Nonfiction

Of Course

My favorite thing about our Chinese exchange student is the way she says, “Of course!” in response to many of our questions. Do you like salad? Of course! Did you have a good day at school? Of course! She says it loudly and cheerfully, more like a life motto than an innocent response. It makes me realize how I must sound in French. Bien sur!

Our houseguest is fourteen, and is traveling outside of China for the first time. She is from Chengdu, a city of 14 million people, more than half the population of Australia. Chengdu is famous for many things including its enormous Buddha (“very, very big”) and spicy food. She is an only child, lives on the 36th floor of an apartment building, and plays badminton and a seven-string guqin.  She attends school from 7 a.m. to 5:30 p.m. six days a week and has “much, much homework.” Her usual breakfast is dumplings and green tea, but when asked if scrambled eggs and toast would suffice, she declared, “Of course!”

My daughter and I picked her up in the pouring rain under the awning of a dilapidated motel near Cottesloe Beach. She was wearing baggy jeans, a navy blue sweatshirt that read, “When the clock back, what can I do?” and a sideways facing turquoise baseball cap that read, “Monsters University.” When she learned that her Perth host family is not in fact Australian, she clapped and grinned. “I love America! Taylor Swift!”

I stayed with a French family for a couple of weeks when I was her age. They put me in their guest room, far from the other children in the house, and showed me how to operate the bidet. I learned French reading Tintin and Garfield, and also because I was instructed to pronounce everything on the dinner table before I was allowed to eat. My French vocabulary is limited, but apparently my pronunciation is excellent. This is because I like to eat.

Although I placed English editions of Tintin and Garfield on her dresser, we are trying to make our foreign visitor’s stay as enjoyable as possible. We took her to a wildlife park to pet koalas and kangaroos, and tonight treated her to pizza. Her mastery of English is impressive, but we are relying mostly on sweets, Uno, and pop music for bonding.

I like making our guest laugh. Her cheeks turn pink and she covers her mouth. This happened yesterday when I danced in the kitchen to Bieber’s Sorry.

My husband and I have a mantra from the four months we lived in France: Yes is better than no. It reminds us to remain open to new experiences and helps to prevent middle aged stodginess that can sneak up on us like a bald spot. We love having visitors, and will miss this one when she leaves. Of course.

In Search Of Lost Time

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I did the Proust Questionnaire with my children. “What quality do you most admire in a man?” One said kindness and the other said moustaches. “How would you like to die?” We all agreed. Old age, in bed, dreaming. I play viola in a band. We practice Monday nights in a school music room. Last night, one of my bandmates arrived with very sad news that she wore like a tight vest. A teenager had died tragically. How will the parents make it through, we wondered before we figured out how to play the chorus of Video Killed The Radio Star.

I returned home and smoked a cigarette outside in the dark. It was the fourth anniversary of my father’s death. He smoked cigarettes until he met my mother who hated all forms of smoking. Cigars were the compromise. He called smoking a cigar taking a walk around the block. I just sort of chew on it, he explained after I told him I was scared he might die of cancer. He promised me cigars wouldn’t kill him. He was right.

When I was pregnant, strangers liked to tell me how everything would change. They were wrong. They should have told me having children is more fun than you think, and that someday your father will die and everything will change. But this is not something you say to a stranger in a grocery store.

This morning I woke up abruptly, in the middle of a dream about having to pee inside of a washing machine. After I went to the bathroom, I crawled back into bed, tucked both arms under my pillow, and listened to the kookaburras. A few minutes later, my daughter joined me. Our legs entangled, she told me my hair smelled good and my breath smelled bad. I told her everyone smells funny in the morning. We’ve all just returned from adventures, I explained. Some of us flew to the top of skyscrapers, while others relieved themselves in washing machines.

In 1890, Proust provided an answer to one of his questions, “Where would you like to live?” He said, “In a country where certain things that I should like would come true as though by magic, and where tenderness would always be reciprocated.”

