Moti on the Water

by Leylah Attar

  Should I? Shouldn’t I?

  I had tried on the swimsuit after my shower and left it on under my clothes, so the moment was perfect. With no one around, I wouldn’t be making a fool of myself either. Still, I was filled with all kinds of dread.

  Go ahead. Make friends with it.

  Or stand there like a loser all your life, Moti.

  I hated that voice. The inner niggling that made me feel like shit.

  I slipped out of my dress and positioned the neck float around me, gripping it tight.

  All right. Let’s do this.

  Standing by the edge of the stairs, I took a deep breath and lowered myself onto the first step. The water felt warm around my ankles. I lifted my foot and drew a figure eight. Ripples danced across the surface of the pool.

  It’s not so bad.

  I took the next step. This time the water rose to my knees.

  Okay. Good enough. Let’s just wave and say hello to the rest of the pool from here.

  I sat on the step and let the water flow around my navel. It was a total Instagram moment, sitting in the pool with the sea around me and the night sky above. Except the stiff blue float around my neck was ruining the coolness factor.

  I dipped lower, sliding my butt onto the next step and gasped. The water lapped around my shoulders now, a little too close to my nose and mouth.

  Turns out swimming is ten times worse than an ex who won’t go away. Normally when you don’t like something, you move away from it. Or, with that persistent ex, you slap a restraining order. But there’s no restraining water. It’s fluid and it comes at you from all directions—no shape, no form, nothing you can shove or knee or pepper-spray to defend yourself. So, this thing between Mr. Pool and me? I didn’t see it happening. Still, like a bad date, I decided to grin and bear it. Well, not grin. Because my lips were clenched tight. Not a drop of water was getting through.

  “Go back up one step.” I jumped at the sound of Alex’s voice.

  “Dammit, Alex. I could have drowned!” I glared at him as I stood in waist-deep water. “How long have you been there?” I was pretty sure he allowed himself a smile because it took a couple of beats before he came out of the shadows.

  “You were sleeping when I got here. I didn’t want to disturb you, so I did what I usually do.”

  “Which is?”

  “I come up here at the end of my shift to unwind, to look at the lights.” He pointed to the glimmer of distant places on the shore. “And you? I assume, are trying to swim?” He squatted beside the pool and motioned to my neck float.

  I didn’t feel like explaining myself to a guy who had nicer hair than me. “I’m fine. I’m just mucking around.”

  “I can see that, but I’m not comfortable leaving you in the water alone, so you either listen to me or you get out of the pool.”

  My jaw stiffened as I considered his options. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Fine. Then do as I say. Go back up one step.”

  Fireworks flew between us.

  “Fine.” I plopped myself on the step and folded my arms across my chest. Water swirled around my shoulders.

  “Moti.” His tone caught me off-guard. It was softer, less bossy. “There are some skills in life that are essential. Learning to survive in water is one of them. Swimming is important.”

  Earlier, Nikos had dismissed the skill with a shrug and said kissing was more important.

  One night, two men, two different opinions. I agreed with them both. Kissing and swimming were both important. If you couldn’t swim, you died. If you couldn’t kiss, you died (at least, in the dating world, because it substantially reduced the probability of your genes mingling with someone else’s).

  Alex sensed my resistance slipping away and started coaching me. “Start slow. Scoop up some water and splash it on your face. Good. This time hold your breath when you do it. See? It’s not getting in your nose or mouth. It’s just like when you’re in the shower. Now, take that float off and hand it to me.”

  “This?” I gripped the foam collar around my neck. “But—”

  “Do you trust me?” Alex held his hand out, waiting for it.

  I looked from his eyes to his hands to the water.

  Human vs. an element of nature.

  “Not really,” I said. “I mean, you’re a great swimmer, and you saved that starfish, but—”

  “Wrong question,” said Alex. “What I mean is, do you really want to learn to swim?”

  “Yes.” I held onto my foam collar. Vampires wore high collars. Evil queens wore high collars. I needed an air of villainy if I was going to win this battle.

