the poolhouse

Karen Uhlmann

I HAVE THE DOG, TWO HOTELS, AND EIGHT HOUSES. Liza has the battleship, no hotels, twelve houses, and owns the electric and water companies. She also has a Get Out of Jail Free card, and I do not. I like to win, and Liza likes to cheat, so I am watching her carefully. She’s only eight, but sneaky. I’m almost eleven, and I don’t cheat. 

We are still playing in our damp bathing suits when Dad comes home from work and into the kitchen. He pours a drink from a bottle before he sits down next to me, placing both the bottle and his drink on the table.

“Get used to your old man, girls,” Dad says. “Looks like I’ll be home for a while.” 

He sounds funny, and I look up. He is in his gray suit staring at Mom who stops stirring the spaghetti sauce. It is Tuesday night. We eat spaghetti every Tuesday, and the kitchen smells of tomato, oregano, and beef. I am starving. 

“When’s dinner?” I ask, but Mom doesn’t answer. 

“What are you talking about?” she says to Dad and walks over from the stove to the table. A wooden spoon is in her hand, and sauce drips onto the white tile floor.  

“You want a drink?” Dad raises his glass in the air. 

There is something shiny in his eyes which scares me. His tie is loose around his neck with the buttons at the top of his shirt undone. Mom shakes her head, no, and turns back to the stove. Dad reaches over me and arranges my Monopoly money into neat piles. The rustling is the only sound until Mom drops the spoon onto the counter and turns back around. 

“Let’s go upstairs and talk,” she says. Her voice means now. 

“There’s not much to say,” Dad says, not moving. “I asked my father for a raise. You know the hours I’ve been putting in. Anyway, that bastard docked my pay for asking, so I walked.”

“David,” Mom says. I see her face turn red. Mom hates it when he swears, especially in front of Liza and me, even though sometimes she says Damn or Hell. 

“You mean Grandpa?” I ask. This is getting interesting. 

“That’s the bastard I’m talking about,” Dad says. 

Dad is vice-president of our family’s printing ink business here in Chicago. His father is president. The company makes the ink for lots of magazines like Time and Vogue. This is how I know that black is all the colors put together and not considered a real color by ink makers. The colors in white, Dad says, can only be seen in a rainbow. Or with a prism. He has a prism on his desk in the living room. 

“So, you’re not going to work? Liza asks, looking at him, with wide blue eyes. Her dark hair has dried, after swimming, into curls that twist and snake down her back. Everyone says we look alike, but my eyes are brown, and, according to Liza, the color of poop. 

“What will you do?” I ask Dad, scratching a mosquito bite on my arm until it throbs. 

“Go back to photography,” Dad says. That’s what he did before he had us. Dad’s most famous photo, two old men in speedos on the beach, hangs above the fireplace in our living room. It is the only one that is also in a museum. A small one in Texas, Dad says. The rest are in galleries, and he also used to take wedding photos. When he was younger, he traveled through India and Italy photographing, and we have a lot of these pictures in our house. The Italian photos are of Cypress trees lined up like soldiers, old houses on bumpy cobblestone streets, and nearly naked people stretched out beneath pink, red, and purple umbrellas on ocean beaches. Most of the men in the India pictures look old, but the ladies wear bright saris. Even the poor ones. He says most of the people are poor, and that India is a beautiful, sad place.

Mom drains the spaghetti. There is a woosh and a rush of steam. Dad pours more from the liquor bottle into his glass not bothering to get ice cubes. A little liquid sloshes over the side. I hate the smell, and I wish he’d move it away from my elbow.

“Can I have a Coke?” Liza asks, sensing opportunity.         

“No. Pour the milk,” Mom says. “Dinner is ready.”

“But we’re still in our bathing suits,” I say. Mine is chafing at the top of my legs. We have never eaten dinner in our bathing suits. Mom always makes us change into dry clothes. 

“It’s fine, Nat,” she says to me. “You’ll end up running through the sprinklers again after dinner. Mom tosses the salad with two big spoons. Radishes, lettuce, and carrots fly above the bowl. Liza rolls the dice and lands on Boardwalk. She begins peeling bills off her piles to buy it. “Dinner,” Mom says again. She taps the toe of her shoe and unties her apron. “Natalie, grab the salad. Liza, the milk.” 

Dad gets up to go to the dining room where the table is set. Mom moves to take his drink off the kitchen table. He snatches it back before she can get it, grinning like it is a joke. 

“How much did you have before this one?” Mom quietly asks Dad, but I hear. 