Party Town

It is the Fourth of July and radio station Nova 93.7 in Perth is hosting Independence Day Throwback, playing songs like Party in the U.S.A. and We Speak No Americano. I just dropped off the kids at a week-long theater camp where they are rehearsing Beauty and the Beast. Due to what I’m guessing is a licensing issue, this is not the musical with Cogsworth and Lumière. Instead, this version features a fidget spinner salesman, a painter, and a pack of wolves singing Duran Duran’s Hungry Like the Wolf.

Before I head to the Nedlands Library to park myself in one of their study carrels near the comic books, I drive further down Stirling Highway to make one quick stop.    

Stirling Highway runs through the western suburbs of Perth like a scar on an otherwise lush landscape. A seemingly endless array of mattress stores, pizza restaurants and outdoor furniture warehouses, Stirling is a commercial strip that could be plucked out of any sprawling American suburb. I’m looking for sparklers, and I swear there is a party supply store somewhere around here. I sing along to Empire State of Mind.

I am the first customer of the day at Party Town and the gentleman on his knees tying together red, white and blue balloon arches looks happy to see me. 2Pac’s California Love is blasting and the man stands up and says, “G’day.” He has two silver loop nose rings in his left nostril, and is wearing a navy blue beanie with a white pompom and a wool sweater with pine trees and the New England Patriots logo. I ask if he has any sparklers and he walks me down an aisle past pirate costumes and feathered boas. I select both the regular and long sparklers and then ask if they have anything else for the Fourth of July. He says of course, and I wonder if there’s a party supply store anywhere in the U.S. with a section dedicated to Australia Day. I look at the flag garlands and stars and stripes tablecloths and tell him I’m not feeling that patriotic after all. “I get it,” he says as we walk to the register.

The man in the beanie was in the states last year for vacation with someone he refers to as his “then-girlfriend.” They went all over – New York, Boston, Detroit, New Orleans, and Lake Tyler in East Texas. He tells me this as he rings up my sparklers. “In the north, we met Clinton supporters and in the south we met people who were going to vote for Trump. Quite a diverse lot you have there,” he said. “We were in Texas two days before the open carry law passed. We went to a bar and my then-girlfriend talked to a guy with a rifle slung over his shoulder.” He shakes his head and laughs. “Was a rabbit going to run across the floor?”

“Nice sweater,” I say, as I hand him a twenty. “My husband likes the Patriots.”

“I follow the Patriots and also Oregon State,” he says. “I’ve been a fan of American football ever since I was a kid. Like it way more than the AFL to be honest with you. Went to a Patriots game against Philly last year. Unfortunately they lost but the place was going off. Blokes had those long puffer jackets. They kept buying us beer because we’re Australian.”

The phone at the counter rings and he ignores it. A woman with frizzy hair clutching a mass of gray plastic convict chains runs to the front to pick up the phone. “Party Town,” she says wearily. “Yes. Yes we do.”  

The man leans over the counter and lowers his voice. “I feel more at home in Boston than I do here,” he says. “Americans are the nicest people.” He pauses and looks wistful. “They’ll sort it out,” he says finally.    

I drive to the library, sparklers next to me on the passenger seat. Nova is playing Lady Gaga’s The Edge of Glory, which seems like a stretch but I sing along anyway. It starts to rain and I hope it stops by the time the sun sets tonight. I want to take the kids outside and talk about America as we sign our names in the air.

I Thought That I Heard You Laughing

I am driving to pick up my daughter from pantomime rehearsal. Pantomime as in theater, not as in white gloves, stuck-in-a-box. The younger one sits in the passenger seat adjusting the radio dial. Stop, I say, go back. I haven’t heard that song in years, I say, as we drive by the four auto repair shops right in a row. She sits with one foot on the seat, another hidden, her long-limbed body twisted into a position that looks uncomfortable to anyone but her. What’s it called, she asks, turning it up. Losing My Religion. It’s by R.E.M.

