Swimming for Sunlight

by Allie Larkin

  “You, though? You’re so . . .”

  “Loud?” she said.

  “I was going to say ‘loquacious.’ ”

  “Don’t pull your fancy college words on me!” She nudged my shoulder with hers.

  “Fine. Loud,” I said, nudging back.

  “There was a lot of pressure to have personality when I was younger. My mother used to tell me, ‘You’ll never be pretty, but you can be charming.’ ”

  “That’s terrible!”

  “I know!” she said, swirling the coffee around in her mug. “And she meant it to be hopeful. Like I could still find a way to be okay.”

  “I think you’re beautiful,” I said. No one else’s eyes sparkled quite so brightly.

  “I’ve got a beak like a toucan and a neck like a turtle,” Bitsie said, “so the charm must be working on you.”

  “Oh, Bits!”

  “I never had my own kids, of course,” Bitsie said, “but I think every mother should believe her little girl is the most beautiful being in the whole wide world.” She tapped my knee. “And then she should tell her she’s smart, funny, and kind, instead.”

  I forced a smile, remembering my mother telling me it was too bad I’d inherited my father’s cleft chin. “It’s weird on a girl,” she said, smoothing foundation on my face before the third grade play. It was the tiniest cleft. Barely even noticeable. Gone, once I gained a little weight when I hit puberty, but her attention to it made me feel like I was walking around with the Grand Canyon right there at the end of my face. Every picture through fifth grade has me chin in hand, like a serious 1980s businessman.

  “What are you thinking when your face gets like that?” Bitsie asked.

  “Like what?”

  “Beautiful. And smart, and funny, and kind, of course. But faraway. Like you’re gone.”

  “Something my mom said about my chin being weird.”

  “Good lord! You were a stunning child. Those big brown eyes. You charmed the heck out of all of us, and you barely even said a word. I don’t know how anyone could have looked at that sad little face and tried to break your heart.”

  “It was just a stupid thing about my chin,” I said, pulling a baby dandelion sprout from the dirt, slowly, so the root wouldn’t break.

  “I heard how she talked to you, kiddo. After your dad died, when she brought you to visit. It wasn’t nice things she said.”

  I broke the stem of the dandelion and sniffed it. Bitsie was right. I remembered the disgusted sighs when I didn’t move quickly enough if my mother asked me to do something. The glares I’d get across the dinner table for nothing in particular. After my father died, she got more and more annoyed with me. Nothing I said or did would make it better. At least not in any reliable way. But it didn’t stop me from trying. Again and again, until she was gone.

  “I think,” Bitsie said, “sometimes mothers attack when they feel raw about the parts of themselves they don’t like.”

  “Maybe,” I said, twisting the two pieces of dandelion together. The white sap made my fingers sticky.

  Bitsie smiled at me. “Hey, did you see all of Bunny’s fabric in the sewing room?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You should have it.”

  “Oh no,” I whispered. It felt like too much to take. Those fabrics were the remainders of Bunny’s life story. “I could make you clothes. I saw a pretty sundress pattern in her files, and she has some nice ginghams.”

  “No,” Bitsie said, tapping Bunny’s hat. “This is one thing. I can wear it at home. And sometimes I sleep in one of her shirts, but those are messy nights.” She sighed. “If I tried to wear her clothes to Publix, I’d end up wailing in the produce aisle.”

  I felt that way about my dad’s old shirts. They lived in a box in Nan’s attic.

  “Same with her fabric,” Bitsie said. “I remember all the times she dragged me to the store and labored over which print to choose. They look like her. I can’t go around wearing memories and expect myself to act like a normal human being.”

  “We can leave it all right where it is,” I said. “I don’t need to—”

  “Bunny would want you to have her fabric,” Bitsie said. “I am certain of it. Make yourself something. That’s what I’d like. To see her memories spread around.”

  “If I do and it’s not okay, you promise you’ll tell me?”

  “Promise,” she said, and squeezed my arm. “You coming to sew today?”

