What the Water Knows

The pool lights flickered underwater—a sickly green that made everything look submerged, even the air. Maria swam laps at 2 AM because sleep had become a stranger since the diagnosis. Her hair, already thinning from the chemo, plastered against her skull like seaweed. She used to have thick dark waves that Hector would bury his hands in. Now she was becoming someone else, someone without hair, without Hector, possibly without time.

She touched the drain at the deep end and felt something tangled there. Hair—long, blonde, defiant. Not hers. She pulled it free and held the wet clump in her palm, suddenly furious at this stranger who still had what Maria had lost. Who was she? Some teenager who'd sneaked in with friends? A mistress swimming in her marriage bed?

The next morning, Maria found her father's baseball card collection in the garage—boxes she'd avoided since his funeral three years ago. She opened one and there it was: the 1952 Mickey Mantle, his pride. He'd given her her first glove when she was seven, taught her to throw a curveball that made boys' jaws drop. Baseball had been their language, the way they said "I love you" without saying it.

Her mother had thrown herself into this same pool six months after Daddy died. Maria had found her floating face-up, hair fanned like mermaid silk around her head. The police said accidental drowning, but Maria knew better. Her mother had never learned to swim.

She returned to the pool that night with the Mantle card and the clump of blonde hair. She lowered herself into the water, card in hand, and let herself sink to the bottom. Held her breath until her lungs burned. The hair she'd found? It was the same color as her mother's. The same length. Some things don't leave. They just wrap around the drain and wait.