This song was playing when I had that car accident, I tell her. The one where the red car got smashed and the air bag punched you in the face? Yes, that one. This song was on the radio. Was that the time that everything seemed to go in slow motion? Yes, everything except this song.

I stop at a crosswalk and watch a man and a young boy walk hand-in-hand to the train station. What if we got into an accident right now? What if this song causes accidents? It’s like the kids at school who made up that story about a little boy named Whirl Pool and every time someone says his full name, another whirlpool appears somewhere in the world. The boy is
responsible for the condition of our planet, and he doesn’t even know it.

We arrive and wait in a parking lot. We watch two ravens take turns picking crumbs out of a discarded plastic container. The sun is setting
early because it is winter in Perth. It is almost summer in San Francisco. We
have lived here more than two years and it only recently occurred to me that temporarily moving across the world means two moves, not one. We don’t want to leave but we will. We prefer talking about pop music and car accidents.

Consider this, the hint of the century.

Many years from now I will hear this song again, perhaps on another car radio, in another country that at first felt foreign but soon became something that resembles home but isn’t quite.

The song ends and a woman with a voice like a creaky staircase starts singing that she’s got issues, and you got ’em too. My daughter loves this
song. We talk about how sometimes our bodies can feel too small to hold all of our emotions and that is why there is art and friendship. There she is, my daughter says, twisting her body even more to catch a glimpse of her big sister. I drive them home, on the left side of the road.

The Dingo Did Not Eat My Baby

When I first heard the dingoes howling at dawn, I thought it was the birds. Curlews wail like hurt toddlers and blue-winged kookaburras like barking puppies. I was in the middle of a dream. My mother was going to “open for Elton John” in London. I asked her whether she would sing or play an instrument. She was frustrated. I’m just opening for him, Rebecca. Why can’t you understand that?

Each howl was a musical triplet, with identical first and third notes and the second note at a higher pitch. Joined together, it sounded like you were holding one note but got surprised in the middle of it.

Even though I was in a cabin in a remote part of Australia’s Northern Territory, it didn’t occur to me that the sound could be dingoes. In Perth, the morning chorus is composed and performed by feathered creatures, specifically ravens, corellas, magpies, and laughing kookaburras. So that morning in the cabin, I lay in bed trying to memorize this new call, envious of my husband who is a sound sleeper.

“Did you hear the dingoes this morning?” Bridget the Bush Guide asked us at breakfast. My children and husband shook their heads and continued eating their eggs and bacon.

“Those were dingoes?” I asked her. “Did they sound like this?” And then I did my best howl impression. She nodded politely. “There’s a pack that lives around here. Occasionally they wander through camp.” She saw the look on my face and smiled, “Nothing to worry about.”

We spent the day on a boat in a billabong, which had me humming Waltzing Matilda instead of the dingo howl. With our guide, we discussed possible American names for billabong including estuary, lagoon, and marsh, and finally settled on bayou. Several days from now, with internet access, I would learn about oxbow lakes, but on this day, before verification replaced wonder, a billabong was a bayou.

We cast our rods, not too far from a crocodile that was also fishing. We cheered and took photos of our nine-year-old with her shimmery silver barramundi before throwing it back.

That night, after changing and brushing my teeth in the dark in an attempt to deter the Extraordinary Nocturnal Insect Parade, I wasn’t thinking about dingoes. I was thinking about the bruise on my thigh. Did I bang it against a rock? Finally I recalled earlier that day, I sat under a waterfall for a long time, letting the cool water pound my head, shoulders, and obviously the top of my thigh. I joked with my husband that waterfall pummeling should be a spa treatment, and then I fell asleep.

I have never been grabbed and mercilessly tickled by clowns, but I imagine the sensation is similar to being awoken by two dingoes howling in front of your children’s cabin in the middle of the night.

My husband did not sleep through this. He shot up from bed to the screen window and said the three words you never want to hear in the middle of the night, “Something’s out there.”  

I recognized the howl. “It’s a dingo.” I said, sitting up in bed, hugging my knees to my chest.  

