Babies in the Water

Although it was May, the stone path leading up to Kim's childhood home was still glazed with ice. Green stubble poked through the crystalline snow on the front lawn. Kim had crossed the river to East Saint Paul to check on her mother, who was getting so confused she left the oven on and the taps running but refused to go to a nursing home. Kim saw her as little as possible and hadn't been to the house in more than a year. The only reason she'd come was because the personal care attendant had canceled, and her sister, Sharon, had begged Kim to help. Immediately, Kim said no. But then Sharon said maybe that was for the best, since Kim didn't know how to take care of anyone except herself, and she changed her mind.

Kim took a swig from the bottle of vodka stashed in her purse before getting out of the car. When their mother was first diagnosed, Sharon had cleared the metropolis of liquor bottles from their parents' bar. Even Kim, steeped in anger and resentment as she was, thought this was unnecessarily cruel. She didn't see why her mother couldn't have a drink every now and then, just because she was confused. She stopped at the liquor store for both their sakes. Spite for Sharon wasn't the only force luring Kim up the walk: recently, her sister had told her it wouldn't be long before their mother didn't recognize them. If there was anything Kim wanted to say, it would have to be soon.

The front door was unlocked. Kim walked through rooms that felt like dreams: the den with its wall of antlers; the tobacco-scented breezeway; the living room, dominated by a gleaming teak bar; and finally into the plastic-tiled kitchen, where her mother's feet were visible beneath the pantry doors, darting around in little high heels. She emerged wearing a cocktail dress with an apron tied over it. Her hair was the color of polished maple; her eyebrows were dyed to match. When she saw Kim, she smiled so hard the tendons in her neck stood out.

"Kimmie!"

"Kim." She didn't know why she bothered to remind her.

Her mother closed in with an odor of perfume that was meant to be floral but had the sharpness of bathroom sanitizer. She placed a hard pucker on Kim's cheek. "I'm glad you're here."

"Really?" Kim said, annoyed by the hopeful rise in her own voice.

"I made macaroni loaf for us. There's enough for Sharon too, if she stops by."

"Sharon's at her kids' swimming lessons. It's just me tonight."

"Yes, well. You never know when she might drop in."

"Mom," Kim said, "aren't you surprised to see me?"

"Surprised?"

Kim searched her face, trying to figure out if her mother was confused about how long it had been since her last visit, or if, as usual, she was trying to avoid a conversation about what was really happening. Kim felt the power she'd accumulated with her distance draining away. "It's been awhile," she reminded her.

"I suppose it has," her mother said absently. "Now, why do you think the children are swimming in the winter?"

"It's spring now. But it doesn't matter—it's an indoor pool."

Her mother put her hand over her heart. "I wish I could see them now, those babies in the water!"

Kim had seen them at their swimming lessons. All four of them—Kim liked to remind her sister that four was enough to be considered a litter—bobbed along with confident strokes and breathed on both sides. Besides swimming, Sharon's children took tap and Irish dance lessons. The oldest played the viola, the other three the flute. All four were on the t-ball team. They would draw a picture and tell you all about it, chubby hands gesturing as they improvised stories in lisps. Kim knew that in her mother's eyes, there was no way to compete with the...