Shine

July was lackluster and vaporous. We longed for the usual span of spark and glimmer. Dad was suddenly out of the house, and everyone tried not to notice the oil-stained driveway where he normally parked his Cadillac, or the tan line around Mom’s ring finger that she now disguised with Scooby-Doo Band-Aids, as if making light of the recent wound.

We spent that hazy month dawdling at the Club as if nothing had changed. Even as our lives turned stewy and uncertain, Mom clung to the luxury of simmering among the well-to-do. In platform sandals, she carried herself with elevated grace as though the pitfalls of divorce were a snag on a pair of silk stockings. My brother and I suffered collateral damages in sunburns and beestings. She glinted while we burned.

The other mothers posed by the water like Italian movie stars. They wore oversized sunglasses, floppy hats, and scarves that swished around their hips as they walked. When the blister of noon chased them out of their lounge chairs, a few huddled under the shade of the corrugated awning and re-oiled their tans, hoping their hard-earned glow would last through September. Others headed straight for the clubhouse and a long afternoon of diet colas and bridge. Mom faced the sky and sizzled a little longer.    

Fathers were only visible on weekends so my brother and I were spared their pitying, gooey glances during the week. They’d stop by the pool to check in on their families, tipping their hats and cigarettes on their way to devotional rounds of golf and poker. They never seemed to notice the children clinging to them like barnacles, or that their wives were changing color. 

After tanning, our mother defiantly swept back her curls and snapped a sequined cap on her head. None of the other moms ever got in the pool. They didn’t like to compromise their swimsuits or interrupt their smoking. Our mother’s rhinestone earrings skimmed the water like jeweled propellers as her pedicured feet motored around the shallow end. Sometimes, her green eyes would close in deep release, and she’d glide like an aquatic star in a musical sequence. Her easy surrender came like a break in the clouds. Like a sunlit day that wouldn’t relent. Other times, a darkness would ripple across her face, dragging her gaze to the deep end. 

After a cooling dip, she’d hoist herself to the hot ledge of the pool and soak her legs in the chemical-smelling water. Her thighs would cushion me as I slid from her lap into the water, streaking lines of coconut lotion across her skin. I’d float on her calf like a shipwrecked survivor clutching the last piece of driftwood. And I knew I could always find a reliable toehold in her gold name anklet. When she flexed her knee, I’d slip in deeper and cold would creep up to the top of my ears. If I climbed any higher, she’d smile naughtily and dip me under again. With every played out drowning came a certain rescue. My survival depended on her alone.

I felt carefree and weightless balancing on those legs—legs I would come to inherit—weighty and steadfast. So different from my father’s lean, fleeting limbs. One set was made to withstand. The other to succumb. 

The ladies watched us like amused paparazzi. I used my fingernails to scrape sketches of their gaping faces into the filmy pool tiles, and their floppy hats made them look like flying saucers. They stared as if waiting for our abduction—for us to be sucked out of the water and whisked away forever. It was the same look I’d seen on my father’s face the day Mom plucked us from our game of Marco Polo and marched us into his office. She placed a hand on his shoulder as if saying “Tag. You’re it,” then plunked a bottle of whiskey down on his desk and told him to choose. His hand trembled as his blind gaze searched beyond our hopeful, frightened, soaking wet faces. 

When it was time to leave the Club, Mom tucked her enviable silhouette into a spangled beach cover-up. There were casual goodbyes and promises of see you soon. She blew air kisses to all the ladies with a punchline on her pink, painted lips, and gleamed as she sauntered away. My brother and I trailed behind her like drenched shadows.

We never went back to the Club. Not even as guests. For the rest of the summer, Mom took to darkening the rooms and drawing the shades at home. She said it was a good way to keep out the August heat. She would sometimes frown at the divots in the carpet as if considering how to disguise or fill them. The vacuum never completely evened things out. She continued to dress for each day in flashy floral prints which kept us grounded and entertained and wrapped in festive feelings. It was never really the prepaid escape of July in the final leisure hours by the pool that made our mother shine. It was the dutiful burden of sparkling.

Listen to an audio recording of Gina Angelone reading “Shine.”