“Not nearly enough,” he says as he leaves the kitchen. 

She does not look at him when she hands him his plate at the dining room table. During dinner, no one says a word. Forks clink against plates. I am not hungry anymore. Dad, a fast eater, finishes and leans back in his chair, and Mom concentrates on twirling the noodles onto her fork. Liza slurps her spaghetti in piece by piece. “Worms,” she says after she has slurped a few. Mom doesn’t tell her to stop or to go to her room. I wish I could leave. The rule is that we need to wait until everyone is done. “My stomach hurts,” I tell Mom. She says that I don’t have to eat, but I’m not excused. 

The arguing happens that night. My room is next door to theirs, and I am supposed to be asleep. 

“What were you thinking?” Mom says loudly. Our walls are thin, and it sounds as if she is in the room with me. “You have a family.” I am lying on my side in bed, and I pull my knees into my chest, listening. 

“Calm down, okay,” Dad says. He is not yelling. “We’ll be fine. Happier. We have savings. I’ll look for a job in a couple of months. I could use a break.”

I think he may be trying to make her feel better. 

“You need to call your father and apologize. Get your job back.” She sounds angry. 

“I’m not going back there. Look at this as a new start. It doesn’t have to be a bad thing”  

“It’s irresponsible,” Mom yells. “You’ll never grow up.” 

I slide, on my side, as far as I can underneath the sheets and put a pillow over my ears, squeezing my eyes shut until I see yellow spots. I am sweating, but I stay this way for a long time. When I take the pillow off, it is quiet again. Still, I am pretty sure that whatever is happening is not over.            

Dad does not go to work the next day but stays busy. He says he needs a darkroom. He brought two carloads of raw wood planks into the basement, and, over the next week, he builds a small room in the corner. If you touch the wall, you get splinters. He installs a ventilator and a light, then brings in a developing table and an enlarger. Finally, he builds shelves for his jars of chemicals. They are poisonous, and he tells me not to go near them. A few of the bottles have a skull and crossbones.

The new pictures he takes when I am in school are different than the ones in the house. They aren’t of people or landscapes but of small things. The flash of Liza’s goldfish tail in the bowl. The curve of a tulip stem. A lady’s legs reflected in a puddle. He likes to wander alone when he photographs. I wish I could watch him work. See him find tiny, beautiful things that other people don’t notice. Sometimes he lets me stay in the darkroom while he develops the photos, and I watch the images appear slowly in their chemical bath. 

There has been no more yelling, since the first night, but I wait for it. I stay awake at night for hours listening, relieved when I hear only the buzz of the TV and low voices downstairs. Voices are good. But they hardly talk anymore. I keep thinking the silence will end, but it goes on for weeks. It might be worse than the yelling.  

On the morning we’re supposed to go to Grandpa’s, Mom calls to check to see if he will cancel, pretending we don’t know the time. He doesn’t cancel. Dad leaves his toast on the kitchen table and carries his coffee into the living room He sits in his leather chair and smokes one cigarette after another while we get ready.

Our family visits Grandpa twice a year, once in the summer and once in the winter. Liza and I barely know him or his wife. We call his wife Frenchie, her nickname for Francis, because she isn’t our real grandmother. She’s a step. Our real grandmother lives in New York, and we visit her on Thanksgiving. We don’t really know her either. Dad says she screws anything that walks. I’m not sure what he means, but I don’t think he likes her either.

After breakfast, Mom puts on a good dress, a pale, yellow linen that makes her a different, fancier person. When I peek into their room, she is putting on the flower-shaped coral earrings she got on their honeymoon in Italy. 

Then Liza starts loudly pounding on something in her room. I follow Mom as she walks down the hall to see what Liza is doing, because the noise will bother Dad who is in a bad mood. Liza is drumming on a soup pot from the kitchen. Mom tells her to stop and to brush her hair. Liza ignores her, so Mom sits her down and stands behind her detangling Liza’s hair with her fingers, gathering it into a long braid. Liza, still in her asteroid pajamas, hunches over on the floor and squirms. She does not like to be touched or hurried. During these moments, she hums. It sounds like a low growl. 

“If you don’t cooperate, I’ll cut your hair short,” Mom says. She is always threatening this, but never does. Liza keeps crouching and humming but stays still. “You can snorkel in Grandpa’s pool,” Mom says, “remember that.”

“Let’s get a move on,” Dad shouts up the stairs. I am ready, wearing shorts and my favorite sleeveless shirt which is covered with little orange flowers. My new pink bathing suit is underneath. When I go downstairs and look out the door, Dad is outside in the driveway pacing.

