Swimming for Sunlight

by Allie Larkin

  A message alert appeared on the screen. My heart jumped with good nerves. Luca! I held my breath and clicked.

  It was from Lorna Griggs.

  Hi, Katie! My mother was thrilled to hear from you and your grandmother. Thank you for tracking us down. I’m passing along her message:

  Dear Nannette,

  How wonderful to hear from you, old friend! I saw the picture of you and your granddaughter and it made my heart swell. She looks so much like you did back when we swam together. I am happy that more of your spirit is in the world.

  I’m doing quite well. I live near Lorna. She’s my oldest of three daughters. I have two grandsons, four granddaughters, and a great-granddaughter. Hank longed for a boy and then relished having girls. Each one had a special hold over him.

  Hank passed away five years ago. The day after Christmas. It’s hard to get left behind, isn’t it? I feel like I’m supposed to say polite things about the weather and my new home, but you were my best friend and we never made small talk, so I want you to know that I miss you. It hurts to lose Hank and feel unmoored. I want to talk to you about the grace and pain and beauty of age. I want to know what happened to your son, and to tell you that all my sympathy is yours. When I taught my grandchildren how to swim, I told them about you and Bitsie and our adventures underwater. You are a character to them, like Alice in Wonderland, and I hope maybe now they will get to meet you. Please send Bitsie my love. I’m jealous that you live right down the street from each other. Let’s not fall out of touch again. I never stopped thinking of things I wanted to tell you.

  Love,

  Woo Woo

  Tears stung my eyes. I wished I’d grown up imagining Woo Woo as a character in a magical tale and that Nan had felt free to keep the memory of this great friendship part of her everyday life. I knew why Nan never talked about it, why she seemed so against Bitsie’s calendar idea: we tried not to talk about water. But I didn’t want her to lose any more history because of me.

  I heard Nan chatting on the phone in the kitchen, so I copied the message and texted it to her.

  Then, even though he hadn’t written back, I wrote to Luca again: Hey, if you were going to take pictures in a swimming pool and needed high-res images, what kind of camera would you use?

  I hit enter as a reflex and my words were sent. My heart fluttered. I should have at least asked how he was. Told him I loved his documentary, and that I missed sitting on the floor of my dorm room with him, splitting a Buffalo chicken calzone, watching Saturday Night Live, while all the cool kids were out at parties.

  I quickly wrote, Hope all is well with you.

  And then accidentally hit enter.

  Maybe we can catch up soon.

  Enter. Damn!

  Katie.

  I stared at the screen feeling a flush of awkwardness, hoping kind words about being happy to hear from me would appear under mine.

  Nothing happened.

  “Kay!” Nan rushed in, eyes filled with tears. “Did you read it?”

  I nodded.

  “Can we write back right now?”

  After we’d sent Woo Woo an epically long reply, I opened my sketchbook to the mermaid drawings and handed it to Nan.

  “Goodness, Kay,” she said, flipping the pages. “These are beautiful!” She held her hand over her mouth, eyes welling up. “This one even looks like Bitsie!”

  “What if we did the calendar?” I asked, ignoring the uncomfortable clench of my heart.

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” Nan said, but I could see the wanting in her eyes. “It sounds like an awful lot of work, and I wouldn’t—”

  “I can handle it. Costuming shows for the theatre was way more work than this.”

  “It’s not just the work—”

  “I could even make a costume for Woo Woo, and we could find a photographer in Atlanta to take her picture.” I took a deep breath. “What if we tried to find the other mermaids?”

  Nan squeezed my arm. “Are you really sure?”

  “I am,” I said, giving her my most convincing smile. “I want to.”

  “Okay. Okay.” She pointed at my computer. “Audrey Mitchell.”

  I typed the name into Facebook. “That might be a hard one,” I said. “Mitchell is such a common—” Audrey Mitchell McClintock popped up on the screen. She had her own profile.

  “She always was quick to the uptake,” Nan said, leaning forward to get a better view. “Look at her! She’s beautiful!”

