Swimming for Sunlight

by Allie Larkin

  I sewed the rod pockets to the tops of Bunny’s curtains, and pressed them carefully on the ironing board, using the spray can of Niagara Sizing to make them stiff and smooth. I sewed tubes of bias-cut linen for the appliqué border, but I could only find a few pins in Bunny’s stuffed strawberry cushion.

  She had Royal Dansk butter cookie tins stacked on the shelves on the wall. No labels to mark them, so I opened each one. They still smelled sweet. Buttons, ribbons, scrap squares, zippers—each organized in their own tin. Bunny used to save the pretzel-shaped cookies for me. The kind with sugar that looked like salt. I swore they tasted better than all the other shapes.

  No pins. The stack of tins on the next shelf housed her sewing machine feet, upholstery piping, and a vast collection of silk thread for embroidery.

  There were three tins on top of the oak bookcase. I opened the first one. It was full of pretzel-shaped cookies in their white pleated paper cups. The other two tins were the same. She kept saving them. For me.

  I sat on the floor and hugged the stack of tins to my chest. When I left, I assumed I stopped mattering, but there were so many cookies’ worth of thinking about me. I ate one, crunching sugar crystals between my teeth while I listened to Ella sing about poor Miss Otis. Three whole tins was too long for me to have stayed away. I wished I’d had the chance to tell Bunny how much she meant to me.

  I slid down to lie next to the spot where she left us. I knew it was terrible, but it felt good to lie there, eating Bunny’s pretzel-shaped cookies, pretending her spirit was still in the room.

  The same way my brain could imagine the most horrible scenarios in vivid Technicolor—Nan getting attacked by an intruder, Bark drowning in the pool, Eric twisted and tortured in a car accident when he was late coming home—I could imagine good scenes too, even impossible ones.

  I closed my eyes.

  “Do you still enjoy sewing?” Imaginary Bunny asked sweetly. Without pressure. Without poking at the fact that I’d thrown my dreams away on a bad marriage.

  “I think I do,” I said.

  “Would you mind helping me?” she asked. “With the curtains?”

  “Of course.” I said. “Happy to.”

  Bunny was the one who taught me how to sew. The sewing machine I left in Rochester was my twelfth-birthday gift from Bunny and Bitsie. She’d encouraged me to dream about big things. I was going to move to Manhattan to be a costume designer at the Metropolitan Opera. My father took me to New York City to see Carmen the year before he died, and all I could think about for weeks after was that beautiful red dress. When Carmen was on stage in that dress, it was impossible to look anywhere else. I wanted to be the person who designed that kind of spectacle, who imagined it and made it so. Bunny made me feel like it wasn’t past my reach.

  “What are the curtains for?” I asked. I never even applied for an internship at the Met. I was too scared to fail, and Eric was a great excuse for not even trying.

  “They’re for Bitsie’s reading room,” Imaginary Bunny said. “To match those throw pillows she likes.”

  “You be the art director, I’ll be the hands,” I told her. It’s what she said to me when she helped sew costumes for three seasons of plays by the St. Lucie Senior Citizen Thespian Brigade so I’d have a portfolio of work for college.

  “Come back again tomorrow?” she asked.

  I nodded.

  “You can bring your dog.” She smiled, the beautiful creases around her eyes amplifying her warmth. If anyone else offered the same, I’d make excuses about how Bark wasn’t that kind of a dog. But Bark would have loved Bunny. She would have quieted the unrest in him the same way she had for me.

  There was a knock at the door. I opened my eyes, and Bunny was gone. Bitsie came in, stunned when she saw me lying on the floor.

  “I am so sorry,” I shrieked, jumping to my feet. My heart pounded too hard. The room went black until my balance steadied.

  Bitsie’s eyes welled up.

  I hugged her. “I am so sorry.”

  “Oh, honey,” she said, hugging me hard. “I should have known this wasn’t good for you.”

  “No,” I said. “It was. It is.”

  “We can move her sewing machine to the living room. Or Nan’s house. Or you don’t have to finish the curtains.”

  “I do have to,” I said, tears dripping from my chin. “I need this.” I wanted to make those curtains for Bunny. Like penance for being gone. Like a tribute. “I never got to say goodbye.”

