Night Swimming Read Free

exhausted and lost again in her regrets.
    Charlotte slipped the necklace on in front of the mirror and turned around to show her mother. “Look, Mama, look how beautiful . . .” But her mother had already closed her eyes. Charlotte stared down at her, one shade paler than snow and cool to the touch. At that moment, she looked like Snow White. Eggshell frail, old and powdery, but still beautiful.
    “Mama,” Charlotte whispered. “Mama, take some water before you sleep. You have to stay hydrated.”
    Charlotte helped lift her up a bit, and her mother’s knotty arthritic fingers, knuckles thick and twisted like the branches of an apple tree in winter, reached out tenuously for the glass of water. Charlotte raised the cool, clear liquid to her mother’s lips. But she could not take any of it in. Not one drop. And yet she looked up at Charlotte and said, “That’s better, that’s much better. Thank you, honey. Now you should go rest.”
    Charlotte clutched the necklace resting against her chest: a single diamond on the thinnest chain. It was all her mother had to give her. But no, there was more. It was that last conversation they ever had together that became the greatest gift of all. Less than an hour later her mother was gone, leaving behind words that would linger for years at the back of Charlotte’s mind.
    But now her mother’s words pulled at her like an undertow. Charlotte had a year left to live. Dr. Jennings had been quite clear about that. He said she should go about living her life as she normally would, that it might be several months before she would begin to notice symptoms. Hadn’t that been true for her mother, too? One day she seemed fine, and the next, well... Charlotte knew how that went.
    And now it seemed that there wasn’t enough time left for the one and only thing she had ever truly wanted: to love and to be loved in return. A happy, pleasant existence complete with a garden, lace curtains, and conjugal visits.
    But perhaps her moment had finally come to be brave. Brave enough simply to go up to handsome strangers and engage them in conversation, ask them to dinner and inquire if they would be amenable to a brief but affable affair, no strings attached, of course— just for the night, perhaps, or an hour, or less. Charlotte would take anything. She was dying—what was to stop her from asking such candid questions of strangers now?
    But who on earth could love me? I’m fat, boring, and dying. Not a great calling card, by my own admission.
    Maybe if Charlotte were rich, none of this would feel quite so oppressive, so thoroughly depressing. She could stuff herself with buttered lobster and twice-baked potatoes until she burst. She could say whatever she wanted, to whomever she wanted, and sound amusing, as only the rich do. But Charlotte couldn’t afford fancy meals that came with toast points. And she couldn’t say whatever she felt. She would come off as rude and inappropriate. No, she wasn’t rich or rude. She was just Charlotte Clapp, living on Middle Street, with middle-class savings and middle-class dreams.
    Nobody in particular.
    Someone simply passing through.
    Simply Charlotte.
    What could she possibly do now? Eat. Yes, she could eat. She rushed to the cupboard and opened every door, pulling down chips and dip, Oreos, Cheez Doodles, Pinwheels, cashews, Pringles, peanut butter cookies, trail mix, chocolate-covered cherries, and frosted cupcakes.
    She’d been trying to limit her consumption lately, but the thought of dieting disappeared with her diagnosis. She dove into this smorgasbord like a last supper. She cracked open a bottle of wine, brought down one of her mother’s fine and fancy crystal glasses that hadn’t been used in years, and, after rinsing the dust off, filled the wineglass to the top, finishing it off in one swallow. She was almost dangerous in her consumption. No one would have dared put their hand in for a cookie—not if they wanted to see it again. One Krispy