“A fine way to treat me,” she said, pulling a brush through Lucy’s wet hair, yanking out tangles that caused the child to scream. “I didn’t have to bring you here today, didn’t have to try and make it fun for you.”

She finished brushing Lucy’s hair. Already, with the heat, it was drying and turning back into coils. She shook her head. The kid was so damn pretty; it was hard to stay mad at her. She chucked her under the chin. “Let’s forget the trouble, kiddo, ’kay?”

Lucy nodded, rubbing her nose.

“You wanna get dressed here?”

“Don’t be silly, Mama. And have everyone see me buck naked?”

“We can get you changed in the ladies’ room. It’s right over there.” She took Lucy’s hand and began leading her off the beach, to the small cinderblock building at its edge.

Then something caused her to stop. A man and a woman were ahead of them, about a hundred yards away, maybe a little more. But even from the back, she recognized him…the dusting of freckles across his broad shoulders, the way his dark hair curled at the nape of his neck. They were hand in hand, laughing. She had short red hair, a pixie cut. He let go of her hand and slid his arm around her slender waist, pulling her close.

Lucy tugged and suddenly she realized her daughter was there. “C’mon, Mama. Let’s get this show on the road.”

She stood frozen for a moment longer, then let her daughter lead her to the ladies’ room, feeling numb.

It was cool inside the washroom, cool and too dark after the brightness outside. She groped her way to a sink, where she set down the beach bag—Lucy’s outfit she had carefully folded and placed on top, so it wouldn’t wrinkle. It was hard to stay mad at her when she had the two-piece outfit on: red and white with big polka dots, a midriff top and short, frilly skirt. She may not have been the best-dressed mother, but she always made sure Lucy looked good when they were in public.

And then she thought of him, seeing him again in her mind’s eye. The two of them. Laughing. It made her sick to her stomach. She saw them in her mind: fucking. Saw him saying all those sweet lies with which he had once wooed her.

“Come on, Mama! You were in such a big hurry. Let’s go.” Lucy tapped her foot.

Lucy’s voice came through a fog of pain and memory. Her voice, high and yes, a little shrill, had a weird effect, almost as if it were coming from a distance, as if her daughter was much farther away than the foot or so she actually was.

“Mama!” Lucy snapped.

She turned her eyes dully to her, imagining the way a cow might turn to look at a fly on its flanks.

Lucy had pulled off her wet suit and it lay in a heap on top of the outfit she had so carefully folded earlier. Lucy had crossed her arms absurdly over her chest and had pulled her legs together. “My clothes! I need my clothes!” She stamped her foot.

She bent down to her daughter, the damp red-and-white polka dot outfit in one hand. She stretched the elastic waistband of the skirt and said, “Step in.”

She didn’t really notice the passage of time. It could have been an hour, it could have been thirty seconds, but there Lucy was before her, fully dressed. There was a buzzing sound that drowned out what little noise her daughter may have been making, her mouth open in a gasping scream. Her dark eyes bulged.

She had her hands around Lucy’s throat, pressing in on her windpipe, cutting off the air, thinking, “I gave you life and I can take it away.”

Lucy, in a voice in her mind, chided her, calling her an Indian giver.

Suddenly, she stopped as Lucy’s hands went limp, hands that had been tearing at her own, trying with her small child’s strength to stop her. She dropped her hands to her sides and moaned. Lucy was gasping, sucking in air in wheezing breaths, a caw-cawing noise that broke her heart.

“Oh God, honey, I’m so sorry. Oh God, what have I done?” Her voice went up high and dissolved into wracking sobs. She drew the trembling, wheezing little girl to her bosom, holding her tight, blotting out the image of a necklace of bright red thumbprints around her throat.

* * *

She pulled the sheet over herself, even though the August air wafting in her bedroom window was sticky, mired in heat and humidity. Dawn’s gray light filtered into the room, filling it was a flat gray presence. She turned and closed her eyes, finally able to sleep.

The End