“Marla, come on,” Suz insists as they enter the pool area. “If you’re not naked, that somehow makes us more naked.”
“You can’t be more or less naked than naked,” Marla says.
“So, those over there are the cold pools,” Phoebe whispers. “Fifty-five degrees.”
“Sounds painful,” Marla says.
“Apparently,” Phoebe says, reading from the literature, “cold pools help with inflammation, boost your immune system, cure your depression—”
“Fix your relationship with your mother-in-law,” Suz adds.
“And sometimes go grocery shopping for you,” Nat adds.
The women all separate into different tubs, each going on their own journey. Or maybe they just want an excuse to have some time alone. Marla goes to the hottest pool, and Phoebe gets in the cold one simply because it’s the one that promises to cure depression, though she knows that’s not how depression works. There is no quick fix, and sometimes trying to fix it only made it worse. Going to yoga three times a week only confirmed that she was truly a lost cause since not even yoga could make her feel better. But what else can a person do except keep trying? And the cold pool is easy enough. All she has to do is sit in it and be cold. Success, she thinks, as her toes start to go numb. She can feel herself start to relax, until Lila joins her.
“Gary’s mother cornered me for the third time this morning and asked why God has not yet made an appearance at this wedding,” Lila whispers as soon as she gets in. “I was like, Oh no, I completely forgot to invite him.”
Lila says it hasn’t been easy being so annoyed with a woman who has the beginnings of dementia.
“It feels truly evil to get mad at her,” Lila says. “But how many times do I have to explain that I’m godless? That I can’t get married at a church, because what church? I don’t have a church!”
She said she doesn’t believe in anything, except money. And what’s so bad about that? Money keeps the mansions upright on Bellevue, does it not? Money makes art, does it not? Money makes the world handicapped accessible, does it not? Did God do that? Maybe. If God made money.
“But Gary’s mother thinks that the marriage will be invalid unless I do it at a church. And who knew Gary’s family was that Catholic? Like, Marla and Gary never talk about God. They must be traumatized or something.”
Phoebe looks at her. “You’re paying a lot of money to relax right now. I suggest you try.”
“I’ve never been very comfortable relaxing,” Lila says. But then she slips a little farther into the water. “What do we do, just like, sit here? It’s so cold. Marla’s right. I don’t get it.”
“Take a breath,” Phoebe says.
The pool is so cold, the shock of it hasn’t worn off yet. But Phoebe likes the shock—likes how it reminds her she’s alive.
“Oh, remind me to tell you about my dream later,” Lila says. “It was about Jim. And it was awful.”
“Take another breath,” Phoebe says, and so Lila takes a deep breath. She leans her head back. She doesn’t seem to care that the hem of her fake veil sits in the water. Soon, the whole room quiets down, and it feels nice again. There is only the sound of water, dripping from each woman as they get out of a pool and into another. There is, finally, peace. Quiet unity among them as they silently pass each other until their journeys are complete.
BY THE TIME they return to the hotel, Phoebe feels truly relaxed. So does Lila, whose face looks lost in some dream. When she is stopped by Jim in the lobby, it takes her a long moment to figure out what he’s saying.
“We have a problem,” Jim says. He has the red face of a man who has either been drinking all day or golfing all day or both. “Somebody fucked the vintage car in the parking lot.”
Nobody understands what this means, especially not the bride.
“Somebody fucked it up?” Lila asks.
“No. Somebody fucked it.”
The other women give Lila a little wave goodbye like this is none of their business. Suz mouths, Shower, before they all take off, but Lila doesn’t notice.
“I hear the words you are saying, Jim, but I truly don’t understand,” Lila says.
“I truly don’t know how else to say it, Lila. That’s what happened. The vintage car was … fucked.”
Lila stands there as if he just tossed a bucket of red paint on her.
“Right,” Phoebe interjects. “But I think our confusion is … what does that mean exactly?”
“Somebody literally stuck their dick in the tailpipe and ya know.”
“Ya know?” Lila asks.
“Ya know,” Jim says.
“Why would anyone do that to my wedding car?”
“Why would anyone do that to any car?” Jim asks.
“How does someone do that?” Phoebe is genuinely curious. She’s having trouble visualizing it, when Gary walks in with his golf clubs. Lila goes to him at once.
“Somebody fucked our car, Gary,” Lila says.
“Excuse me?” Gary asks.
He sets down the clubs, and a man in burgundy takes them away.
“Tell him, Jim,” Lila says, as if she had been there when it happened, as if now in front of Gary who knows nothing, Jim and Lila are the couple, the bearers of bad news, telling Gary what happened.
“Well, I was putting my clubs back into my car, and I saw the car just sitting there in the sunlight, and I thought, God, now that’s a beautiful vehicle,” Jim says.
