His voice is different, sadder than I’ve ever heard it before. “Okay. We’ll talk soon. I love you.”
I want to reach through the phone to his body, his presence and scent. These things would save me.
A quiet click in my ear.
*
This is what I know will happen: she will disappear into his world; she will be brought up by people who never speak of me. The fairness of her skin, the light in her hair will ensure it. She will fit in in a way I never had. She will go to school with girls who look like her, who speak like her. There will be no memory of me. I will be erased. Our marriage would mean nothing. My motherhood would mean nothing. The way I loved them both would mean nothing.
And then someday this will happen: a woman will come. A woman with light skin and hair like the two of them, and then the three of them will be together. I can see her, the green-eyed siren woman, her silver tail transmuted to human legs by some dangerous-won magic. She will entice him away from me with her eyes and her supple skin, her breasts and her sex. She will erase every memory of us, every promise he has made, every kiss on my skin. The mark on my face that was his to kiss burns like a wound.
The worst of it, the thing that tastes like broken glass, is that in time she will become the mother. She will cajole my child and spoil her. She will be affectionate and entertaining. She will be the good mother. I can see them hand in hand. People seeing them will bend over Bodhi to say, “What a lovely mama you have.” To the water-woman, they will say, “What a beautiful daughter you have.”
After a time it will be the truth. It will be as simple as a mother, a father, and a child, that holy trinity. Somewhere far in the distance, there will be a ghost wearing my skin.
*
In my worst moments I know this is what will happen, but not yet, not yet, not yet. There is still time to fight, still time to reclaim my place. Daniel calls and invites me to the house. I go with my heart in my mouth, but his mother opens the door and pulls me into her arms and then Bodhi comes toddling up, yelling in delight, and latches onto me. The old father grins at us from the living room. I pick up my daughter, kiss and cuddle her. I can come anytime, they say. They are only here so I can rest a bit, regain myself. We eat dinner together. Daniel is at the studio. I will come every day. When I say goodbye, she clings to me, won’t let me go. They have to pull her away. My heart is cracking asunder, but also there is some deep knowledge that they are right. I do need some time. Just to pull the pieces of myself together, just long enough for this dizziness and fog to lift. I walk to the car and feel a sort of peace. The dusk sky above is drenched in late golden light; the giant blowsy scarlet roses in the neighbor’s yard are swaying. The wind is pulling petals off them like a lover’s clothing and flinging them about. My hair unravels like one more set of petals. I let the evening dance around me and my blood slows its relentless race.
*
I wake up and the day stretches before me. There is time now. For myself. Precious time and freedom. What can I do? Anything. A quick leap of joy in my pulse. I drive across the long, low-slung bridge into the city, that familiar skyline sparking in the sunshine. I cross the familiar streets to my old haunt, the dahlia garden. I had forgotten what it meant to be among these mad, bursting blossoms.
I use my expired volunteer card to enter, and there are the flowers like old and beloved friends. I sink fingers into the dirt, hold it in my hands, this holy fragrant soil. I pull off dead leaves and check for parasites. The flowers around me nod in time to the breeze, whisper among themselves.
I realize they talk to each other all the time, a long and quiet conversation. I have just never been allowed to hear it before. I bend closer to listen. I can’t make out what they are saying, but I can hear my name. I take a huge red flower in my palms. It is as wide as my two cupped hands. I bend my face to it. The petals pull at me like the furred, furrowed legs of insects, deep inward toward the hidden heart, a loving grip. It is like sipping magenta, like tasting crimson. I let the flower bounce away. I promise myself that I will be better, that I will love Daniel more. I will pull myself together and make it all work. I will make Bodhi a life. I will be that other thing: a good mother. The flowers, they make it possible to imagine this.
*