  Audrey had snow white hair in a long side braid, and a purple silk scarf tied around her neck. She smiled at the camera like she knew her angles. Her eyes were kind. She lived in Chicago. Her husband was still alive. Both retired. Lots of travel pictures. Lots of children.

  “They have a nice life, don’t they?” Nan said, and I wondered if she wished for more than she had; a partner to adventure with, a herd of children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren to fill a farm table. But there was no hint of envy in the message she dictated for Audrey, and I hoped that maybe envy was a thing to outgrow, like baby teeth and menstruation.

  “Okay,” Nan said when we sent off that message. “Hannah Whitfield.”

  I couldn’t find anyone named Hannah Whitfield who was even close to the right age. “The name Hannah got popular again,” I told Nan.

  “Funny how these things come back in fashion—Wait!” She grabbed my arm. “Novak! She married a man named Novak. She sent me the wedding invitation, but it was in California, and Gramps didn’t want to go.”

  I couldn’t find a Hannah Novak on Facebook, but when I Googled, her husband’s website came up. Patrick Novak was a senator from Baltimore.

  “Oh my goodness.” Nan pointed at the screen. There was a picture of Hannah standing next to Barbara Bush. We couldn’t find recent photos, but there was a glut from twenty years ago. Hannah and her husband had met everyone from Mick Jagger to Stephen Hawking.

  “I can’t find an email address for her,” I said. “But I can write to his office, and see if someone will get us in touch.”

  “Oh, no,” Nan said, smiling. “I think maybe—she’d think it was silly. Let’s not bother her.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Completely,” she said, but there was sadness in her voice. Maybe it was hard to see someone you knew go so far beyond your own experience. Maybe she worried she hadn’t meant as much to Hannah as Hannah meant to her. “I’m going to go read Woo Woo’s email again.” She kissed my head and left. Bark followed. Nan had started carrying treats in her pocket.

  I emailed Hannah’s husband’s office anyway. I didn’t say anything about mermaids, just that I was the granddaughter of an old friend who would love to be in touch.

  * * *

  Mo never used her Facebook account. She had a blurry profile picture and a post from 2008 that said, Alright, guys, I’m here! No other posts.

  I climbed into bed with my phone and sent her a text instead: You’re a wonderful friend. Thank you.

  A few minutes later, she wrote back: Are you dying? :)

  Of sarcasm.

  You’re the best friend I’ve ever had, she wrote. I’m happy you’re home.

  I sent her a heart symbol. She sent me an alien head.

  Jogging tomorrow? she asked.

  Yes, but not with you.

  Ha! Then: Sleep tight.

  I sent her a moon.

  She sent me a poop.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Isaac and I had a full morning. A man came in with an armload of his father’s suits to be tailored for himself. He kept his head down, weepy, as he explained that his father had recently passed away.

  Isaac asked me to do the fitting. “It’s hard for men to cry in front of other men,” he whispered. I kept my voice sweet and my words sparse, handing our customer tissues before he had to ask. Isaac took the first suit as soon as I finished marking it, and got to work immediately, so the suit was done before I even finished fitting the rest.

  “I thought it woul
d be too sad,” Isaac said after the man left, “to walk in with his father’s clothes and walk out with nothing.”

  Nan was right. It was good to be around Isaac’s kindness. Eric always complained that I was too thin-skinned, but Isaac made me feel like sensitivity could be a strength.

  * * *

  When I checked my phone at noon, I had three texts from Mo.

  Help me with Morty tonight?

  The manatee. I call him Morty.

  I’ll feed you.

  I called Nan while I walked to the deli to grab sandwiches for me and Isaac.

  “I’m working at Mo’s tonight. I’ll have dinner there.”

  “Thank you for letting me know,” Nan said, trying her best to sound breezy.

  “Say it.”

  “What?” she asked with fake innocence.

  “Say it.”

  “See, was that so hard?” she said in a whoosh of air and words.

  “Unbearably exhausting.”

