Swim

would I watch it?”
    He chuckled. “No. I know you’re not that much of masochist. Would you write it? We could use you, Ruth. We could use your voice.”
    “You can’t have it,” I blurted.
    Rob’s laughter was warm and indulgent, the sound of a father’s amusement at a cute but willful child. “Well, not for keeps. But you’re not working . . .” He let his voice trail off, turning it into a question. When I didn’t reply, he pressed on. “Look, you can’t just sit around all day. There’s only so many laps you can swim.” His voice softened. I pictured him in one of his ratty see-through T-shirts, five days’ worth of stubble, his glasses, and his rare, delicious grin. “And I miss working with you. We were good together.”
    “We were nothing,” I said. My grandmother was staring at me from the kitchen with a cordial glass of crème de menthe in her hand, eyebrows raised.
    “Ruth... look. I’m sorry for what happened. I’m sorry if it gave you the wrong idea.”
    “Sure thing. Well, okay then! Thanks for calling!” I kept my voice upbeat. Maybe Grandma would think my gentleman caller was a telemarketer.
    “I’ll take that as a no, then,” he said. “No,” I said, and then, because I was nothing if not polite, I said, “No thank you.”
    “Big surprise, Ruth,” he said. Then he was gone.
    I swam for hours that night, tracing the tiled lap lane back and forth until my arms were numb. When I got home, Lonelyguy had e-mailed. “Is it just me,” he’d asked, “or is every woman out there a freak?”
    “I’m not,” I whispered at the screen. But I didn’t write it. I typed in “See you tomorrow,” shut off the laptop, and crawled into bed.
    The next morning I drove back to the Beverly Center for a new swimsuit, thinking that maybe I’d stop by the pet shop and see if the skinny puppy was still there. I was walking down the bright, bustling corridor toward the escalators when I saw a familiar figure—long, denim-clad legs; skinny shoulders; a swing of shiny dark-brown hair. “Caitlyn?”
    She turned around. “Oh, hi, Ruth.” She was wearing a big gray hoodie that enveloped her torso and had “Berkeley” written across the chest, and she was pushing a small, candy-apple-red wheelchair that carried the twisted frame of a little boy. The boy wore a Berkeley sweatshirt, too, and stiff blue jeans that looked like they’d never been washed, or worn, or walked in. His head rested against the wheelchair’s padded cradle; the mall’s lights glinted off his glasses. He made a hooting noise. Caitlyn looked down at him, then up at me.
    “This is my brother, Charlie. Charlie, this is Ruth? She’s helping me with my essays?”
    “Hi.” I bent down so I was at eye level with Charlie. I looked up at Caitlyn, who nodded, then extended my hand and touched it to his. His fingers were folded tightly against his palms, and his skin was so pale I could see the veins underneath it. “Nice to meet you.”
    He gave another hoot, his lips working, eyes focused on my face. Caitlyn reached into her pocket for a handkerchief and wiped his lips. “Do you want lunch now?” she asked. I wondered whether Charlie was the reason she always talked in questions, the way she left her sentences open-ended, blanks that would never get filled in. “We’re going to go to the food court?”
    “Oh. Well, have fun.”
    Charlie moaned again, more loudly, struggling hard to make himself understood. Caitlyn bent her shining head to his, murmuring something I couldn’t make out. Her brother’s eyes stayed locked on mine, and I thought I could see where he was pointing, where he was going.
    When Caitlyn lifted her head her fair skin was flushed. “I’m sorry,” she said.
    “It’s okay,” I told her.
    Charlie’s fist bounced on his chest. “He has cerebral palsy,” she said.
    I nodded, looked at Charlie, and touched my cheek. “It’s a scar from an accident. A long time ago.”
    Caitlyn sighed, then straightened up. “Do you want to get some lunch with us?” The three of us walked to the food court and sat at a metal-legged plastic-topped table, surrounded by chattering teenagers, mothers and daughters, women in suits and hose and sneakers lingering on their lunch breaks. Caitlyn bought herself a Diet Coke, and, for Charlie, a paper cone of french fries. She dipped each one into ketchup and lifted it to his lips with the same absentminded love as the mothers feeding their toddlers at the