Inflatable Green Pools, Scotch, and the Summer of 1985

Georgia told me that the humid air in our small Arkansas cabin made her have nightmares for that entire summer. She said the emerald green leaves that cushioned the tree branches outside were trapping the heat in, suffocating her. She acted like I didn’t know that what she really hated the most was the fact that the air conditioner had broken a couple of months back and our dad had never bothered to get it fixed. We’d wake up every morning with droplets of sweat glistening on our skinny backs, doing its best to dry while it was confined to our tight, spaghetti-strapped shirts. 

  It was the summer of 1985 when a tornado came through Jasper, causing a large oak to fall down right on the roof of our house, over the bedroom Georgia and I shared. My dad, immersed in beer and Scotch most days, had not gotten around to calling the remodeling company. So we’d been shuttled to the guest house, whose faulty air conditioning had finally given out mid-May.

“Can’t we go see if Ricky will let us use the old fan in his shop? Or ask mom to send us one?” Georgia sat up slowly on her side of the room and fanned herself with a flip-flop.

“What’s the point?” I groaned, stretching on my bare mattress that was stained with mildew. “It’ll just blow hot air around.”

Ricky was a mechanic and both our dad’s friend and employer. His shop was only about a mile down the road, and we often passed by when riding our bikes. When we did, he had lime popsicles for us. We would sit down on the rusty stools and quickly eat them before they melted, our dehydrated bodies soaking up every splash of flavored sugar water possible. Our faces were sticky, and our mouths were outlined in green when we took off for our next stop, which varied on any given day.

Most days, we tossed our bikes to the side and wandered through thickets of trees, their luscious green leaves like the arms of concerned mothers shielding us from the cancerous Southern sun. We scavenged and found forbidden mushrooms, berries, and feathers. Georgia always pretended to eat one of the berries, and I would slap it away from her. Those times were simple. But sometimes simple was what covered up complicated. 

On Fridays, we pedaled home quickly and hid from our dad in our little guest house. Every day was a beer day, but Friday was a beer and Scotch day. And we knew better than to be anywhere but the guest house on Scotch days. If he knocked on our door, we pretended to be asleep. We knew better than to be awake on Scotch days.

Our mom was a travel nurse, currently stationed in Lexington, Kentucky. She said it was what she had to do to support our family since my dad couldn’t work that much. She stayed on people’s couches while she was there, she told us, so there was no room for us to come with her. Besides, she wanted us to keep going to school in the same place. We didn’t have that many clinics within walking distance for her to work at, and the pay was low at the ones that were here. And anyway, the only car we had these days was our dad’s old truck, which he wouldn’t let any of us drive. 

The fun part was that she sent large packages to us every two weeks that were full of candy and odd gas station trinkets and always included a large wad of cash. She always included a note reminding us to get some Gatorades for our dad to help with his dehydration. The cash was helpful because she knew how our dad forgot to stock the pantry. He was never that hungry these days. We tried to steal it before our dad could use it for beer. I made it into a game so that Georgia wouldn’t think too much about it. 

“Well?” urged Georgia, bringing my mind back to the present. “Should we go ask Ricky?

“No,” I said, staring at a group of ants trying to carry a crumb across the window pane next to my bed. 

“Besides,” I added, “Dad gets dehydrated and we need to get him his Gatorades today. We don’t have time to ask Ricky about fans.”

Georgia scrunched her forehead. “Can’t Dad just go get a bottle from the store? And hey – let’s go to the store, get our fan, and get those old Gatorades while we’re there. Easy.”

“How in the world are we going to get there?” Although I was 12 and had driven an ATV before, I couldn’t take that on the main road. And the only car in the driveway was our dad’s dingy old truck, which was stick-shift and completely off-limits. Georgia was no help. At 7 years old, she had barely gotten used to a bike without training wheels. 

Georgia had a desperate look on her face. “We could just ride our bikes.”

“To the store that’s 6 miles away?” I looked at her with disdain. We never rode that far on our bikes.

It was hard, though, to say no to her round, freckled face and curly light brown hair, especially when her face made it look like my answer had stolen all of the life out of her that she had left. I gave in, although I knew it would only disappoint her in the end. 

The handlebars of our bikes were rustier than the nails we almost stepped on when we dragged them out of our father’s work shed. His car sat in there, too, full of dust and cobwebs. I wondered if it would even start if we stuck the keys in. Ricky had been picking him up for the past few months. If our dad did try to get behind the wheel, we pulled on his sleeves in attempts to get him to change his mind. There was never really a moment when he wasn’t under the influence. 

The roads were made up of grey and black patches, like flattened out rock that stretched on for crooked miles. Our wheels hooked in deep holes at times and nearly sent us flying off of the seats. We pedaled faster when we passed Bobby’s German Shepherd mix, who had one white eye and the meanest growl you’ve ever heard. Green grass surrounded us, almost glowing under the relentless July sun. Flowers that were most certainly considered weeds stood proudly and begged to be seen. We slowed down when we approached the brown spotted cows we loved. A barbed-wire fence separated us from those docile creatures. 

“Remember when mom used to take us to see these?” I said softly. 

Georgia was leaning half of her body over the spiky fence. “We used to name them.”

I laughed, the sweat trickling down my temples seeming worthwhile with this sudden flood of nostalgia.

We kept riding through the trees, hitting bumps every now and then, and dodging lizards, frogs, and beetles beneath us. Emerald and olive green leaves padded our biking trail and stifled the sound of rubber tires on old, raggedy pavement. When the store finally came into view, Georgia was ecstatic. She pedaled faster, her little legs like blurred, crooked lines. 