  “Let go, Moti.” Alex’s hand was still outstretched.

  I unhooked my safety net from around my neck and handed it to him.

  “Thank you. Now just move your hands in the water. Feel it glide against your skin. That’s all.”

  His words soothed the knot in my stomach. My core loosened. My breath started coming easier.

  “It’s nice,” I said, adapting to the feel of water around me. My arms swished from side to side. The movement felt smooth and graceful. “I feel…lighter.”

  “Good. Now crouch down until your lips are just above the surface. Keep your mouth closed. Yes. Like that. Now do it again, but see if you can get your mouth under the water this time. Just take little dips. You’re doing great. Can you go lower? Hold your breath and immerse your nose.”

  I followed his instructions but came back up sputtering, shaking my head like a wet dog. “Water went in my ears.” The feeling of something moving around in my ear canal made me shudder.

  Alex laughed as I pulled on my earlobes. “I think that’s enough for one night.”

  I exited the pool and took the towel he held out for me. As he laid it around my shoulders, his fingers brushed against my skin. The rush of air that escaped me caught me off-guard. What the hell?

  “Thank you for…” I tilted my head toward the pool.

  Alex shrugged and returned my neck float as I dried off. “Just make sure I don’t catch you in there by yourself.”

  The first time he saw me, I was drenched in shipyard waste from head to toe. Then he found me crawling under the bar, choking on a crumb of crostini. As far as Alex was concerned, I was a disaster waiting to happen. No telling what catastrophe I could spin if I decided to test the waters on my own. And he didn’t even know about Ma Anga’s dire prediction.

  I’m going to get it, I thought, throwing a backward glance at the pool as we left. I’m going to learn. And before this trip is over, I’m going to swim in the sea.

  Traitorous, lying, double-crossing, deceitful, devious…

  I punched the words into my pillow as I tried to fall asleep. My insults did nothing to shut my stomach up. As far as it was concerned, my early dinner with Naani was a distant memory. Been there, digested that. No matter how much I tossed and turned, the beast refused to be silenced.

  I tiptoed to the galley for the second night in a row. And for the second night in a row, a covered plate waited on the counter. I picked up the note—the handwriting familiar now.

  Amygdalota (almond cookies)

  Almond trees grow all over the Greek islands, but you don’t always find almonds in the market because gathering and shelling them is costly and time-consuming. I stole these from a friend’s orchard in Kea. There were just enough to make a small batch—scented with rose water and flavored with tangerine peel. Chewy, flourless, unbaked. I usually let them set for a few days, but they taste infinitely more vulnerable like this. They are traditionally served at weddings and baptisms, but rebel chefs sometimes pass them off as a midnight snack.

  I laughed at the last part. Was I the only one who crept up here in the middle of the night, or did he leave these out to appease any hungry guests?

  My stomach didn’t care. Half a dozen of the exquisite, white cookies were on the plate, each shaped like a tiny pear, with a clove bud piercing the tip. A dusting of powdered sugar made them look
like they were covered in soft snow. It was almost a shame to ruin such a perfect arrangement, but I picked one up and bit into the tender morsel.

  The rawness of it took me by surprise. Warm and sweet—the softness of a newborn babe, the brightness of citrus, the soul of roses. As Alex’s carefully molded creation came apart in my mouth, a fragment of bittersweet nostalgia surfaced through my awareness. I was a child again—pure and sure, before the world started chewing at my edges. Had Dolly cradled me then? Had she rocked me to sleep? Had she loved me then?

  I put the rest of the cookie in my mouth, the rounded bottom half, and held it in the nest of my tongue. I wanted to keep it there, carry it safe in my mouth, but it grew smaller and smaller, dissolving bit by bit until it was all gone. My eyes spilled over, two fat tears rolling down my cheeks.

  I pushed the plate away, discarding the clove I was still holding. Alex’s cooking was doing things to me. Strange, weird things. All my yearnings and burnings were eating and growing and taking form. His food was giving flesh to my feelings. Alex held the prism to the transcendental, and I filtered through in bands of rainbow emotions. Last night, pineapple and honey aroused me. Tonight, humble almond cookies made me want to curl up in my mother’s arms.

