The Retreat by David Bergen Page A

for Lizzy, who couldn’t help looking skeptical, and her mother said, “I’m okay. I am.” She pinched Fish’s cheek and squealed, “Who’s your mummy?” Fish squinted and chewed thoughtfully, as if an answer was required. But she was already gone, into the next room where Lizzy could hear her talking and talking to her father and she thought about how long it had been since her mother had been like this.
    That night, from her own bed, Lizzy heard her parents whispering and then it was quiet, and then her mother’s voice called out. At first Lizzy thought that her mother might be asking for her to come help with something and she started to get up, and as she put her feet to the floor, her mother let out a sharp yelp and then a series of cries and Lizzy crawled back into bed and pushed the heel of her hand against the hard bone of her crotch.
    And then again, in the middle of the night, her mother’s cries startled her, pulling her up from a dream in which she was using Fish as a top, spinning him round and round, and he was squealing with delight, and when she woke she heard the squeals next door and realized that her mother and father were having sex once again. In the morning, her father made scrambled eggs for everyone and sang “Summertime,” and when he came to the line about the mama being good-looking, he swung about and grinned and pointed the spatula at Lizzy, who shook her head and turned away.
    The day Fish almost drowned, her mother had come running down the path to the pond, calling Fish’s name, but by the time she got there, Fish was already looking about, cradled by Lizzy. Her mother was wild, violent. She clampedLizzy’s wrists and cried out, “What happened?” Lizzy began to explain but her mother scooped Fish up and held him to her chest. William, slower than his mother, had arrived in her wake and was standing off to the side, surprised that Fish was alive. Lizzy was faced with her mother’s bewilderment, her rage, as she stooped and hissed at her, “What were you thinking?” And then she turned and walked up the trail, and Lizzy saw her mother’s back and Fish’s small wet head, his chin resting on her shoulder.
    That evening, after supper, her father took William and Everett into town for ice cream. Lizzy went to her parents’ cabin. She found her mother and Fish lying on the bed and Fish was sleeping, his head resting against his mother’s underarm. Her other arm, with a cast, lay across her stomach, making her look vulnerable, off balance. Lizzy stood in the doorway and said, “Is he all right?”
    Her mother turned slightly, as if to determine the distance between herself and her daughter. She said, “Close the screen door. The mosquitoes.”
    “It was awful, Mum. He wouldn’t breathe. And I did everything I’d been taught, the clearing of the pathway, the pumping of the chest, but it all seemed so hopeless. I didn’t think it would work.”
    “William said he was dead. He came running up into the Hall and said that Fish had drowned. So, until the moment I got there, I believed that Fish was dead. Imagine that, Lizzy. Imagine how I must have felt.” She sat up, shifting Fish away from her. “What were you doing, Lizzy? What was going on out there?”
    Lizzy said that she had been talking to Shanti. They had been arguing about the play, about comedy and tragedy. She said the word tragedy and she stopped, knowing that there was no reasonable excuse that her mother would accept. “Maybe once, you could try to imagine my feelings. I didn’t try to drown him.”
    “No, but today, by the water, he was yours. You took him there. He’s four years old, and he nearly drowned. On your watch.”
    A lamp glowed by the bedside table. In its light, she saw her mother’s elongated neck, sharp nose, the shadow of breast and nipple. “My watch? You take him next time, then. He’s your child, not mine. Instead of talking to that stupid Doctor, you can take care of Fish. And what