That Girl, Rosemary

That Girl, Rosemary

I suppose the lifeguard figured, quite rightly, I’d be afraid to go near the deep end of the pool again. How many victims get saved from near drowning more than once?

But I’m ahead of myself. I should start with how I met her, the girl who shared my name. It was early evening, just before dinner, and I was sitting on the floor of a corner of the porch deep in discussion with myself. I didn’t admit it to that girl, though, later when she asked. Instead I pretended one of my pets – a cat – had been on the porch with me.

My parents didn’t own the house, but rented it from an elderly lady who lived up above us on a hill. The lady, known only to me as, Mrs. Phipps; was a friend of my grandmother's and I was alternately frightened by her and attracted to her. Sometimes she would have migraines and I would be forced to be distant and quiet; sometimes she was not unlike a six-year-old girl herself and we would sit on the floor together playing with her jewelry in good company. It was Mrs. Phipps who brought the girl to our house.

“Rosemary! I want you to meet someone. This is Rosemary.” Mrs. Phipps cackled then, a raspy and dry laugh that ended in a short coughing fit.

It turned out that Rosemary, that girl who was twice my age, was visiting her for a week. Mrs. Phipps hoped we would be able to entertain each other. And so it was planned the three of us would go to the community pool the next day. I had never been to the pool before; I had only seen it from the car window as we drove by. I’m not sure I even knew it was a pool before Mrs. Phipps took us there. The sign outside didn’t say “pool.”

I had been in the water before, in a three-foot doughboy pool and a dammed off recreation area with my father. There was no fear at the prospect of a larger pool, just that confidence that youthful innocence can bring. After paying our way in, Mrs. Phipps disappeared with her lotion, book, and hat to a sundeck. She wasn’t interested in swimming. With her out of the way, Rosemary ditched me. She was, after all, twice my age, and the draw of having the same name can only hold someone’s interest for so long. At the pool there were plenty of kids closer to her age to talk to, and, in fairness, plenty of kids my age for me as well. I soon found myself perched on the edge of the deep end of the pool talking with two of them.

It’s better for me now to consider that younger self fearless, rather than ponder how she could have been so stupid. Within minutes, those two girls had convinced me to jump off the diving board. Me, the girl who had never been in more than three feet of water before. It was like a cartoon of someone drowning. I remember coming up to the surface, one, two, three times. Just before the fourth time strong hands grabbed me and within no time I was back at the side of the pool.

Banned to the shallow end, I spent the rest of the afternoon as I had spent most Summer afternoons anyway: by myself. Here, though, I couldn’t allow myself the luxury of talking to myself because every once in awhile those other girls would parade past me on their way to the snack bar or the restroom. I tried not to see their gloating or their snickering.

It turned out everyone at the pool had seen my mishap; everyone except Mrs. Phipps. On the way home, that girl Rosemary pinched my arm and told me not to tell my parents what had happened.

“They might not let us go again if you do.”

I didn’t tell my parents and filed the incident away in that massive over-filled place a kid hides all of the things she’ll get in trouble for telling. We never went to the pool again anyway. Sometime near the end of the summer I got a letter from that girl, Rosemary. Probably her parents made her write it.