by Samira Ahmed
She sniffs. “I just wanted to ask if Kareem called you today.”
“Mom.”
“Can’t a mother ask a simple question?”
“Not if it’s a nosy one. I already told you everything, anyway. Dinner was nice. He was nice.”
“And?”
“That’s it. End of story. We didn’t secretly get engaged or anything.”
My mom tilts her head to the ceiling and raises her hands to prayer position. This is her being sarcastic. But also totally serious. “I don’t want you to end up alone.”
“I’m in high school, Mom. In the twenty-first century. I don’t have to get married by the time I’m twenty-two or risk becoming an old maid.”
“Arraaayy, beta. Who is saying anything about marriage? We want you to finish your studies. But I was married when I was only a few years older than you.”
Classic Mom again: I’m not saying you should follow my precise example, but of course I really am. I have to laugh. “And you had a love marriage that Dad’s parents didn’t exactly approve of, right?”
She gives me a sharp look. “Listen to you. We raised you with too much American independence. Talking back to your elders. And all this privacy business. Who needs privacy from their parents?”
The best way to get out of this conversation is to keep my mouth shut. I totally know this, yet apparently I prefer to bang my head against the wall over and over because I think arguing can change my mother’s mind. Note to self: It can’t. It never has.
“Please. All I’m asking is that you give me a little space. If Kareem and I decide to get married, I promise you’ll be the first to know.”
My mom stands and shakes her head. “We should have sent you to a boarding school in India. Then you would have learned to be a good daughter, not like these ungrateful girls here who can’t cook and don’t know how to show proper respect to their parents. Some even marry white American boys.”
She means boys like Phil. Boys you secretly tutor and meet for surreptitious swimming lessons. Shiny-eyed, beautiful boys that can pull you in the wrong direction.
I fake a huge yawn. “Can you continue your marriage pep talk another day? I swear I won’t run off and marry a heathen tonight.”
She heads toward the door. “What are you doing tomorrow?”
My pulse quickens as I make up an alibi. “Sleep in. Then maybe go to a movie or the mall if any of my friends are around. When is your last appointment?”
“Your dad scheduled a root canal at five p.m., so we won’t be home until later.”
“Okay. Khudafis. Have a good day at work in case I don’t see you in the morning.”
“Khudafis, beta.” My mom tosses me a final wan smile—I love you, but I remain disappointed—and shuts the door. I settle beneath the covers. If I ever direct a retro-Bollywood melodrama, my mother will be the star.
The guard straightens the back of his navy blue baseball cap with his left hand, curving the bill with his right. Stitched in bold white letters on the front is security, but the cap’s newness screams rookie.
He is younger than most of the other men on the crew. Eager to prove his seriousness, he rarely betrays any emotion. He chomps rhythmically on his gum. But this morning the new teacher at the day care smiles at him, and he smiles back.
Security. Safety. She feels safe here, thanks to him.
The sun shines like it’s summer.
It is a good day.
Chapter 7
The sun screams through my blinds. I wake up, but make sure to stay in bed until I hear my parents’ car back out of the driveway.
My mom left me a note.
Eat something. Love, your mom.
She’s hovering, in absentia. I scarf down the bowl of oatmeal she left for me on the kitchen table along with a banana, hoping doing at least one thing my mom asks will soothe my conscience.
It doesn’t.
But my feelings of guilt rarely compel me to change my plans, either.
I still have an hour and half before Phil’s supposed to pick me up. I’m not sure if breakfast was a good idea, given the way my stomach is churning. I focus on what to wear over my bikini, troublesome even without the buyer’s remorse. The temperature is going to hit a ridiculously high eighty degrees for April. It’s already a bit muggy. I reach for a crimson cotton sleeveless dress, tie-dyed Indian bandini style. The association with the method is unfortunate, because unlike the large psychedelic Deadhead patterns and colors, bandini tie-dyes are delicate and intricate. But before putting it on, I hesitate.
First I need a look at myself in just the bikini.
