She shook her head. “Please! One more time. Once more and we’ll stop.”
He looked around and nodded quickly. “All right. Last time.”
He went under again.
Sawyer slapped some water near my face. I gasped and then slapped water right back, watching it fly into his mouth. He sputtered and laughed.
Marlow floated toward Dad’s head, getting ready to crouch. But this time, she clenched her knees together. I could see the deliberate clamp she made around his neck. She crossed her legs and wrapped them around him. Dad’s hands came up, waving and hitting the surface. She laughed and held on tighter, bouncing hard to keep him down.
Half of his mouth came up, enough to utter two syllables: “Marlow.”
She laughed at this and then pushed down again.
His head came up. “Marlow!” he gurgled.
Sawyer and I stopped our water slapping. The blond lifeguard in the Oakleys blew his whistle at her. She didn’t take notice. He stood up out of his chair, ready to dive in. The more she laughed, the harder Dad struggled.
She released.
He exploded up, coughing and blinking his eyes furiously. He took in two deep breaths before he shouted at her. “Marlow! What were you doing?”
She smiled. “Did I win?”
“Win what?” His tone was angry.
“The game. I kept you under didn’t I?”
“Marlow. That wasn’t a game. And that was not funny.”
“I’m sorry, Daddy. I thought we were having fun,” she said, treading water, her hair a silky curtain floating around her.
Dad pinched at his nose with his thumb on one side. “Don’t ever . . . don’t ever do that again. You got me?”
She nodded.
He pointed to me and Sawyer. “You two. Watch her, I need to catch my breath.”
Dad swam to the side of the pool and climbed out. I watched him lie on the chaise, his feet pointed outward. He looked different. Older.
We stopped on the way home to pick up a few pints of ice cream. Dad drove swiftly to avoid excessive melting. Moni had opted to stay overnight at Mrs. Hwang’s and Mom called to say she was working late, so it was frozen pizza for dinner. Afterward, Dad scooped strawberry and chocolate into each of our bowls and we quietly ate to the sound of our spoons clinking against the white ceramic.
Mom got home as we were finishing. Dad offered her a bowl of strawberry. She sat down and looked around at each of us. We were still so quiet. She shared a longer look with Dad. He said nothing and put his head back down for another bite.
She stood up from the table and left. Her ice cream bowl was still there in the morning, a pink puddle with hardened edges.
CHAPTER 24
WREN
1980s
The lecture hall stirred and settled as Professor Patrick Baek walked in. Wren slipped into the very back row, the wooden seat creaking despite her careful movements.
She felt as though everyone would notice right away. One wrong turn of the head and the other students would know she didn’t belong there.
She had followed him for a week.
As he had left the restaurant with his wife that evening, she heard him drop the name of the university, a small yet prestigious liberal arts school. She wandered its campus the next day until she spotted him, exiting a building with a few colleagues. Such poise he held in the shoulders of his brown sport coat. He laughed at something one of them said and seemed to look right at her as they strode down the sidewalk.
Watching him was her drug. He was a high she couldn’t get enough of. She imagined how he would go home to his wife, who would be more than perfect. She would be electrifying. She would have interesting stories for him to listen to after such a long day, a flawlessly prepared dinner for him to sit down to. And then that safe bubble they created when they were together would protect them from withering the way the whites of an apple do so quickly. Theirs was a partnership that remained golden.
She could do that. She could play that part for him.
A couple questions to passing students and it was easy to find out what he taught. A girl even offered to point out where the lecture hall was for his linguistics class that morning. She opted out that first day. She didn’t want to overindulge. But by the second week, she found herself listening to him speak about the difference between phonetics and phonology.
His dark hair glistened that morning, still wet from whatever hurried shower he may have taken before arriving. She had never seen skin so immaculate. It was the pureness of it . . . the cleanliness. It was so far away from what she felt.
“Why do words sound the way they do? What started it all? These are some of the questions I’m going to help you answer this semester.”
A palpable energy spun from every one of his words. She wanted to reach out and grab at them, like a little girl catching fireflies at dusk.
She had not one idea what he was trying to convey, and she didn’t care. His grip of the room, the attention he demanded, gave her an unsteady sensation; yet the funny thing was, she had never felt so sure of anything before. This was where she was supposed to be. Her impulsive roving had rolled to a stop, like a train that finally found its station.
After each lecture, it wasn’t uncommon for a cluster of students to approach him, most of them female. She would linger in the back, observing him as he listened intently to their questions and then used his hands expressively as he answered. She would work up the courage to take the stairs down to the front of the lecture hall. But by the time this happened, he would be packing up his papers and snapping his briefcase shut.
After more than a month had passed, a sense of urgency abruptly overcame her and she was the first one to approach him.
“Ahh, the quiet one in the back. I don’t think I’ve ever caught your name?”