  “Yeah.” I stood up. “I think I can get those curtains done and hung this afternoon.” I crumpled the dandelion remains in my hand. “And maybe we can talk about your tail.” I laughed as soon as I said it.

  “My tail is worth talking about!” Bitsie said, laughing too.

  “Thanks for the coffee.” I handed her my empty mug.

  “You can hide over here any time you want.”

  “Thank you,” I said, thinking Friday morning jogs would have to become a regular thing.

  “Don’t tell them I’m awake yet!” Bitsie called when I was halfway down the driveway.

  I carried the dandelion on my jog back to Nan’s and threw it in the garbage can in the garage so there was no way its offspring could invade Bunny’s roses.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “Maybe you should take Bark for a walk?” Nan called from the den. The other ladies were gone. Nan had her feather duster out and Bark watched warily as she fluttered it across the coffee table.

  The words “maybe you should” gave me the same knee-jerk feelings of rebellion they always used to.

  “He’s fine,” I muttered. Bark did the loud yawn thing dogs do when they’re feeling awkward about a situation. “The trainer I worked with in Rochester gave me obedience exercises. She said they’re enough mental stimulation to keep him happy while I build up his confidence.”

  “Dogs need more than mental stimulation, Kay. They need to move their bodies. Everyone does.” Nan pumped her arms like a power walker. “He has too much pent-up energy. Althea said getting Jax into a regular exercise routine—”

  “He can’t handle it!” I said too loudly. I looked away. The ugly clay chicken I made in pottery class in fifth grade was still on display on the bookshelf. It felt wrong to yell at the keeper of my artifacts.

  “I think he can!” Nan said. “After Ruth and Marta left, Althea got him to sit and shake and walk next to her nicely down the hallway. He was fine.”

  “It’s not—He’s different outside,” I said, frustrated. Bark had good manners when everything was quiet. I hated that Nan and Althea thought they understood him just because he sat for a treat in the house.

  The day after Eric and I brought Bark home from the shelter, I tried taking him for a walk. An unleashed Schnauzer from two doors down ran at us and bit Bark on the nose. There was blood. Enough to scare me. I was shaking when I brought him back to the house. Eric insisted the scratch was small and it wasn’t a big deal, but it was a big deal to me. An even bigger deal to Bark. It was a struggle to get him to go for walks at all after that.

  Once, I got him halfway around the block, only to have him freak out over a plastic grocery bag blowing down the sidewalk like a tumbleweed. He hooked his tail between his legs and refused to take another step, no matter how much I pleaded. I had to carry him home, stopping every few feet to catch my breath and adjust my grip on his trembling body. I thought we’d never make it. And that was midday when everyone was at work, and there wasn’t another dog in sight. When he did see a dog, the hair on the back of his neck stood up. He’d growl and lunge, neighbors watching, horrified.

  “Well, have you tried?” Nan asked, like she was offering a new and novel idea.

  “Yes, I have,” I said, hearing the sharpness in my voice, unable to pull it back. I’d tried everything. The kind of collar that fits over his nose. Positive praise. Pretending to be the pack leader. Fearful Furry Friend classes. A trainer who came to the house. Prozac. An enzyme I bought from the touchy-feely natural foods store that was supp
osed to be “bioidentical” to calming proteins in breast milk. A contraption you plug into the wall that radiates relaxing scents. A special CD of music for dogs. But none of it fixed Bark. I may as well have taught him to breathe into a paper bag.

  “I’m supposed to take him outside when there aren’t any dogs around and give him a treat when he looks at something scary,” I told Nan.

  “What’s scary outside?”

  “Everything.”

  Nan shook her head like she thought the whole situation was ridiculous.

  “He needs exercise, Kay,” Nan said.

  “We do exercise.”

  Nan looked at me like she wanted a bigger answer.

  I caved. “We dance,” I mumbled.

  “What?”