His hands are thrust deep into the pockets of his khaki pants and the large blue vein sticks out on his forehead. 

Liza walks down the stairs, wearing shorts and a faded navy gym shirt over her bathing suit, her snorkel and mask dangling around her neck. The breathing tube is in her hand. She looks grumpy. Mom is applying pink lipstick to her mouth as she walks through the kitchen. 

“Everyone in,” Dad calls through the screen door. We go outside and climb into our station wagon. Liza and I each take our sides in the back. Mom has made a divider with masking tape down the middle of the vinyl seat so that we don’t fight over space and hit each other. Liza is the one who hits, but sometimes I can’t help myself and slug her back. Then I get punished. My allowance or TV time is taken away. Mom and Dad say I can help it, but Liza can’t. That Liza forgets how to behave. This is not fair. I think she deserves to be hit back when I haven’t done a thing to her. Maybe it will help her remember.

Liza sits behind Mom. I am behind Dad. Mom chose the sides for us. I have the better one, because Dad doesn’t yell at me if I kick his seat. Mom does. 

“Slow down,” Mom says to Dad on our way there. He doesn’t listen, but that is okay with me. I want to get there quickly before Grandpa and Frenchie have breakfast which is the best part of the day. They are so fancy that they actually eat in bed like movie stars. Their cook brings breakfast to them on black laquear trays that open to four short legs. The last time, we got to sit on the bed with them, and Frenchie let me take sips of her coffee. It tasted sweet and creamy like warm coffee ice cream. 

Grandpa and Frenchie live half an hour away in a different Chicago suburb. Ours has houses with swing sets and wading pools in the backyards. The farther we get from our house the bigger and greener the yards are until they are so big you can’t see the houses behind the trees. 

I love Grandpa’s house but not Grandpa. He likes to pinch bottoms. Bare ones. He is fast, and he worms his fingers beneath my underwear and twists my butt skin. He has been doing this for as long as I can remember, so I try and stay out of his reach.

His house is a white brick, ivy-covered mansion with a circular driveway. When our car crunches into the pebbled driveway, I see Grandpa’s driver, Alfred, waiting for us at the kitchen door. He is brown-skinned and wrinkled. Alfred always wears a suit and tie. He has a special hat he puts on when he drives. Alfred drives, Dad says, so that Grandpa doesn’t kill people. Grandpa can’t stand to be behind any car, so he passes everyone in front of him—even if there is another car coming. 

“Just look at you girls,” Alfred says, and gives Dad a big hug. “Come in, come in.” He takes Dad by the hand and leads him into the gigantic kitchen. Stainless steel shelves filled with unfamiliar cans and boxes line the walls, and white marble counters support mountains of fruit, tins of cookies, and empty platters.  

Mrs. Schmidt is in the kitchen. She’s the cook. Mrs. Schmidt is Austrian and speaks with an accent. She is tall, kind of fat, and has a Schnauzer named Lou who sleeps in a little bed in the kitchen. I wonder if Mrs. Schmidt moves Lou into her room behind the kitchen when she goes to bed, or if he stays here. Mrs. Schmidt wears a gray uniform which matches Lou and her hair. Her apron is crisp and white, and I can never take my eyes off her. She is the fastest, most precise person I’ve ever seen—a cross between a robot and a ballerina. 

“First things first,” she mutters to me, as she lays two small glass bowls on the long, steel counter. She fills the bowls with peach jam and takes a butter mold from the freezer. She turns the mold over, using a toy-size spatula to unstick eight butter shells onto small plates. She places them beside silver bowls full of sugar cubes and large, white cloth napkins. Then the ballerina act begins. This is my favorite part. Liza likes to watch too, even though she’s not interested in the assembling of the trays. She sits on the floor and pets Lou until the cooking starts.  

Mrs. Schmidt drops a big chunk of butter into an enormous frying pan. When the butter foams—crack—she adds the eggs. They land perfectly. A smaller pan sizzles with delicious smelling sausages. While the eggs and sausages cook, she puts four slices of white bread into an enormous toaster. She moves with absolute grace. When the toast pops, she heavily butters each slice and slides them into two toast racks. With one quick turn, the eggs and the sausages are out of the pans and onto the plates.