“No it’s not. It’s wallabies or something.”

“It’s not wallabies. It’s two fucking dingoes.” I sprung up from bed and squinted at the screen. I didn’t know where my glasses were, probably somewhere near my toothbrush. “Why are they pacing? What are they fucking doing?”

“I wonder if the girls are awake,” he said calmly. Oh my god, we have children. “Don’t worry, it’s not dingoes,” he said.

My brain assembled the following narrative: My husband did not believe there were dingoes outside our children’s cabin because that’s terrifying and we are on vacation and if we all just agree that the awful howling and creepy footsteps is nothing more than an adorable wallaby family going out for a midnight hop then we can go back to sleep.

I did not say any of this to him.  

I tried to calm down. I knew that with the exception of one naughty dingo who ate a nine-week-old baby in 1980, inspiring a Meryl Streep movie, dingoes are shy around humans. It is more dangerous to have a German Shepherd living in your neighborhood than it is to camp with dingoes (I made that up.).

“It’s not dingoes,” he repeated. The howling persisted. I heard one of our children make a sound. They won’t remember this in the morning, I told myself, which is in fact accurate.

“It’s definitely dingoes,” I insisted, my jaw clenching.

Next, let me be clear. I did not try and find something heavy to throw at the dingoes, nor did I run next door to my children whom I love with all my heart.

I got out my phone to record the sound of the howling. My plan was to play the recording for the guide and prove to my husband that the sound was in fact dingoes. My need to be right is an embarrassment.

It is also heroic. The light from the phone screen caused the dingoes to run away.

We returned to bed. I told my husband I loved him. Then he told me he loved me and whispered, “It wasn’t dingoes.”

The next morning I told the guide about the dingoes. I also told the girls who were remarkably unfazed. An hour later, my husband found the head of a bird outside the kids’ cabin. Wallabies are herbivores.

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The Day I Stop Feeling Anything Is The Day I Stop Hunting

“People all over the world are craving potatoes,” she whispered to me across the table, between bites of barramundi. Her husband was in the middle of a story, and she didn’t want to interrupt him. It wasn’t a story exactly, more of a description of his frozen food storage company.

“Guess what makes up more than fifty percent of our business?” the Belgian man had asked me. I didn’t have a guess.

“French fries!” he revealed, before sipping his Pinot Grigio and smoothing back his hair. He looked like he would be comfortable wearing an ascot.

This is when his wife confided in me about the worldwide potato craze.  

“The Japanese, especially,” the Belgian man added. “The Japanese cannot get enough french fries. They are starting to eat them instead of rice.”

I pictured a sushi chef serving raw salmon atop beds of Stouffer’s french fries. I glanced at my husband who smiled at me as he brushed a fly off his glass. This is all you, he seemed to be saying.

We were dining in a lodge in Arnhem Land, a remote area in Australia’s Northern Territory. We had traveled here to hike, fish, swim in fresh water, and view Aboriginal cave art, some of which was more than 20,000 years old. Earlier that day, we had climbed up and over rocks to see delicate drawings of stick figures that were created at a time when you could walk from Australia to New Guinea. My mind was full of majestic and mysterious things.

“All Asians actually,” the Belgian man said. “Asians are really getting into potatoes.”

I decided to change the topic. “Have you ever been somewhere this remote?”

He had. Kyrgyzstan. For a “boys trip.” Hunting Marco Polo sheep.

He spoke about stalking these spiral horned animals for days before identifying the oldest male for the kill. He slept in the mountains in a tent with his friends. “The kill is a small part of our time together.” He explained how big game hunting assists in the conservation efforts of protected animals, and that the sheep’s wool is used to make pashminas and the meat is eaten by the locals. I asked if he had photos of himself squatting beside dead animals, and he said yes. I asked if he kept mementos from his kills and he said yes. I thought of Gaston in Beauty and the Beast singing, I use antlers in all of my decorating.

