Marlo shakes her head. “I’m a fish. Did you know that fish are older than mammals?”
“Oh!” I reply. “Okay. I didn’t know that.”
“Um, did you know that fish communicate through smells in the water?” she continues. “It’s called para-moans.”
“Pheromones?”
Marlo nods. “They tell each other what to do.”
“Influencers, like your mom.” I laugh. “But sharks are the biggest, coolest, most dangerous fish in the whole ocean. That’s like … the best fish. You don’t wanna be the ultimate killer fish?”
Marlo seems taken aback by this. She’s silent for a moment, standing awkwardly at the water’s edge. “Why would I want to be the ultimate killer fish?” she finally asks.
I decide not to press it. Marlo doesn’t understand—at least not yet—and that’s probably a good thing. By the time I was her age, all these lessons were already carved deep into my bones, and once that happens it’s impossible to ever smooth them out.
“Alright, I’m ready,” I finally announce. “Show me.”
Marlo lowers her goggles over her eyes, strapping them in place with the elastic band. She double-checks her nose plug, then steps back from the pool a bit. Her eyes are focused, first on the water, then on the pool’s cement lip.
“Watch,” she says.
“I’m watching,” I remind her.
With this final assurance, Marlo takes two runningsteps toward the pool, her bare feet slapping the ground and then launching her through the air. She twists her body to the right, rotating ever so slightly before splashdown.
She’s going for a three-sixty, that much I know, but her body doesn’t quite get there.
Marlo is already a performer, already hungry for the spotlight wherever she can find it. While this particular craving has a whole slew of bittersweet implications, it’s also clear where she got it. She really is her mother’s daughter, and despite any other feelings I may have, this particular truth fills me with unfettered joy.
Everything I’ve done to give us this life—to giveherthis life—has been worth it.
Marlo resurfaces, furiously paddling her way back to the edge. When she reaches the side of the pool she tears off her goggles, glancing over at me.
“You wanna try that again?” I ask.
“Why?” Marlo seems confused.
“You didn’t make it all the way around,” I tell her.
Three loud raps on the front door draw my attention.
“I’ll be right back,” I say. “You should dry off and get ready.”
I leave and head through the dining room, arriving at the entryway and opening the front door to reveal my neighbor, Alison. She’s slightly younger than me, sporting chin-length blond hair and a face that seems constantly overwhelmed with bubbly, wide-eyed excitement.
Alison’s six-year-old son, Bowie, is beside her, the shy boy huddled against her leg.
“Hey! I think—” Alison starts, then halts abruptly as her brow furrows. “Are you okay?”
It suddenly dawns on me that, despite my best efforts to clean up, the tears have done serious damage to my mascara.
“Areyouokay?” I snap.
“Oh,” Alison fumbles. “I didn’t mean to—I just—I’m sorry.”
I force my face into a brilliant, camera-ready smile. “I’m just messing with you.”
Alison’s expression relaxes a bit, but not entirely. “Bowie has something he wants to ask,” she explains, then pushes her son forward.
