left me for another woman, I could store this memory and all the rest of them away in the past where they belong. But when he left, it felt as if he were going off to war. Next always seemed like something he had to do. That he hadn’t left me so much as been taken away against his will.
I flip the shower lever to shut off the water and am momentarily scalded when I accidentally turn it the wrong way. I step out of the shower, briskly wrap a towel around myself, and rush back to my locker to check my phone. Maybe Aubrey called.
I hear the metal door to the locker room open and the little girls—one with copper curls like Twyla’s and speech impediment like Aubrey once had—bounce in. The older one dictates to the younger girl, “You will be the baby manatee and I will be the mother manatee—”
“And we migwate to the Amazon wain fowest!”
“And we dive into the deep blue sea and there are dolphins and mermaids—”
“And faiwies!”
“Not fairies in the deep blue sea!”
The younger girl looks stricken.
“That’s silly!” the older one says.
Demolished by her idol, the little redhead teeters for a second near tears. Then she laughs a child’s theatrical imitation of laughter and, game once again, says, “Yeah, faiwies in the deep bwoo sea. That’s siwwy!”
Happy again, the girls run off toward the vending machines.
As I scroll through all the unanswered calls I’ve made to Aubrey, they beep like a movie-submarine sonar, warning of the disaster of an approaching torpedo. I roll tape back to last August and try again to identify the moment that set my child on this course.
As I try to connect the dots between Tyler Moldenhauer and heatstroke, from down the white-tiled hall that leads to the vending machines, the little girls’ voices echo back to me, silvery and faraway, like coins falling from a torn pocket, lost forever.
AUGUST 12, 2009
Back home, I help Pretzels to her feet so she can hobble with me and we both head for my room, where I plop down on my bed with the laptop and Google “Tyler Moldenhauer.” Someone has made a fan page for him on Facebook. He hasn’t posted any comments, but he is tagged in dozens of photos.
The pictures of him on the field, face hidden behind a helmet, bring back his smell, like the ocean on a cold day. I watch and rewatch a video of him zigzagging through a field of players, vanishing so quickly that they lunge after him and grab nothing but air.
But there is one photo I keep going back to. In it he has his helmet off and is laughing with his mouth wide open; his tongue is hanging out a little, and he looks like every smirking jock asshole I’ve ever hated.
What is wrong with me? My type is, has always been, reedy art boys. The first crushes I ever had were on Jack White and Adrien Brody. Stick-figure boys. Though that was back when Twyla and I were friends. And, come to think of it, Adrien and Jack were both more her crushes than mine. Still, I can’t like Tyler Moldenhauer. A jock? Mom would flip out.
Just to get my mind off this whole ridiculous thing, I click over to my Facebook page and see that I have one friend request. Before I check who it is my heart bumps. Tyler? Already? Tyler Moldenhauer wants to be my friend? Is this one of those Twilight Bella/Edward things where we don’t even really have to talk because just my scent alone drives him more insane than any other woman’s in all his centuries of vampire existence?
I recall that my scent was bagel vomit, click on the Friend Requests icon, and see a name that I don’t recognize: Alex Well, which means that “Alex Well” is some clever business that targets teens through social media. No doubt “Alex Well” has some unlimited texting offer for me, since, of course, all teen girls just live for unlimited texting. And lip gloss. Earn Lip Gloss Using Our Unlimited Texting Plan!
I don’t confirm the request, but, just to see what kind of scam Facebook thinks I should be targeted for, I click on the bogus name. Expecting to be taken to a page hectic with offers and great news about a great product and giveaways if I confirm the friend request, I am surprised to end up looking at a page with nothing on it