but also other adults on the plane, their kind faces leaning in as we went faster and faster, We're almost there, we're almost there, and I tried to hold on but finally couldn't anymore, and as we rushed in and down to the runway, I threw up into a white bag someone held for me, and everyone forgave me, and I was given more water and everything went back to normal.

The motel overlooked a beach of seashells, and at the end of the shells was the water. No sand could be seen on the beach, only shells. This was rare, it was explained to me, something to be appreciated. Not too many people knew about this place, but we knew about it. Behind the motel was an endless hilly park with winding paths and regularly spaced white cinder-block structures that looked like identical, fierce little houses but which actually contained only pipes, my father explained; I was happy to hear that, because I wouldn't have wanted to live in one of those little houses. In the evenings, right after dinner, sprays of water appeared everywhere, crisscrossing and arching over one another, some tall and fine and waving like the tails of exotic birds, and some shooting relentlessly in one direction, feeding the green dips and rises. From our room's patio I looked, but it hurt a little鈥攎y eyes or chest or something. The color was so deep, so wet, the hills like mounds of wet green cake. I felt you out there somewhere, amidst all that green, but I couldn't see you, no matter how I concentrated. If I looked away, something would move in the corner of my eye, but when I looked back, you were never there.

But when I turned around to go back into the room there was a decal of a diving woman on the sliding glass door, right there at my eye level, strangely, as though someone had known I would be there to see it, and it let me know the door was closed and I had better open it or I would bump my head. The woman wore a pink bathing suit exactly like my mother's and the ugly white kind of bathing

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