Mrs. Schmidt places both the black trays onto a larger tray and carries it toward the back stairs. We trail behind her, and I watch as her butt moves from side to side as she climbs up. I wonder why it does this. Mom’s butt doesn’t move that way. On the second floor, she lumbers down the green carpeted hallway and knocks on Grandpa and Frenchie’s bedroom door. “Come in,” says Frenchie’s voice. I turn the knob for Mrs. Schmidt, and she sets the big tray on a dresser. 

“Well, look who’s here,” Frenchie says. She is sitting up in a silky green nightgown smoking a cigarette. Her blond hair is down, not in its usual bun. There are black smears beneath her eyes. Grandpa is beside her in striped pajamas reading the newspaper. He has glasses on and almost no hair left on his head, just a few silvery wisps on a round, pink scalp. Like a baby’s head.

“There’re my girls,” he says looking up, and goes back to the paper. Frenchie sips her coffee. 

Mrs. Schmidt places one tray before Frenchie and one before Grandpa. Then she opens the green-and-white striped curtains to let the light in. We climb onto the big bed and sprawl next to Frenchie. I stay far away from Grandpa.

After they finish eating, Liza and I pick jammy toast crusts off the plates. Frenchie lights another cigarette and Grandpa keeps reading. They don’t seem to notice we are here until Liza recites fifteen constellations alphabetically for Frenchie. “That’s amazing,” she says. Frenchie doesn’t know that Liza repeats them so often, we have to tell her to stop.

Mom and Dad have delayed their hellos by staying in the kitchen drinking coffee with Mrs. Schmidt and Alfred. Mrs. Schmidt and Alfred have worked at the house since Dad was a boy, and he says they took care of him. Grandpa and my real grandmother used to travel a lot. They have been divorced since before I was born, but when Dad was growing up, they took cruises around the world that lasted for months. When they were home, they went to parties and to their country club in the evenings. Dad always says this was for the best because his parents weren’t very good at being parents. 

“We were never close,” Dad says, which is hard for me to understand. How can you not be close to your parents? But when I ask, all he says is, “it happens.” 

Mom and Dad finally appear. “Dad,” my father says and slowly walks over to Grandpa. He hugs his father, who is still in bed, holding himself as far away as he can and still have it be a hug. Neither says anything about Dad’s quitting. Mom kisses Frenchie on the cheek then walks around the bed and kisses Grandpa’s. 

“You’re looking gorgeous, doll,” Grandpa says as Mom, leans over him. When she stands up, he pats her butt. She steps away, fake smiles, and looks mad. Dad sees the butt pat but says nothing. He never does. 

“Thanks, Frank,” Mom says using the stiff voice she uses with pushy salesmen or people she doesn’t like. She tells us, “We’re going to the pool house to change into our suits. Swim some laps. We’ll meet you outside.”   

I reach over to Frenchie’s tray and pluck a sugar cube from the bowl. Sugar is banned in our house. Frenchie lights a cigarette, and I slide toward her to dunk the cube in her coffee. “I’m going to tell, Mom,” Liza says, and then she takes a cube and does the same thing. Frenchie doesn’t care. She acts as if we are here every morning. I’m not sure if she cares about anything, although Dad says she cares about money. And that she deserves it for marrying Grandpa. 

By the time the sugar bowl is empty, we’re dying to swim, but Mom has told us it’s impolite to be impatient. We are guests. So, we must wait for them to get up. Frenchie exhales a puff of smoke in the direction of Grandpa. He is propped up with pillows, still reading the newspaper, and doesn’t look at her. 

“Oh,” she says, “the presents.” She stubs her cigarette out in the butter dish. Sometimes we get presents, sometimes not. Usually, they’re not very good. The last ones were necklaces, a pearl in a spikey setting that scratched our necks, so we never wore them. Frenchie fumbles around in the drawer of the nightstand and takes out two Caribbean Cruise Barbies in their shiny see-through boxes. I look at Liza. Her mouth hangs open. This is not only a good present but forbidden. 

We are not allowed to have Barbies, and I have wanted a Barbie more than anything. Mom says real women don’t look like that, and I wish they did. Mom almost never wears makeup and keeps her dark brown hair short as a boy’s. Other mothers at my school wear pretty dresses and makeup. I love the way they look. Dad doesn’t like my mom to wear makeup, and says she is beautiful just like Audrey Hepburn. 

Barbie’s plastic legs and arms feel cool and smooth in my hand. She has long blond hair and a one-piece pink swimsuit that is cut out in the middle showing her stomach. I touch her hair which doesn’t feel as good as I expected. It’s kind of stiff. 

