Swimming Lessons by Karina Ko

She came childless. Amongst our clutter on the concrete bench, she sat with her designer tote bag. A blue shark hooded towel and a rainbow bottle peeked out. We watched her watch the pool, the skin around her eyes worn. We masked our unease. Whenever our toddlers reached the end of the short pool where most of us gathered, we clapped.

The teachers in each lane guided our children for a back-float, a sign the lesson was ending. Suddenly, we noticed the woman, towel in hand, approaching the steps which led into the pool. Alarmed, we bustled in front to form a line, a barrier. We smiled, our lips stretched thin as we hugged our children one by one in fresh towels, praising them while rushing them to the change rooms.

As we walked away, we noticed the woman remained rooted. The pool was emptied of children. Yet, she stood with her hand extended, waiting. We paused and wondered if we needed to talk to the supervisor. But then we saw him, a broad man who seldom smiled but was patient with our little ones. He approached her and we relaxed. We continued our day. We fastened seat belts around wriggling bodies. We placated them with snacks. At bedtime, their tiny fingers brushed our faces.

The next week, some of us arrived harried. We paused in our checklist frenzy, hair tie between teeth and our child’s hair between our fingers. We sensed the stiffness in those of us who arrived earlier. She sat in the same spot, eyes closed. We glanced at each other. Should we greet her? But our small children tugged at us, some running around, some reticent about going in the water. So we pulled off their shoes and held their hands.

Once they were in the water, Sabrina was the first of us to speak about the woman. Have you noticed her? We have. Which one is her child? We don’t know. Do any of us know her? We can’t remember if she was one of us once. A daisy chain of acquaintances. Most memories are short-term. A result of constant multitasking, keeping track of this and that.

We looked at the woman and followed her gaze to the middle lane. She smiled, staring at something. Our children? We jumped up and gathered to block her vision. She circumvented us to stand closer. Soon the pool emptied, and again she stood there with the towel.

We lingered as Sabrina stood with the supervisor. He spoke the same way he coaxed a child into the pool. “This mother isn’t doing anything to hurt anyone. She does have a daughter enrolled and has been paying”

“But where —”

“It’s the least we could do. We’d do the same for any of our families.” He looked up at the rest of us. The woman was walking away.

Daughter. In the days before the next lesson, a myriad of possibilities bloomed in our minds. We thought about the time we didn’t buckle our child in their highchair and they fell back. The time we were running late, accelerating the car, turning to yell at our toddler, then braking hard, close to smashing a truck. The times we hovered our fingers near their nostrils to check they were still breathing in their sleep.

The woman wasn’t there when we arrived. We smiled and talked about our week. The instructors guided the children one by one to the end. Mummy, daddy, look at me! Our children beamed. They glanced at the stranger who didn’t smile back, only stared. One of them started crying. What’s wrong? We looked up and saw her standing beside us. Some of us smiled for the sake of our children. It’s okay, we said in our most soothing voices.

Our children were quiet in the pool, unsure. Our faces tensed. The mother needs to leave. Now. We’ll tell her to. Each second of silence felt like a droplet waiting to fall.

“Who can splash their parents with their kicks?” The supervisor called out. He was standing on the pool’s ledge, holding his clipboard, pen poised.

Some children raised their hands, jumping up and down.

We suddenly recalled the averted possibilities. What if it happened to us? What if we were all staring at an empty pool, imagining our children swimming? 

One of us feigned shrieking and yelled, “No, I don’t want to get wet.”

Our children giggled. The water burst into commotion from their kicks.

We stepped back. Shaken by their sudden joy, we tried to memorize every detail. The way one keeps ducking his head into the water while waiting for his turn. The way another grins and floats, refusing to kick. A sweetpea’s funny blinking expression when she’s splashed by another child’s kicks. The way they keep glancing at us to see if we’re watching. How pleased when they saw we were.

We imagined what the woman remembers: all those mornings bringing her daughter, helping her in, watching her make similar movements in the same lane in the same small pool. A build-up of similar moments imprinted into her memory. The way her daughter kicked her legs and pulled her arms through the water. The same wet footprints on the cement floor, tracking from the pool to the benches.

But now, in the middle lane, did you see that? Was it a shimmer, a reflection, or our imagination? There again, we thought we saw a stray bubble. The water remembering the shape of her. It ripples. A memory of a memory of a memory. We all watched until it subsided, barely perceptible. As the instructors unclasped the flotation aids from our children, the lesson coming to an end, we parted a path for her to get to the steps, her hand reaching out.

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KARINA KO — Karina is a writer from Sydney, Australia. Her short stories have also been published in Strange Horizons, Island, Mascara Literary Review. She’s been awarded the Deborah Cass Prize, and a Varuna fellowship. Read more of her writing or connect with her at karinakowrites.com.

Art by AMY MARQUES — Amy grew up between languages and places and learned, from an early age, the multiplicity of narratives. She has visual art, poetry, and prose published in journals and anthologies and is fiction editor at Bending Genres and editor & artist for the Duets anthologies. Her book and chapbooks include: PARTS, Foot Notes, Are You Willing?, & Neverafters. Upcoming chapbook: Hissing in the Wind. You can find more at https://amybookwhisperer.wordpress.com.