Family Be Mine. Tracy Kelleher
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She gripped one cheek in an assessment.
“Nonsense, dear,” Wanda said. “You’re every woman’s dream—a long-stemmed American beauty, curvy like the legs of a Chippendale table, and with breasts the size of cantaloupes. That’s why we all agreed that the bikini was absolutely, positively the right choice.”
Sarah shook her head. “Thanks, I think.” She was still trying to wrap her head around the image of Chippendale furniture and cantaloupes until she decided it was just another strange moment in an already eventful day.
Because at the end of a full schedule of running multiple physical therapy sessions, three of Sarah’s late Wednesday afternoon clients had thrown her a surprise baby shower. They included Wanda, a retired high school math teacher, who was having treatments for the tendonitis in her tennis arm. “I know it would probably get better if I developed a two-handed backhand, but at my age…”
Lena was there, too, a sturdy fireplug of a woman who when she spoke still had a hint of her native Czechoslovakia in her accent. Her arthritic knees had started to act up on her. Too many years of standing up at her hardware store and playing tennis. She’d had some arthroscopic surgery over the summer to clean up one knee, and was now diligently doing her rehab.
Rounding out the group was Rufus Treadway. A mainstay of the local African-American community, Rufus had had a hip replacement about a year ago. Unfortunately, he was not yet tripping the light fantastic, which was a real shame, as far as Sarah was concerned. So she’d pulled some strings and got him an appointment with the hip specialist at the University of Pennsylvania Hospital.
Anyhow, when the three of them had pulled out the streamers and party blowers, Sarah had been truly taken aback. Lena had made a plum tart. “Not to worry. It’s mostly fruit,” she had said.
And butter and eggs, Sarah had thought.
When they next produced several wrapped boxes, she was overwhelmed. “You shouldn’t have,” Sarah protested, expecting to get several hand-knitted baby sweaters and maybe a baby-size Grantham University baseball cap.
“Start with the squishy one,” Wanda insisted.
Sarah carefully removed the wrapping paper—no sense in wasting perfectly good paper when it could be reused—and found a Speedo bathing cap.
“How lovely. I don’t have one,” Sarah said, confused but careful to affix a smile.
“Now the flat one.” Rufus pointed to an oblong wrapped box.
That one yielded flip-flops. Another had a rolled up beach towel.
Sarah laughed. “I think I see a theme here. I know I always tout the virtues of swimming as a low-impact exercise for you all, so I’m glad to see the message is getting across.”
Then came the biggest box. It seemed to contain mostly tissue paper, but buried deep inside Sarah found a maternity bathing suit in electric orange. A teeny-tiny, two-piece maternity suit. “I didn’t know they made bikinis for pregnant women.” She held up the top and bottom to universal clapping.
And last but not least, Rufus pulled out a slim envelope.
“A ticket to the Bahamas?” Sarah joked. She slit the envelope open and read the contents, “This confirms your registration in the Adult School ‘Light Water Aerobics’ class for pregnant woman and those rehabilitating from injuries.’”
“Isn’t it great!” Wanda had exclaimed. “It’s tonight, and Lena and I have signed up, too! It’ll be like a continuation of our workouts here!” Then she squealed.
That should have been a tip-off, Sarah thought as she now stood in the women’s locker room on the second floor of the Grantham Middle School. Goose bumps appeared on more exposed skin than she cared to think about. She picked up her towel from the bench and wrapped it around her waist. There might be less of her on display to the world, but she was afraid she now looked like a beached whale in terry cloth.
Indeed, the whole idea of lowering her inflated body into a chlorinated swimming pool was just not all that appealing to her at the moment. Any sane person in a similar circumstance would be home, curled up in a comfy chair, watching the rerun of Comedy Central’s Daily Show and eating a grilled-cheese sandwich, better yet, mocha-chip ice cream straight out of the container.
“C’mon, dear, you don’t want to be late. If you think I’m a stickler for punctuality, wait till you meet Doris,” Wanda said.
Sarah scooped up her bathing cap and obeyed. So much for sanity. She followed Wanda and Lena down the stairs and, mindful of her manners, she held open the door to the pool area for the older women first. Wham! The heat and humidity assaulted her immediately. The smell of chlorine just about brought up the plum cake.
Sarah looked down and gulped. Finally, she risked lifting her head—and got her first look at the pool. “Wanda, I thought this class was for women only?”
“Whatever gave you that idea?” Wanda asked all innocent.
Sarah looked around again. Three other women in various stages of pregnancy were there, none of them wearing bikinis. Great. She also couldn’t help noticing that they all had male partners in tow.
The couples clustered together in a circle, tight enough that a take-out venti couldn’t fit in between. As Sarah walked by, she could hear them exchanging due dates and giggles. Men-and-women giggles.
Wanda and Lena moved to the side of the couples group, where they joined an older man with a vertical scar down his chest. Bypass surgery. Next to him was another man who looked to be in his fifties, almost a carbon copy of the older guy except with more hair, considerably less weight, and a hollow look in his eyes and cheeks. Father and son seemed to be old friends of Wanda and Lena, since the four of them…well…mostly the three of them, were chatting it up. The son appeared to hang at the fringes nodding at appropriate times, but adding little to the conversation.
She was about to join them and introduce herself when the buzzer sounded, signaling the start of class. The instructor, clipboard in hand, with a whistle hanging from a lanyard around her neck and reading glasses halfway down her nose, strode to the edge of the pool. She might be pushing sixty, but she looked like she could wrestle a grizzly bear with one hand tied behind her back while teaching the fundamentals of lifesaving with the other. She blew her whistle. The giggling and whispers halted.
“Good evening, everyone. I’m Doris Freund, your instructor for Light Water Aerobics,” she announced.
“Why don’t I call the roll before we get down to business.” She started rattling off names with marine sergeant precision, and when she was partway down the list she called out, “Halverson, Sarah.” She peered over her reading glasses.
Sarah waved. “Pres—”
The door to the pool swung open. Doris looked up at the clock. Everyone else stared at the door.
Sarah immediately saw a man, and from his surfer’s shorts, lanky walk and thin frame assumed he was of college age. But after a quick glance at his face, she realized he was older—mid-thirties. He had the kind of features—sharp, high cheek bones, deep-set ice-blue eyes with lines fanning out at the corners, and a wide mouth with thin lips—that hinted at intelligence, wit, and, okay, might as well admit it, Sarah said to herself, long-term sex appeal. But there was also an air of mystery, or maybe it was sadness. Which only made him more intriguing. But truth be told, the physical attribute that had caught her attention was that he was thin. Very thin, on a frame that could use an extra twenty pounds.
Cancer and the side effects of chemotherapy. Pretty rough. He was young and as an expectant father…
Sarah waited, watching the door, wondering what his wife would look like. Only nobody came. She raised an eyebrow. So if he wasn’t an expectant father…
She saw him glance quickly around and stop. His mouth opened, but no words came forth. He surveyed the group slowly, then screwed up his mouth.
“I find