That morning, I had watched a St. Andrew’s Cross spider weave her decorative web on the edge of a rock, peacefully preparing for her meal.

“Do you ever feel bad? Shooting animals?” My question was childlike but I was curious.

“Of course. The day I stop feeling anything is the day I stop hunting.”

Notes On My Mother’s Spice Drawer

Two years ago, my family and I moved in with my mother for a couple of weeks while our belongings were being loaded onto a container ship in Oakland. One night, my mother was out and my children were asleep in my childhood room. Dave was in Perth, house-hunting and meeting his soon-to-be coworkers. I had three glasses of Merlot in me and was bored. Naturally I went through my mother’s spice drawer and cataloged them all on a spreadsheet, complete with notes and corresponding expiration dates.

There were 62 spice jars in total. The most frequent brand name was Spice Island. She had two of each of the following: Basil, Black Peppercorn, Chinese Five Spice, Curry Powder, Dill Weed, Coriander, Minced Garlic, Rubbed Sage, Sesame Seeds, Tarragon, Whole Cloves, and something called Singapore Seasoning. There were three jars of nutmeg and four jars of ginger.

There was something called Tuscan Sunset made by a company called Penzeys. According to the Penzeys website, the mix is mostly oregano and basil, with “the added zest of garlic, bell pepper and black pepper.” It is recommended for veggies, pasta, chicken and fish. It is best enjoyed if you have divorced your cheating husband, bought a fixer-upper, and your best friend is a perky lesbian played by Sandra Oh.

The topic of expiration dates is a sensitive one for Mom and me. When I was eight months pregnant, I went through her cupboards and threw out everything I deemed too old for consumption (I was not living there). This angered her, although she did agree with the fate of the bottle of soy sauce from 1984.

Twenty-four of the spices had legible expiration dates, the earliest of which was December 1985, Cream of Tartar. I included a comment next to my spreadsheet entry on Garden Mint from December 1989: Still smells like mint. The nutmeg that expired the year I graduated from high school did not smell like nutmeg but the Confetti Décor from the month Bill Clinton was sworn in for his second term as president looked brand new.

I could not find a date on one jar of nutmeg but it was made by a company that no longer exists. It cost 99 cents, and the label featured a recipe for creamed chipped beef.

My mother cooked me dinner practically every night for 18 years. An average meal was some sort of chicken dish, a green vegetable and a starch. Some nights she’d get home from work at 6pm, toss her canvas tote on the counter, and stir a pot of rice without removing her coat. My dad would have returned home 30 minutes earlier than Mom, made himself a Manhattan and a plate of Wheat Thins and Gouda before sitting down to watch the evening news. My brother and I were either on the couch with Dad or upstairs doing homework. Sometimes the phone would ring and my dad would shout, It’s probably for you, Sandra. She’d answer the phone and check the oven. Dinner’s ready, she would call out. Just prior to serving us, she’d grab a jar from the spice drawer and furiously shake it over the sauté pan.

Rummaging through her spice drawer, I felt guilty, but not because I was snooping. That spice drawer did something for my mother every night that the rest of us did not. It helped.

A Short Span Of Time

I dreamed that I was standing on Geary Boulevard in San Francisco, across the street from House of Bagels near the mediocre sushi restaurant. I was waiting for an Uber and people were throwing things at me. Finally my car showed up. When I got in, I discovered a homeless boy in the backseat. He was playing with one of those colorful plastic spheres that folds down into a fraction of its original size.

I woke up and realized this dream had occurred in the short span of time between my husband getting up from bed and bringing me a cup of tea. In less than fifteen minutes, I had fallen back asleep, traveled across the world, and met a young boy in the back of a gray sedan.

I decided today would be the day I get many things done in a short amount of time. In less than an hour, I showered, made two smoothies (one green, one purple) and two lunches (one sandwich, one thermos of ravioli), printed out a grant application for a school music program, edited a story, and walked my daughter to school. On the way home, I shooed ravens off a neighbor’s trash bin and recovered a milk carton and half a head of lettuce before securing the lid. I washed some clothes, packed a small duffle bag, retrieved my passport from my underwear drawer, and drove to the airport. There was a flight to London leaving in three hours. I ordered a flat white and flipped through magazines in the back of a bookstore. I charged my phone, bought some trail mix and a Pepsi Max, and boarded my flight.

