The Petal Pool

The Petal Pool Keri Miller (bio) A gaggle of elementary schoolers splash and shout in the pool. I approach the teenage lifeguards, none of whom look like they could save me. "Sounds like a flock of sea birds," I say to the girl lifeguard, the boss in the tall chair, but what I mean is: can I swim? I need to swim because of this tumor in my shoulder. "After-care swims on Fridays now," she says. "But I'll keep this lane clear." She shoos some youths away. There are two other lifeguards. A lanky guy with curls cut into a mushroom top like some off-brand Mississippi Timothée Chalamet. He glances up at me and a quick firing of synapses I cannot control pushes the question—Does he think I'm hot?—through my brain. He returns his bored eyes to his phone. The other guard is bulked-up and nervous; he paces the deck, whistle ready on his lips. I do some stretches. I count the children: thirty-four. Too many. A couple of quiet arthritics are fine, but I prefer to be alone in the pool so I can float and pretend I'm a castaway. On the island in my mind, I live off crabmeat, am very trim, and coconuts cure me. I put on my goggles and slide into the cool blue. I swim fast to warm up; well, fast for me. My right arm is restricted by the tumor like a piece of gum is stuck in the gears of my shoulder. With each stroke, my rotator cuff pops, and my right hand falls short of the left. I imagine myself from below, like an uneven Vitruvian Woman, or like the ill-fated hottie at the beginning of Jaws. There's still a part of me that fears the deep end of any pool, like something could be lurking below: watching, waiting. The water is foggy from the commotion of children. They do handstands. Underwater tea parties. Marco! Polo! Cannonball contests. They hold up one to ten fingers, rating each jumper. Boys smack foam noodles on the surface of the water. STAAAHP! some girls shriek. A kid with a slick rat tail is hanging on the floating divider, kicking his rude legs in my lane. In the shallow end, a pod of preteens gossips: crushes, in-school suspensions, who is and is not allowed to shave. I hate the part of me that worries they'll notice my neglected bikini zone, the hobbit furs on my big toes. I swim and I swim. Lost things of the children float by: a Sesame Street Band-Aid, scrunchies, a single braid. In the middle of the pool, where the shallow end slopes to the deep, there's this redheaded boy all alone. He wears a mask and holds his breath. His pale skin is covered in freckles, like a sugar cookie rolled in paprika. Before the tumor, before radiation, before medical leave, before moving back to Mississippi so my mom could take care of me, I taught fourth grade in Memphis. This kid is a fourth grader; I'd bet money on it. I can't explain why, but he looks like an Isaac. The mass of little bodies makes for choppy seas, and I swallow a bit of water while backstroking. I've gotten better, though never great, at lap swimming. It is the only thing that makes me feel alright. The tumor is benign, so I'm probably not going to die, at least not right now, but it hurts like hell. Inoperable. Incurable. Wrapped around my nerves. About fifteen minutes in, I get frightfully bored and End Page 88 almost quit. This happens every time. To shake things up, I go to the middle of the pool and stretch underwater. This kid Isaac watches me. He holds his breath for a long time. So I put on a show for him. I float on my back. I dolphin dive. I do some twists and touch my toes. But I also do some boring physical therapy stuff like pretend I'm washing my hair or clasping on a bra. I imagine growing...