Lily takes his small hand, and they wade into the warm water of Monarch Lake far enough that it laps their ankles. On the opposite shore, the sun is cresting a distant ridge of hills, a golden ball rolling along a ragged tree line. AJ dances his small, chubby feet, and when she smiles, he laughs, stomping harder, showering them in a sparkling rain. Laughing, too, she scoops him up, settling him on her hip. “You ready to learn how to swim like a fish?”
He nods, but his expression is grave. His eyes look into hers, and although he is barely two, his glance seems wise. She thinks he can see into her soul. She loves him profoundly, more than she thought was possible.
“I swim?” he says.
“Yes, but I’ll be with you the whole time. Okay?”
He nods again.
Paul doesn’t like it, that she brings AJ to the lake, but she does it anyway, every time they visit the ranch. Before he could walk, she cradled him in her lap at the shoreline, letting the water flow around them; she had let it fall from her fingertips, anointing him. It’s the way her mother introduced her to the water. Here at this very spot is where she taught Lily to swim.
She carries AJ back to the quilt she spread beneath a live oak and sets him down, and he waits while she slathers him with sunblock. Butternut has strayed a few yards to the water’s edge. Lily can hear her drinking. They had ridden over here just after daybreak, AJ’s warm weight tucked in front of her. He is learning to ride and sits on a horse as naturally as she did at his age, spine ramrod straight, easy in the saddle.
Fearless.
She caps the sunscreen and stows it in her tote.
“Let’s go,” he says, eyes alight.
Hand in hand, they head back to the water, and even as she is washed through with her joy in him, she is half-frightened by his utter trust and the knowledge that his safety and well-being are her responsibility. Paul has pointed out her tendency to be dreamy, forgetful. “Pay attention.” His voice barks in her head, feeding her anxiety. He treats her like a child, everywhere except in the bedroom. What he does to her there, the way he talks to her, thick voiced and panting in his frenzy to have her, to have his mouth everywhere on her—she is no child to him then. It is distressing; she is uncertain of her role as his wife. Standing at the water’s edge, she thinks of the day she will bring Paul here and show him how she has taught their son to swim. She imagines his look of amazement, perhaps even of respect.
It is a weekday; the lake is deserted, the surface a dimpled reflection of a flawless sky. She has chosen the time for AJ’s first swimming lesson deliberately. Contrary to what Paul thinks, she isn’t so young that she has no sense, nor is she into taking stupid risks.
AJ tugs her hand, saying, “Let’s go, Mommy,” impatient and imperious in his rush to get on with the adventure. He leads the way, marching strongly through the lucent green water until it passes his knees, then he stops, tilting his gaze questioningly to hers. They have never gone farther out, because of Paul, his oft-repeated warning that she isn’t qualified as a swim instructor. While his lack of trust feeds her doubt, she knows she is a good swimmer, that she wouldn’t attempt to teach AJ if she weren’t.
Swinging him onto her hip, she carries him some twenty-five yards farther from the shore until the water laps at her waist. “Okay?” she asks him, holding his gaze.
AJ nods, and his eyes on hers are intent, as if to register every tiny detail, every sensation.
“I’m bending my knees.” She sinks slowly, watching his face for signs of alarm as the water rises, covering his torso. His eyes widen now, and there it is, that glimmer of dawning delight. It comes every time he experiences something new, and it thrills her. She finds herself waiting for it. Her grin mirrors his. She carries him out another ten feet, stopping when the water is at his waist level. “Can you blow bubbles? Like this?” Bending her head, she demonstrates.
He follows her example, comes up, laughing, and does it again. And again. She loses count of the repetitions. He is a natural, taking to the water with the same ease as when she and her dad first sat him on Butternut. “Want to float on your back?”
He nods vigorously, and bracing him, she lays him on the water, letting it hold him, weightless. His feet dangle. He fans his arms, spreading his fingers, making plump starfish. She swishes him gently, to and fro, humming some nameless tune. Sunlight sequins the water. She feels its warmth on her shoulders. Happiness swells from inside her, seeming to expand around her. Sleek as an otter, AJ bumps against the raft of her arms. She feels the knobs of his shoulder blades, the swell of his small calves. The fine strands of his hair float around his head, a halo of the palest seaweed. She looks into his eyes wide with wonder and thinks of the blessing he has brought to her life.
The sound of the boat is there in the background. It registers, but at a level too deep in her brain to command her attention. Her focus, her whole heart and mind, are lost in the sensation of AJ’s small body floating in her loose embrace, so that when the boat’s engine noise explodes around them, she flinches. It is a moment before it hurtles into view. And then she is horrified to see that it is coming straight at her and AJ, bearing down on them from the right, boat bottom cracking hard against the water’s surface. It’s close enough that she recognizes it as a cigarette boat; she sees the name, Slap Shot, on its side. Adrenaline-fueled panic ices her veins. Tightening her grasp on AJ, she wheels and runs for the shore. The water is like sludge, hampering her movement. But she has AJ. He is a snug, warm, wet bundle against her—and then he is gone.
Gone!
Lily stops, looking around wildly.
“AJ!” she shouts, and then she dives. The water is only four or four and a half feet deep. The boat has turned sharply away, but its wake and her frantic movement have churned up a sand of debris. She can’t see her hand in front of her face. Her lungs are bursting when she breaks the water’s surface. Dragging in air, she shouts his name again, “AJ!” But it is futile. Does she suppose he can hear her?
She dives over and over, choking on water, her own breath, her sobs of terror. It is on the sixth dive that her hand encounters his forearm, and pulling him up, she stumbles with him to the shore, where she lays him down, dropping to her knees beside him. He is cold to her touch, inert and deathly white except for his eyes, which are sunken and blue, like ghost eyes. His lips are blue, too, and his belly is distended. Gorge rises in her throat. It isn’t conscious on her part when she turns him on his side and thumps his back, hard, between his shoulder blades. The spasm is immediate, a full-body shudder, and the gout of water that spurts from his nose and mouth is shocking. She waits, terrified, and she prays, Give him back, please, God, and I will never ask another thing. Please, please just give him back . . .
It is a matter of seconds only, but in her mind what passes is a hellish eternity before AJ coughs. He lets out a wail. Color, miraculous color, suffuses his cheeks. She lifts him into her embrace, rocking him, humming. She tastes the salt of their mingled tears.
“Oh God,” she whispers. “Oh, thankyouthankyouthankyou . . . never ask another thing . . .”