iced-tea glass and take a big gulp. Not bad. Not bad at all.
CHAPTER 8
T he memories of all my childhood beach vacations have, for the most part, melted into a slurry of heat and grit and the smell of Coppertone suntan lotion. We always stayed at Two Pines, we always went to the same beach, shopped at the same store, crabbed off the same pier. Always too much sun for me, too much gin for my mom. Every year weâd come back to Tallahassee dehydrated and cranky.
Of course a few events stand out. When I was thirteen and we met Queeg, for instance. Or when I was eleven, and my mother talked me into letting her use the clothes iron to straighten my hair but then accidentally left the steam on, raising painful blisters on my neck. Or when I was seven years old and I almost drowned.
The trip that summerâthe summer of the near drowningâstarted out like the rest. On our first day at the beach my mom met a man; that year it was a tall, skinny guy named Curtis, and for the rest of the week he nipped at her heels. Every day heâd come to the trailer park and drive us to the shore in his Firebird. Iâd play in the water, and theyâd lie under the umbrella and flirt.At night heâd come by the trailer to watch TV, or sometimes my mom would turn up the radio and theyâd go outside and dance. To this day, anytime I hear Rick Astley promise me all the things heâs never going to do, it puts me right back outside that trailer at Two Pines, watching my mother and Curtis dance. I joined in as best I could, doing the kind of silly skipping and hopping that seven-year-olds call dancing. I can still remember the feel of the gravel rolling around under my thin rubber flip-flops.
Curtis wasnât a bad guy, and it was obvious that my mother enjoyed his attention. But even if he hadnât just been visiting Florida for the week, he and my mother would have never lasted long. He was goofy-looking and nice, and she was still in the market for handsome and cruel.
T he memory of my near drowning is clear but fragmented. Unsettling. The rule was simple: I was not to go past the first sandbar unless my mother was with me. I obeyed the rule. Mostly. But it was Friday, our last day at the beach, and I remember standing there on the first sandbar, the water calm and only up to my waist. I looked at my mother in her pink bikini, lying on her towel next to Curtis. I could hear them laughing. I turned to look out at the second sandbar where everyone else was swimming. There were lots of kids out there playing with their parents.
I started out toward the next sandbar, but thatâs the last memory with any clear connection to the rest. After that theyâre jumbled up, overlapping, out of sequence. Me on my tiptoes with the water at my neck. A wave knocking me over. Losing my footing. Finding my footing. Losing it again. Then the water was colder, deeper. Going under and back up. Again. And again. I remember scanning the beach for my mother, but I couldnât see her anymore. I wasnât far from the families playing on the sandbar,but I could spare no arm to wave for help, no breath to cry out. Wave after wave, under and up and under and up. I looked for my mother. I coughed and gagged, the salty burn in my throat, the water always trying to fill my gasping mouth.
And then Iâm sitting in the sand drinking an orange soda. The towel wrapped around my shoulders is wet, and Iâm shivering even though the sun is warm. My mother kneels next to me, frowning, one hand holding back her hair, the other helping me hold the icy can. Curtis isnât there. I think he was getting the car.
On the way back to the trailer we drove with the windows down, and the air blowing in was so strong I could hardly keep my eyes open. The radio was tuned to a country station, and I remember my mother kept trying to light a cigarette in the windswept car. Nobody even yelled at me when I vomited orange soda all over the
CHAPTER 8
T he memories of all my childhood beach vacations have, for the most part, melted into a slurry of heat and grit and the smell of Coppertone suntan lotion. We always stayed at Two Pines, we always went to the same beach, shopped at the same store, crabbed off the same pier. Always too much sun for me, too much gin for my mom. Every year weâd come back to Tallahassee dehydrated and cranky.
Of course a few events stand out. When I was thirteen and we met Queeg, for instance. Or when I was eleven, and my mother talked me into letting her use the clothes iron to straighten my hair but then accidentally left the steam on, raising painful blisters on my neck. Or when I was seven years old and I almost drowned.
The trip that summerâthe summer of the near drowningâstarted out like the rest. On our first day at the beach my mom met a man; that year it was a tall, skinny guy named Curtis, and for the rest of the week he nipped at her heels. Every day heâd come to the trailer park and drive us to the shore in his Firebird. Iâd play in the water, and theyâd lie under the umbrella and flirt.At night heâd come by the trailer to watch TV, or sometimes my mom would turn up the radio and theyâd go outside and dance. To this day, anytime I hear Rick Astley promise me all the things heâs never going to do, it puts me right back outside that trailer at Two Pines, watching my mother and Curtis dance. I joined in as best I could, doing the kind of silly skipping and hopping that seven-year-olds call dancing. I can still remember the feel of the gravel rolling around under my thin rubber flip-flops.
Curtis wasnât a bad guy, and it was obvious that my mother enjoyed his attention. But even if he hadnât just been visiting Florida for the week, he and my mother would have never lasted long. He was goofy-looking and nice, and she was still in the market for handsome and cruel.
T he memory of my near drowning is clear but fragmented. Unsettling. The rule was simple: I was not to go past the first sandbar unless my mother was with me. I obeyed the rule. Mostly. But it was Friday, our last day at the beach, and I remember standing there on the first sandbar, the water calm and only up to my waist. I looked at my mother in her pink bikini, lying on her towel next to Curtis. I could hear them laughing. I turned to look out at the second sandbar where everyone else was swimming. There were lots of kids out there playing with their parents.
I started out toward the next sandbar, but thatâs the last memory with any clear connection to the rest. After that theyâre jumbled up, overlapping, out of sequence. Me on my tiptoes with the water at my neck. A wave knocking me over. Losing my footing. Finding my footing. Losing it again. Then the water was colder, deeper. Going under and back up. Again. And again. I remember scanning the beach for my mother, but I couldnât see her anymore. I wasnât far from the families playing on the sandbar,but I could spare no arm to wave for help, no breath to cry out. Wave after wave, under and up and under and up. I looked for my mother. I coughed and gagged, the salty burn in my throat, the water always trying to fill my gasping mouth.
And then Iâm sitting in the sand drinking an orange soda. The towel wrapped around my shoulders is wet, and Iâm shivering even though the sun is warm. My mother kneels next to me, frowning, one hand holding back her hair, the other helping me hold the icy can. Curtis isnât there. I think he was getting the car.
On the way back to the trailer we drove with the windows down, and the air blowing in was so strong I could hardly keep my eyes open. The radio was tuned to a country station, and I remember my mother kept trying to light a cigarette in the windswept car. Nobody even yelled at me when I vomited orange soda all over the
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