He wasn’t coming back. He managed to keep his head above water, but wasn’t budging. A glance at my watch revealed that I was going to be late for work if I didn’t get Roscoe back to shore quickly. He whined and started to paddle more frantically with his short little legs, as if he’d realized he was out of his depth and was panicking, too. But he still wasn’t really moving toward shore. With a sigh of frustration I took off my shoes, put my phone and wallet in them, and stuck them behind a rock. Then I took off my shirt and swam out into the dirty lake wearing only my shorts and sports bra. I hit a slimy clump of algae and let out a squeak of horror, but pushed forward with a determined breaststroke, all the while keeping my eyes on the prize of my very bad little dachshund.
I had girded myself so that when I hit the next algae patch I didn’t even scream. Roscoe’s pleading eyes seemed to be saying: “Why am I out here? Will you hurry up and help me already?”
When I made it to him he barked as if he’d never been so overjoyed to see anyone. I grabbed his collar and side stroked toward the shore, the dirty lake water sloshing up into my ears. My presence seemed to have given Roscoe renewed energy—he paddled hard and we made slow if unwieldy progress. My feet hit the muddy bank and Roscoe and I stepped onto dry land. The bottom half of my hair was drenched, and disgusting strands of lake algae hung from my arms and shoulders.
Passersby stared at me, most looking alarmed, though a couple of them chuckled. Roscoe shook himself of water and danced gratefully at my feet, then charged at a couple coming toward us with an impossibly wide baby stroller. He jumped up, putting his dirty wet paws on the husband’s leg. “Roscoe!” I yelled, running toward the family. I was still barefoot and dripping and I grimaced at the pain of the gravel on my bare feet. Right before I reached Roscoe I looked up at the man he was jumping on. Our eyes met. BOOM! I was face-to-face with none other than Brant Bitterbrush!—who Roscoe clearly recognized even though he was only a six-week-old puppy when Brant left me. A puppy we had meant to raise together. I wiped some algae from my hair in an attempt to be more presentable, but it was a lost cause. Cold Connie Caldwell stood next to Brant. She was pushing a triple-wide stroller that held three chubby babies. She looked a little tired but also fairly svelte, as if she’d never been stretched out to ungodly proportions in order to birth three little Brant Bitterbrush look-alikes.
“Roxy!” Brant said.
Cold Connie Caldwell stared at me with the contemptuous eyes of a woman who has never found herself running barefoot, half-dressed, and covered in lake algae through a public space. Though she said nothing, one eyebrow shot up in arch disdain.
As Brant bent to pet Roscoe, I looked at the three little identical baby boys in matching sky-blue sailor suits. They looked so much like Brant it made me think if I had birthed them rather than Connie, they would look exactly the same. For the first time in my life, a pang of longing pierced my uterus. And then one of the babies began to wail. Like a line of Brant Bitterbrush dominoes, the second and then the third tot began to cry. Connie bent down to comfort them and also block them from my sight, as if feeling my mere gaze upon her progeny could cause them harm. “Oh, honeys,” she cooed. “Did the Creature from the Black Lagoon scare you?”
In the wailing chaos Brant said, “Roscoe, buddy, so good to see you.” Roscoe was jumping around like an orphan who’s encountered his long-lost father.
“He swam out into the lake,” I stammered.
“I see that,” Brant said. His eyes scanned my soaking wet body, naked except for a sports bra, shorts, and copious amounts of lake algae. His eyes locked on mine. For a split second it felt like the old days. I remembered that night we made love for the very first time on the warm tar roof of the Barton Springs Pool office. I imagine he remembered it, too.
As if they could sense their father’s wander down memory lane to a time before their existence, a time