  “Okay.” Bitsie nodded. “Okay. But if it stops being alright, you let me know.”

  I could see the tremble in her cheek. The fear in her eyes. She was working hard to pretend she wasn’t unnerved.

  “Coffee?” she asked. “I need coffee.”

  I worried she’d have a difficult time looking at me, that maybe I’d traumatized her, but Bitsie set up the coffee maker and chatted away about mermaid class, like nothing had happened.

  “It’s basically water aerobics,” she said, pouring soy milk in the little cow pitcher. “We don’t have breathing tubes. Or tails. But it’s nice to dance in the water again.”

  “I could make you a tail,” I said, the words coming before they had time to bounce around my brain. “Even if Nan insists on a bake sale. I could just make you a tail.” I expected her to say no. That she wouldn’t want to trouble me. That they were only in it for the exercise, and don’t be silly.

  “Could you?” she said, her face so suddenly bright.

  “I can try.” I’d made her sad, but maybe I could make her happy too.

  We sat at the kitchen table, drank our coffee, sketched mermaid tails on napkins, and I started to feel like making a mermaid calendar might be something I could handle.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  When I got home, Bark was curled up on the couch in the den with Nan, watching a PBS documentary about raccoons. He jumped over the coffee table to say hi when he saw me, tail wagging.

  “Whoa, buddy!” I said, crouching to scratch his head.

  “Did you know he watches TV?” Nan asked.

  “Yeah. He loves PBS cartoons. The funny voices.”

  “He’s quite taken with these raccoons.”

  I wrapped my arms around his neck and let him lick my face. “Do you like raccoons? Do you like Nan?”

  I sat on the couch next to Nan. Bark jumped up to wedge himself between us, resting his head on my lap. I ran my fingers through the downy fur behind his ears.

  Then a car door slammed. Footsteps. Bark leapt off the couch, the hair on the back of his neck standing straight up. My face got cold and sweaty at the same time. Bark growled. The handle to the front door turned. He barked rapid-fire, charging. I jumped to my feet, heart in my throat.

  Mo walked in carrying an armload of brown paper bags. “Oh, aren’t you a goofball,” she said.

  Bark downgraded to a grumble. Looked at me and back at Mo, then gave her one last defiant woof before hiding behind the wing chair.

  “Tough guy,” Mo said.

  “Don’t you knock?” I asked, my body still electric, unstable, even though the threat was nil.

  “Kaitlyn!” Nan said.

  “Nan knew I was on the way.” Mo dropped the bags on the table, oblivious to my snap.

  Nan gave me a hard stare and said, “Thank you for bringing dinner, Maureen. That’s so nice of you.”

  “Yeah,” I said, feeling like a little kid being reminded of my manners. “Thanks, Mo.”

  Mo handed me a takeout box. “Boiled veggie dumplings, right?” she said.

  “Yeah.” I smiled. It was my standing order growing up. “Thanks.”

  “I still think they taste like Play-Doh-wrapped broccoli.”

  “They do,” I said. “But I like it.”

  “You didn’t have to do this,” Nan said as Mo handed her what looked like steamed broccoli and tofu. She always used to get egg rolls and fried rice.

  “You cook for me all the time.” Mo plopped on the couch with her carton of
General Tso’s and a plastic fork. She was long ago forbidden from using chopsticks in the living room, after Nan found a desiccated piece of chicken stuck to one of the curtains.

  I felt a sudden pang of jealousy. What if, in the time I’d been gone, my grandmother started liking my friend better than me? What if my friend liked my grandmother better than me? My adrenaline was still wonky. I stood there, holding my dumplings, trying not to cry.

  “Come on, Kay.” Mo patted the couch for me to sit. “What are we watching?”

  “Raccoons,” Nan said.

  “I’ve got one who hangs around my garbage can. Did I tell you? He’s bigger than Mrs. Cohen’s Beagle!”

  I sat between them and ate my dumplings, tearing off tiny pieces with my chopsticks to make them last, the way I did when I was a kid and Mo would come over to watch The Wonderful World of Disney with me and Nan.

