What matters is that she jumped in after him. Ignore the lemon tree. Ignore also the robotic pool vacuum exploring for leaves, like a Mars rover, with a hose floating behind it. What matters is that the boy’s head disappeared, and his mother jumped in after him. This was the day after Christmas, at an Anaheim Airbnb, right before Disneyland, at about 10:37a.m. But that doesn’t matter. Nor does it matter that there were four boys—ages seven, five, three, and two—all of them hers. Also the grandmother, ready to film with her iPhone. And grandpa, in a lawn chair. Both her younger sisters, still virgins, each holding a writhing arm of the two youngest boys, yanking like ponies on the reins, whinnying, stamping their toes at the edge of the pool. I’m in love with the redheaded sister, across the pool from me. But what matters is that the oldest boy, who knew how to swim, jumped in—we all egged him on—but he started to thrash and flounder and sink, so his mom jumped in after him. Did I mention that she was wearing fleece pajamas? We all were. Green and red checkered pants, t-shirts with Mickey Mouse dead center wearing a Santa Hat, and our names underneath in Disney swirl lettering. But what matters is that she jumped in after him. Those boys refused to wait, even though it was 56 degrees outside, and they hadn’t paid the fee to warm the pool, and mom told them it would be cold, and that we should go to the beach instead, or wait until afternoon, but those boys refused to wait, and mom wanted to teach them a lesson, and said she’d only let them get in the cold pool so they’d learn to listen to their mommy, and just you watch it’ll be freezing and you won’t want to and I’ll say I told you… but they were having fun, and they weren’t cold, so fine go ahead and play if you want, and sure jump in if you want—Jump in! Jump—and then he jumped, and came up for a breath he was too stunned to take, came up unable to even gasp, then started choking and yelping and flailing for a few seconds with his head just above the water, and then his head slipped below the surface, and she jumped in after him, pajamas and all, while we watched dumbfounded, and that’s what matters. Grandma was ready for the boy’s cannonball and got the whole thing on video. Mom took one-step and then a simple leap with both legs. She went under and came right back up, catching the boy to her chest. She swam with one arm and making frog-leg kicks. It couldn’t have been more than three strokes to where grandpa hoisted the boy out of her arms. She came out with her hair slicked back, glistening, and a calm grimace that broke into a smile. She wrapped the boy in a towel. Had a quiet little talk with him, whispering something stern and loving. Then she laughed with the rest of us, cotton shirt clinging to her breast, fleece pajama pants sagging around her hips. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything as beautiful as that. Did I mention that she hates water—is terrified of water—and would do anything to avoid water? Ever since, I’ve been trying to figure out what made that moment so sacred. Like Eve taking the cold plunge with a bite of fruit. Jesus, wet with blood in an olive grove. This pool of Siloam, where my eyes were opened, this Bethesda, where the rest of us were paralyzed. All of it, some sort of baptism. There might be something to that. But when I told my own mother, she didn’t seem impressed. “Of course she didn’t hesitate,” my mom replied. The redheaded sister was equally unfazed. “We all were about to jump in,” she stated. That’s when I realized this was not only about mother’s love. Or primal instinct. Or a type of action faster than thought. Or about saving a life more ferociously than necessary. Because after it was over, the sun broke through the clouds, warm and cold: sending electric blue lines waving across the rippling pool, casting reflective glares off the dark wet splotches all over the patio, warming the lemons that waved on green branches.
Isaac James Richards is a reader for Fourth Genre and a current Pushcart Prize nominee. His creative nonfiction has appeared in Inscape, Y-Magazine, and Wayfare, where he is a contributing editor. In the fall, he will begin a PhD program at the Pennsylvania State University. Find him online at https://www.isaacrichards.com/.