In front of the mirror, I wince. My breasts are held back from total exposure by a few inches of string. I double-knot the halter at my neck—insurance against accidental breast spillage—then reach for the dress. I step back.
This is actually okay. Good, even. With flip-flops, I’m swimming-lesson ready. My clothes are, anyway.
My phone buzzes. It’s Violet. Eight hours later … so it’s late afternoon in Paris. I imagine her texting from some café at sunset, some French boy hanging over her shoulder, jealous of me on the receiving end.
Violet: ARE YOU WEARING THE BIKINI?
Me: Why are you yelling?
Violet: Because that’s what I’m going to be doing if you’re not in it.
Me: I exchanged it for a granny one piece with a ruffle. Mistake?
Violet: Did you wax?
Me: OMG
Violet: There better be mascara on those rolling eyes. Waterproof.
Me: Yes. Happy?
Violet: Me? You’re the one kissing two different guys over spring break.
Me: One.
Violet: I’m aspirationally texting.
Me: I’m aspirationally kicking your ass.
Violet: Haha. Gotta run. Meeting Jean-Paul. Who I will definitely be kissing. IRL.
Me: I would be disappointed to hear anything else.
Violet: Bisous.
When the doorbell rings, I take a last look in the mirror, then take a deep breath before walking down the stairs.
I stop short. I spy Phil through the slightly frosted glass panels in our door. He’s checking himself out. He runs his fingers through his hair, structuring it just so. I knew that tousle was too perfect to be disinterested bedhead. Then he breathes into his cupped hand. I bite my lips so I don’t laugh and give myself away before he’s done primping. Pausing a beat, I open the door and step out into the warm sun.
“Don’t worry,” Phil says as we walk to his car, “I won’t let anything happen to you. Besides, the water’s not very deep.”
“What do you mean? Where would this not-so-deep water be?”
“You’ll see.”
“Is it the Y? The Waubonsee pool?”
Phil smiles across the car at me. “I thought you wanted to go someplace without witnesses present.”
After taking a right turn into the Fabyan Forest Preserve, Phil follows a side road that runs parallel to the river for nearly half a mile and then parks by the old Japanese Garden, which has been closed for over ten years. The park district didn’t have the funds to restore it. The garden is overrun with weeds, the koi pond dried up. Phil parks next to a sign that clearly reads, no trespassing.
“We’re here,” he says.
I grab my bag and get out of the car, though I have no real idea what “here” exactly is. “The Japanese Garden?”
Phil takes a plaid blanket and cooler out of the trunk. “Not exactly. Remember what I said? Trust me.”
He leads the way down the dirt path, through the trees that create a perimeter around the garden. “You know, the entire forest preserve used to be Fabyan land. Old man Fabyan died without any heirs, so he gave it all to the town. The Visitors Center on the other side of the river used to be his main house. He actually built the Japanese Garden because he fell in love with the culture when he visited. He wanted to bring a bit of it back home. See the little cottage?” Phil pauses, pointing to a
small stone structure in a little clearing. “That was his summer retreat. I guess he would ride his horse out here and chill. Basically, it’s the original man cave.”
I follow his arm, and shake my head. “How do you know all this stuff? I had no idea this cottage was even here.”
He laughs. “Another school report. Eighth grade. Ever since then, I come here when I want to get away.”
As we come upon the single-story cottage, I see that there is no glass left in the windowpanes. Gnarled old vines cover half the façade of the house, and the yellowish stones are smoothed from rain. I imagine the cottage feels haunted at night, but surrounded by trees in the spring sunlight, it is beautiful.
“So gothic romance isn’t exactly my thing, but if I ever direct one, this is so going to be the spot. I’m thinking, Dracula meets Wuthering Heights, but, like, contemporary where Heathcliff is a vampire, because that would explain why he is such a jerk.” I’ve been taking in the surroundings, sort of forgetting Phil for a moment while I imagine how to capture the light around the cottage. I pause and look at him.
He’s just standing there, grinning. “I have no idea what any of that means, except for vampires.”