  Nan laughed.

  “If only I could . . . Find. The. Strength. To go on. Maybe you should bring me dinner.”

  “Goodness, you’re just like your father!” Nan said, her laugh winding to a beautiful sigh.

  Part of me hated that my father was on my mind when he hadn’t been, but I loved that she thought I was like him. From her it was a compliment.

  “Tell Maureen I want to come see the manatee one of these days.”

  “Stop by tonight,” I said.

  “Not tonight. I have to go out.”

  “So you weren’t going to make dinner anyway?”

  Nan laughed again. “Nope.”

  * * *

  After work, I stopped home to change. Nan was already gone. Bark didn’t greet me at the door.

  “Bark?” I called, waiting for the scratch of his nails against the tile. Silence. I ran down the hall, picturing Bark lying dead on the floor in my room. He wasn’t there. He wasn’t in Nan’s room, where he could have eaten hand lotion and choked on his own vomit, or the laundry room where he could have knocked the ironing board over on himself, the living room where he might be tangled in the curtains, or the garage, where he could lick dripping motor oil.

  I ran to the patio and stood at the edge of the pool, carefully scanning from one end to the other and back again, slowly, because sometimes things look warped underwater, and I needed to make absolutely sure he wasn’t there.

  Had he gotten out? I ran through the house again, screaming, “Bark! Bark!” Fear tight in my throat. I could barely breathe. I threw open the front door to look for him outside, and there he was, on a leash I didn’t recognize. Althea held the other end. She’d been about to open the door. Shocked to see me.

  “Where was he?” I asked, my voice strained. “I don’t know how he got out!”

  “I’m sorry, Katie,” Althea said. “I assumed Nan told you I was coming to walk Bark.”

  “Nobody told me! He was just gone!” I sobbed.

  “I’m going to run Bark to your room so he doesn’t get upset,” she said, scooting past me, Bark gladly following.

  My brain was still racing through every scenario that could lead to Bark’s death. I pictured him limp, spirit gone, no way to get him back, and my body reacted as if it were true. That heartbeat again. So loud. Blood electric under my skin. All of me boiling, about to burst.

  “How could you do that?” I screamed when Althea came back. “How could you take him?”

  She didn’t even flinch. “I’m so sorry, Kay,” she said slowly, softly. “I thought you knew.”

  “I thought he was gone. I thought—” I was gasping for air. My heart felt dangerous. “How could you take him?”

  “Alright, Katie,” Althea said. “Why don’t you sit on the floor. Right where you are. Okay?”

  “I don’t want to sit!” I said, pacing. My skin felt wrong. Like it was too tight on my body. Too many nerves at the surface.

  “Do you want me to help you calm down?”

  “I want you to not take my dog!” I knew I was behaving horribly, and I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t stop moving. My heart, my heart, too loud in my ears. Muscles twitching. I didn’t want her to watch me. “Please go!”

  “I don’t want to leave you, Kaitlyn.”

  “Go,” I said, crying hard, covering my face like it would somehow be less embarrassing if she couldn’t see my tears anymore.

  “Do you want me to call Nan?”

  I shook my head. “Just go.”

  After she left, I ran to my room. Bark jumped off the bed to greet me, whining until I got down to face level with him. He licked the tears from my chin frantically.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I said. I wished that Althea could hear my apology too.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Mo showed up five minutes later, letting herself in. “Hey, hey!” she called from the foyer. I heard her footsteps coming down the hall and wiped my face with my hand. She walked into my room without knocking.

  “I’m fine,” I said.

  “Well, you sure do look fine,” she said, sitting next to me. “I think mascara is supposed to go on your eyelashes.” She gestured to under her eyes. “You’ve got a thing happening. Like a football player.”

  I pulled a pillow over my head. Mo pulled it off.

  “Althea took Bark—”

  “Yeah, I heard.”

  “God, you can’t take a shit around here without—”

  “You took a shit too? I didn’t hear that part,” Mo said, grinning.