Harlow’s was a mix between a convenience store and a dollar store, consisting mostly of junk food, toiletries, and small, dingy household items. The floor was always grimy with the dirt that came off of boots from working men and smelled faintly of cow manure. We parked our bikes on the side of the store, and I reminded Georgia to put her kickstand down. She rolled her eyes at me and ran to the entrance, eager to get ahead of me and do her “own” shopping.

I perused the aisles, taking a look at the few other customers when they passed by. I saw a teenage girl with a white tank top that was almost identical to my own. Except she had boobs and looked like a woman, and I could pass for a boy any day of the week. I was twelve and had expected some changes by now. When would I grow into my own skin? An older lady asked me where my parents were, and I walked off quickly, remembering that I needed to find Georgia. 

 Georgia was eyeing a box that advertised a green inflatable pool and a dad with two chubby blonde kids. Those kids looked like they had never had a better day in their entire lives. I gave her a look that said, we don’t need that, but her eyes were just so sad. I always felt like my duty as her older sister was to protect her from the awful truths that hovered above us like thick grey smoke. 

Georgia grinned at me and ran for the check out area. I followed behind but lagged. Watching her curls bounce as she struggled to grasp the box, a weight fell over me. I couldn’t explain it.

“How much is this pool, sir?” Georgia stood on her tip-toes to see over the counter. 

The man at the register had a bright red beard and donned thick overalls with a grimy white shirt underneath. He grunted.

“Darlin,’ it can’t be more than $5,” he finally said and then looked back down at his gun catalogue. 

  I counted out the bills in my hand and realized that we would have just enough to cover the pool. I wanted to say no to her. I wanted to tell her that we needed the Gatorades and not the stupid green pool that I was sure would get disgusting, full of mildew and bugs, in a matter of weeks. But I didn’t have it in me to say no to her, not when her happiness was in my hands. 

We came home to find our dad collapsed underneath the large oak tree where our tire swing used to be before the tornado ripped it off. I put the stupid pool box down next to our bikes. Georgia poked him with a long stick. After a few minutes of attempting to rouse him without success, we called our neighbor, Dr. Moss, a retired family physician who had taken care of our dad countless times before. This wasn’t the first time we had found him down like this, but typically he woke up with the help of Dr. Moss. Dr. Moss answered on the second ring and said he’d be right over.

Dr. Moss kept rubbing him really hard in the center of his chest, but Dad only groaned intermittently. I was scared, but Georgia was more scared. So I had to be brave. 

“What’s wrong with him?” I asked, swallowing the lumps in my throat like hard rocks. 

“It could be heat stroke,” said Dr. Moss. “It would be best to get him to the hospital.”

The nearest hospital was over 45 minutes away. Dad had many episodes like this, but he’d never had to go to the hospital. Georgia and I certainly couldn’t get him there. And if he somehow got there, there was no way we would be able to visit him. Besides, was it really heat stroke? Or could it be something that Dr. Moss wanted to shield us from?

“Georgia, Virginia.” Dr. Moss spoke to us softly after a little while. “I’m going to drive him to the county hospital. Do you all have someone to stay with?”

We didn’t. But I knew better than to ask for favors. 

“Yes,” I lied. 

“No –” Georgia started.

Dr. Moss looked at me, the older child, for clarification. I nodded at him, granting permission for him to leave us behind. Nothing good was going to come from us following them to the hospital. Georgia didn’t need to see him covered in wires and attached to machines. 

Dr. Moss lifted my dad, who had become quite thin, into the passenger seat of his car, waved goodbye to us, and drove off, leaving us standing glumly in our yard.

We knew we had to go to Kentucky to be with our mom. We knew it, but we didn't know how we would get there. Besides, she said there wasn’t any room. Would we get her in trouble? 

“We could bike,” Georgia said, hopefully. “Really, it wouldn't be that bad. And we wouldn't need money for gas.”

“Or we could try to find someone to drive us,” I suggested, rolling my eyes. “You’re crazy if you think I’m going to bike from Mississippi to Kentucky.”

“Well, maybe we can take the train,” suggested Georgia. “We can buy ourselves tickets.”

We counted out the remaining cash we had after the pool purchase and realized that we had approximately $1 to our name. That wasn’t going to be enough to get to Lexington. We didn’t even know how to locate it on a map, we certainly couldn’t fly on a plane, we didn’t have a car, and we didn’t know where a train station was. Georgia looked like she was about to cry, but she held it in. 

We sat in the tall grass for a little bit, ignoring the stings and pinches we got every so often from whatever was lurking beneath us. I looked at our legs, stretched out in front of us, covered in grass stains, a few fading bruises, and little pink bites. We sat in silence for a little while, listening to the birds sing, the hornets buzz, and the neighbor dogs howl. 

“The pool,” said Georgia, breaking our silence. Her face lit up, and she grabbed my arm.

“Yeah, we’ll inflate the pool.” 

I put on a brave face for her, grabbed the box, and removed the deflated, plastic blob inside. I started blowing hot air into it to inflate that lousy, lime-green, 1-foot-deep wading pool for her to sit in. My lungs had nearly given out on me by the time I was done. I tossed it on the ground, Georgia eagerly hopped in, and I grabbed the hose, filling it up to the brim.

Reluctantly, I joined her, my legs hanging over the edge. The water didn’t even reach my waist. There we sat, in our silly inflatable pool, Georgia in her underwear and me still dressed fully in my clothes.

Georgia’s laughter made it all disappear for a little while. She stood up and danced around, kicking and splashing water in the air. She picked up a frog and let it dip its toes in, giggling hysterically. The sun was beginning to set behind the thick trees, and the sky looked like cotton candy. I knew better than to interrupt a fleeting moment like this. I was making a memory for her, a good one for her to store away like a firefly that she could uncover in the darkness when she needed it most.