when he was even smaller, he’d walked right off the side of the pool, scaring everyone. Eventually he’d worked out swimming, and now he was an expert. There was never any stimming in the water. Never any banging or shrieking. So they came here twice a week.
Normally, with her wig on, she stood on the ramp, not putting her head in the water. Today, if she wanted to, she could go all the way down, down to the bottom of the pool. She tilted her white head down to look at Bubber. He had a small plastic frog. The frog was jumping on and off a small swim float, assisted by Bubber. There were noises to go with the jumps, something that sounded like rewinding a tape. It jumped on and off many, many times. It looked like he would never get tired of playing with the frog. Sunny’s skin was cold because she was standing under one of the giant vents in the air-circulating pipes. Her head was very cold. In fact, she froze.
Maybe, without a wig, she was a mother who would plunge into the water, feeling it rush warm and cool around her, holding her up. Or maybe at this point in her motherhood, at this advanced state of habitual wig-wearing, Sunny had written onto her flesh the true purpose of her life at that moment, which was just to shut up and watch over the child. The child enjoyed the water, and Sunny only had to stand here and make sure he didn’t die. This was her default position. She stood in the mommy body in the mommy spot. All she had to do, at that recurring moment from about one o’clock until about two o’clock on Tuesday and Thursday, was to tend the child. Did she have to be comfortable at this time? No. Did she have to enjoy the water? No. There were many times in her life when she had been comfortable and had enjoyed water. Now was a time when she was protecting her child and promoted his happiness as the pool enriched his life and developed his mind and body. So why cloud that with her comfort or discomfort? Wig or no wig. This is what she told herself, to prevent herself falling into the water, going deep down, playing with her own feet, looking at the lights.
She was reminded of a time in her life before anyone had looked at her to consider if she would make a great wife and mother. Then it had been lots of fun on the beach. She glided along the hot sand in a string bikini, walking as if she’d invented legs, head greased with coconut oil, floppy hat dangling from one hand. She swam like a dolphin, no swim cap, no tangle of hair around her goggles. Those were good times, but who really cares? There are people walking around with no limbs, or whose children have fallen out of buildings and died, or people who can’t come to the YMCA because they live in some godforsaken rural hellhole. She never knew, before she had a child, the concern she would feel for him. She felt real actual concern.
Sunny had taken swimming lessons as a child. Her mother believed every child should learn to swim, ride a horse, and play the piano. What had occupied her mother’s mind during those long lesson hours? When Sunny had been straining to tread water for three minutes, getting her skinny ass hollered at by the big high-school swimming coach. Was her mother sitting there? She couldn’t remember. Thinking about her? Comparing her, to her extreme disadvantage, to the other swimmers? Maybe her mother was thinking, That’s my daughter. The bald one . Emma had been a diver. Had spoken French. Had graduated at the top of her class. Sunny had been a lazy swimmer, prone to spells of floating and underwater drifting. She had spoken very poor German, had majored in something her mother found incomprehensible.
Emma hadn’t wanted Sunny to wear the wig, but the wig made Sunny aspire to so much more. Mostly she aspired to raise a fine set of children, noble children, normal children. In her wig, she looked just like a woman. Without her wig, she looked like something else. She wondered if she, given the choice, would ask to live a
Normally, with her wig on, she stood on the ramp, not putting her head in the water. Today, if she wanted to, she could go all the way down, down to the bottom of the pool. She tilted her white head down to look at Bubber. He had a small plastic frog. The frog was jumping on and off a small swim float, assisted by Bubber. There were noises to go with the jumps, something that sounded like rewinding a tape. It jumped on and off many, many times. It looked like he would never get tired of playing with the frog. Sunny’s skin was cold because she was standing under one of the giant vents in the air-circulating pipes. Her head was very cold. In fact, she froze.
Maybe, without a wig, she was a mother who would plunge into the water, feeling it rush warm and cool around her, holding her up. Or maybe at this point in her motherhood, at this advanced state of habitual wig-wearing, Sunny had written onto her flesh the true purpose of her life at that moment, which was just to shut up and watch over the child. The child enjoyed the water, and Sunny only had to stand here and make sure he didn’t die. This was her default position. She stood in the mommy body in the mommy spot. All she had to do, at that recurring moment from about one o’clock until about two o’clock on Tuesday and Thursday, was to tend the child. Did she have to be comfortable at this time? No. Did she have to enjoy the water? No. There were many times in her life when she had been comfortable and had enjoyed water. Now was a time when she was protecting her child and promoted his happiness as the pool enriched his life and developed his mind and body. So why cloud that with her comfort or discomfort? Wig or no wig. This is what she told herself, to prevent herself falling into the water, going deep down, playing with her own feet, looking at the lights.
She was reminded of a time in her life before anyone had looked at her to consider if she would make a great wife and mother. Then it had been lots of fun on the beach. She glided along the hot sand in a string bikini, walking as if she’d invented legs, head greased with coconut oil, floppy hat dangling from one hand. She swam like a dolphin, no swim cap, no tangle of hair around her goggles. Those were good times, but who really cares? There are people walking around with no limbs, or whose children have fallen out of buildings and died, or people who can’t come to the YMCA because they live in some godforsaken rural hellhole. She never knew, before she had a child, the concern she would feel for him. She felt real actual concern.
Sunny had taken swimming lessons as a child. Her mother believed every child should learn to swim, ride a horse, and play the piano. What had occupied her mother’s mind during those long lesson hours? When Sunny had been straining to tread water for three minutes, getting her skinny ass hollered at by the big high-school swimming coach. Was her mother sitting there? She couldn’t remember. Thinking about her? Comparing her, to her extreme disadvantage, to the other swimmers? Maybe her mother was thinking, That’s my daughter. The bald one . Emma had been a diver. Had spoken French. Had graduated at the top of her class. Sunny had been a lazy swimmer, prone to spells of floating and underwater drifting. She had spoken very poor German, had majored in something her mother found incomprehensible.
Emma hadn’t wanted Sunny to wear the wig, but the wig made Sunny aspire to so much more. Mostly she aspired to raise a fine set of children, noble children, normal children. In her wig, she looked just like a woman. Without her wig, she looked like something else. She wondered if she, given the choice, would ask to live a
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