Whatever trancelike state I’ve gotten myself into allows me to continue stretching this moment. Jenny and Jack float in the air and only after a significant amount of time do they begin descending toward the water, moving in tiny increments toward a future they do not fear. Knowing, without doubt, that victory is theirs. And somehow, because I’m seeing this, because they’re mine, that victory belongs to me as well. I watch them fall, frame by frame, their excitement increasing as they near the surface. When my children finally hit it, they produce an impressive splash, and I feel something inside of me change, like stubborn fingers finally letting go of something that didn’t belong to them in the first place.
Their heads fully submerge. There is a moment when the diminishing waves produced by the splash are the only movement in the world. Then they both break the surface, regular speed, proving that the spell is already broken.
In the absence of pool toys, Jenny and Jack splash each other with their hands. The older couple, perhaps looking for a reason to leave, perhaps sincerely annoyed, pack up their belongings and storm unhappily away. The kids don’t notice, and I don’t care. I let the kids make all the noise they want. I encourage them to do so, occasionally redirecting them when their play gets too rough. I lose track of time. I’m unable to date the last occasion when I’ve simply watched them play.
The sun has started to set when the Wannabe Starlet packs up her things. She pulls off her dark sunglasses as she walks past me. Her eyes are green and clear and project the kind of wisdom I’ve always longed to be judged by. She puts her hand on my shoulder.
“You’re a good father,” she says. She walks away. I pretend to wipe sweat from my forehead and cry into the white towel as silently as I can. They don’t swim for much longer, maybe ten or fifteen more minutes, and then we mutually agree to go, having found everything we came for.
The kids are back in their street clothes, their wet hair staining the white pillows as they watch television, their bodies and spirits calmed by swimming. I lock myself in the bathroom. I call Julie. It goes directly to voice mail. I immediately call her back, and she answers on the first ring.
“Hello?” Her voice is full of concern.
“I’ve got the kids.”
“Okay?”
“I’m going to take them to a movie. And supper, too. We’ll be home later. You’ll have the house to yourself.”
“That’ll be nice.”
“Julie?”
“Yes?”
There is a pause, which gets harder to break the longer I wait, a crack growing into a jump, a leap. I don’t have much time. I must speak now or forever hold my peace.
“I miss you. I really miss you.”
“I miss you, too.”
I can hear her fingers continuing to type. It is a moment that could have easily provoked me, which I could interpret as a lack of respect, one more piece of evidence that she takes me for granted. But right now, in this moment, her distraction, the routineness it generates, seems like a miracle.
“Okay.”
“Have fun. Say hi to the kids for me.”
I hang up the phone. I place the room key on the middle of the still-made bed and marshal the kids into the car. The engine is running when I see that Jenny has failed to close the door behind her. It is with the intention of closing it that I leave the keys swinging in the ignition and head back to the room. The doorknob is in my hand but I fail to stop there, continuing back into room 9. I nod at the tropical sunset, greeting it like an old friend. I look at my feet on the thin brown carpet. In the bathroom, I find a miniature cake of soap wrapped in thick, smooth paper. I remove this wrapping. The soap has been given the scent of coconut. I push one corner of the denuded bar into the palm of my right hand. The other corner I press against the mirror. Using thick block capitals, I write what I have learned:
THERE IS NO LEAVING THIS PLACE.
YOU WILL ALWAYS BE HERE.
THE BEST YOU CAN DO IS ENJOY
WHAT YOU HAVE.
I set down the soap. I wash my hands. I use a thin white towel to dry them. I leave the motel room door open as I exit. The kids are silent as they sit in the back seat of the car. The motor idles. When I turn on the radio, they both start breathing again. A pop song we all know the words to comes on. I am already turning up the volume when both Jenny and Jack ask me to do so. We leave the parking lot. We get back on the highway, heading east, toward the city.
Acknowledgements
The author wishes to reinterate that this is a work of fiction and thank the following people without whose support this book would never have been completed: Marlo Miazga, Christopher Frey, Stephanie Domet, Zach Picard, Sheila Heti, Sam Hyate, Kelvin Kong, Carl Knudson, Mike Volpe, Peter Atto, Scott Pack, Phoenix, Frida, Karen and Barry, Liz, Rolly and Shirley, Leigh, Megan, Andrew, and everyone at Invisible, the Canada Council for the Arts, the Superior Court of Justice, and the staff of the Toronto City Hall Wedding Chapel.
Invisible Publishing is a not-for-profit publishing company that produces contemporary works of fiction, creative non-fiction, and poetry. We’re small in scale, but we take our work, and our mission, seriously: we publish material that’s engaging, literary, current, and uniquely Canadian.
We are committed to publishing diverse voices and experiences. In acknowledging historical and systemic barriers, and the limits of our existing catalogue, we strongly encourage Indigenous and writers of colour to submit their work.
Invisible Publishing is also home to the Bibliophonic series, and the Snare and Throwback imprints.
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