  When the documentary voice began discussing the feces-borne diseases raccoons introduce to neighborhoods, Nan looked at Mo and said, “We need to evict your friend.”

  Mo shivered. “I’m done.” She dropped her container on the coffee table, then scrambled to shove a coaster under it. She wasn’t suffering a loss of appetite. Her container was empty. She’d even eaten the hot peppers.

  Bark snuck out from behind the wing chair, staying low, testing the waters. When no one made any rash moves, he turned around three times, flopping on the floor with a thunk and a sigh.

  “Hysterical,” Mo said in a loud whisper. “He’s like a crabby old man.”

  Bark shot her a wary look before resting his head on his paws to watch the raccoons raid a dumpster.

  My heart gave way to normal time. I was almost comfortable.

  “You done?” Mo asked, leaning over to peek in my container.

  “Are you in a hurry?”

  “Two-for-one beers at Sal’s until nine.”

  The idea of going anywhere was overwhelming. “I don’t think—”

  “You’re going,” Mo said.

  “I hear you’re prowling tonight,” Nan said, waving chopsticks at me, amused.

  “Want to come with?” Mo asked.

  “I think I’m okay right here.” Nan patted the couch. “Bark will keep me company.”

  “Come on,” Mo said as I dropped the last bit of dumpling in my mouth. “Let’s get you purdied up.” She grabbed my arm and yanked me off the couch before I could finish chewing.

  * * *

  “God, your clothes are awful!” Mo picked through my closet. She was wearing a faded pineapple print Hawaiian shirt.

  “You look like you’re going to a Jimmy Buffett concert,” I said.

  “Ooh, I want margaritas. Let’s go to Los Tacos.”

  I groaned. Me and Mo and tequila were a bad recipe.

  She pointed to four sets of black leggings folded over hangers, a black turtleneck hung over each one. “This is interesting. Are you a cat burglar?”

  “Work clothes,” I said, “for backstage.”

  She held up a black cotton sweater with holes in the elbows. “Did you actually move this here?”

  I laughed, nodding. I hated my clothes too. I never felt like I could spend money on myself. I didn’t make much as a costume assistant. My income was limited because Eric’s job dictated our location, and there weren’t many theatres to choose from in Rochester. I did all the housework, even though I spent as much time at work as he did, but since my salary didn’t even come close to paying half of our expenses, none of what I earned felt like mine. Instead of trying to sum out the complex equation of his earnings and my sacrifice, I avoided all talk of money because I was so embarrassed by my meager paychecks. Eric felt entitled to buy himself a BMW, but I stressed over dropping twenty bucks on a new pair of sneakers. So aside from work clothes, all I had were a few pairs of shorts, some jeans that didn’t fit, and an endless stack of t-shirts from shows I’d costumed.

  Bark sat on the bed, watching Mo with full attention. Every so often, Mo offered him her hand on the sly, purposely avoiding eye contact. Each time, Bark inched a little closer to get a better sniff.

  Mo held up an extra-large tie-dyed t-shirt from Hair. “Really, Kay?”

  “Who died and left you that shirt?” I asked.

  “My grandfather,” Mo said, eyes big and sad.

  “I’m sorry!”

  “I’m kidding!” She shoved my shoulder.

  Bark growled.

  “It’s okay,” I whispered to him.

  “Although . . .” Mo’s face turned red. “I think this was one of Ruth’s husband’s shirts.”

  I winced and laughed. “We’re horrible.”

  Bark sighed at just the right moment.

  “He’s not a fan of our humor,” I said.

  Mo was already on to the next thing. “I’ll be right back,” she called and ran down the hall full speed.

  I heard her say something to Nan. Bark stared at the doorway, ears straining to listen. Nan said, “Oh, of course. Right there!” And then Mo ran back, bare feet thudding against the carpet.

  “Here!” she said, throwing a dress at my face. She wasn’t even out of breath.

  The dress was a simple sleeveless wrap. Black. Clingy. Basically my size.

  “So my grandmother dresses better than I do?”

  “Yup.”

  “It’s weird if I dress up and you don’t.”

  “It’s not about dressing up. I feel awesome in these,” Mo said, pointing to her seersucker Bermuda shorts, “but I don’t think you feel awesome in that.”

