the wading pool
debra purdy kong
The wading pool’s clear, turquoise water is calm in the sunshine at Rocky Point Park. Maureen watches her three year old daughter run toward the pool, carrying a plastic tube half her height.
“slow down, please, Chelsea,” Maureen calls as she struggles with the picnic basket and the rest of her daughter’s things. Chelsea wanted to bring all of her floatable toys, and Maureen was too tired to argue with her. Between her job downtown and work at home, she rarely feels rested, but there are bills to pay and Chelsea’s education to consider. She still hasn’t found the courage to ask her boss for time off to think about other financial priorities.
At the edge of the pool, Chelsea turns to her. “I want to go in the water.”
“You’ll need some sunscreen first.”
Maureen plunks the basket on a nearby bench. Already hot and sticky, she glances at the cloudless sky. As she applies the lotion, Maureen cringes at the purple nail polish on Chelsea’s fingers and toes. Last night they played dress-up, and this morning she forgot to remove the varnish.
“Be careful, honey, the pool’s slippery,” Maureen cautions. Last week, the pool maintenance woman told her people had complained about the surface, and that it would soon be repainted.
Minutes later, eight children are in the water while the adults sunbathe or read. Maureen doesn’t see the baby until he’s two feet from the pool. He can’t be more then ten or eleven months old, but his stiff-legged steps are determined. Tiny fists are raised close to his chest and a slight frown wrinkles his brow. Two women, right behind him, chat with one another until three little boys try to pull the shorter woman into the pool.
“Come on in, mom.”
“No way,” she laughs.
“Nathan’s mom is going in,” one of the boys says.
“Nathan’s too little to be in the water by himself.” Maureen thinks the woman entering the water doesn’t look old enough for motherhood. Light brown hair falls to her waist, a rose tattoo decorates her ankle. The young woman glances at her, then redirects the baby towards the pool’s edge. When he climbs out of the water, she removes his wet t-shirt, exposing frail, white skin. The second his navy blue cap is plunked back on his head, off he goes again.
“Hayley,” her friend calls, “did you put sunblock on him?”
“I didn’t bring any,” she answers.
Maureen pulls a newspaper from her bag, then scans the headlines. When she looks up she sees the baby head toward Chelsea in the middle of the water. Hayley sits on the bench on the west side of the pool and lights a cigarette. Maureen wants to tell her how slippery the surface is, but isn’t sure she’d appreciate the advice. Besides, she’ll probably jump in when she sees him.
At the center, the water is up to the baby’s ribs. Maureen glances at Hayley who’s dragging on her cigarette. Two feet from Chelsea, he slips and falls face down in the water. His bulky diapers and blue cap bob on the surface as he rolls back and forth. A panicky, inner voice orders Maureen to do something; yet his mom’s sitting right there, surely she’ll help him. Maureen watches his tiny body struggle to turn over. She wants to look at Hayley, but is afraid he’ll go under if she turns away. His body squirms in the growing panic.
Maureen kicks off her sandals; she glances at Hayley who stands up and takes a last puff of her cigarette before tossing it on the ground. Suddenly her friend shouts “Nathan!” then rushes into the pool. She scoops up the baby who blinks and begins to cough. The woman examines him a moment, then pats his back.
“Ellen,” Hayley calls, “is he all right?”
“I think so.”
Maureen can’t understand why Hayley doesn’t run over to see for herself. If Chelsea had lost her footing she’d be comforting her with hugs and kisses. If Chelsea had fallen she would have been in the water in two seconds. She blushes because she didn’t jump in for Nathan, and she’d assumed how another person would react to a sight so unexpected and alarming it had seemed almost unbelievable.
As she watches Nathan, Maureen wonders why he doesn’t cry from fear or shock. He doesn’t make a sound as Ellen carries him out of the water, then hands him to Hayley.
Hayley holds her baby, but doesn’t talk to him, nor does he appear to seek comfort from her. Now that she thinks about it, Maureen hasn’t seen Hayley talk to him since they arrived. Hayley sees her watching, and returns the stare until Maureen backs off, temporarily. She waits for Hayley to comfort her child; instead, she takes Nathan’s diaper off while he turns his head away, as if bored. Again, Hayley looks at Maureen who suddenly watches Chelsea sweep her plastic tube along the water’s surface. When a couple of parents call their kids out of the water, she studies the expressions on their faces. Behind the sunglasses, it’s hard to tell what their reactions are to Nathan’s accident.
Once the baby is dressed, Ellen helps Hayley pack her diaper bag. As they stroll behind her bench Maureen swiftly turns to them. “Is your little boy all right?”
“He’s fine,” Hayley answers bluntly.
“People have complained how slippery the pool is,” she says. “Its’ supposed to be repainted soon.”
“Maybe they should get off their butts and do it,” Ellen remarks as one of the boys wraps his arms around her waist.
Watching Hayley lag behind Nathan on the gravel footpath, Maureen prays Ellen’s relationship with her sons will rub off on her friend. Soon, Chelsea is the last child in the water, but she loses interest in her tube and steps out. Maureen stuffs the newspaper in her bag, then checks to see if the pool maintenance woman is close by.
“Come on, sweetheart,” she says as she drapes a towel over Chelsea’s shoulders. “I want to talk to the people who look after the pool.”
Chelsea gazes at her. “Why?”
“Because it’s one thing I can do to keep children from getting hurt,” she says. Holding hands, they walk away, leaving the clear, turquoise water calm in the sunshine.
Won first place in Housewife-Writer’s Forum, 1992.
Previously published in Women’s Work, 1993.