During a layover in Singapore, I met a family, also traveling to London. They had a jigsaw puzzle and invited me to join them on the floor next to the window where their youngest son could watch the airplanes take off and land. The puzzle was a photograph of a basket of red apples. It was not easy but I didn’t embarrass myself and it helped pass the time. The mother asked what was bringing me to London and I said my friend Evelyn. At that moment it occurred to me that I had not told Evelyn I was coming and had no idea if she was in town. She had a job in fashion that occasionally involved dropping everything and flying to Dubai to dress a princess.

I slept on the flight from Singapore to London. When I woke up, I ate chicken skewers and watched two movies, one with Monica from Friends and one with the dad from American Pie.

I called Evelyn from the airport. She told me she was pregnant and throwing up a lot but she couldn’t wait to see me even if it meant we’d be sitting on the couch.

And that’s what we did during my visit. We sat on Evelyn’s fuchsia couch and talked and watched TV and sometimes she’d leave the room to vomit and then I’d check my phone. Everything in Perth was fine. My husband was surprised I left without telling him and I missed seeing my daughter dressed as a soldier in the Anzac assembly. But things were humming along more or less as usual.

When I returned home, I stumbled into my bedroom, closed the curtains, and fell fast asleep. I awoke to the sound of a cup of tea being placed beside me.

Lions and Tiger Snakes

My husband and I have developed a formula over the years. When one of us plans a family outing, it is the responsibility of the non-planning partner to promote enthusiasm for the adventure, even when the adventure involves a boat trip – correction, is a boat trip – and the non-planning partner struggles with motion sickness.

One of the things that has happened to my body since giving birth is that I am incapable of sitting on a swing at a playground without my center of gravity moving from my stomach to the back of my knees, to my chest, and eventually to the ground in the form of vomit. One reason I love swimming in the ocean is that if I remain still in wobbly water, I feel sick. Boats are the worst.

Carnac Island is a few miles off the coast of Fremantle. Dave learned about a company that would take us out to this tiny island to snorkel and swim with sea lions.

My one close encounter with a sea lion was three years ago when I was swimming with my brother in the San Francisco Bay. It popped its head up directly in front of me, growled, and immediately sunk back under the murky water. I yelled at my brother, “What the fuck was that?” knowing exactly what it was but hoping for the response, “Ice cream. That was ice cream.”

Between the boat ride and the sea lions, you’d think I might have stayed home, but if my children were going to be eaten by sea lions, I wasn’t going to be the mom who stayed home to catch up on Scandal while her children were being eaten by sea lions. Plus, I’m in love. I got up early, ate some bircher muesli, and took two Dramamine.

The sky was overcast and the sea was bouncy. Two kayaks labeled Perception and Emotion were strapped to the deck. Seven thirty-somethings were ready for the best day ever and had coolers of beer and salami. When I see people eating on a boat, I feel like they are brushing their teeth at a cemetery. The captain offered us a platter of brownies and tiny muffins and I wanted to grab the tray and chuck it into the sea. We are on a boat! I wanted to scream. This is no place for muffins!

My husband and younger daughter stood at the railing and laughed hysterically as the wind turned their cheeks to Jell-O. The older one inherited my inner ear so she sat next to me, clutching my hand, staring at the horizon. That morning, she had taken one Dramamine. It tastes gross, she had said. So does barf, sweetheart. Drink some water.

Upon anchoring, the captain pointed at a dozen sea lions that were napping on the beach. They had obviously not been told about the tourists who were promised a romp. The captain suggested we dive in to see if we could “tempt the lions.” He then advised against walking on the beach because Carnac Island is home to hundreds of venomous tiger snakes. This is Australia and I live here.

