The Things We Wish Were True (9 page)

CAILEY

I didn’t want to go back to the pool ever again, but Zell said I had to. She said the Fourth of July was going to be fun and told me all about the stuff they do, which I thought sounded lame. But I wasn’t going to tell her that, seeing as how she was giving me a place to stay. She gave me a pep talk about conquering my fears, and how I couldn’t avoid water for the rest of my life. She said that the longer I waited, the harder it was going to be, and the more I was going to let the fear own me. She said that part of growing up is facing your fears and doing the things you didn’t want to do. Then she got a funny look on her face, like maybe her knee was bothering her. It bothered her a lot, but whenever I told her she should go to the doctor, she just shook her head.

“Are you OK?” I asked her.

“Oh, sure,” she said, and made her face look right again. “Now go get your bathing suit on.”

Before I went upstairs, I said, “Zell?”

And she said, “Hmm?” but she sounded like she was thinking about something else.

And I said, “You don’t make growing up sound like all that much fun.”

Then she laughed and said, “Well, honey, sometimes it’s not.” Then she shooed me upstairs.

As I got dressed, I thought about things we’d done on other July Fourths. We’d never really made a big deal out of it. Usually my mother had to work. Sometimes at night, she and whoever her boyfriend was at the time would take us to see fireworks, sitting on the hood of the warm car. Her boyfriends always said the same thing to her, as if they were the first ones to ever think of it. “Later we’ll make fireworks of our own.” And she always laughed like it was the first time she’d ever heard it.

Once we went to a family picnic back when my mother was still speaking to her family. We ate hot dogs and hamburgers that my mom’s dad cooked on the grill, and my mom’s stepmom, a woman she insisted was evil but seemed nice enough to me. She made apple pie for dessert. We ate big, warm slices with rivers of vanilla ice cream melting into the crust. The pie made me feel good inside: warm and full and happy. Then my mom said her stepmom probably made those pies from poisoned apples, and I spent the rest of the night thinking of Snow White eating the poisoned apple and sleeping for years. I was afraid to go to sleep that night. Instead, I lay in my bed and looked up at the ceiling, replaying the fireworks we’d seen, trying to recall the patterns of color they’d traced across the night sky. Cutter had been scared of the fireworks, hiding his eyes.

I tried not to think of Cutter, how he was missing the Fourth of July this year and how much he would’ve wanted to be there. No matter what Zell said, I didn’t want to go back to that pool, to see the spot under the water where Mr. Lance had found him, to watch other kids have fun and worry Cutter would never get a chance to have fun like that again, to watch the fireworks over the lake and know he wasn’t scared of them at all, because he couldn’t see them. And to know that it was all my fault.

LANCE

Lance hated the pool on the Fourth of July. People came out of the woodwork, jostling for space in the water, taking up all the available chairs, and generally causing mayhem in a place that was normally quiet and restful. Debra had dragged the family there year after year after they’d moved into the neighborhood. She’d marveled over how quaint it all was, delighting in the old-fashioned traditions—the pie-eating competition, the greased-watermelon contest, the coin and egg tosses, the prayer before the potluck dinner, everyone’s heads bowed in unison. “This is all just so southern,” she’d gushed happily.

He’d gone along with it, but he hadn’t been happy about it, and he’d let her know it. When she left, she’d called him “passive aggressive.” She’d silently stored up his transgressions throughout their marriage, then spewed them at him all at once, a human hydrant.

So it was ironic that this year of all years, he actually wanted to be there. Without Debra there to drag him, he went of his own accord, hustling the kids up there as soon as the parade was over in an effort to secure a good spot. He’d even saved a chair for Jencey, having promised to do so when they’d parted ways after the parade. Shy as a schoolboy, he’d asked her if she was planning to come up to the pool for the festivities. She’d shrugged nonchalantly and said, “Not much else to do.”

“Come on,” he’d said, and elbowed her. “It’ll be fun.” And when he did it, he thought of Debra doing and saying the very same thing on previous July Fourths. In that moment, a shock traveled through him, the shock of Debra being right. It wasn’t the first time it had happened since she’d left. There were many times since she’d gone that he’d been struck by the evidence that all those things she’d said just might’ve been true. If he knew where she was, he would say he was sorry.

