Mothers, not Fathers

Jordan Muscal

 

Every morning we leave the children and the husband. We know we must return. We know it is fathers, not mothers, who are allowed to run away.

So we wake at 3:30, long before the beach grows crowded, polluted, with tourists and toddlers. We slip into the bathing suits and trainers we laid out the night before. Sneaking out of our bedrooms, as if we were never supposed to be there in the first place, we see our homes as a stranger might: the peeling wallpaper looking dingy in the low light, the carpets crusted a dark brown. The dishes in the sink, the dust on the bookshelf. This is not what we were promised. We leave our houses at 4.

Maybe you’ve seen us. We look like ghosts, don’t we? Pale apparitions in white Keds that barely touch the sidewalk. Maybe you’ve asked us where we’re going, too drunk to remember we didn’t answer when you hollered the same question yesterday. You think you’ve made us up, don’t you? Maybe you have.

We take the backroads to the coast. We’re far enough from the city that main roads are never crowded either, but backroads help us feel like we’re doing something worth being kept secret.

We’re at the beach by half past. The air’s briny and sweet, the beach empty. We help each other tuck stray curls into floral swim caps. We’ve made the mistake before, of coming home with wet hair. Our husbands sniff the air like greyhounds. We’ve made the mistake of underestimating them.

We slip into the water like ribbons. Today it is warm and only the smallest goosebumps texture our skin. Our feet sink into thick sand and we are teenagers again, summering at some East Coast lake with the rest of our family. Hope the local boys will finally notice us, eyes hugging our skin like daisy dukes. We almost regret it when they do. Years later, we’ll exchange flip-flops for heels, lip gloss for lipstick. We’ll shove our standards and dignities in the back of a closet, batting our lashes at any man who looks our way. We’ll feel we have to. Now, we swim to a buoy to warm up. We’re not sure how far it is from shore. Far enough, we decide. We swim until it’s thoughtless. Innate.

Next, we tread water. Our legs kick and make little bubbles. When we first began practicing, we could barely keep ourselves afloat for 5 minutes. Our calves would ache and stiffen. The pain reminded us of childbirth, a shadow of previous suffering. Reminded us of our limp, tender bodies in the hospital beds. Of how when the nurse came back with the baby, we wanted to run. Shake our heads no, no, no like we were little girls again. But instead, we reached out our arms, accepting this little human with our eyes and our father’s chin. We are stronger now, our legs barely sore after 15, 20 minutes.

We’re floating on our backs, eyes tracing the flight of a lone seagull, when we pause. We pause and think what if we don’t go back? What if we keep swimming? Swim until you can’t see us from shore and then swim farther still. Our husbands will manage. They will learn, as we did, how to keep the children fed and clothed and happy. If they fail, we’re sure our mother-in-laws will not hesitate to help. It is fathers, not mothers, who are allowed to fail.

And so we swim on. We don’t bother to care how we must look to you.

 

Jordan Muscal is a ninth grader in the Creative Writing Department at the High School for Performing and Visual Arts. She enjoys reading, listening to music and watching Premier League football.