  I was wearing my too-tight brown linen shorts again, and a t-shirt from a production of The Music Man. For that show, my boss, Edith, actually let me design costumes for the Pick-a-Little Ladies, but at the last minute insisted we use her designs instead. I was essentially wrapped in bad feelings.

  I grabbed the dress.

  Bark flopped on his side, still watching Mo. His brows wiggled as he tracked her movements, but his eyes drooped toward sleep.

  I took my shirt off.

  “Did your boobs get bigger?” Mo asked, staring at my ugly beige bra. There was a patch of thread pulls on the left cup from an unfortunate washing machine meeting with the Velcro closure of Eric’s bathing suit. How long would it be before Eric was erased from my daily life?

  “My everything got bigger,” I said, slipping into the dress. “Two years on fertility drugs, only to find out he was cheating.” As soon as the words landed I wanted to put them back, so Mo wouldn’t witness my seeping anger.

  “You had a whole big, serious, grown-up life while you were gone, huh?”

  I nodded. I wanted to tell her about the babies I’d lost, and the dull loneliness I couldn’t bury, but I didn’t know how to start.

  “I think you look gorgeous,” Mo said. “And fuck him.”

  I tied the dress sash and shimmied out of my shorts.

  “Lose the bra.” Mo pointed to where it stuck out at the neckline. “It’s Florida. We’ve got the perkiest pairs for miles.”

  I threaded my bra through the sleeve hole and threw it at the trash can. It missed. But I resolved to chuck it later, instead of putting it away.

  “Ready?” Mo asked.

  “No. But you’re not letting me off the hook, are you?”

  “Absolutely not.” Mo planted a kiss on the top of my head. “Hey, I’m sorry you went through all that. I’m sorry I wasn’t—we weren’t—in touch.”

  “We are now,” I said, giving her arm a squeeze.

  When we were about to leave, Nan shuffled to the door in her nightgown and slippers, camera dangling from her wrist. “Ooh! Fits you perfectly, Kay,” she said, smoothing the stretch of fabric across my back. “Let me get a picture.”

  “We’re not going to prom. We’re getting margaritas.”

  “It’s your first night out as a single lady!” Nan looked through the viewfinder, waving for me to stand closer to Mo. “These are the things we want to remember.”

  I groaned.

  �
��Indulge me,” Nan said.

  Mo held her arms out like the Hulk, fists clenched, the muscles in her neck straining. “Come on, Kay! For posterity!”

  I rested my hands on my hips, like Wonder Woman. As the flash flared, maybe I did feel a little more powerful.

  Nan palmed a lipstick and forty dollars into my hand.

  “Nan!” I said. “I’m fine.”

  “I want to.” She winked. “It’s good to have you back.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  “Let’s get a jump start,” Mo said, ordering two tequila shots as soon as we walked in. I hadn’t been to a bar in a long time. We didn’t even get carded.

  “I don’t have much of a tolerance anymore,” I said.

  “All the more reason.”

  The bartender slid our shots and a rocks glass full of lime slices across the shiny bar. Behind him a giant marlin hung on the wall, body arched like it was about to jump. I hoped it was fake, but I couldn’t tell, and the thought of such a grand fish ending up on the wall in a dive bar made me sad.

  “And a couple of your finest margaritas!” Mo shouted. She eyed the top shelf bottles. “Well, maybe not your finest. They’re still margaritas, you know? A couple of your most middling margaritas!”

  The bartender laughed. “Celebrating?”

  “Hell yes.” Mo tipped her head in my direction. “This one is a free woman!”

  “Congratulations.” He leaned against the bar. “Jail?”

  “Marriage,” Mo said.

  “Same difference,” I said, willing myself to participate.

  The bartender laughed again, way harder than necessary.

  Mo nudged me with her elbow when he turned away to make our drinks. She raised an eyebrow. He was kind of cute. Tall. Thin. Tan. Blond.

  I smiled and shook my head. I met Eric in college and we hung out until we melded into a couple. The idea of dating with intention, as an adult, was terrifying. Or was Mo thinking of some kind of backroom hookup? Was that a thing people did? Was it something she did? It occurred to me that it was probably something my husband had done.