At My Daughter’s Third Birthday Pool Party, She Pointed at My Stepmom’s Belly
When my three-year-old pointed to my stepmother’s stomach and yelled that her father was within, everyone laughed.
Before she started crying and pulled me in, I laughed too. My spouse went the color of pool chalk when I noticed the small mark next to Clara’s swimsuit.
My kitchen floor was covered in damp footprints by midday, and one pink sandal was floating in the deep end.
Wearing purple goggles and a paper crown that had softened around the edges, Ariel stood by the pool.
She claimed that queens did not take off their crowns for water, therefore she had insisted on keeping it on while swimming.
She had insisted on wearing it.
Under the maple tree, Glen was grilling hot dogs. He opened the lid every few minutes, scowling at the smoke as though the grill had deceived him directly.
My stepmother, Clara, came as I was bringing a bowl of watermelon toward the patio.
Outside the gate, she hesitated. Clara did things that way. Seldom did she walk into a room without first making sure that nobody would be upset that she was taking up space.
Clara, my stepmother, showed up.
She had a well-wrapped gift under one arm and was dressed in a white cover-up over a swimsuit.
My father yelled, “You’re late,” from the grass.
Clara grinned.
“I know.”
She didn’t elaborate. She didn’t.
Over her swimsuit, she put a white cover-up.
She had wed my father fifteen years prior, two years following the passing of my mother.
At the age of 17, I was furious with everything and particularly with any woman who entered my mother’s kitchen.
Clara never retaliated.
She just started being cautious.
Mom’s chair was not occupied by her.
The curtains were never altered by her.
Two years after my mother passed away, she wed my father.
Even after years of living there, she still asked before touching anything.
I mistook her caution for coldness at the moment.
Distance eventually became the language of our family.
Nevertheless, she had attended Ariel’s birthday.
That was important.
I interpreted her warning as being chilly.
Raising both arms, Ariel sprinted in her direction.
After bending over to give her a hug, Clara gave her the gift.
There was a wooden tea set with tiny strawberries painted on it.
Ariel gave a gasp. “Can we have tea now, Grandma?”
“After cake,” Clara replied.
After giving this injustice some thought, Ariel came to terms with it.
Ariel thought about this unfairness.
The party moved like a kid’s party for the next two hours. Sticky, noisy, and a little hazardous.
Water pistols were used by preschoolers to chase each other.
My dad dozed off under an umbrella.
Glen blamed the wind for setting the first tray of hot dogs on fire.
Clara remained on the periphery of everything.
Clara remained on the periphery of everything.
She refilled the cups.
gathered paper plates.
wrapped the fence with a loose balloon ribbon.
She looked at the packed pool when I asked whether she wanted to go swimming.
“Maybe later.”
She refilled the cups.
“You’re wearing a swimsuit, Clara!” I said.
She gave a tiny smile. “That doesn’t mean I have to be brave enough to dive in.”
I assumed she was referring to the kids splattering all over the place.
The heat became intolerable after cake.
At last, even Clara took off her mask.
At last, Clara took off her mask.
She wore a basic one-piece swimsuit. With one hand on the rail, she carefully descended the pool steps.
Ariel and her two pals were speeding by when she abruptly halted, causing the kids behind her to run into her back.
She fixed her gaze on Clara. She then gestured.
“Mommy, Daddy’s in there!”
Every adult who could hear them turned.
“Mommy, Daddy’s in there!”
No one understood for a moment.
Then the patio was filled with laughing.
At the time, my father was awake and almost spilled his lemonade.
Glen lifted both of his hands off the grill.
“I can confirm I am not.”
I also chuckled.
No one understood for a moment.
With a look that said, “Children are strange and we should all move on,” Clara glanced down at her stomach before turning to face me.
My cheeks began to get hot. I rushed over to Ariel.
“Sweetheart, we don’t point at people’s bodies.”
“But Daddy’s in there, Mommy.”
She sounded confident.
She sounded confident.
I knelt next to her and gestured to Glen.
“Daddy is over there.”
He gestured with the grilling tongs.
“Right here, bug.”
Ariel glanced at him, then back at Clara. She wrinkled her face.
“No. Daddy’s in there.”
“Daddy is over there.”
She started crying.
Not the dramatic outburst she made when we refused to give her cookies.
This was crying out of fear.
Grabbing my wrist, Ariel dragged me in the direction of the pool.
After emerging from the pool, Clara grabbed a towel.
“Oh, Helen, honestly. She’s three!”
She started crying.
Ariel pulled more forcefully.
“No, Mommy! I’m not lying. Look.”
I trailed her finger.
