My friend and I sat in a tree's shade at the town pool, where we'd
taken her seven-year-old son. She was so high, couldn't keep her eyes
open. When was the last time she ate? Her emaciation was a suitcase
that I dragged around in silence. I was afraid that if I complained,
she'd say: I'm so sorry, let me take that, I've got to go—I'm
She talked on and on. "This dose doesn't do shit, my doctor won't
listen." Bone pain, muscle pain, joint pain, hands quit
working—flat broke, too. I rubbed her back. Scapula like
wings. "I gotta tell you something," she said. "It's really bad. You
can't tell anybody." I thought: don't fly away.
Around us, people clustered in the shade, mostly dads. The other women
were near the pool, supervising their children. My friend told me
everything, her voice flat and exhausted and so loud. "Old guys,
married guys. My boss. I can't get out." I felt the dads around us
imagining what they would do with her, given the chance. She shut her
eyes—a blink that might never unblink, mouth falling open.
Her son ran the length of the diving board, soared, splashed. He pulled
himself out of the pool, ran up to us. "Mom!" Her eyes fluttered open.
"Did you see my cannonball?" In unison, she said "No" and I said "Yes."
He ran back to the diving board. "Mom!" He was a sensitive kid, carried
around a sketchbook. Drew birds, leaves, clouds. "Watch him," I said.
When he jumped, she was rummaging through her oversized purse with her
eyes closed. "Awesome!" I shouted when he surfaced. He got out of the
pool, bounded over, saw his mom withdraw her hand from her bag,
cradling three tiny, white pills. He ran back to the diving board and
Emma Smith-Stevens has stories in or coming from Subtropics, Conjunctions, Day One and others. Her most
recent Wigleaf story, "An August in the Early 2000s," received a Special Mention in the 2016 volume of the
Read more of ESS's work in the archive.
Illustration on main page by Levin Garson and Scott Garson.
W i g l e a f