Every year the girls came back to the pool, with bottles of wine and their stories. They promised they would. There was something freeing about returning to a place where you can take off the mask, titles, responsibilities and just be girls for the weekend. Floating and swimming in their underwear like it was unplanned. No matter how hard it was, they came. When one of them had cancer they came. When another ended her marriage, they came. When two of them lost siblings to the bus accident no one knew how to talk about, they came. They talked about it and cried together. They held onto this ritual through so many tragedies, and now they were down by one.
This year’s reunion was harder. They drank more than usual with a ziploc of her ashes sitting between them.
“I thought it would be me if it was going to be anyone”, the friend who had cancer spoke up, finally breaking the silence. She didn’t add that she was in remission. She didn’t want to hope too soon and have it snatched away.
“I miss her. She would have brought the better wine”, another said
“Well, it’s nothing to cry about,” someone teased, and they laughed.
“Do you guys remember why we started meeting here 12 years ago? Because I do”. The person who spoke was floating on her back in the pool, drifting towards the group. She righted herself on the stairs and looked at each of her girls in the eye.
If you remember, then you’re wondering the same thing I’m wondering, the main question is—
“—Did he kill her?” The one who had been quiet all evening spoke up finishing the sentence. There it was, the thing there wasn’t enough wine in the world to drown out. They needed answers. There would be no real goodbye without them.
