When the child fell overboard nobody noticed. Not even her mother, because Lucy had been drunk. The child bobbed up and down in the wake of the boat for a few minutes trying to swim and keep afloat but she was only four years old and could not swim very well. She had called out her mother’s name as she had fallen, then screamed and screamed as she swallowed the salty water and drowned. That was one hour ago. Now she was feeding the fish.
They were on a boat. From La Rochelle to Ile de Ré. A twenty footer. She had dined many a time in this boat with her Columbian friends who owned it. It would take a few hours sailing. Then they would have a beautiful, thin and crispy, Pizza in the old town of Ile de Ré. They would eat, drink and be merry, sharing bottles of excellent, French red wine before returning through the warm, dark air of the evening. They would moor in the centre of La Rochelle in the Quai Valin, then walk up to the Piano bar and get drunk. They always argued about which was the quickest way, but they always ended up walking the port, from Quai Valin to Quai Duperré then right onto Rue du Temple. There was almost always a queue outside for the nightclub upstairs, but they knew the bouncers and could always just waltz in.
Lucy sank another vodka. The little brat was asleep below deck. She had put her there almost two hours ago, had sat with her and stroked her hair, humming softly until she had fallen asleep. The rocking of the boat this far out would keep her asleep for a few hours.
A few hours of peace and party. Lucy had tucked her in and gently placed her favourite teddy next to her perfect little face, the mirror of her mother people said. “Little Brat” would reach for the teddy in her sleep, then again when she woke up. This, Lucy had watched many times from sitting with her while she slept. Always in wonder at how such a beautiful child could come from such beginnings. Sometimes they would just sit and rock together. Other times they would walk for miles along the beach, holding hands except to pick up a strange object, a shell, a piece of driftwood. At dinner times they would sit opposite each other at the table talking, making jokes, sometimes just gazing at each other, giggling in the silence until one of them cracked and the table shook with their laughter. Lucy called her “my little brat”, and the child called her mother “my big fat bear”. Even though Lucy was not fat. She was the beauty that the child would never be.
At bath-time she would splash water at Lucy and Lucy would go to the sink, fill her hands with cold water and trickle it over her little brat. The little brat would scream with horror and pleasure, plead with fat bear to stop, then splash her again. They loved each other totally.
Lucy knew she should go down to check on her little brat but she was just too damned tired. When she awoke it was with a panic. Something was wrong, she could feel it. She ran to the steep stairs of the galley and fell more than climbed down. Then she ran to the bedroom.
The child was gone.
She pulled off the bed covers, looked in the cupboards. Then she put her hands to her face and screamed. One long scream that lasted forever.
They searched the boat top to bottom but the child was gone. Of course they turned the boat around but they all knew there was no chance of finding the child. And they all knew it was Lucy’s fault. She had been drunk. Had passed out for a while. Shit like that happens on boats. But, one must always watch a kid. They all knew that, especially on a boat. Out at sea. With a bunch of people having a party. They had thought her heartless, then, her “friends.” And she cried even harder as she remembered where her baby had come from, as she remembered the rape.
She had believed her life had restarted now she knew it was over. She knew she would never make that mistake again. Never love like that again. Never have “friends” like that again.