On Tuesdays Dilla’s mother wakes her up early. It is winter, but the swimming must continue.
Olympics happen even in the cold, Mother huffs. If I can get out there, so can you. You’re going to be a star, my girl.
When Dilla emerges from under the duvet, she is wearing a cosy on her head. It is navy and patched with burs from when the ruffian terrier took it between its top and bottom teeth and wrestled with it outside on the lawn.
You’re wearing that filthy thing? You’ll catch the rabies. Take it off now, Mother says.
Dilla knows about the rabies. She knows about the frothing mouth and the red eyes. It is nothing exceptional. Her father had the rabies. She sleeps with the cosy under her pillow and when it hits that time of night when her ears, nose, feel like cold stones, she puts it on and nestles her toes into Hamlet at the bottom of the bed and goes easily back to sleep.
When Dilla emerges first out of her bedroom and then out of her mother’s bedroom, she is quiet. She wears slippers and she slides across the floor. She is skating, skiing. She could be flying, too, for she’s never done any, so the choice, really, is hers. She may just slip and fall and smash her ankle, her knee, her wrist, and her mother, when she sees Dilla, raises her voice.
The morning is so still and the slippers so soft. The voice comes like the horn at the pool.
Dilla seeks solace in the space between the shower and the rumbling, brown washing machine.
The porcelain is cold on her skin and as her peach bum dips a little in the bowl she feels that the water, the water, is just below her. She drops one limp arm between her legs and curves her hand slightly.
She pees. Her hand melts.
A yellow handprint puddle.
