The Descendants by Kaui Hart Hemmings

off it. Tears are brewing in her eyes. She looks up to keep them from falling, but they fall anyway. I want to join her. I want to kneel down and sob.
    “I didn’t mean to say dead chicken,” she cries. “It’s just that Mom always twitches. It doesn’t mean anything!”
    “Let’s go home,” I say.
    “Why is everyone so into sports here? You and Mom and Troy think you’re so cool. Everyone here does. Why don’t you join a book club? Why can’t Mom just relax at home?”
    I hold her and she lets me.
    “I don’t want Mom to die,” Scottie says.
    “Of course you don’t.” I push her away from me and bend down to look in her brown eyes. “Of course.”
    “I don’t want her to die like this,” Scottie says. “Racing or competing. I’ve heard her say, ‘I’m going out with a bang.’ I hope she goes out choking on a kernel of corn or slipping on a piece of toilet paper when she’s really old.”
    “Christ, Scottie. Where do you get this? Let’s go home. You don’t mean any of this. I don’t like you talking this way. And Mom’s not going to die.”
    Her face is puffy. Her hair is greasy. She has this look of disgust on her face. It’s a very adult look.
    “Look. Your mother thinks you’re great. She thinks you’re the prettiest, smartest, silliest girl in town.”
    “She thinks I’m a coward.”
    “No, she doesn’t. Why would she think that?”
    “I didn’t want to go on the boat with her, and she said I was a scaredy-cat.”
    “She was just joking. She thinks you’re the bravest girl in town. She told me it scared her how brave you were.”
    “Really?”
    “Damn straight.” Joanie often said that we’re raising two little scaredy-cats, but of all the lies I tell, this one is necessary. I don’t want Scottie to hate her mother, as Alexandra once did or maybe still does.
    “I’m going swimming,” Scottie says.
    “No,” I say. “We’ve had enough.”
    “Dad, please.” She pulls me down by my neck and whispers, “I don’t want people to see that I’ve been crying. Just let me get in the water.”
    “Fine. I’ll be here.” She puts her camera in her backpack and strips off her clothes and throws them at me, hands me two pictures, then jumps off the wall to the beach below and charges toward the water. She dives in and breaks the surface after what seems like a minute. I sit on the coral wall and watch her and the other kids and their mothers. The mothers have so much gear: snacks, toys, umbrellas, towels. I don’t have anything, not even a towel Scottie can run into when she’s done. To my left is a small reef. I can see black urchins settled in the fractures. I still can’t believe Scottie slammed her hand into one of them.
    I look at the picture of Jerry and then the one of Troy. His smile is so genuine, his muscles so shiny, it’s like he greases them. The outside dining terrace is filling up with people and their pink and red and white icy drinks. An old man is walking out of the ocean with a one-man canoe on his shoulder, a tired smile quivering on his face as if he’s just returned from some kind of battle in the deep sea.
    The torches are being lit on the terrace and on the rock pier. I can still see the booze cruises floating past the wind sock and heading back to shore. The soaring sun has turned into a wavy blob above the horizon. It’s almost green flash time. Not quite yet but soon. When the sun disappears behind the horizon, sometimes there’s a green flash of light that seems to sparkle out of the sea. It’s a communal activity around here, waiting for this green flash, hoping to catch it. I realize I still need to get Scottie home and then go back to the hospital.
    Children are coming out of the water, running into the towels their mothers are holding out for them. I hear a mother’s voice drifting off the ocean. It’s far away yet clear. “Get in here, little girl. They’re everywhere.”
    Scottie is the only child still swimming. I grab her