One small thing about the shark metaphor always bothered me. Thanks to a steady diet of Marlo’s nature TikToks, I’ve learned that sharks don’t care much for their young. The mothers give birth and then immediately leave, a tough-love approach that seems to have worked out in the long run, but doesn’t quite jibe with my personal taste.
Maybe a shark isn’t my apex predator aesthetic after all.
Maybe I’m a bear—a furious, monstrous mother ready to tear out someone’s throat with my claws.
I slam through the gift shop door, letting loose a furious, unbridled roar that fills the night.
* * *
Tires screech as I swerve into my driveway and come to an abrupt stop. I throw the Porsche into park and leap from my seat, sprinting up the walk and bursting through the front door.
“Marlo! Noah!” I scream. “We gotta go!”
I don’t hesitate, stomping through the entryway and into the wide-open living area. To my right is the kitchen and to my left is the pool, with its gracefully undulating, turquoise glow. This singular source of light illuminates the darkness, and on a typical night I’d probably find the scene incredibly peaceful. Right now, however, it feels eldritch and otherworldly.
I glance at a clock in the kitchen as I pass, its digital screen reading a little before four am The night is almost over.
My office is down the hallway and to the right, a room I appreciate having but rarely use in any practical sense. I shoot most of myfit checkvideos in the bedroom. Instead, this part of the house has become a general storage area for Marlo’s toys, much to my frustration, and it just so happens to be the place where we keep our extra swimming supplies.
I head inside and throw open the closet, yanking out a small box of Marlo’s nose plugs, the plastic clips she places over her bridge when swimming. I think back to a few days ago when I complained about these things, sickened by my words.
Now, these clips might just save my daughter’s life.
“Let’s go!” I call over my shoulder, stuffing a handful of clips into my pocket.
I turn around to find Noah standing in the office doorway, an aluminum baseball bat raised high and ready to strike.
“Stop right there!” he shouts.
“Fuck you, we gotta go,” I snap, refusing to slow down as I march toward him.
“Stop right fucking there!” Noah shrieks again, preparing to swing.
His cry is so intense, so emotionally raw that it finally halts me in my tracks. I raise my hands in a gesture of good faith, trying to calm him down. “Whoa, whoa. What the hell are you doing?”
“Who are you?” Noah snarls.
I can feel my body reject this question, the faintest scoffescaping my lungs. I scrunch my face up a bit, ignoring the sting as my fresh wounds stretch and adjust against each other.
“It’s me, Poppy.”
Noah stares daggers into me, a complete dismissal of my claim that holds steady for five long seconds until, suddenly, I catch his head cock the slightest bit. His weapon dips and his brows lift, utter shock rippling across his face.
“Oh my God,” Noah gasps. “Who did this to you?”
“Would you believe me if I told you I did it to myself?”
Noah seems perplexed by this answer.
“And what if I told you Eddie Michaels started it?” I continue.
“Poppy, what the hell are you talking about?”
Before I can respond, I hear another voice pipe up from behind Noah, a familiar tone that melts my heart just as quickly as it floods me with dread. “Mom?”
My first instinct is an unexpected one. Despite fighting all evening to reunite with my daughter, I find myself immediately turning away from her. I look down and to the side, struggling to somehow blend in with the shadows around me.
“Everything’s okay, sweetie,” I assure her. “We just need to get out of here. I’ll explain more once we’re on the road.”