“Don’t tell Mom,” I whisper to Liza. “Hide it under your shirt.” For once, she listens to me and sticks it in the waistband of her shorts. “I’m changing her name from Barbie to Cassiopeia,” she says. “She’s a constellation and a queen.” 

“Scooch over and let me out,” Frenchie says to me. When she throws back the duvet, it just misses the breakfast tray. She pulls a matching green robe over her nightgown and pads barefoot to the white marble bathroom. I yank Liza off the bed, away from Grandpa, to follow her. I want to keep Liza far from him. I’m older, and I know what to expect.  

Last time we were here, we arrived and walked into the den where Grandpa immediately stuck his hand down my underpants right in front of Mom and Dad. They kept chatting with Frenchie as if nothing was happening. I had hoped someone would tell him to cut it out, but no one did. When I finally told him to stop, he laughed and called me silly. I tried to do what I always do, make believe that I wasn’t there. It did not work, but sometimes I am able to feel as if I am floating up towards the ceiling or out a window. That I am no longer attached to my body. Then it doesn’t frighten me as much. 

In our school’s safety class, my teacher, Mrs. Ludwig, told us that adults are not supposed to touch your privates without permission. And that the person who touches you should be a parent or a doctor. So, even though my parents act as if this is normal, I am not sure it is.

When I told Dad that Grandpa’s butt twisting upset me, Dad said Grandpa is a dirty old man and to just stay away. I try to stay away. It’s impossible. I also told Mom again, in case she missed it, and all she says is “he does the same thing to me.”

So, I didn’t mention it after that.

I think about Mom’s answer sometimes when we watch animal shows where tigers carry babies in their mouths and mothers are ferocious about protecting their children. I wish Mom were more like a tiger or a bear. I picture her snarling and clawing at Grandpa. And maybe biting off his bald, pink, baby head.

I’m almost in Frenchie’s bathroom when Liza darts away. “I’m going to see Mrs. Schmidt,” she says. This means cookies. My favorite cookies. Buttery half-moons with powdered sugar that melt in your mouth. For a moment I’m tempted, but I want to see Frenchie’s bathroom which is usually a mess. Frenchie says she does not like “the help” around when they are in the bedroom. A red dress lies crumpled on the floor next to a pair of red shoes with pointy toes and thin, sharp heels that look as if they could kill you. White fluffy monogramed towels are tossed on the floor, and streaks of white powder smudge the counter. I’m always a little shocked that grownups do this with their clothes. At home, we are not allowed to leave even a sock on the floor, and no one ever does.  

Frenchie takes off her robe and nightgown and pulls a black bathing suit over her loose white skin that looks soft and crinkly like wadded up tissue paper. I try not to stare, but I can’t help it. Bits of Frenchie’s bosom pop over the top her suit. She slides her feet into a pair of black leather thongs and loudly sings out “Swimming time!” 

Liza comes running upstairs from the kitchen, and Frenchie leads us downstairs to the back door. The Barbies’ plastic hands and feet poke into our stomachs underneath our shirts. 

“Come along, children,” she says, and I’m pretty sure she can’t remember our names.  

The pool is at the end of a long winding stone path completely lined with trees. When we round a bend, it magically appears. Dad is scooping dead wasps floating on the surface out with a net, knowing we will refuse to get in until the pool is wasp-free. Frenchie takes a blue towel from a pile in a basket and lowers herself into a long chair. Liza sits on the side with her feet in the water waiting for Dad to finish. Mom, in her yellow-and-white daisy swimsuit, lies on her stomach reading on a towel on the grass.

One great thing about the pool besides the water is that nobody else is here. Liza and I are used to the chaos of the public pool, slippery and loud with children. Another fantastic thing is the small refrigerator inside the pool house filled with Cokes and small green bottles of Schweppes bitter lemon, ginger ale, and tonic. Above the fridge, cabinets contain rows of bar glasses and bottles of liquor for just the pool. Another wonderful thing is the pool house bathroom. The toilet and sink are painted with blue-and-gold angels who are dancing and flying. The sink faucets are also gold, I think real. 

I know my dad isn’t happy living here, but if I could live in this mansion with this pool, I’d be happy. I keep this a secret. My parents hate this house and this life. They care about world hunger, carpools, and chore charts. But I love fancy things. I want to live in a house that looks like a castle. Like the one in The Beverly Hillbillies with an enormous winding staircase.  I keep this a secret too. It makes me a little bit ashamed.  

