flowers hanging all over the living room wall and her calmly watching The Wonder Years , and after that we weren’t sure if it had ever been dangerous in the first place.
I didn’t tell Sophie any of this. The more I thought about my mom, the more I realized what a stranger Sophie was and what a weird idea it had been for us to stay in the house together.
“She was born with a condition that made her hands deformed,” I said. “So she had to have a lot of surgery as a kid.”
Sophie nodded. “Did it work?”
It was a funny question, like there was a switch somewhere, and if the doctor flipped it just right, Mom’s hands would just turn back to normal. But even though she talked about how hard the hospital was and how hard it was to get used to life when she finally got out, she was always really upbeat about the hands themselves. She was always up for answering questions about them, especially if a kid asked. She didn’t sugarcoat—I once heard her tell a boy in my sister’s class that her hands would get older faster than other people’s and that for herfiftieth birthday she was going to ask for Velcro shoes. But mostly what she ended up telling people was that even though they looked different, her hands were a lot like theirs.
“It worked,” I said. “All things considered, it worked pretty well.”
Sophie nodded again. “Is she dead?”
It shouldn’t have been such a slap in the face. After years of being the only one, I’d finally gotten to the age where some other people I knew had dead parents. And it wasn’t like I’d been talking about my mom’s book club, or her golf handicap, or her retirement plans, things I sometimes did make up when talking to strangers. Still, I felt like I’d been giving Sophie the happy version of my mom, and I didn’t like getting jerked back to reality.
“How did you know that?” I asked.
“You talk about her the way people talk about their dead relatives,” she said, “not their living ones.”
It bothered me that she could see through me that quickly. And that phrase “dead relatives,” like my mom was some cousin in a black-and-white photo with her name written on the back because otherwise everybody would forget her. The urge to fight came back in me. Instead I said, “Well yeah, you’re right. She’s dead.”
I didn’t look at Sophie after I said it. I figured anything I saw on her face would make me mad. I thought of how late I would get back to the city if I left right now. I wondered what I would do when I got there all snarled up inside. I thought about calling Tessa, which I sometimes still did, even though she was married now with a daughter and a baby son. Then Sophie said, “Will you do something for me?”
I couldn’t believe she would ask me for a favor. I looked up at her; her face was unapologetic and completely serious.
“Will you teach me how to swim?” she asked.
I stared. For a second I wasn’t mad anymore; I was just mystified.
“You can’t swim?” I asked her.
She shook her head. “I never learned.”
I remembered how her skin had felt the night before. I decided I wasn’t ready to give up yet. I wanted whatever was between us to play itself out in a way I could understand.
“I’ll teach you,” I said.
She didn’t have a bathing suit—she wore a pair of jean shorts and a black T-shirt. She walked ahead of me into the water until the hem of her T-shirt was wet, and then she turned around, hands on her hips.
“Okay,” she said. “I’m ready.”
I realized then that not only had I never taught anyone how to swim before, I didn’t actually remember learning to swim myself. All I remembered was doing it—the water like liquid pine in my mouth, the way the cold tightened the flesh against my bones. I remembered being afraid of it sometimes—at night I used to think about something big and cold and ancient with no eyes and no name, slowly rising up from the bottom. But not being able to do it was as
I didn’t tell Sophie any of this. The more I thought about my mom, the more I realized what a stranger Sophie was and what a weird idea it had been for us to stay in the house together.
“She was born with a condition that made her hands deformed,” I said. “So she had to have a lot of surgery as a kid.”
Sophie nodded. “Did it work?”
It was a funny question, like there was a switch somewhere, and if the doctor flipped it just right, Mom’s hands would just turn back to normal. But even though she talked about how hard the hospital was and how hard it was to get used to life when she finally got out, she was always really upbeat about the hands themselves. She was always up for answering questions about them, especially if a kid asked. She didn’t sugarcoat—I once heard her tell a boy in my sister’s class that her hands would get older faster than other people’s and that for herfiftieth birthday she was going to ask for Velcro shoes. But mostly what she ended up telling people was that even though they looked different, her hands were a lot like theirs.
“It worked,” I said. “All things considered, it worked pretty well.”
Sophie nodded again. “Is she dead?”
It shouldn’t have been such a slap in the face. After years of being the only one, I’d finally gotten to the age where some other people I knew had dead parents. And it wasn’t like I’d been talking about my mom’s book club, or her golf handicap, or her retirement plans, things I sometimes did make up when talking to strangers. Still, I felt like I’d been giving Sophie the happy version of my mom, and I didn’t like getting jerked back to reality.
“How did you know that?” I asked.
“You talk about her the way people talk about their dead relatives,” she said, “not their living ones.”
It bothered me that she could see through me that quickly. And that phrase “dead relatives,” like my mom was some cousin in a black-and-white photo with her name written on the back because otherwise everybody would forget her. The urge to fight came back in me. Instead I said, “Well yeah, you’re right. She’s dead.”
I didn’t look at Sophie after I said it. I figured anything I saw on her face would make me mad. I thought of how late I would get back to the city if I left right now. I wondered what I would do when I got there all snarled up inside. I thought about calling Tessa, which I sometimes still did, even though she was married now with a daughter and a baby son. Then Sophie said, “Will you do something for me?”
I couldn’t believe she would ask me for a favor. I looked up at her; her face was unapologetic and completely serious.
“Will you teach me how to swim?” she asked.
I stared. For a second I wasn’t mad anymore; I was just mystified.
“You can’t swim?” I asked her.
She shook her head. “I never learned.”
I remembered how her skin had felt the night before. I decided I wasn’t ready to give up yet. I wanted whatever was between us to play itself out in a way I could understand.
“I’ll teach you,” I said.
She didn’t have a bathing suit—she wore a pair of jean shorts and a black T-shirt. She walked ahead of me into the water until the hem of her T-shirt was wet, and then she turned around, hands on her hips.
“Okay,” she said. “I’m ready.”
I realized then that not only had I never taught anyone how to swim before, I didn’t actually remember learning to swim myself. All I remembered was doing it—the water like liquid pine in my mouth, the way the cold tightened the flesh against my bones. I remembered being afraid of it sometimes—at night I used to think about something big and cold and ancient with no eyes and no name, slowly rising up from the bottom. But not being able to do it was as
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