But Debra had gone into hiding, and he’d given up trying to find her. Her sister had assured him that she was safe, and that was all he needed to know. Debra wanted to be gone, and she would stay that way until she didn’t want to be gone anymore. He understood this more with each passing day, and hated her less the more he understood. He even respected her just the tiniest bit for having the courage to go.

He sprayed the children with sunscreen as they wiggled and complained, then released them to play. He tried his best not to look over at the deep end of the pool where he’d found the still form of the boy under the water. From the looks of things, the pool management company had stepped up their lifeguard presence and done some serious training on vigilance since the near drowning. The lifeguards sat alert and attentive in their high chairs, surveying the crowds with whistles around their necks and flotation devices at the ready in their laps. Their postures were that of attack dogs barely restrained on leashes.
Good,
he thought. He tried to relax, trusting his services would not be needed again.

Every hour on the hour, a new contest took place, with James Doyle—a neighborhood fixture—officiating. Known for his devotion to his elderly mother and mentally delayed brother, he was particularly invested in the Fourth of July celebration. He used personal money to buy the fireworks for the neighborhood show and made sure that there were plenty of eggs for the egg toss, and snack cakes for the pie-eating contest. He kept everything on schedule and even purchased trophies for the winners of the various contests. Everyone seemed to appreciate his efforts to keep the tradition going, because the truth was, no one else would if he didn’t.

Lance caught James’s eye and gave him a friendly wave, as he always did. They were neighbors, but Lance had never made an effort to do much more than wave at him from a distance, across their respective yards. It wasn’t like they had anything in common. Sure, he felt sorry for the guy, who’d certainly gotten a raw deal in life. And he respected him because he seemed to make the best of things in spite of it. But he left it there, which was admittedly not the most neighborly way to be.

A volleyball game of middle-aged men formed in one of the pools, and he turned his attention to it, idly taking in the action more as a way to keep his attention off the empty chair beside him. He tried not to care about Jencey showing up, but more than once, he’d turned someone away who wanted it “if you’re not using it.” He felt the slightest bit selfish, taking up a perfectly good chair that others could use in the hopes that Jencey would show. But then he would think of seeing her that morning, and how he hadn’t been that glad to see someone in a long, long time.

“I’m sorry,” he said again and again. “I’m saving this one for someone.”

The first game ended, and the men all climbed out of the pool to swig beer and trade barbs, their guffaws echoing even over the noise and hubbub of the crowd, calling to him, or at least to part of him. He supposed he could join them, if he was so inclined. He had, after all, fallen into the category of middle-aged man, a fact that still surprised him.

He heard a female voice say, “Is this seat taken?” and turned his head in the direction of the voice, but it wasn’t Jencey. He frowned, explained yet again that he was saving the chair, then pulled the cooler from underneath the umbrella where he’d stowed it and added it to the towels and beach bag that were already marking the chaise as “taken,” in hopes it would make it more obvious. If she didn’t show soon, he’d have to surrender the chaise. And maybe that would be for the best. He was, after all, technically a married man. And judging from the rock she wore on her left ring finger, she was a married woman. He suspected they each had stories to tell, about missteps and miscommunication, about regret and resignation. He wanted to hear her story, and reasoned there could be no harm in that. They could be friends.

He scanned the perimeter of the pool until he accounted for each of his children. Alec was by himself, as usual. And Lilah was sitting beside Cailey eating grapes with her. Lilah had become fiercely loyal to the poor girl, and Lance hoped that spoke of his daughter’s character. They were sitting next to Zell, who waved at him so demonstratively her visor nearly came off her head. He gave her a polite wave in return and turned back to watch the game, but the men, while back in the water, were still horsing around, swigging more beer, and leering at the women—girls, really—who’d congregated nearby.

On the end closest to where he sat, a heavyset, balding old man he’d seen before shuffled to the opposite end of the pool and, in spite of the crowds, made a motion for the lap lane to be cleared. Lance leaned forward, anticipating the response of the volleyball players. They weren’t going to like the old man making them move their game over. Lance was drawn into the drama, such as it was. The rest of the men moved over good-naturedly, but one stood his ground, his barrel chest puffed up, a beer gripped tightly in his hand. He was wearing, ridiculously, a red, white, and blue bandana in his hair, a youthful look he wasn’t able to pull off.

