Hold Still

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Maya wants to go in with her. They’ve been out all day, their last in Florida. Ellie’s eight and wants to swim just one more time before they go. The sun has fallen past the dunes, and the sky is pink and blue and purple. Maya’s daughter stands, smiling, sunny, salty, sandy, and promises that she’ll be fine, that Maya doesn’t have to go in too. Maya’s already pulled on her pants and sweater. She’s almost always cold, even here, where, even in winter, it’s warm right up to hot. She stands up to where the waves come in thin films of foam over her ankles, her sweater held tight around her, her toes curled into the sand and bits of broken shells, and Ellie bounds away in front of her, past the point where the sand drops off, her tiny body quickly swallowed up. Maya watches Ellie let herself fall forward, arms reaching up and shoulders rolling: she dives down beneath the waves and comes up twice, and, all at once, Maya wants her daughter next to her: warm and wrapped up tight. But Ellie’s vertical again and treading water. Her head is small and dark and her curly hair is matted tight around her skull. The water dips as the pressure builds beneath her, and Ellie’s shoulders pop up and out, light brown now, with a smattering of freckles. Her bathing suit is yellow with tiny purple dots. Maya calls, “Come in, El,” but Ellie doesn’t hear her. The water settles. Another wave forms a hundred feet away. The curve of it grows, and Ellie’s still and small and getting smaller. Maya’s chest and neck get hard. “El!” she calls, as if she’ll hear her. As if somehow her screaming will keep the wave from crashing down. Ellie’s head is there and then it isn’t. And Maya breathes in once, then out. And then she’s running, diving, swimming. She kicks, and gulps of water fall into her throat.

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