I spot Lilly, who is up on the platform waiting for the whistle, which is imminent. In an enunciated whisper, I call out, “Lilly, Lilly! Mom’s here! Your proud mother is here! To see her daughters!” I stand up and practically salute and then quickly sit down again. She’s already squatting. Oh God, I’m glut with pride as I look at the two of them. They’re gorgeous and strong. Lilly tilts her head slowly toward me, in millimeter increments, then her body leans subtly to one side and her arms start to swing in big, wide, propeller-like circles. Then she topples into the pool.
The entire team gasps, as well as the onlookers and me. The sound of our collective astonishment shakes my fragile composure. I’m horrified. I glance over at her coach, who is now on her feet, her head whipped to the side to glare at me with a big nasty puss. Lilly could get a false start for that.
I immediately look down at my feet, sit on my hands, cross my legs. All tucked in. And quiet.
Vicki nicknamed the coach “Coach Mouth Fart” because she has a habit of blowing air audibly through one inflated cheek like French people are famous for when they’re absolutely disgusted with you. Which is exactly how she’s feeling about me right now. She adds an exasperated arm thrust into the air (like an old Italian woman is likely to do if you turn down a fourth helping of her homemade gnocchi), while I try to envision her parents. Maybe she’s picked up these mannerisms from them. They could be French. Or Italian. Who knows? Are mannerisms in our genes? Do the girls have any of mine?
Lilly doesn’t know what to do with herself. She’s typically expressive, but being under water from her neck down squelches any physical reaction she might have had. But you can see all you need to know in her eyes. A potent mix of anger and embarrassment. I dig my fingernails into my thighs so I don’t start to cry, because if I do, Lilly will suffer permanent emotional scars. When she slithers up the wall of the pool and climbs out, the other girls are in ready position, so she immediately returns to the block with knitted fists. She doesn’t look at me. The starting signal sounds, and Lilly’s in the water again swimming the backstroke, her strongest event. My heel is tapping rapidly on the cement floor while I look around at the other parents. I smile lavishly all over the place.
I look at my watch. If I don’t come up with something soon, Tessa and Smarty—both PhDs in the sixth sense—will sniff something’s wrong before the day is out. God, I used to be so sensible. I prided myself on being smart. All my life, I had a solution for anything. Until today.
I tap my thumbs together in syncopation with my foot.
The cogs in my mind get unstuck and almost groove. A spark of an idea starts to kindle.
After a good, hearty, fake sneeze, I drop my head toward the floor to pantomime rummaging through my handbag for a tissue long enough to make a quick discreet phone call.
I whisper into the phone with my head between my knees. I cup my hand over my mouth so no one can hear me. It’s almost impossible to have a conversation in here because of how loud it becomes with clapping and hooting. It must be Tessa’s event; she’s no longer on the bench. The person I’m on the phone with puts me on hold. I look up briefly. Tessa’s in the water. The lady comes back, and I tip my head down. I quickly end the call and sit up.
People are cheering, and I follow their lead. God forbid the girls look at me and I’m not celebrating like the rest of the parents.
I subconsciously rub my hands up and down my jeans and realize they are slick with sweat.
CHAPTER FOUR
Saturday, September 23, 2006, 3:37 p.m.
T he swim meet is over. I spring off the bench, look down at my watch, and dash over to where the team has collected. I quickly snatch up everything that belongs to the girls, like a chicken pecking at bird feed. Thankfully, Tessa and Lilly are sitting next to
The entire team gasps, as well as the onlookers and me. The sound of our collective astonishment shakes my fragile composure. I’m horrified. I glance over at her coach, who is now on her feet, her head whipped to the side to glare at me with a big nasty puss. Lilly could get a false start for that.
I immediately look down at my feet, sit on my hands, cross my legs. All tucked in. And quiet.
Vicki nicknamed the coach “Coach Mouth Fart” because she has a habit of blowing air audibly through one inflated cheek like French people are famous for when they’re absolutely disgusted with you. Which is exactly how she’s feeling about me right now. She adds an exasperated arm thrust into the air (like an old Italian woman is likely to do if you turn down a fourth helping of her homemade gnocchi), while I try to envision her parents. Maybe she’s picked up these mannerisms from them. They could be French. Or Italian. Who knows? Are mannerisms in our genes? Do the girls have any of mine?
Lilly doesn’t know what to do with herself. She’s typically expressive, but being under water from her neck down squelches any physical reaction she might have had. But you can see all you need to know in her eyes. A potent mix of anger and embarrassment. I dig my fingernails into my thighs so I don’t start to cry, because if I do, Lilly will suffer permanent emotional scars. When she slithers up the wall of the pool and climbs out, the other girls are in ready position, so she immediately returns to the block with knitted fists. She doesn’t look at me. The starting signal sounds, and Lilly’s in the water again swimming the backstroke, her strongest event. My heel is tapping rapidly on the cement floor while I look around at the other parents. I smile lavishly all over the place.
I look at my watch. If I don’t come up with something soon, Tessa and Smarty—both PhDs in the sixth sense—will sniff something’s wrong before the day is out. God, I used to be so sensible. I prided myself on being smart. All my life, I had a solution for anything. Until today.
I tap my thumbs together in syncopation with my foot.
The cogs in my mind get unstuck and almost groove. A spark of an idea starts to kindle.
After a good, hearty, fake sneeze, I drop my head toward the floor to pantomime rummaging through my handbag for a tissue long enough to make a quick discreet phone call.
I whisper into the phone with my head between my knees. I cup my hand over my mouth so no one can hear me. It’s almost impossible to have a conversation in here because of how loud it becomes with clapping and hooting. It must be Tessa’s event; she’s no longer on the bench. The person I’m on the phone with puts me on hold. I look up briefly. Tessa’s in the water. The lady comes back, and I tip my head down. I quickly end the call and sit up.
People are cheering, and I follow their lead. God forbid the girls look at me and I’m not celebrating like the rest of the parents.
I subconsciously rub my hands up and down my jeans and realize they are slick with sweat.
CHAPTER FOUR
Saturday, September 23, 2006, 3:37 p.m.
T he swim meet is over. I spring off the bench, look down at my watch, and dash over to where the team has collected. I quickly snatch up everything that belongs to the girls, like a chicken pecking at bird feed. Thankfully, Tessa and Lilly are sitting next to
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