Initially, all I could see was the pale skin underneath the silky fabric of Clara’s bikini, which had acute cutouts slanting across her waist.
Clara then moved.
A slight trace of dark ink appeared on the pale skin of her ribcage, revealed by the high arch of the cut-out. The tattoo was old.
A lighthouse.
“No, Mommy! I’m not lying. Look.”
The ink had turned blue-gray. Against curling waves, thin lines formed a small tower.
There was a small sun grinning next to it.
a circle. Seven brief beams. For eyes, there are two dots. One mouth with a twisted curvature.
Thousands of times, I had seen that sun.
Thousands of times, I had seen that sun.
On grocery lists, Glen drew it.
on napkins.
on cards for birthdays.
He stuffed each note into Ariel’s lunchbox.
I got up too fast.
“Glen.”
The yard fell silent because of something in my voice.
On grocery lists, Glen drew it.
He approached while using a towel to wipe his hands.
“What happened?”
I gestured to Clara.
“Why is your drawing on her body?”
Glen took a look.
He let go of the towel.
Clara gazed at him.
Neither of them said anything for a long moment.
“Why is your drawing on her body?”
My aunt gave up collecting plates.
Under the umbrella, my father sat up.
The music was switched off by someone.
Glen appeared pale.
“Please,” he murmured. “Let me explain.”
The words didn’t land well.
They did, of course.
Glen appeared pale.
Clara encircled her waist with the cloth.
“I don’t know what kind of story you’ve made up in your head.”
“In my head?” I said, cutting myself off. “My daughter just recognized my husband’s drawing on your body.”
Ariel traced the air with her finger while standing between us.
“Daddy draws the happy sun.”
“My daughter just recognized my husband’s drawing on your body.”
Glen knelt next to her.
“You’re right.”
The guests felt the confirmation as if it were a chilly river.
I gave him a look.
“How?”
He held Ariel’s shoulder with one hand.
“Before I met you, I volunteered at an arts center downtown.”
“You’re right.”
“I know that,” I yelled.
He had informed me about community murals and Saturday sessions.
Clara was something he had never told me.
Clara pulled the cloth closer to her body.
Glen took another look at the tattoo.
“There was a program for people recovering from surgery. Local artists helped them design things to cover scars. I’m not a tattoo artist,” he added quickly. “I only sketched.”
Clara was something he had never told me.
Clara opened her mouth. “The community room on Willow Street.”
Glen gave her a look.
“You remember?”
“Only pieces.”
She made contact with the lighthouse.
“I remember a young man with paint on his hands.”
“Only pieces.”
My dad glanced from Glen to Clara.
“No one knew each other?”
“No,” Clara replied. The water dripping from the pool ladder was hardly audible above her voice.
“It was almost 20 years ago.”
Glen reclined on his heels.
“A woman came in one Saturday and asked everyone to draw something that meant hope.”
“No one knew each other?”
Clara shut her eyes.
Around us, the party vanished.
There was no clattering of plates.
No kids yelled.
Even Ariel remained still.
“I had just had surgery,” Clara disclosed.
“I had just had surgery.”
She reached for the tattoo.
“I had a tumor removed. The scar ran across my stomach, and I couldn’t look at it without thinking about everything that almost happened.”
My dad gazed at her.
“You never told me that part.”
“I told you I had surgery.”
“You said it was years ago.”
“It was.”
“You never told me that part.”
She glanced at him, then away.
“I did not want to spend the rest of my life introducing myself through the worst thing that had happened to me.”
Glen stroked his palm with one thumb.
“I drew a lighthouse because it stands in bad weather without pretending the weather isn’t there.”
Leaning against him was Ariel.
“And the sun?”
“I drew a lighthouse.”
He smiled slightly at her.
“I put that sun on everything back then too, sweetheart.”
Clara seemed to be seeing the tattoo for the first time.
“Underneath, he wrote two words.”
She lowered the towel a little.
Faded letters twisted down the scar beneath the lighthouse, nearly obscured by the swimsuit seam.
I’m still standing.
“Underneath, he wrote two words.”
My dad took a seat once more.
No one was laughing anymore.
My suspicions did not immediately go away. Slowly, it relaxed.
At the time, Glen was 21.
Clara had gone by her maiden name.
She wed my father years later.
At the time, Glen was 21.
By then, Glen had moved on, chopped off his hair, and transformed into the person I had met at a friend’s cookout.
Clara had also changed.
distinct hairstyles.
distinct last name.
Two decades of life had eclipsed a short afternoon in a packed art room.
That is, until a three-year-old saw one sun that was crooked.
