My father putters at the other end of the pool, organizing floaties in a big basket. I hoist myself out of the water and reach for the towel I left on the diving board. As I dry off, I inhale the quiet.
It’s six in the morning on a Sunday, and even though the swim and tennis club my dad owns is open right now, the classes don’t start till after nine.
Swimming has always centered me. I suspect my love of yoga started in the pool. They’re different, sure, but alsonot. Both rely on that mind-body connection, on breath, on finding your own pace.
I wrap the towel around my waist and circle the pool towardthe shallow end. The scent of chlorine is thick and familiar—it reminds me of home.
As a kid in Texas, I spent afternoons goofing off in the water when Dad taught classes. Later, the pool was an escape for me when Mom left Dad shortly after we moved to California.
Oh, yeah, my mom out-Draper-ed Don Draper. She banged the assistant of the magazine she ran, then she married him. I should have seen the Silvio situation coming.
Dad smiles at me as I reach him, and maybe that’s the real therapy—talking to him about Mom and Silvio, sure, but also about life and business, his wife, Janice, and their adventures in fishing and golfing. He’ll tell me about the swim classes he’s teaching here. I’ll update him on the corporate clients I’ve taken on. He’ll give me business advice, and I’ll weigh in on what to give Janice for her birthday or anniversary—that lemon pound-cake candle from the wine country vintage shop that actually smells like lemon pound cake, a mug that saysPlease cancel my subscription to your issues, and a weekend getaway trip to her favorite golf resort.
It’s been therapeutic, and four months post–Just-Escaped-Marriage Day, I feel centered again.
Calm again.
My mind no longer a discombobulated mess.
One of the things that helped the most? Saying my piece. My mom called me several times after takingmyhoneymoon. She texted me constantly after I unblocked her, and emailed me too. Saying how much she loved Silvio. How she hoped someday I’d be happy for her. Asking if I wouldn’t just accept that this was true love.
At first, I seethed over her notes.
After all, I’d had to return all the gifts to the guests.
That was super fun.
Not.
But itwasweirdly cathartic. The practical act of returning presents was like a daily letting go. Breathe in, breathe out, return this blender to the Fishers, give this set of napkin rings back to the Bloombergs.
And in so doing, say goodbye to the double bastards of Mom and Silvio.
Once I returned the last gift, I found final closure.
I sent her a letter, saying simply:Enjoy him.
Then I blocked her number again and her email.
Life is better like this.
I’m happier.
And I’m happy hanging out with my dad after I swim.
“So, what’s next on the yoga empress’s agenda?” Dad asks as we sink down on the bench at the edge of the pool—our chatting bench. “Are you adding aYoga keeps me out of prisonclass?”
“Or…Yoga, because punching people isn’t cool,” I joke.
He holds up a hand as a stop sign. “Wait, wait. I’ve got it. How about a class calledFlexibility for old people who can’t get out of bed without moaning in misery?” he suggests, grabbing his lower back.
Seems like a demonstration if I’ve ever seen one. “Gee, Dad. Why do I feel like that’s spoken from experience?”
“Just wait till you’re sixty.”
“That’s twenty-five years away. I can’t even think about that!”
He snaps his fingers. “‘It’ll be here in a flash.” He sets his palms on his pants, takes a beat. “But seriously, everything is going well? The business is still helping you process all the things?”