  I wasn’t the only one succumbing to Alex’s food-spells. Dolly fainted upon seeing Fia, right after she devoured a plate of appetizers. Naani consumed a bowl of chickpea-and-onion stew and gave the whole world the finger. Joseph Uncle cradled his cake and poured his heart out in a way he’d never done before, starving for Rachel Auntie and Isabelle’s respect, ravenous for appreciation.

  I put the cover back on the cookies and saved Alex’s note. His food spoke to us. It whispered to our deepest desires and stoked our deepest fears. Maybe it was my imagination, and maybe it wasn’t. Either way, I was determined to get to the bottom of it. At the same time, I couldn’t let Alex distract me from winning Niko’s heart. Time was ticking away, and Nikos was my only chance to win Dolly’s approval. If I failed…

  No. Failure was not an option. My whole life was at stake. The thought of crawling back to Chicago and having Dolly’s disappointment shadow me around, day in and day out, filled me with dread: He was right there, Moti. And you couldn’t even do that right.

  Well, Ma, guess what? I thought. I have a date with him tomorrow night. And I can’t wait to see your reaction when I tell you about it.

  “A night out with Nikos?” Isabelle shrieked. It was morning on the island of Syros, and we were boarding a private bus. Thomas and his parents wanted to give us a tour of the island before we departed for Mykonos.

  “Shh. Keep it down.” I was hoping it was a happy shriek, the kind that Dolly made when I told her I was going dancing with Nikos.

  “Are you nuts?” Isabelle nudged me to the back of the bus. “He’ll eat you alive and have your bones for breakfast.”

  Okay, so it wasn’t a happy shriek. For as long as I could remember, everyone around me was on a seesaw. If you tried to make one person happy, it sent the other one off-balance. Up down, up down, we went.

  “I knew something was going on between you two when I came looking for him last night.” Isabelle spit-whispered in my ear as we took our seats. “Did he kiss you?”

  “No, but he would have if you hadn’t interrupted.”

  “Well, it’s a good thing I interrupted.” If Isabelle’s forehead wasn’t paralyzed by Botox, it would’ve furrowed. I could only go by the tone of her voice, which was disconcerting. You don’t realize how much you rely on visual cues until they go missing.

  I wondered if you could pick different levels when you went in for Botox:

  Level 1: High School Reunion. “Doctor, just give me enough to look better than whoever Dylan Jackson is bringing to the event. Because Dylan Jackson has to pay for dumping me, and the sound of his jaw hitting the floor will do nicely, thank you.”

  Level 2: The Shining. Reserved for when I have kids. First, get them to watch the movie. Then, a little Botox to get my brows up to Jack Nicholson’s maniacal level. Next, I poke my head through the door like he did and grin at them. “Who’s in charge now, you little shits?”

  Level 3: Poker Face. Max me out, so no one can tell what I’m thinking. Tsunami rolling over me or Chris Hemsworth at my door? Same beatific expression.

  “Look,” Isabelle said. “All this stuff Dolly Auntie keeps going on about… You don’t believe in all that bullshit, do you? Nikos having an extra thumb is just a coincidence. Dolly Auntie isn’t going to drop dead if you marry someone else.”

  “Who’s marrying someone else?” Dolly slid next to Rachel Auntie on the seat in front of us. “What are you two buzzing about?”

  “Nothing,” Isabelle and I chimed at the same time. It was a childhood code. One of us could be burying the other in the garden, but if an adult showed up, we played nice until they left.

  “What’s wrong with Nikos?” I whispered when Dolly and Rachel Auntie started talking to Teri.

  “Nothing,” Isabelle said. “He’s hot, rich, and fabulous. He’ll show you a good time. A great time. But don’t go planning a future with him. He’s not about to settle down.”

  “Isn’t that what Joseph Uncle said to you about Thomas?”

  “Yes. So?”

  “So here you are, getting married.”

