Clickbait #3
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 running steps 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 give her this 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.
“Are you okay?” 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.
The little boy rocks on his feet a bit, looking down but somehow mustering up enough volume for me to hear his request. “Um, could Marlo come over and play?”
“Aww, that’s very nice of you to ask,” I say.
“I just opened a bottle of wine,” Alison adds, then switches to a singsong tone. “Just in case Mom wants to join.”
This isn’t the first time Alison has asked me to hang, and while I’m not entirely sure if her motivation is an olive branch of friendship or an awkward stab at a date, I’m not interested in finding out.
Since arriving in Palm Springs, Alison has already carved out a healthy business for herself as a private investigator, following people around and digging through their trash.
Good for her, but with secrets like mine, Alison is the last person I need to be friends with. She’s already a great backup babysitter during the daylight hours when Noah’s not around, and she follows me on Instafeed. That’s enough.
“Today’s not great,” I say with an exaggerated frown. “We’re about to hit the gym for an hour.”
Alison lets out a cackle of laughter, but this good-natured eruption slowly crumbles as I hold her gaze and decline to join in.
“This time I’m not messing with you,” I add flatly.
Alison settles. “Whoa,” she says, nodding awkwardly. “Okay then.”
“Gotta start the healthy habits early.”
“Sure. Of course,” Alison replies, struggling to conjure up a look of understanding but not quite making it.
She can judge, but it changes nothing.
“Maybe next time,” I offer with a tight-lipped smile.
Alison nods, playfully ruffling Bowie’s mop of brown hair as the two of them turn and make their way down the front walk.
When they reach the curb, Alison glances back just once, as if tempted to yell out some final thought, but her lips remain sealed and eventually the pair continue across the street.
I stand on the front stoop and watch them go, then breathe deep. Citrus and lawn clippings flood my nostrils, the latter a glorious sign that our neighborhood is worthy of Marlo’s blooming childhood. Grass is a luxury in Palm Springs.
Objectively speaking, it’s a beautiful day, yet a dark cloud still hovers above me: Eddie Michaels is dead.
If the greatest artist who ever lived can shuffle off this mortal coil, then what other tragedies are possible? Could this life I’ve built for Marlo disappear just as quickly, a careening sports car tearing down the road and launching through the wall of our living room?
Eddie Michaels should be immortal, but apparently he’s not.
I stride down the front walk, waving to another neighbor as he cruises by on his bicycle, then pop open my mailbox and extract a stack of envelopes.
I’m not surprised by the fresh heap of credit card bills that have long since become routine, but I’m still not immune to the visceral feeling of holding them in my hands or the way the ink looks with all those numbers stacked next to one another.
I open one and the minimum payment makes me wince. The interest makes me wince again.
“Business expenses,” I quietly mutter in a half-hearted attempt to justify the bright pink statue of David in my living room.
I gather the envelopes and head back up the walk, pushing through my front door to find Marlo waiting for me, her hair wet and her body wrapped in a giant beach towel.
“Who was that?” she asks.
“Nobody. Get changed,” I instruct. “You’ve got that birthday party with the cool girl from dance class later, so adventure time starts early.”
Marlo deflates slightly, then nods and heads down the hall to her room. Her bare feet slap gently against the hardwood floors. Never before has a child been so unenthused by the words adventure time, but I get it. I’m not always thrilled for an hour of cardio in the home gym, either.
I walk over to the kitchen island and pull out what has gradually become the bill drawer, tossing the new envelopes in and praying that somebody out there is in the market for fresh-cut flowers.