Swimming for Gina
 

The water is a shiver of blue silk. I cross the pool, an easy crawl. I tip my shoulders then stretch into a gentle breaststroke. Gina said my breaststroke is a joke. Call it a peanut stroke. Hah, hah, hah. Gina loves to tease.

Each morning, Gina and I swim laps. We move along parallel tracks until someone cries "uncle" and heaves from the water. One day it's me; another day it's Gina. If you count the wins and losses, the matches would cancel one another out, a tidy equation. Only I have more endurance. Always have.

I keep on swimming.

Mama says Gina and I have been swimming forever. That didn't make sense until we learned in health class how unborn babies swim inside their mothers. Gina and I were swimming laps even then, kicking our feet, holding hands like tiny mermaids. Gina was born first, a thirty second lead. I don't remember, but the doctor timed it, wrote it down so that makes it true.

"Your nose was pressed against your sister's heels from the start," Mama said. She laughed, a big belly sound. Gina and I laughed, too.

On the mornings I win a race, I goad Gina with a "caught you now, Sis" and give a cocky thumbs-up sign.

Then Gina shrugs and takes to the diving board. Beads of water slide off her thighs and slender calves. I'm no match for her there because Gina has a secret talent. She makes it look and sound easy-the stutter of wood, a dancer's leap and dive, and then a simple whoosh. That's why Gina couldn't be hurt, not the way Mama said-drowned in the Delaware with Roger Aikens. It's a bad joke. Even I know Roger's not old enough to drive.

Our next-door neighbors came for a visit. Mr. Peterson smokes fat, stinky cigars. Mrs. Peterson clears her throat as if she might choke any minute and wants to be prepared. They stood at the edge of the pool and watched me glide back and forth, back and forth. They clucked their tongues as if I were breaking the law or swimming naked. They told Mama she should call somebody--a priest, a doctor, maybe the police.

I kept on swimming.

"You're breaking my heart," Mama cried.

She's been crying a long time. I try not to listen. I flip on my back and watch the Big Dipper slide by.

The water is warm and soft, the only thing that matters. I stroke and count because after a gazillion laps, the world will slide back into balance, the way it was meant to be.

Gina will wave from the diving board. She'll swing her arms above her head and take a two-step bounce. For a breathless moment, she'll hang in the air like a shiny ornament then enter the water without a splash.

I'll follow her. I'll swim for my life and I won't shout "uncle." I'm sure to catch Gina, any time now.  

__________________________________________________________

Margaret A. Frey writes from the foothills of the Smoky Mountains. Her work, fiction and nonfiction, has appeared in numerous print and on-line venues, including Notre Dame Magazine, flashquake, Thema, Byline Magazine, Smokelong Quarterly, Cezanne’s Carrot, Skirt!, Christian Science Monitor and elsewhere. Margaret lives an amazingly quiet life with her husband John and canine literary critic, Ruffian.
E-mail: mafrey at tds dot net  

__________________________________________________________

autumn 2007 | kaleidowhirl
books and chapbooks from authors in this issue