  I socked her in the face with my pillow and then hugged it to my chest like armor. “I thought Bark was dead. I’m so embarrassed. I thought he was—”

  “Did you think he drowned?” Mo asked.

  “Shut up.”

  “You still don’t go near water, do you?”

  “Shut up.”

  “You’re the only person I know who lives in Florida and doesn’t go to the beach.”

  I turned on my side, away from her. My mind was still cycling through awful thoughts. I wished I could be a normal human being, but in the absence of that, I wished I could hide my abnormality better.

  Mo flopped on her back next to me. “I’m not—I’m only trying to tell you that I get what’s going on.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  Mo was quiet for a long time. “Okay, look,” she said finally. “I’m not leaving you alone. You can come help me at my shop, or I’ll sit here and stare at you.” She leaned over me, making moony eyes. I refused to laugh.

  * * *

  On the walk to her house, Mo bumped her arm against my shoulder and said, “You know, after Pops died, I’d wake up in the middle of the night terrified he might stop breathing. I totally forgot. I’d run into the living room, and he wasn’t there and his hospice bed was gone. I felt like a crazy person.”

  “But it stopped. You don’t still do that, right?” I said automatically, before the horror of what she’d gone through set in. I hated that I hadn’t been there to sleep on the couch so I could hug her when she raced in and the realization hit.

  “Yeah,” Mo said. “It stopped eventually.”

  “That’s maybe the difference between you and a crazy person,” I said.

  Mo put her arm around my shoulder. It made it harder for both of us to walk. Her lankiness, my lack of lank.

  “I don’t think you’re crazy,” she said.

  I worried she was wrong.

  We turned the corner and I could see Morty in her driveway, his finished skeleton all lit up with shop lights.

  “Is there something that could help you?” she asked. “Not fix, I know, but help.”

  “Like what?” I said a little too sharply.

  We walked up the driveway. Mo’s mask and gloves were on the ground next to Morty. The garage door was open. She must have run out the second Althea called.

  “Like a therapist—”

  I shook my head. I didn’t want to tell a stranger everything that had happened to
me. I didn’t even want to talk about it with people I knew.

  Mo broke away to pick up her gloves. “I mean, you got divorced,” she said, her voice barely a mumble. “Aren’t you supposed to go to therapy for that?”

  I was still raging with adrenaline. It felt like her words were scraping at my skin. I wished she’d stop talking.

  “Divorce isn’t a mental condition,” I said, grabbing my gloves from the workbench.

  “Well . . .” Mo sighed. “I mean, for the other stuff too.”

  “Like what?” I hoped if I pushed back, she’d let it drop. Mo was tougher than me about most things, but she couldn’t handle feeling like we were having a real fight. “What stuff?”

  “Everything,” Mo said, pink splotches creeping up her neck. She was supposed to mumble, “Never mind.” That was the way we worked.

  “Like what?”

  “You pulled your dead father out of the water,” Mo said, her face turning red. “Maybe there’s someone who knows how to help you handle that.”

  “He wasn’t—” I didn’t finish. It wouldn’t help my case, but my father was still alive when I pulled him out. He had to be, and the distinction mattered to me, even though I didn’t understand why.

  “I think, maybe . . . I mean, sad stuff kind of . . . builds, and we’ve been to more than our share of funerals,” Mo said. “I think you, especially, were, like, mired in death. That can’t be good.”

  She was remembering wrong. Nan couldn’t handle the way I cried when she took me to funerals. I mostly stayed home by myself, watching the clock until it was time to walk over and meet Nan at the house of the person hosting the reception after the cemetery. We’d fill up on cold cuts and potato salad so Nan wouldn’t have to make dinner that night, because who feels like cooking when their friend just died?

  “I don’t want to talk about—Are we going to do this?” I hated being a jerk to Mo, and that shame made me feel even more volatile. I shoved my bare feet into Pops’s gross boots, tying the laces hard.

  “I didn’t mean to upset you,” Mo said. “I don’t—I’m not good at this.”