One of the guys tried to pull him out of the lane, saying something to him that Lance couldn’t hear. The man shrugged his friend off and stayed put, his chin jutting out as he waited for the old man to swim the length of the pool and reach him. When the man got closer, bandana man began yelling at him, his face red and his language definitely not appropriate for a family gathering. One of his buddies attempted to stop him again, and his attempt was met with a forceful shove. “I just want to know why this asshole has to come up here today of all days.” He gestured with his arm at the crowd. “I mean, look at this place, man. He shouldn’t ask to take up a lane on the fucking Fourth of July.”

With bandana man distracted by the exchange, the old man saw his opportunity and veered around him in order to make it to the wall. Lance couldn’t imagine why it mattered so much that he make it all the way across the length of the pool. He suspected it was tangled up in his pride, which was understandable. But the old man was too large to just slip by, and bandana man, alerted by the churning water, turned back and jumped into his path, colliding with him. What happened next brought Lance to his feet, and stilled the entire pool as all attention turned toward the drama in the shallow end.

The old man stood up and shoved the man, spitting water and hollering at the same time. Within seconds, James Doyle had turned from tossing coins into the water and was there, too, along with the rest of the volleyball players, jumping between the two before their punches could connect and make the situation worse. Lance, too, had automatically moved closer to the action, his blood pumping and his synapses firing as he watched the fight being contained. The two parties, now separated, pled their respective cases to anyone who would listen.

He could hear the old man grumbling to James about his right to swim in the lane reserved for that purpose no matter what day it was. James, whose glasses had fallen off in the melee, squinted at him and nodded his understanding as he fumbled to place the glasses back on his nose. James put his arm around the old man and began guiding him away. Lance worried about the old man, whose wheezing could be heard from a distance. Bandana man was being led out of the pool, amid loud protests. Some idiot handed him another beer, and he sucked it down like a big, thirsty baby.

“You didn’t tell me the Fourth of July was so exciting.” Lance heard the voice behind him and wondered how he could’ve ever mistaken it. He turned to find Jencey there, wide-eyed as she processed the scene. “I mean, I knew there were contests, but actual fights? That’s something to see!” She gave him a little smile, and he laughed.

“Guess this isn’t standard where you’re from?” he asked. He hoped the question would prompt her to tell him more about where she’d come from.

“I told you,” she said, shutting down his hopes, “I’m from here. Born and raised in this very neighborhood.” She shifted a heavy-looking beach bag on her shoulder. “So did you manage to save me a seat?” She looked around the pool, taking in the wall-to-wall people.

“As a matter of fact, I did,” he said, and pointed toward the chairs.

She gave a pleasantly surprised look. “Lead the way,” she said.

CAILEY

Lilah led me over to the tables they set up for the pie-eating contest. “I almost won this last year,” she said, then pointed at her flat stomach. “I can eat a lot more than you might think.”

I thought of Cutter shoveling in food at our kitchen table, the way my mom always teased him about having a hollow leg. Now a machine was feeding him through his veins. I wanted to tell Lilah that she should be glad that Cutter wasn’t there or she wouldn’t have a chance. But my throat closed up and I couldn’t say it.

“I bet you’ll win today,” I said instead. We were all friends, ever since the accident. That part was nice. Lilah gave me a thumbs-up as if she were reading my thoughts, then I realized she was referring to the contest and not Cutter. She turned to Pilar on her other side, who’d arrived minutes earlier and was still out of sorts that they’d been so late.

“My mom got some stupid call from her stupid lawyer. I mean, it’s the freaking Fourth of July. Why is he even working?” Pilar asked, and shook her head in answer to her own question. Lilah and I nodded our understanding, even though we had no idea what Pilar was talking about. But we did feel bad that she’d missed out on both the coin toss and the egg toss. Well, Lilah felt bad. I was glad I’d had a partner for the egg toss, though Lilah and I hadn’t even come close to winning that.

