So when we’re outside in the swimming pool we’ll often play a make-believe game called Land of Oz. We’ll cling to the inflatable life raft and Teddy will play Dorothy, and I’ll play everyone else in the movie—Toto, the Scarecrow, the Wicked Witch, and all the Munchkins. And not to brag but I pull out all the stops, I sing and dance and flap my Flying Monkey wings and carry on like it’s Opening Night on Broadway. It takes us nearly an hour to reach the end of the story, when the raft turns into a hot-air balloon that carries Teddy-Dorothy back to Kansas. And by the time we finish and take our bows, I’m so cold my teeth are chattering. I have to get out of the water.
“No!” Teddy exclaims.
“Sorry, T-Bear, I’m freezing.”
I spread a towel on the concrete deck at the edge of the pool, then lay out to dry in the sun. Temperatures have soared into the low nineties—the sun is strong and quickly bakes away my chills. Teddy keeps splashing nearby. His new game is filling his mouth with water and then spitting it out, like he’s a winged cherub in a fountain.
“You shouldn’t do that,” I tell him. “There’s chlorine.”
“Will it make me sick?”
“If you swallow enough, yes.”
“And would I die?”
Suddenly he is very concerned. I shake my head.
“If you drank the whole swimming pool, yes, you would probably die. But don’t drink even a little, okay?”
Teddy climbs onto the raft and paddles to the edge of the water, so we’re both lying parallel—Teddy on the raft and me on the deck.
“Mallory?”
“Yeah?”
“What happens when people die?”
I look over. He’s staring down into the water.
“How do you mean?”
“I mean, what happens to the person inside the body?”
Now obviously I have strong opinions on this subject. I believe in God’s gift of eternal life. I draw a lot of strength from knowing that my little sister, Beth, is surrounded by angels. And I know that someday, if I’m lucky, we’ll be reunited in heaven. But I don’t share any of this with Teddy. I still remember my job interview and rule number ten: no religion or superstition. Teach science.
“I think you should ask your parents.”
“Why can’t you tell me?”
“I’m not sure I know the answer.”
“Is it possible some people die but stay alive?”
“Like ghosts?”
“No, not scary.” He’s struggling to express himself—the way we all struggle, I guess, when discussing these things. “Does any part of the person stay alive?”
“That is a big, complicated question, Teddy. I really think you should ask your parents.”
He’s frustrated by my nonanswer, but he seems resigned to the fact that I’m not going to help him. “Well then can we play Land of Oz again?”
“We just finished!”
“Only the melting scene,” he says. “Just the ending.”
“Fine. But I’m not getting back in water.”
I stand up and wrap my towel around my shoulders, holding it like a witch’s cloak. I curl my fingers into claws and cackle maniacally. “I’ll get you, my pretty, and your little dog, too!” Teddy splashes me with water and I scream loud enough to scare the birds from the trees. “Oh, you cursed rat! Oh, look what you’ve done!” With incredible dramatic flair I sink to the patio, waving my arms and writhing in agony. “I’m melting! I’m melting! Oh, what a world, what a world!” Teddy laughs and applauds as I collapse onto my back, close my eyes, and stick out my tongue. I give my legs a few final twitches and then I’m still.
“Uh, miss?”
I open my eyes.
There’s a young man not five feet away, standing on the far side of the pool fence. He’s wiry but well built, dressed in grass-stained khakis, a Rutgers T-shirt, and work gloves. “I’m with Lawn King? The landscapers?”
“Hola, Adrian!” Teddy exclaims.
Adrian winks at him. “Hola, Teddy. ?Cómo estás?”
I try to pull my towel over my body, only I’m already lying on top of it, so I end up thrashing and flailing like a beetle flipped onto its back.
“I’m gonna bring the big mower around, if that’s okay. I just wanted to give you a heads-up. It’s pretty loud.”
“Sure,” I tell him. “We can go inside.”
“No, we have to watch!” Teddy says.