I bought the blue swimsuit because it had wide straps and pockets, not because it made me brave. Our family was flying to Cedar Bay for Martin's parents' fortieth anniversary, three days at a resort built around an enormous indoor water park. After two pregnancies and abdominal surgery, I had avoided pools for years. This time, my daughters had drawn a list of slides we would ride together, and I wanted their memory of me to include more than watching from a chair.
The night before our flight, I tried on the suit in our bedroom. Martin looked up from packing and went quiet. He said the resort photographer would take family pictures near the wave pool. Then he suggested I wear a cover-up and help his mother with bags instead of swimming. When I asked what he meant, he said he was trying to spare me from feeling uncomfortable beside his athletic cousins.
I told him I already knew what my body looked like. He said I was making a practical comment into an accusation. Our daughters were brushing their teeth across the hall, so we lowered our voices until the argument became almost polite. I folded the swimsuit into my suitcase and zipped it shut. Martin relaxed, apparently mistaking the sound for agreement.
At the airport, his father, Robert, met us near security with matching yellow luggage tags. He noticed everything except what people wanted hidden. By the time we reached Gate Twelve, he had asked why I was not eating, why Martin carried both girls' goggles, and why my suitcase was checked for a three-day trip when I usually packed light. The boarding agent announced a delay. Martin went for coffee, and Robert sat beside me. Before he spoke, the zipper on my suitcase slowly separated. I reached down and caught the fabric.