  “We dance. I put on music and we kind of dance around.” Late at night, when Eric wasn’t home, when I’d had a glass or two of wine, Bark and I would have a dance party. I don’t remember how I discovered that if I jumped, Bark would too, but it became my favorite moment of the day. We’d play music videos on YouTube and bounce around the living room like our pants were on fire. Bark yelped and wagged his tail. He’d scramble to get Murray the Monster and toss him in the air. I danced until my asthma flared up, then I’d crash on the couch with Bark, both of us panting.

  “Fine,” Nan said. “Let’s dance.” She opened the cabinet under the stereo and flipped through her records.

  I’d spent so much time on the floor in front of that cabinet as a kid. I knew each record by the color of the spine. Nan had her parents’ modest collection of big band hits, my father’s classic rock, grandfather’s classical, her own Motown and jazz, and the random ’80s and ’90s albums she’d bought for me at yard sales.

  Nan chose an album. She set the record needle, and the playful piccolo from “The Tears of a Clown” came through the speakers. “You always liked this one.”

  “I can dance with him while you’re out,” I said. It wasn’t something I wanted to do in front of another human being.

  “Don’t be silly. I want to see this dog dance.” Nan started doing small jumps from one side to the other, crossing her arms in front of her, falling into the beat. “Come on! Do the pony!”

  I felt the prickle of awkwardness in my skin. Bark stared at me. I did the dumb step-touch thing that I called dancing in junior high, shaking my shoulders ever so slightly. Bark wagged his tail.

  “He’s not dancing,” Nan said, grape-vining toward me, waving her arms. Her hands looked like the flapping wings of a dove. She had a grace I did not inherit. Bark shifted his attention to her. His tail wagged slower, but it was still wagging.

  “He does get into it,” I said. “But—everything is new.”

  “This isn’t enough exercise for him,” Nan said.

  The carnival theme played again and the song opened up to the triumph of horns. I jumped straight in the air and spun around. Bark yelped. I jumped higher, kicking my legs. Bark jumped with me. I skipped from one side of the room to the other and he followed, prancing along. I forgot about Nan, and embarrassment, and everything else. It was me and Bark and Smokey Robinson.

  As we leapt across the carpet again, Nan stopped dancing and put her hands on her knees, like maybe she was having some kind of heart episode.

  I stopped mid-skip, almost sliding into the wall. “Are you okay?” I yelled, heart thumping, out of breath.

  She looked up, tears streaming down her face.

  “Oh my god! Oh my god!” I shouted. My voice sounded like it was coming from someone else.

  “That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever seen!” Nan said, gasping for air, laughing.

  I wanted to sneak behind the blue wing chair and press my cheek against the soft velour, like I did as a kid when I no longer wanted to be a part of the action.

  Nan must have seen the horror on my face because she grabbed my arm. “It’s good,” she said, her laughter winding down. “It’s really good. I’ve never seen you like that.” She hugged me. I didn’t hug back. “Oh, sweetie. No, it’s good. He’s so joyful when you dance.”

  I nodded. Still craving the shelter of the wing chair while my adult mind came to the realization that everyone must have known where I was hiding when I did that.

  “How did this start?” Nan asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Home alone. Wine. Cyndi Lauper.”

  Nan nodded, like it made perfect sense. She crouched. Bark ran over and licked her face. “You are a very good boy, aren’t you?” She scratched his ear. “And you take good care of my granddaughter.”

  She went to the cabinet, to the section of records she’d bought for me, and started “Girls Just Want to Have Fun.” “I always loved this one,” she said, slapping her hands to her thighs. “Come on, Bark!”

  And we danced again.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Nan headed to Marta’s for lunch. Bark sat by the door after she left like he was hoping she’d come right back.

  “Did Nan leave?” I asked.

  He tipped his head to the side, considering the question.

  After I showered, I raided Nan’s closet and found a white cap-sleeved sweater. I paired it with my navy blue capris—which were the only nice pants that still fit me—shoved my too-big feet into a pair of Nan’s navy flats, and slipped her chunky red Bakelite necklace over my head. It was a bit on-the-nose nautical, but it looked purposeful. Plus, the sweater hung long and was thick enough to hide a multitude of sins. Older women are much kinder in the ways they dress themselves.

