Every adult close enough to hear turned toward them.
For a moment, no one understood.
Then laughter rolled across the patio.
My father, awake by then, nearly dropped his lemonade.
Glen lifted both hands from the grill.
“I can confirm I am not.”
I laughed too.
Clara glanced at her stomach, then gave me a look suggesting that children said strange things and everyone should move on.
Embarrassment warmed my face as I hurried toward Ariel.
“Sweetheart, we don’t point at people’s bodies.”
She remained completely certain.
I crouched beside her and gestured toward Glen.
“Daddy is over there.”
He waved the grilling tongs.
Ariel looked at him, then back at Clara. Her expression collapsed.
“No. Daddy’s in there.”
She started crying.
Not the dramatic crying she used when refused another cookie.
This cry was frightened and real.
Ariel seized my wrist and dragged me toward the pool.
Clara climbed from the water and reached for a towel.
“Oh, Helen, honestly. She’s three!”
Ariel pulled harder.
“No, Mommy! I’m not lying. Look.”
I followed the direction of her finger.
At first, I saw only Clara’s smooth swimsuit fabric, cut sharply across her waist, exposing pale skin underneath.
Then Clara moved.
Beneath the high curve of the cut-out, a faded line of dark ink appeared along her ribs.
It was an old tattoo.
A lighthouse.
The ink had faded into blue-gray. Fine lines shaped a narrow tower surrounded by curling waves.
Beside it sat a tiny smiling sun.
A circle. Seven short rays. Two dots for eyes. One uneven curve for a mouth.
I had seen that sun countless times.
Glen drew it on shopping lists.
On napkins.
On birthday cards.
On every note he slipped into Ariel’s lunch bag.
I rose too fast.