  “It’s not everything it’s cracked up to be, Moti. Every girl thinks that she’ll be the one to tame the player, that she’s the one he’ll change for. If you had any idea how much I’ve had to change for Thomas…” She looked away and stared out the window.

  “All set!” The tour guide clapped as we left the port of Ermoupoli. Pink, white, and ocher buildings cascaded over the hilltops, many crowned by a dazzling church.

  I reached for Isabelle’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “Is everything okay with you and Thomas?”

  She turned to me and smiled. “It is now. I just have to figure out a way to tell Mom and Dad I’ve converted to the Greek Orthodox faith.”

  “You what?” My family was mildly Roman Catholic. Mildly, meaning we picked what we liked and ignored the rest. Basically, we were going to hell, with a mild chance of heaven.

  “You heard me. Thomas’s parents weren’t ready to accept me until I converted. It’s important all their family is Greek Orthodox, including any children Thomas and I have. And Thomas… Well, it was just easier to go along with it. Although sometimes I wish Thomas stood up for me. Mostly though, I wish I stood up for myself.” Isabelle shrugged and looked out the window again, dabbing the corner of her eye.

  “Hey, give Joseph Uncle and Rachel Auntie some credit,” I said. “The only thing that matters to them is that you’re happy. They’ll handle the news just fine.”

  “They can’t even handle themselves.” Isabelle sniffed. “They’re still not talking to each other.”

  Joseph Uncle’s head bounced a few seats ahead. He was conversing with Thomas and Nikos.

  “He won’t even walk me down the aisle,” said Isabelle. “This whole wedding is turning out to be a nightmare.” Isabelle honked her nose, blowing loudly into a tissue. Fortunately, the loud Greek music playing over the speakers drowned out her snot rocket.

  “You want?” She unwrapped two triangles of pastry from her bag and offered one to me.

  “What is it?” I asked, trying to keep the relief out of my voice. For a second, I’d thought she was passing me her tissue. I’m all for family supporting family, but I wasn’t about to sympathy-sob into Isabelle’s snotty Kleenex.

  “I don’t know, but it’s so good.” She closed her eyes as she tried to pin down the flavor. “Pumpkin and fennel, I think. I saved a couple from breakfast.”

  I grabbed her hand. “Don’t eat it, Isabelle.”

  “What’s wrong with you?” Isabelle pulled her pastry back.

  It’s powerful stuff. A few bites and you’ll be honking your nose again, like an angry goose on the loose.

  I glanced from her to the little parcel of magic that Alex h
ad baked into golden, flaky layers of phyllo.

  No, Moti.

  No.

  Steady now.

  Don’t. Do. It.

  “Gimme that.” I snatched the other one.

  We licked our fingers and let the crumbs fall on our laps as the bus lumbered up the hills surrounding the shimmering harbor.

  Our first stop was a museum in the beautiful Venetian settlement of Ano Syros. As we filed out of the bus, Dolly and Fia bumped each other. They recoiled like they’d touched flaming booger balls and retreated to mutually exclusive trajectories.

  Joseph Uncle stood in front of the ticket office making mental calculations. When he first arrived in Chicago from Goa, he would convert everything from U.S. dollars to Indian rupees. Thirty years later, he was still doing it—a habit that always had him shaking his head and trying to bargain. Once, he took Naani to the surgeon and tried to get her a discount.

  If one thing had been drilled into me early on, it was to never pay full price without putting up a respectable objection. Every time I bought a coffee at Starbucks, I heard my ancestors chanting, Shame, shame, shame.

  “Why would anyone pay to look at a bunch of old things?” Joseph Uncle scowled at the exhibit poster.

  “Exactly. See?” George elbowed Kassia. “I’m not the only who one thinks that way.”

  Joseph Uncle and Thomas’s father beamed at each other. They’d just found a rare kinship—their dislike for having to part with money. Underwear salesman or billionaire, their attitude about money was the same. Rachel Auntie and Kassia shot each other a sympathetic look.

  George’s phone rang.

  He glanced at the number, then at Kassia. “You guys go on ahead. I’ll catch up as soon as I’m done.”