Glen had moved on by then.
Ariel extended her hand to touch Clara’s abdomen.
“Can I touch it?”
Clara gave a nod.
Ariel touched the lighthouse with one finger.
“Daddy made it pretty.”
Clara chuckled once, but her eyes were filled with tears.
“He did.”
“Daddy made it pretty.”
The sun was traced by Ariel.
“You kept it.”
Nobody said anything.
Every year, those three words appeared to settle between us.
the illustration.
The wound.
The life that came after.
Every year, those three words appeared to settle between us.
Back then, I had a different perspective on Clara.
Not like the woman who was standing next to my dad.
Not as the individual who came into our home following the death of my mother.
As someone who was once terrified of her own reflection while sitting in a community center, she asked passersby to give her an excuse to continue searching.
The idea ought to have instantly softened me.
Back then, I had a different perspective on Clara.
Rather, another query emerged.
“Then why have you always hated me?”
Clara winced.
She raised one hand as my father started to utter my name.
“I never hated you, Helen,” Clara stammered.
“You barely spoke to me for 15 years.”
“I know.”
“You barely spoke to me for 15 years.”
“You missed birthdays,” I countered. “You left dinners early. You acted like being around me was work.”
Clara turned to face the patio.
We had the privacy to pretend not to listen as the guests started leading the kids back toward the pool.
She perched on a lounge chair’s edge.
“I was afraid of you.”
“You missed birthdays.”
I nearly burst out laughing.
“Of me?”
She gave a nod. “Of what loving you might look like.”
She traced the lighthouse with her fingers.
“Your mother had been gone two years when I married your father. Her photographs were everywhere.
Her recipes were still taped inside the cabinets. You wore one of her sweaters even when it was too hot.”
“Of what loving you might look like.”
That sweater sprang to mind.
green wool.
I can’t hold the sleeves.
Clara went on. “I thought if I tried too hard, you would believe I wanted to replace her. If I did too little, you would think I did not care.”
“So you did nothing.”
“I stayed too far away.”
“So you did nothing.”
Her response was an admission rather than a defense.
“I convinced myself distance was respectful,” Clara continued. “Then the years passed, and every attempt felt more awkward than the last.”
Christmas mornings came to mind.
Because Mom had done so, Clara always wrapped my presents in brown paper.
“I convinced myself distance was respectful.”
She never claimed credit for the cinnamon buns she baked using Mom’s recipe.
She kept the framed drawings I made as a child in the hallway.
She stood on the edge of photos during graduations.
Every step backward had seemed to me like rejection.
Perhaps dread had played a part.
Perhaps a little of it had also belonged to me.
Perhaps dread had played a part.
Without asking, Ariel crawled onto Clara’s lap.
Clara froze, then encircled her with one arm.
Ariel questioned, “Does the lighthouse still work?”
Clara gave a blink.
“It’s a tattoo, sweetheart.”
“No. I mean the hope.”
“Does the lighthouse still work?”
Clara gave me a look.
Something between us was exposed by the question.
“Yes,” she replied. “I think it does.”
The celebration went on, but not in the same way.
Glen went back to the grill.
Clara received a dry towel from my father.
Ariel drew suns on everyone’s paper cups throughout the afternoon.
The celebration went on, but not in the same way.
After the final visitor had departed, I discovered Clara sitting next to the deserted pool with her feet submerged in the water near dusk.
I took a seat next to her.
We observed abandoned balloons floating against the fence for some time.
I then made contact with the small lighthouse.
“I thought this tattoo was hiding something that would break our family,” I muttered.
Clara dabbed at one eye.
I made contact with the small lighthouse.
“It was hiding the reason you survived long enough to become part of it,” I finished.
She put her hand over mine.
“I’m sorry I made you feel unwanted.”
“I’m sorry I never asked whether you were scared too, Clara.”
Ariel was using sidewalk chalk to draw across the patio.
“I’m sorry I made you feel unwanted.”
Between the pink waters rose a crooked lighthouse.
There were three grinning figures inside.
I summoned her.
“Who’s that?”
Happy that I had asked, she looked up.
“Family.”
“Who’s that?”
Clara’s fingers clenched around mine.
Until the sunset softened its edges, the chalk drawing remained on the patio.
I didn’t take a picture of it.
I didn’t have to.
I didn’t take a picture of it.
Because they are kept, some things endure.
Some remain because they at last provide an explanation for everything that came before them.
Clara and I had been waiting for each other to get over the distance for years, standing on different sides of the same loss.
A child had to show us where the door had been all along by pointing at a lighthouse.
Clara and I had experienced the same loss from different perspectives.
