Can we bring soap? Baby asks.
Sure. Why not?
But we drink that water. She shakes her head. I smile. If she knew the sign for duh, she would have made it.
We’ll bathe far from where we get water for drinking. It’s a big lake, Baby.
Maybe—she looks at me slyly—you can teach me to swim.
No. It would be too much noise, I explain. Baby frowns and twirls her hair. She’s started pulling out strands lately. I tell her to stop, but she still tugs at it when she thinks I’m not looking.
Leave your hair alone. Do you want to be bald?
She pouts. She looks at her book for a while, then signs, I’m hungry.
It’s not dark yet. You can’t eat. Usually before daybreak I unwrap some food for us to eat, but I didn’t have a chance to last night. We barely found the basement in time. It is the closest we’ve ever cut it to being out at first light.
Baby pulls at her hair again. I don’t know if it is from the stress or the boredom, but she needs something more than surviving the day. I need something more too. We are stuck.
The lake is beautiful at night, even a dark, cloudy night like tonight. It’s strange to see the city skyline illuminated only by faint moonlight. Gone are the days of light pollution, and I wish I could remember the last time I saw the city at night from the lake, and who I was with. Fourth of July with my father? Out during the summer with Sabrina?
We avoid the harbor area, where boats, half sunk, jut dangerously from the water. They could not survive the first winter in the ice-covered lake. Later I may look for a lifeboat or a dingy, something to take Baby out farther into the water.
It’s cold. The way Baby moves her hands is the sign language equivalent of shouting.
It’s good. I’ve already dunked myself in the water and am trying to convince Baby to wade in deeper than her ankles. If you just come in a little more, you’ll get used to it.
She folds her arms across her chest and moves a little farther into the water. She’s shivering. I hold out my hand to her. She was happy to strip down for relief from the sweltering, humid heat, but when faced with the cold expanse of water, she shied away.
Come on, don’t be afraid.
I’m not afraid. She inches forward, taking small, dramatic steps.
If you come out here I’ll wash your hair. I hold the bottle of shampoo up and shake it temptingly.
Oh, all right. She plunges into the water, splashing slightly. I eye the shore. We aren’t being very loud, but I’m still concerned. I don’t know if They can swim.
Baby’s eyes are distractingly white, reflecting the moon. I can’t help but think how eerie it is, as she makes her way toward me. She blinks and her eyes look normal again, a trick of the light.
I stand where I know her head will be above the water. Her teeth chatter slightly with the shock of the cold and she opens her mouth wide to stop the noise.
You’ll be warm once you get used to it, I tell her. I squirt the shampoo into my hand and massage it onto her head. We can do this every night in the summer, but maybe we will get used to a bath once a week during the cool months, and not at all in the winter.
I scrub Baby’s scalp with my fingers while she holds the shampoo bottle. She squeezes it to make bubbles in the water.
Okay, now hold your nose and dunk your head.
She takes a deep breath, puffs out her cheeks, and holds her nose. She slowly lowers her head into the lake, her eyes open wide. She wants to see what is under the water.
Close your eyes, I quickly sign. You’ll get soap in them.
She snaps her eyes shut just as her head disappears. I see her outline under the water, her hands in her hair trying to rinse out the shampoo. When her head breaks the surface, she grins.
Feel better? I ask.
I like taking baths in the lake. Her blond hair shines in the moonlight.
Baby, would you like to learn how to float?
She nods eagerly. I put my hand on her back. Lie flat.
On what?
On the water, like it’s a bed. Take a deep breath first.
Baby gulps in some air and moves back into my hand. I push up slightly and Baby’s feet rise. She instinctively holds her arms out on the water’s surface. When I feel she is stable, I let go, holding my hand above her face so she can see my gestures.
See . . . you’re floating by yourself.
Baby smiles, afraid to move.
Keep breathing and you won’t sink, I promise.
I wash my hair while Baby drifts. It’s nice to feel clean. The cold water is refreshing, especially after the heat of day. We are stuck inside without air-conditioning and it’s so hard to sleep when it’s hot.
Baby jerks upright suddenly.
What?
I felt something, against my leg. She looks down into the water, searching.
It was probably a fish.
What if They live under the water? She starts to head back to shore.
They don’t. They don’t like the lake.
What if there is a new kind, like the ones in the ship. What if They like being in the water? She looks around wildly, unsure of where to head to safety.
They couldn’t live down there. I try to calm her.
Mermaids do. She is already to our pile of belongings, putting her dirty clothes on over her wet body. I follow her over.
Mermaids are just a story, I tell her.
She looks up at me, tearful. No they’re not. Mermaids are from Before. Like horses. You said horses could live in the sea.
Seahorses aren’t horses that live in the sea . . . I start to explain but stop myself. It doesn’t really matter if she has the Before straight in her head. She can believe in mermaids and horses that live in the sea if she wants.
You’re right, I tell her. But mermaids and seahorses have a special way of breathing under the water. The monsters don’t.
Baby looks out over the lake, searching for creatures or maybe for mermaids.
I rummage in my bag and hand her a bundle. You can leave those smelly old clothes. I pilfered the house while she was asleep.
Baby takes the clothes and examines them. We have to wear dark, neutral colors so we won’t stick out at night, but I found a practical brown dress, something that will keep her cool in the summer heat and still be good to run in if we need to escape. Baby holds it out in front of her, smoothing down the fabric. She pulls it on over her head.
It’s a little too big, but Baby doesn’t seem to care. She twirls around, making the bottom of the dress billow out into a bell shape.
Thank you, Amy.
You’re welcome. I also took clothes for myself, some dark jeans and a black T- shirt. I got the shirt from a stuffy, messy room plastered with rock posters, a dusty guitar in the corner.