My older daughter and I peeled out of our clothes and stood shivering at the back of the boat. “We’ll feel better if we get in the water,” I promised her as the waves crashed and the wind whipped through our hair. We jumped in.

It turns out the sea lions were not interested in frolicking with humans. A few passengers, including my husband, swam to Medusa’s Lair to get up close to the sea lions. “We’ve got those at home!” I wanted to call out to Dave. “I’ll take you to Pier 39!” My daughter and I swam back to the boat to join her sister who was on her second brownie.

We made it back to the mainland without vomiting, and almost immediately, I felt famished. We walked to Little Creatures Brewing Company and ordered as if it were our last meal. The four of us consumed half a dozen oysters, one margarita pizza, one plate of nachos, one beet salad, one stack of sticky lamb ribs, two glasses of wine and one beer. When we got home that afternoon, I slept for three hours. I awoke to my daughters bouncing on my bed.

A Sleazebag Story!

I took four girls roller skating. The sun was scorching and it seemed like a good day for an indoor activity. My daughter had been to a birthday party at a rink not too far away and remembered the name. We drove down the coast, my youngest scrolling the radio for good tunes. Ed Sheeran is big at the moment, as is a song about having scars, being beautiful, and not starving yourself. I have mixed feelings about songs like this but it has a good beat.

The rink was located behind a hardware store next to an abandoned lot scattered with broken glass and old tires. Two black crows perched on barbed wire. I turned off the radio and parked the car. “Is this the place?” I asked my daughter, skeptically.

“Yup!” she grinned, “Come on, guys!” My girls and their friends bounded towards the entrance and I locked the car twice.

The place smelled like feet and meat pie. An older woman in a black t-shirt featuring a brand of beer informed me that this fine establishment was cash only. There was no register.

We took off our shoes and stood on chalk outlines of different sized feet, like a crime scene for eight pairs of murdered shoes. Two men leaned over the skate rental counter and stared at our group, four girls and a mom. “Disappointed husband, you reckon?” the skinny one with the eye patch said to the other. It took me a second but then of course, I realized, he thought they were all mine.

“He loves having four girls,” I responded, glancing over at the kids who looked back at me, dumbfounded. “And so close in age too, we’re very lucky. Can we get our skates?”

The skinny one with the eye patch asked if I was Canadian, a question I get a lot in Perth, presumably with the intention of not offending Canadians. “No, American.”

“You think Trump’s gonna get the job done?” I didn’t know what job he was talking about, nor whether Trump would get it done.

The larger man with the muscular arms and bright blue eyes chimed in. “It’s that electoral college that’s the problem.” Perhaps I had misjudged this one.

A Justin Bieber song came on and the girls carefully shuffled their way over to the rink. I put our shoes in a cubby, laced up a pair of old, moist, brown skates, and joined them. There were about ten other kids skating and a few moms watching, drinking soda and looking tired. The lights were dim and multicolored. One bulb was blinking arhythmically. It felt like a David Lynch movie.

After an hour of skating and falling down, we changed back into our shoes and the girls ran off to find cold drinks. I plopped the skates back on the counter, one pair at a time. Eye Patch, alone now, said, “American, huh? Do you have any Aussie in you?”

“No.”

He rested his elbows on the counter and put his palms together. His one eye stared at me. “I can fix that.” His skin had the same worn-out condition as the skates, and he was sweating profusely.

“That’s a really lovely offer thank you, but I’ll pass.” I escaped and found the girls waiting patiently near the slushie machine.

We sat outside and slurped our raspberry-flavored drinks. “That guy was creepy,” my daughter said between sips.

“Totally. And he thought we were sisters!” her friend rolled her eyes. The four of them howled with laughter, their mouths stained bright red.

I laughed too. And the laughter was a protective shield, a bulletproof sleazebag force field. The girls tossed their empty cups in the trash and ran to the car. On the way home, we saw a helicopter patrolling the shoreline, looking for sharks.