People in my family are pathologically incapable of asking anyone for help. It''s probably the only tradition we have. Call it pride or stubbornness or fear of rejection, even--each of us is our own island. No matter what anybody''s going through, we pretend everything''s fine, just fine, thanks for asking , and we soldier on. Take my mother. My mother never asked me or my sister for anything. Not for help with the dishes or cooking. Not for a Christmas or birthday present.
Not even for a simple hug. But I always believed that my mother had deeper needs. Wants she would not ask out loud, even when back she could still communicate. Maybe even needs I was afraid to ask her about, in case I couldn''t help her. Except for today. Today she broke through her cocoon and, finally, now of all times, asked. I''ll do anything I can to help her. I wish she''d always known that.
I put my hands on top of each other, palms down, and rock the soles of my feet back and forth into the smooth concrete pool deck. Goggles and earplugs and nose plugs and swimcap and plain black Speedo racerback swimsuit all in place. You wouldn''t know it, but there was once a day when I could have handily beat every single person standing on the pool deck next to me. That sleek woman to my right. The barrel-chested old man in the unfortunate Speedo to my left. Even the twenty-year-old man already kicking through the water. In fact, there''s still a plaque in the La Jolla High gym that bears my name. Rachel Snow, 100-Meter Freestyle record.
Still unbroken, a handwritten note says below it. That was who I used to be. Unbroken. The noon sun covers me in a prickly blanket. It''s October and still oven-warm here in San Diego. Only a few people are in the public pool in the middle of weekday, parents splashing in the shallow end with their toddlers. Later, it''ll be filled with water polo teams and after-school swim clubs. Usually swimming clears my head, but not today.
My brain turns over and over what happened this morning, when I visited my mother in the nursing home. I shake my shoulders loose, take a deep breath in. One, two, three. I release it, take another, stare at the shimmering blue-white water. Yes, there it is. That particular ache I get whenever I think about Mom. We had a good visit today. Not because my mother knew who I was, but because we had a nice time together.
Being quiet. Looking at foam on the waves and cloud formations in the sky. This was a beautiful facility, situated as it is right by the Pacific, and its expense matches its views--but my father can afford it without a single sacrifice. My mother and I ate ginger and lemon crme cookies, dipping them into our decaf black tea. She ate a whole sleeve. Probably not on her approved diet list, but really, if I were in my mom''s situation, I''d be eating a daily pound of See''s. You might as well enjoy the time you have left. The truth is, she''s never going to get better.
After we finished our snack, Mom continued staring out the window. I sat in another slipcovered armchair next to hers. Mom''s coarse black hair, white at the roots, was standing up, and I reached over to smooth it down. "Hikari Sato." My voice was so loud I hurt my own ears. Most of the time, people ask me to repeat myself. Mom didn''t turn at the sound of her name. I wondered what she was thinking about.
If she remembered her husband, my father. I haven''t seen or talked to him since I was sixteen. I''d become a problem child, breaking the rules, acting the wrong way, and my father had abruptly told me to get out, forbade my mother from seeing me. I''ve heard, since then, of other parents doing the same for various reasons--often because they disapprove of their child''s partner or lifestyle or sexual orientation. Some people have an unshakeable internal morality. As far as he''s concerned, he''s got only has one daughter now, Drew. I''m not sure I''ll ever talk to him again. If you can say anything about Killian Snow, it''s that he will never give up.
"Hey." Mom took my hand in her paper-dry one. "Look out there." She pointed to the parking lot below, where a man shimmied out of his wetsuit, his longboard leaning against the open trunk of his sedan, having finished some morning surfing. His broad shoulders glistened with salt water. "Check out that surfer. He''s changing. I can see everything.
Back and front." She giggled, a throaty, mischievous sound, then leaned over and rapped on the window. "Woo!" she shouted like a teenager, and he looked up, searching for the source. "That cold water didn''t hurt him any." "Mom!" I giggled too, my laugh echoing hers perfectly. A flush rose up my neck. The man waved, believing it was me yelling, not the tiny innocent-looking Japanese woman sitting next to me. Oh well.
