I forced a smile at the mom. “Don’t worry about it, I’m on the team emails.”
Charlie tugged my arm. “Can we get one, Em? With my name on the front and the big shark on the back?”
The mom smiled at him. “Isn’t your last name ‘Finn’? You’re perfect for the Shark group.” She glanced at me and shrugged. “I do the team sign-up, so I know all the kids’ names. Not a stalker!”
“Mom!” the girl I now knew as Macdara called as she walked toward us, wringing out her hair. “I can’t find my flip flops!”
It was the second time that afternoon that I was glad for an interruption. It seemed like I spent a lot of time telling Charlie he couldn’t have the stuff the other kids on the team took for granted. Swim parka? No. A real swim backpack, instead of an old duffel bag? No, sorry. How about all the equipment that he needed to practice with his more advanced group—swim fins, a snorkel, paddles, maybe a tempo trainer? Coach Sean had given us a used set that a kid had left in the locker room after Charlie had kept showing up without the proper gear, and I had disinfected each piece like a madwoman. Could he get a tech suit just for racing, made of water-repellant material that meant each one cost more than I wanted to mention, and that he would only be able to wear at a few meets before the dumb thing stretched out?
No freaking way.
“Mackie, you ran in barefoot. Your flip flops are in the car.” The mom smiled indulgently at me. “Every practice it’s something!”
I smiled too. “I know how that is.”
“Emmy, this is my friend, Macdara,” Charlie said. “And my other friend…I can’t really say your name.”
The girl next to Macdara said, “It’s Ysabel. With a Y.”
Of course.
“And I’m Annie,” the mom told me. “Annie Whitaker.”
“Nice to meet you,” I told her, shaking her hand. “Emily Brennan.”
“Can I pick you up?” Macdara asked Charlie. It had been a million years since he let anyone pick him up.
“Sure,” he shrugged. “I’m pretty tired. Emmy, is there a snack?”
Macdara swung him into her arms with an oof and she and Ysabel with a Y headed through the double doors toward the parking lot.
“Ready to walk out?” Annie asked me. I waved bye to Tara, who made a funny face back at me, then I swung Charlie’s duffel onto my shoulder.
We walked into the spacious lobby, which now seemed chilly after the damp heat of the pool room. Annie wrinkled her nose. “You would think the smell of the pool would stop getting to me after a while, but all those chemicals just have to be bad. Once I tried to do my ujjayi breath in there, and I almost choked!”
I nodded as if I knew what ujjayi breath was. “Well, chlorine gas was used as a chemical weapon in World War One, along with phosgene and mustard gas. You know, like the Wilfred Owen poem…” I trailed off as she stared at me. I sounded like such a show-off. “Anyway, it would be great if that room was more ventilated.Not that there’s chlorine gas here, but it does smell.” Then I realized to whom I was speaking. “Not that I’m trying to get you to fix things, or anything like that. I didn’t mean it that way.”
She laughed and touched my arm. “I know, it’s ok! What poem are you talking about?”
I said a few lines that I remembered from “Dulce Et Decorum Est” as we opened the heavy glass doors to the parking lot. Macdara was lowering Charlie to the sidewalk as Ysabel with a Y said goodbye and skipped off toward her ride.
“Grandpa!” Macdara yelled, and made a break for a shiny black Tahoe that was maneuvering into a disabled parking space.
Charlie shook his head at me. “She shouldn’t run in the parking lot.” I patted his wet hair. He looked like a little otter.
The driver’s door opened first, and a tall man with dark brown hair that was a little longish got out, pushing aviator sunglasses up on his head. I drew in a breath. I knew him.
“Luke!” Annie called out, and started for the car, as Macdara chimed, “Uncle Luke!”
He waved and walked to the passenger side as Macdara collided with him in a wet swimsuit hug. “Hi, Mackie. Let me help your grandpa out.” And there was George Whitaker, a lot greyer and more bent than I remembered from when he spoke at my high school graduation. The years of footballlooked like they had taken a toll—he leaned heavily on a cane and on his son, Luke, as they came up the slight ramp to meet us on the sidewalk.
Luke Whitaker was standing right in front of me. Mother of pearl.
He bent and kissed his sister Annie’s cheek. “Hi, there. Been swimming?”
“Only Mackie, I won’t get in that public pool!” She grimaced at me. “I’m a fresh-water girl. I don’t even like the ocean!”
I nodded. “It does seem funny, sometimes, bringing them to an indoor pool rather than throwing them in the lake.”
