When I Was Nine

When I Was Nine

“Are you watching?” I bounced up and down weightlessly in the cold water.

“Watch me!” I shouted again for good measure before diving under to do a handstand. My fingertips touched the rough bottom as I thrust my legs up into the air. I held the position for as long as my lungs would allow before righting myself, gasping for air. Blinking and rubbing my eyes, I looked for my mother.

“Did you see me? Did you?” I called out among the ruckus of screaming children.

My mother, relaxing on the lounge chair, wiggled her fingers and smiled at me. She saw me. My heart swelled.

I dunked myself back under the water and with open eyes I swam like a fish through the sea of legs. I could hardly contain my excitement knowing it was summer solstice, the longest day of the season. The heat rose to record-breaking highs that day, and the sizzling pavements and stifling backyards chased half the neighborhood kids to the public pool.

I glanced back at my mother relaxing on the lounge to make sure she was still watching me. Did I know she was beautiful? She was my mom. She applied sunscreen to my thin arms and legs, wiping away the gritty sand mixed into the lotion from our days at the beach. She packed my bathing cap and helped me tuck my hair beneath that impossibly tight rubber that pulled my scalp when taking it off. She brought baggies of grapes and piles of magazines. No, I did not know she was beautiful.

What did she think about during the summer of 1975? Did she have secret desires and wishes or was she content in her role as a stay-at-home mother? She lived the American Dream complete with a house in the burbs, two kids and a car in the driveway. The cat that meandered through the yard to investigate his bowl of treats completed the perfect picture.

Nine years old was the sweet spot. I was old enough for a taste of independence and newly formed opinions and young enough to be shielded from life’s harsh realities.

I thought that all fathers worked nights and traveled for their jobs. My father was gone so many days and nights that I was surprised when he returned home. That wasn’t the norm? I didn’t know anything else at nine. Was my mother lonely raising her children without him? Was she resentful or relieved in the empty house? She never said, and I never thought to ask.

Breathless, I pulled myself out of the pool with pruned fingers and toes to return to the row of yellow and blue striped lounge chairs. My mother wrapped me in a towel and rubbed my arms and legs. I lay in the sun with chattering teeth as my mother took her turn, leaving behind her floppy pink hat and Jackie O sunglasses. I watched her use the steps to slowly enter the icy water, submerge herself, and then do the breast stroke across the pool.

At noon we ate picnic lunches on the checkerboard tables beyond the clock tower. We dined on sandwiches wrapped in aluminum foil and sipped Hi-C orange out of warm cans. I never noticed her packing the bags nor carrying them to the car. They just always appeared on the cool concrete table where we sat in our terry cloth cover-ups and sandals.

Sometimes a friend came along for the day, and an extra sandwich and Hi-C orange magically came out of the bag as we sat together giggling. Did my mother feel left out of our childish jokes or was she happy to watch the interactions? Perhaps she was comfortable thinking her own thoughts.

Moving from sun to shade after lunch, we sat with full bellies and digested our meal, each with our nose in a book. Amidst the sound of children splashing and parents yelling their five minute warnings, we escaped quietly into our stories. Side by side we sat as the afternoon slipped by and the temperature dropped a few blessed degrees.

Then, as the crowd thinned out and the lifeguards closed a section of the pool, I indulged in the last dip of the day. Floating on my back, I stared up at the cloudless blue sky. Life was good on the longest day of the summer when I was nine.

My mother surprised me by coming down the steps to wade back into the water. I climbed onto her back like a baby monkey, and she swam into the deep end. The plastic flowers on her bathing cap were so close I was able to smell the rubbery material. Wrapping my arms around her softness, we bobbed in the water. I held on loosely, knowing I was safe.

The moment was perfection. Would it have lasted longer if not for the shrill whistle of the lifeguards? They waved their arms excitedly, ushering us out of the water, anxious to clean up and go home. We were herded away from the endless rows of yellow and blue striped chairs while searching for orange keys tagged with locker numbers.

“Come, let’s get changed,” my mother said, pulling the curtain closed around us in the humid dressing room.

Standing in a puddle, I slipped my T-shirt and shorts over my still damp bathing suit. I saw past my mother, catching a glimpse through the half open curtain as a young woman removed her bathing suit and towel dried her body. I stared, wondering if I would look like that one day. But that was a long way off, I decided, because I was only nine years old.

***

“Come, let’s get changed. Today is going to be a scorcher. It’s the summer solstice, the longest day of the year,” I said while wiping away my flowing tears. How was it possible that fifty years had passed since that perfect summer day? It felt more like a dream than a memory.

I gently slipped the nightgown up over my mother’s head. She looked at me with uncertainty as recognition flittered away. What did she think as I gently washed her? I longed to know, and wished I had asked her all my questions along the way. She lay on the bed as the ceiling fan gently spun above her. She closed her eyes allowing me to pat her dry. At eighty-eight, my mother was, like life itself, frail but beautiful.