I leaned back out of sight and checked the time. "I have to go, okay?" I stand, kiss the top of her head. "I''ll see you next week." "Wait." Mom grabbed my upper arm, hyper-alert. Wrinkles suddenly cracked across her face like riverbeds on a relief map, cutting across the high mountains of her cheekbones."Wait, wait." She yanked with sudden Hulk-like strength on my arm, and I sat right back down.
Mom wanted something. I gently pried her hand off my arm, no small feat. "What is it, Mom? What do you need?" I thought perhaps she''d ask me for a box of her favorite cookies, Mallomars, or maybe even tell me to bring my twenty-year-old daughter Quincy and my fourteen- year-old son Chase around next time. Her mouth opened, forming words I couldn''t catch, her voice raspy and low. Like she couldn''t quite expel the syllables hard enough. "Say it again." I leaned closer, trying to make out her meaning. Mom cupped my chin with her hand.
"Rachel." Her eyes met mine, purposefully now, not with the usual randomness, as if my eyes were another piece of furniture in the room. "Rachel, Rachel." Mom was back. If only for a moment. "Mom?" I leaned forward, my mouth going dry. "What is it you need? Tell me. I''ll help you.
" Tell me. Make up for all the other times you didn''t ask. Or when I couldn''t help. Mom took a gigantic gulp of air, as if she''d been diving hundreds of feet under water. " Hon desu, hon desu ," she whispered in Japanese. I didn''t speak the language." Hon ?" I whispered back, though I wasn''t sure why we were whispering. We were all alone in the calm, white room.
The plastic vertical blinds rattled in the breeze. Mom blinked and screwed up her face like she''s tasted something sour. "Sewing room," she said finally, with tremendous effort, in English. "Drew knows. Drew will help." My little sister. Not that she''s been little for a long time. Younger, I corrected myself.
I will always be younger than you, Drew liked to say. "What does hon mean, Mom?" Mom took her hand out of mine and stared back out the window, at the ocean waves pounding. Another car pulled into the surfer''s vacated spot. I bent into her face, searched her gaze for a sign she knew me. But it was like looking at the blank dark screen of a laptop. Only my own reflection. Now I hesitate on the pool deck, straighten, crack my shoulder and stretch it out, considering my mother''s request. Small pins of pain shoot up across my back, to my spine.
Hon . I had looked up the word. Hon means book. My mother wants me to get a book. From her sewing room? Or what used to be her sewing room? And Drew, of all people, knows? As far as I know, my sister''s never set foot in that room. That was Mom''s sacred space. I''m going to have to call my little sister. Which means bumping up our phone calls from birthday-and-holiday-only, to an out-of-the-ordinary one.
I imagine Drew''s voice, smooth as melted sugar, coating all over her real emotions. It used to be so easy, second nature, to tell what my sister was thinking. Now there''s a thick invisible wall between us, and it''s like we''re little girls again, our beds on each side of the wall, tapping and hoping the other will hear, after the other one''s already deep asleep. Drew coming home from the hospital is one of my very first memories. I was four when Drew was born. I wasn''t too excited about having a baby in the house. I didn''t even like baby dolls. Mom told me to sit quietly on the couch.
She put Drew in my lap. "Hold her while I get her bottle ready," she instructed me. "Do not move." Drew lay perfectly still, wrapped up like a sausage in her blanket. I thought Mom had tricked me, brought me a heavy doll. I stared at her. She slept, immobile. Boring.
She smelled like sour milk. Her head was pointy, her face wrinkled and homely. I poked her in the cheek with my finger, dimpling the soft skin like dough. I poked her again, a little harder. "Wake up." Drew opened her eyes and stared right at me. Her eyes were the deepest gray-brown then, like polished obsidian mixed with dark chocolate. Her stubborn little arm busted free and her tiny hand clutched my finger.
My heart stuttered. "Hello," I whispered, and I swore to God she smiled, though everyone said newborns couldn''t. I kissed the spots where I''d poked her. That night, I slept in her room, on the floor next to her crib, until Mom caught me and made me go back to my own bed. It was my sister who taught me how to love. "Feel like a race, Rachel?" the sleek woman to my right says. Shelley, another mother who swims laps here regularly. She pulls her dark goggles.