“What I’m trying to say is, it’s amazing.” I peer inside. The wood slats on the floor are weathered and worn. A beat-up recliner rests in the corner. There’s a fireplace at one end of the main room with a flashlight on the mantle; the inside is blackened with ash and the charred remnants of logs, as if just used.
“Do people hang out here?” I ask.
“That’s me. I didn’t clean out the fireplace last time.” He shrugs. “Like I said, I come here sometimes.”
“But you didn’t tell me that you had taken up residence.” A vivid image of Phil and Lisa sharing a romantic evening in front of a fire springs to mind.
He laughs again, quietly. “Sometimes I wish I lived here.”
“So should we get started with, you know, the lesson?” I stumble over my words, wondering if he meant to add he wished he lived here with her. “The sooner we get started, the sooner it’s over.”
“Okaaayy.” Phil scrunches his eyebrows together
He leads the way to a larger clearing. As we emerge from the narrow path between the trees, a perfectly round, still pond magically appears. The sun glistens off the water. The truly enchanting part is that there’s a small carpet of sand and a folded lawn chair.
“Don’t tell me. This is your beach.”
“I’m pretty proud of it. I lugged a few wheelbarrows of sand here from that playground they’re building off of Maiden Lane.”
“You stole sand from little kids.”
“For a good cause.”
“Meaning you,” I tease.
“Well, yeah, but also teaching you how to swim.” Phil walks over to the beach and lofts the plaid blanket in the air; it billows out as he brings it to rest on the sand. I kick off my shoes and settle on my back. The sun warms my skin.
He stands over me and takes off his shirt, momentarily blocking my sun. I stare up at him, happy to be wearing sunglasses so he can’t see my eyes grow wide.
“Is it … the water … clean?” I ask, not moving. I’m still covered up. I don’t know how I can face him in a bikini.
“It’s spring fed, so it’s relatively clean. I wouldn’t drink it, but it’s not all gross and leech infested … at least I don’t think it is.” He smirks and runs into the pond with a splash, diving forward and swimming to the middle until the water is up to his chin. Then he raises his hands to show he’s standing. “See, this is deep as it gets.”
“That’s still over my head.”
“C’mon. The water’s pretty nice, actually.”
I stand up. Phil’s hands fall beneath the surface. He treads water, staring at me.
“Can you turn around? I’m self-conscious.”
Phil does as I ask, but before he turns his face away, I catch a glimpse of that dimple emerging from his smirk.
I drop my dress on the blanket, and every inch of my exposed skin blazes red. I sprint into the water for relief.
“It’s freezing.” I’m in three and a half feet of cold water, goosebumps popping up all over my skin. “I thought you said it was nice in here.”
Phil swims up alongside me. “You’ll get used to it. You need to dunk your entire body in. You’ll see.”
“As in, put my head under? As in, get my hair wet?”
“Getting wet is pretty much a requirement if you’re going to learn to swim. I forgot I have something for you.” Phil swims back to the beach. Thin rivulets of water stream down his back and arms. He plucks the mystery gift from his backpack and wades back toward me. I hope it’s an inhaler because I can’t quite breathe.
“Goggles,” he says, handing them to me. “You wear contacts, right? I thought this would make it easier for you.”
I put on the goggles. I probably look ridiculous, but I’m impressed at Phil’s attention to detail. “Thanks,” I whisper.
“No problem. Now hold your nose and dunk your head—for a second.”
I bob up and down a little and then splash into the water. I come up. My eyes are squeezed shut, despite the goggles. “Much better. Now I’m only mildly hypothermic.” I speak through chattering teeth.
Phil laughs. “Can you do the dead man’s float?”
“That’s the name? That’s terrible marketing.”
“It’s called that because that’s how corpses float. You have to float before you can swim.”
“So on my stomach … pretending I’m dead.”
Phil nods, businesslike. “I won’t let you die. Now take a deep breath and relax your body into the water, extend your arms in front of you, and keep your head down. When you need a breath, come up.”
