Chlorine and Citrus

Margaret stood at the edge of the pool, her robe half-open, exposing the surgical tape still adhering to her abdomen. The water was an impossible blue—a lie, really. Nobody's water was that color without heavy chemicals.

"Are you coming in?" David called from the deep end. He treaded water, his silver hair plastered against his skull like a second skin. He looked younger somehow, buoyed by the water's forgiveness.

"In a minute." She fingered the pill bottle in her pocket—vitamin D, the doctor had said. For bone density, for recovery, for the life she was supposed to be grateful to still have. The irony wasn't lost on her. Three months of radiation, and now she was supposed to swallow sunshine in gelatin capsules.

The orange tree near the property line had dropped fruit across the deck. Some had rotted there, attracting flies. Others—impossibly perfect—gleamed in the afternoon light. David had planted it twenty years ago, back when they still believed in permanence.

"The water's perfect," he said.

Margaret thought of how perfectly still she'd lain on that table, how the overhead lights had been the same merciless white as hospital tiles. She thought of the vitamin supplements lining her bathroom counter, a colorful reminder that her body was no longer trustworthy.

"I don't want to swim," she said.

David stopped treading water. He sank slightly, then recovered. "You used to love it."

"I used to be a lot of things."

She bent down, picked up one of the fallen oranges. Its skin was already beginning to soften, but when she dug her thumbnail in, the spray was sharp and sudden. The scent hit her—citrus and memory. The tree had been a housewarming gift from his mother, dead ten years now. Everything they owned was a monument to someone who'd left.

The pool's surface reflected the sky, that same endless blue that promised tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. But Margaret had learned what tomorrows could cost.

"Margaret?" David's voice had changed. He knew.

She dropped the orange. It rolled across the concrete and stopped at the water's edge, a small sun against the artificial blue.

"I'm done swimming," she said, untucking her robe. "I'm just—done."

The pool continued its gentle lapping against the sides. Somewhere, a vitamin D capsule sat waiting on her nightstand. But not here. Not anymore.