  I knew Nan would willingly allow me the use of anything in her closet, but I didn’t want to admit that I hadn’t managed to keep myself in presentable clothes. I also knew if I told Nan I was looking for a job, she’d start in about how I didn’t have to do that right away and I was welcome to stay with her for as long as I wanted, and goodness gracious, sometimes it’s okay to let someone take care of you. But I needed to keep my hands busy, to have a paycheck and a purpose. And I had to make sure I wasn’t more of a burden to Nan than I’d already been.

  * * *

  I stopped at the bakery next to the tailor shop to pick up a half-dozen madeleines and two cups of Earl Grey.

  My nerves were out of control. It was ridiculous to be afraid. If Isaac said no, I could go home, put Nan’s clothes back, and climb into bed like I hadn’t even tried. But I’d loved working in Isaac’s shop. All through high school, I “made my bones,” as he said, hemming pants and fitting wedding dresses. I hoped going back to work for him might be like hitting restart, but it was hard for me to want things.

  The bell on the door jangled when I stepped inside.

  “Hi, Isaac,” I said when he appeared through the curtain from the back room.

  He greeted me with a huge smile.

  I handed him a cup and the bag of cookies. “We didn’t get to talk at Nan’s party, and I wanted to say hi.” I hated having an ulterior motive. I’m not sure I would have come by otherwise. I never knew how to put myself in another person’s path without a reason, even when I wanted to.

  “Wonderful!” Isaac said. His eyes lit up when he looked in the bag. “My favorite!”

  He sat on the stool behind the counter, gesturing to the stepladder. I took a seat. We held our paper cups and ate cookies as if chewing required full attention. Without the job question hanging over my head, it would have been a comfortable silence. I decided to bail on the mission. The stress was keeping me from enjoying my time with him.

  “So,” Isaac said, then paused like he was waiting for the translation of what he wanted to say. “You have come home.”

  Isaac’s parents fled Germany to Denmark, where he was born. He was raised in Copenhagen until his family moved to New York when he was fourteen. His English was perfect, but I think maybe he had to filter what he wanted to say through Danish to German and back before his thoughts came out clearly in English. I always wondered if that’s why he was so quiet, or if he would have been quiet in his native tongue t
oo.

  “Yes. I’m home.” The words formed a lump in my throat.

  “Your grandmother is so happy,” Isaac said, taking a sip of his tea. “She must be . . . happy . . . of course.”

  “I hope so. I’m happy she’ll have me back.”

  “She always will,” Isaac said, smiling.

  “How have you been?” I asked, like I was reading lines from a script of polite conversation.

  Isaac stretched his fingers, then clenched them, head wobbling from side to side.

  “Arthritis?” I asked.

  “Yes. I don’t want to quit, but my doctor says it might soon be time.”

  I couldn’t figure out how to ask for help, but I had no qualms offering. “Need a hand?”

  He nodded quickly, relief in his face. “Could you start Sunday?”

  “I could,” I said, trying not to laugh at how easy it was. Everything else in my life felt complicated.

  “Wedding party, and the bride . . .” He winced. She was probably a talker. Most people took their cues from Isaac. Customers whispered their requests. But every so often, someone kept going at high intensity, and I’d see on Isaac’s face that it chipped away at him. I could handle it a little better than Isaac could, but I understood.

  “What time?” I asked.

  “Ten a.m.”

  “I’ll be here.”

  He patted the counter. “Good, good,” he said, and gave me a warm grin. “Your grandmother’s necklace looks pretty on you.”

  “I borrowed it,” I said. “Don’t rat me out.”

  “Oh, I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.”

  After we finished our tea, we went to the back room so Isaac could show me the dresses we’d be fitting. The bride’s gown was a strapless A-line drowned in sloppy tulle ruffles.

  I looked at Isaac.

  “I know,” he said, like he could read my thoughts. He showed me the rack of bridesmaid dresses. Nine of them. Each one a slightly different style, all in a horrid shade of mint green. Uneven stitching. Crooked straps. The boning in the strapless one showed where it shouldn’t.