I heard my name being called and looked over to see Zell with her camera. Why she wanted to take a picture of me, who wasn’t even a relative, was beyond me. But Zell did things I didn’t understand a lot. She was a nice old lady, and I shuddered to think what would’ve happened to me if she hadn’t given me a place to stay since the accident. I’d be spending a lot of time all alone, that’s what.

As we’d driven to the pool that morning, Zell had told me that today was Independence Day and that meant we should think about being free, free from anything that makes us feel bad. Then she was quiet for the rest of the ride, and I guessed we were both thinking of the things we wanted to be free of.

Pilar and Lilah and I squished up together with our arms around each other and big smiles on our faces so Zell could snap the picture with her phone. “Will you send that to my mom?” Pilar hollered at her. Zell waved like she would, but I doubted that 1) she even heard her, and 2) she knew how to send a photo to Pilar’s mom. I still couldn’t imagine why she wanted a photo of me, someone who probably wouldn’t even live here this time next year. Next year I would be almost a teenager. I tried to picture a teenage me, but I couldn’t.

The man in charge of the contests came to stand in front of me. “You ready?” he asked, and gave me a smile.

I made myself smile back and nodded.

He raised his eyebrows. “You sure? You don’t look ready. You look like you’re a million miles away.”

“I was just thinking,” I said.

“About your brother?” he asked. I wasn’t shocked that he knew. Most people in the neighborhood had heard about Cutter, the news spreading like spilled milk across a table. And the man in charge of the contests lived right across the street from Zell, to boot. I saw him sometimes when he mowed his grass, stopping to mop sweat off his forehead with a towel he kept tucked in the waistband of his shorts. Sometimes his younger brother got out of the house and he had to chase him to get him back.

“Sort of,” I answered. “He would probably win this contest, if he was here.” I had to force the words out around the lump in my throat.

“I’m sorry, Cailey,” he said, looking into my eyes in a way most people around here avoided doing. “That your brother’s not here.” He gave a sad smile. “So whaddayasay we make sure you win this contest for him?” He made his voice sound weird, trying to be funny.

I smiled back and shook my head. “I never win anything.”

He cocked his head. “Well, I don’t know about that. You look like a winner to me.” He winked and turned to address the horde of kids who’d assembled around the table, laughing and pushing and eyeing the snack cakes piled on the table. Behind us, all the parents gathered to watch and take pictures and cheer their kids on. I knew better than to look for my mom. She was sitting in a hospital room, and though I wished she could be here, I understood she was where she needed to be.

The lump in my throat grew, and I swallowed a few times, trying to make it go away. I caught the man’s eye, and he nodded. He believed I could win this contest, and that counted more than he knew. I looked down at the lone snack cake sitting on my plate and swallowed a few more times, willing the lump to go down enough for me to swallow around it. There was no reason I couldn’t win this. I would do it for Cutter. Maybe if I won he’d open his eyes. Maybe I could still somehow make everything OK.

When the whistle blew, I dove into that cake, inhaling it without even really chewing. I could feel the barely chewed cake collecting in my esophagus (thank you, fourth-grade health class) as I inhaled snack cake after snack cake. The spongy, thick mass seemed to swell and it hurt, but I welcomed the pain. Deserved it. I thought of Cutter’s damaged lungs. I kept eating and swallowing, adding to the mass until it felt like I would choke to death.

The world fell away, and it was just me, the plate in front of me, and the cakes as they came and went. I didn’t think of Pilar and Lilah, also trying to win the contest. I didn’t think of Zell, snapping pictures of a kid who wasn’t hers. I didn’t think of my mother, who wouldn’t be there to see if I won. I just thought of Cutter, of him getting better, and that somehow I was making that possible in this moment, eating snack cakes on the Fourth of July at the same pool where he nearly died.

I heard a whistle blow and felt someone tug my arm into the air. The man looked down at me, my arm aloft as I struggled to swallow what was in my mouth. “Water,” I managed to gasp, and he handed me a water bottle as if he’d known I was going to ask.

“You won,” he said. “I told you that you would.” I didn’t answer him. I was too busy gulping the water, thinking as I did how weird it was that something that nearly killed my brother could also be the thing that was saving me.