed dry. The water had taken what it needed. Had given her back to herself, changed but whole. That night, she walked to the beach again. This time, she didn't wade in. Just sat at the edge and watched the waves come and go, steady as breathing. The ocean was still there. Would always be there. Rising, patient, holding everything she'd tried to forget.

She thought of her father's last words on the roof, the joke about his slippers travelling together. She understood now that he'd been teaching her how to survive this. How to find humour in loss. How to let things go without forgetting them. The slippers were gone but the memory remained, and maybe that was enough. Maybe that was all anyone got. Not the objects themselves but the stories they carried. She pulled out her phone and texted her mother for the first time in weeks. Told her she was okay. Told her she'd been dreaming about the flood. Her mother called immediately. They talked for an hour. About Rosing. About Yolanda. About all the water that had shaped them. Her mother said, "We survive by remembering. We survive by letting go. These are not opposites." Mariel understood. The water didn't want to drown her. It only wanted her to stop pretending she could breathe underwater. Wanted her to surface. To remember. To let the silt settle so she could finally see clearly.