Then he demonstrates. His voice is calm and patient. He shows me exactly how to do everything—flawlessly, athletically. I try to copy him, but how can I? My muscles tense in the water. My jaw tightens, and I pop up after only a few seconds, blowing out the air from my lungs.
“Good,” he says. “Let’s do it one more time, except when you need air, raise your head for a breath and then go back into the float.” He demonstrates again. “You’ll drift forward a bit, but don’t panic. You can always stand up.”
I bite my lip. I can always stand up.
I repeat Phil’s words as I try again. I manage to float for three pop-up breath lengths before inadvertently getting water up my nose. I stand up gagging and sputtering.
Phil gently takes my arm. “It’s okay. I’m right here. Try to relax and enjoy the water. Don’t overthink it. You won’t drown.”
“How do you know?”
“You have built-in flotation devices.” Phil eyes my cleavage.
My mouth drops open. I immediately cover my chest with my arms. “Oh, my God. I can’t believe you said that.”
He shrugs with an impish grin. “I’m just stating a fact. As your instructor.”
Despite myself, I grin back. I quickly put my face back in the water to hide my reddening cheeks and practice the float for a while longer until I realize I’m not going to drown. I’m actually floating. In the water. By myself.
When I come up for air again, Phil places his hand on my shoulder. “Now I want you to float on your back. It’s the same idea as the dead man’s float, but you don’t have to hold your breath, and you can keep your eyes open. See?” Phil lies down on the water like it’s a feather bed. “You can kick a little if you want to propel yourself.”
I imitate Phil’s movements. And it sort of works.
“Great. Tilt your head all the way back until the water covers your ears. Relax your neck.”
I kick my legs and find myself moving softly through the water. Before I know it, I’m parallel with Phil in the middle of the pond.
“Isn’t this nice?” Phil asks as he gazes up at the few cumulus clouds in the sky. “I could float for hours. It’s so relaxing.”
I open my eyes to a sky the color of
blue cornflowers and treetops swaying in the light breeze. It’s quiet all around except for the sound of our movements in the water. I turn my head and shoulders to look at Phil. My body begins to slip into the pond. Water fills my open mouth. I’m caught by surprise and splash wildly.
Phil grabs me, one arm under my legs and the other behind my back, forming a sort of chair for me in his arms.
“I got you. Are you okay?” He furrows his brow, and when he looks at me, his green eyes tighten with worry. He draws me a little closer into him.
I cough, partly out of embarrassment. “Y-y-y-e-e-s-s. I’m fine.” My lungs burn. “I hope you were right when you said the water was clean.”
“You can probably skip the tetanus shot. But I’m sorry. I should have told you to keep your body as horizontal as possible.”
“I bet you say that to all the girls.”
“Pretty ballsy talk for someone who can’t swim.” Phil loosens his grip on my back as if he might let me fall into the water.
“Don’t,” I yell and wrap both my arms around his neck. Goosebumps rise up on every millimeter of my body. My chest smashes up against Phil. He averts his eyes, but tightens his grip around my back. I’m suddenly very aware that my skin is a living organ because it registers the slight temperature change as his hand edges from cool to warm. I can feel the wrinkles of his pruney fingertips embedding their whorls into my body. The world slows down. My breathing, the journey of the drips of water that trail from his skin onto mine, the rise and fall of his chest, the blink of his eyelids.
In the movies, you can achieve slow motion in two ways, first, by overcranking, basically capturing each frame at a much faster rate with your camera than it will be played back on a projector. Then there’s time stretching, where you insert new frames in postproduction between the ones already filmed but linger longer on each one. That’s what this feels like, but where each of the new frames I add is just a blank screen of longing.
“I can make it from here, thanks,” I whisper as I slip out of his arms back into the water.
In a movie, this would be The Moment for the couple. But right now, I’m the only one in this moment. And anyway, you can’t have The Moment when your feelings are buried so deep you’re afraid they’ll burn up if they see the light.
