Jeff Vande Zande

Her small body shines with water and light. Giggling, she squeals “daddy,” splashes until his pants darken. Five more minutes, he thinks, stepping out quickly, pouring himself a drink, not expecting to return to find her slipped under, her tiny face staring up through the undulating surface. Before he can move, or drop his scotch, she raises her dripping head, her mouth a perfect O. The sound of her gulped breath takes the wind out of him. Her face, pale and awed, understands the other side of water and air. His wife didn’t see, doesn’t know. Her feet pulse and fade in the upstairs joists. His daughter cries, slips from him, not giggling. She wants out. He tries to keep her in the tub, in the light. He’s on his knees.