“See you when I come back around.”
“Be careful,” I can’t help saying, and now there’s a fire in my eye as I send out warning signals to the boat driver and his helper.
Then there is nothing more to say as they head away from the dock, the big engine cutting a V-shaped wake behind the boat. My heart is in my throat as they reach open water, and the rainbowcolored sail fills with wind. Then, a moment later, Molly is aloft, a tiny doll tethered by a slender cord. She flies like a kite tail, higher and higher until they run out of rope. I shade my eyes and look at her, silhouetted by the sun.
Then my heart settles and I wave both arms wildly over my head. “Go, Molly!” I shout, jumping up and down on the dock. “Go, Molly!”
Watching her fly is incredibly gratifying. I fumble with my mobile phone, try to get a picture to send to Dan. She’ll probably look like no more than a speck against the sky, but he’ll get the idea.
A gust of wind ripples across the water in a discernible path. I can actually see the gust filling the sail and then turning it sideways. Molly’s stick figure legs swing to and fro like a pendulum.
“Omigod,” I say. “Omigod, she’s going to fall.”
Apparently the boat driver knows something isn’t right. His partner starts cranking in the cord, his movements fast, maybe frantic. I stand motionless on the dock, my feet riveted to the planks, my stomach a ball of ice. Here is the definition of hell—knowing something terrible is happening to your child and being completely powerless to stop it.
If she dies, I think with grim clarity, so will I.
The wind whips her like a rag doll. Her screams sound faint. I wonder if she’s calling my name. I send up a prayer, pushing it out with every cell of my body and soul.
The screams grow louder, and then I realize she’s not screaming at all. She’s laughing.
Chapter Nine
“You should try it,” Molly says, combing back her wind-tossed hair and pulling it into a bun. She is still shivering from the lake, her lips tinged a subtle blue. With her hair pulled back, she looks sophisticated, older. We return to the beach shack to get her something warm to drink. The hunky waiter hovers, bringing her hot tea in a small stainless steel pot.
“In my next life, maybe.”
“Seriously, Mom, you’d love it.”
“I’m too chicken to love something like that.” Still, I feel a slight twinge. What would it be like, dangling in midair like the tail of a giant kite? Butno. That is so far out of my comfort zone I can’t even imagine myself doing it.
“What’s that piece of fabric?” Molly asks, indicating the dotted Swiss. She’s been enjoying my stories about the pieces in the quilt.
“This is from your grandmother’s square-dancing skirt. There’s plenty of fabric, yards and yards of it, so I used it for sashing. Do you remember how she and Grandpa used to go square dancing?”
“Sort of. Maybe just from looking at old pictures, though.”
My parents were avid square dancers. They belonged to a club that held a dance the first Saturday of every month. I can still see them in my mind’s eye, my dad trim and dapper in a Western-cut shirt, with mother-of-pearl snap buttons, and a string tie. My mother’s dresses were outrageous confections. She made them herself, with yards of ruched calico or dotted Swiss draped over a pinwheel froth of crinolines. The dresses had puffy sleeves that sat like weightless balls on her shoulders, and she always wore these horrible little one-strap dancing shoes.
The sight of my folks in their square-dancing getup might have made me squirm, except thatthey were so damn happy to be going out to the dance hall together, to laugh with their friends and drink sticky fruit punch.
“They loved those dances so much,” I tell Molly, drawing a stitch through the sashing. “Grandma more than Grandpa, but he was a good sport about it.”
“I never saw them dance,” Molly says.
“Every once in a
“Be careful,” I can’t help saying, and now there’s a fire in my eye as I send out warning signals to the boat driver and his helper.
Then there is nothing more to say as they head away from the dock, the big engine cutting a V-shaped wake behind the boat. My heart is in my throat as they reach open water, and the rainbowcolored sail fills with wind. Then, a moment later, Molly is aloft, a tiny doll tethered by a slender cord. She flies like a kite tail, higher and higher until they run out of rope. I shade my eyes and look at her, silhouetted by the sun.
Then my heart settles and I wave both arms wildly over my head. “Go, Molly!” I shout, jumping up and down on the dock. “Go, Molly!”
Watching her fly is incredibly gratifying. I fumble with my mobile phone, try to get a picture to send to Dan. She’ll probably look like no more than a speck against the sky, but he’ll get the idea.
A gust of wind ripples across the water in a discernible path. I can actually see the gust filling the sail and then turning it sideways. Molly’s stick figure legs swing to and fro like a pendulum.
“Omigod,” I say. “Omigod, she’s going to fall.”
Apparently the boat driver knows something isn’t right. His partner starts cranking in the cord, his movements fast, maybe frantic. I stand motionless on the dock, my feet riveted to the planks, my stomach a ball of ice. Here is the definition of hell—knowing something terrible is happening to your child and being completely powerless to stop it.
If she dies, I think with grim clarity, so will I.
The wind whips her like a rag doll. Her screams sound faint. I wonder if she’s calling my name. I send up a prayer, pushing it out with every cell of my body and soul.
The screams grow louder, and then I realize she’s not screaming at all. She’s laughing.
Chapter Nine
“You should try it,” Molly says, combing back her wind-tossed hair and pulling it into a bun. She is still shivering from the lake, her lips tinged a subtle blue. With her hair pulled back, she looks sophisticated, older. We return to the beach shack to get her something warm to drink. The hunky waiter hovers, bringing her hot tea in a small stainless steel pot.
“In my next life, maybe.”
“Seriously, Mom, you’d love it.”
“I’m too chicken to love something like that.” Still, I feel a slight twinge. What would it be like, dangling in midair like the tail of a giant kite? Butno. That is so far out of my comfort zone I can’t even imagine myself doing it.
“What’s that piece of fabric?” Molly asks, indicating the dotted Swiss. She’s been enjoying my stories about the pieces in the quilt.
“This is from your grandmother’s square-dancing skirt. There’s plenty of fabric, yards and yards of it, so I used it for sashing. Do you remember how she and Grandpa used to go square dancing?”
“Sort of. Maybe just from looking at old pictures, though.”
My parents were avid square dancers. They belonged to a club that held a dance the first Saturday of every month. I can still see them in my mind’s eye, my dad trim and dapper in a Western-cut shirt, with mother-of-pearl snap buttons, and a string tie. My mother’s dresses were outrageous confections. She made them herself, with yards of ruched calico or dotted Swiss draped over a pinwheel froth of crinolines. The dresses had puffy sleeves that sat like weightless balls on her shoulders, and she always wore these horrible little one-strap dancing shoes.
The sight of my folks in their square-dancing getup might have made me squirm, except thatthey were so damn happy to be going out to the dance hall together, to laugh with their friends and drink sticky fruit punch.
“They loved those dances so much,” I tell Molly, drawing a stitch through the sashing. “Grandma more than Grandpa, but he was a good sport about it.”
“I never saw them dance,” Molly says.
“Every once in a
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