Jumping into the deep end of the pool, I feel the shock of the cool water and bob up and down. For a while, I lie on my back floating and stare at the sky with its still, puffy clouds. I pretend I am far away. Maybe in China or France. Then, I swim back and forth, alternating between the crawl, the sidestroke, and the breaststroke, until I’m tired. Liza splashes around in the shallow end.  She can swim, but she doesn’t like the deep end because she can’t touch the bottom. Dad is lying, eyes shut, on the edge of the pool next to where she’s playing. 

After I dry off, I go by myself to explore the gardens. I pick a yellow snapdragon that matches Mom’s suit. I pull off a bud, go to her and pop it in her face, moving it open and shut with my fingers like a mouth. It looks like a little fish gobbling the air. She keeps reading, so I go into the pool house for a bitter lemon. I’m taking off the cap when I hear someone come in. It’s Grandpa. He’s in a swimsuit.

“There you are,” he says. “Natasha, my little beauty.” 

He always calls me by another name. Naomi, Nell, Nora. I nod hello but put down the soda and head for the door behind him. Before I get there, he reaches out and grabs my shoulders. My suit is wet, and he has trouble getting his fingers underneath it, but when he manages, he moves his fingers roughly, and I hear him breathing loudly and smell coffee and cigarettes. It hurts and I’m scared. I try to wriggle away, but he has a firm hold on my arms. Suddenly, I feel a burning pain. Without thinking, I turn and push him as hard as I can. I’m surprised when he stumbles back and lets go. Before I run, I see his finger with my blood on it. 

I want to scream but nothing comes out. I know I must move fast. I dash past the pool and my parents until I reach the other side of the garden where there is a small shed. I open the door. Inside it smells musty, and when my eyes get used to the darkness, I see that it’s filled with bags of dirt, a lawnmower, and gardening tools. My heart is still pounding, and I wonder if I’m too young to die of a heart attack. Probably. I sink onto a bag of dirt and pull my suit to the side at my crotch. I’m bleeding, not too much, but my suit is stained. I realize if I can’t get the blood out, I will have to tell Mom what happened. What if she thinks it’s my fault? Or blames me for not pushing Grandpa sooner? Mom and Dad think a lot of things are my fault, but usually it’s stuff that has to do with Liza. They say that I’m not patient enough and should be more mature with her. I try, but it’s hard to be mature all the time.

No one is around when I peek out the door. I find my way to a garden hose that is coiled on one of the gravely paths. I quickly take off my suit and rinse the bottom. I hurry because I don’t like being naked outside where anyone could come along. Most of the blood comes off. After I put the suit back on, I don’t want to go back to the pool or the house, so I walk to the car, get in the back seat, and close the door.   

“Natalie,” I hear my mother scream. I must have fallen asleep. The car door opens, and I sit up.

“We’ve been looking all over for you. I was scared to death. What are you doing in the car?” She leans in and smacks the top of my leg hard. Although she threatens to give me a smack all the time, she hardly ever does. 

“Ouch,” I say, trying to blink back tears. 

“You deserve that for pulling a stunt like this and worrying everyone.” Then she notices a small trickle of blood near the welt of her smack. 

“Oh my, God. Did you start your period?” 

I shake my head, no. She has recently explained the whole disgusting thing to me. The blood, the pads, the fact that I will be able to get pregnant. I hate the whole idea, but she says menstruation will be something to celebrate because it marks the beginning of my womanhood. I don’t want womanhood.

“How did you hurt yourself?” she asks. I don’t want to tell her, although she sounds more concerned than angry. Now I wonder if I will get in trouble for pushing Grandpa.

I begin blubbering and can’t stop.

“You didn’t stick anything up there?” she asks, sounding alarmed. 

The thought of this upsets me further. What would I stick up myself, and why would she think that? “No. I want to go home.” 

“Not until you tell me what happened.” I’m not sure if she’s worried or angry. Sometimes it’s hard to tell. 

“Grandpa grabbed me in the pool house and stuck his fingers inside me.” 

“Did you have your clothes on?”

I wonder why this would make a difference. “My swimsuit.” 

She is silent for a second, frowning at me. 

“You’ll be okay. Go clean yourself up and get dressed,” she says in an unfamiliar shaky voice.

“You remember how I told you menstruation is a private thing. This should be too. Something to be kept between us.” She turns and walks toward the house. 

“But what if he does it to Liza? She’s smaller, and she’d be so scared.” 

Mom doesn’t hear me. She’s already gone through the door. 

“What about Liza?” I shout out the car door into the empty driveway. But what I really mean is what about me.