My mom had the most shiny, reddish-auburn hair you’d ever seen. In her senior high school photo, it flowed elegantly down her mid-back, parted precisely in the middle, and draped over her shoulder. Beauty was a family trait extending to her younger sisters, known as “The four Alexander girls,” whose house on Carriage Lane attracted boys’ attention, only to be greeted by their stern and intimidating US Navy Lieutenant Commander father.
During my early teens, my mom began losing her hair. Every morning, I would watch her spend an hour in front of the mirror, armed with an extra-large can of aerosol hairspray. Despite her diminishing hair, she worked tirelessly to cover the bald patches, brushing, spraying, and scrutinizing her reflection. I felt the weight of her struggle and the pain of her insecurity with each brushstroke. I recall the hushed whispers among my grandma and her sisters about her getting a wig, which loomed like an unspoken elephant in the room, causing discomfort and silence.
As the trail ends, I overlook the water from the top of the ledge. The descent is steep, and I gather my belongings and shift my weight to the insides of my feet, attempting to navigate the slope like it was meant for skis. The technique works initially, but a sudden slip sends me tumbling, causing me to lose my grip on my things. Filled with frustration and defeat, I sit with the settling dust. Through the pain, I grit my teeth and pick myself up, retrieving my belongings. I attempt another controlled slip, make it, and the ground levels out. I stand on a car-sized boulder, the last obstacle between me and the beach. With no visible path down, I toss my belongings several feet below, count to three, and take the leap.
“Do you like it?” My mom’s eyes are animated like a child’s in the throes of discovery, her feather-like wrinkles at the outer edges of her eyes in full display. At our regular pickup spot after basketball practice, seeing the vibrant red, chin-length head of hair is a shock. I haven’t seen her this happy since, I don’t know when. “It’s real hair!” She says, shaking it; her slightly gapped teeth and burgundy lipstick are also displayed. There’s nothing else I can say, can feel other than to support her, and reflect back, “Of course. I love it!”
Finally finished, I look at the pile; the sleeping pad, pillow, tent, lantern, inflatable inner tube, camp stove, cooking pot, gallon jug of water, journal, and pen I feel pride, knowing that I did it. I made the trek three times and there’s no doubt that I’ve earned a swim. But looking at the heap, I know I’d be able to enjoy the swim more if the next task was completed.
I unfurl the stakes press them through the loops, and plunge the pins into the ground. With an upright tent, I plop it down and step back to survey its location, then move to the shade of a tree. I place the sleeping pad and bag inside, then return for the remaining accessories. Grabbing the water, pen, journal, and pillow, I return, place the pillow at the head position, place the pen and journal invitingly on the bed, and then set the jug next to the pillow. Then, I pull off my shirt and tug my shorts before jogging to the water’s edge.
“Jaaa-ckie!” It’s my grandmother’s voice in the wind, and at this far distance, her words are a screaming whisper. In the pitch darkness, I’d run down our driveway, the half-mile of the country road to direct ambulances and fire trucks, and it’s after stopping to catch my breath, I’m certain I’m hearing a voice I know well. So I turn around and run towards it, feet kicking up the loose gravel, not stopping until I reach her.
At the lake’s bank, my feet sink into the oatmeal-like mush of sand and smooth gravel. There’s a moment before the quicksand gives way I press off, diving my body forward into the coolness, snapping the overheat and exhaustion away with the snap of a finger. The day, all of it, is released as I thrust my body forward into the cool, dark depths of the water.
“You need to go and say your goodbyes to your Mom now.” The “now” punctuates her sentence like a slap in the face.
Going On 40 
2 thoughts on “The Spot (Book Part 10)”