By Brian Selman

“Uncle Brian?” Chloe starts.

“Do you wanna play?” 

I remember how badly I wanted a playmate at five. I say, “Yes,” as much as I can. Sometimes, we build forts. Other times, I am a customer at her imaginary restaurant or a student in her classroom. No matter how long or how often we play, she always returns asking for more. We go inside only when I see her turning red and heaving for breath. The heat stays in triple digits, and it’s humid most days that summer at our home in East Texas. I try to enjoy the hot weather because I know it will be the last I will experience for a long time. With my liberal arts degree in hand, I have taken a job as an English teacher in Russia starting in August. On my last day before going to Moscow, I overhear Chloe say to David,

“I want a pool, Daddy.”

“I’ll get you one,” he responds. But I have heard enough promises like this one. There will never be a pool.

“Maybe I can make you one,” I say.

“How’re we gonna do that?” she asks.

“Aren’t those tarps in the shed waterproof? Couldn’t we prop one up and fill it with water?”

David unexpectedly giggles. He might have taken a few pain pills, but he isn’t the zombie version that comes when he’s got a new fentanyl patch on.

“That would be the most redneck thing ever, like one of those things you see on the internet,” he says.

“Why should we care?” I ask. 

Chloe is getting a pool today.

I start by rolling out some large plastic barrels we have for holding water. Once full, they should be heavy enough to hold down the tarp. I start up the Gator and pull it around to the barn. I get into Granddad’s tractor and use its hydraulic lift to raise the bucket into position. I use some heavy chains as a weight for the remaining tarp corners. 

As the hose begins to fill the makeshift pool, Chloe runs around the tarp, squealing with glee. She is in a bright pink one‑piece swimsuit with Minnie Mouse on her tummy. I am also in a bathing suit, my pasty white shoulders getting sunburned red under the intense July sun.

As the water climbs the tarp walls, the fabric sags and begins to buckle, allowing water to seep over the top. 

“Stop it! Stop it! Uncle Brian!” Chloe says. The house door slams. David is in athletic shorts and his cowboy boots held together with electrical tape. His wife, Megan, is right behind him. As he approaches, my eyes lock on his, steadying myself for a confrontation. However, once they reach us, he stands momentarily to take the scene in. Seeing me struggle with the tarp wall, he reaches over to the tractor arm control and raises it. He then cinches the tarp corner tighter in the bed of the Gator. After a few minutes of us tugging corners and adjusting the barrels, the tarp holds. After a couple more minutes, the water is up to my knee and the floor of the “pool” is long enough for me to lie down in. 

“Can I get in, Daddy?” 

“I got a better idea,” I say, grabbing her, holding her sideways, and threatening to dunk her headfirst. Her squeals are still powerful enough to split my eardrums, but there are now giggles in between. After a second-long dangle, I right her and set her feet into the water. 

“I have a pool!” she cries. I take the opportunity to hit her with a wave of cold, clear, hose water from the surface.

If an outsider took a snapshot of this moment, what would they see? A normal family? Megan sticks her feet in and leans against the tractor. She gives me a small smile and nod when I look her way. It is the first grin I have seen from her in some time. The dark circles under her eyes stand in sharp contrast to the bright summer day. Chloe asks David to get in, but he is content to sit in the elevated tractor seat and watch. The water is high enough to let Chloe jump off my shoulders and splash into the pool while I stand on my knees. We take turns spraying each other with the water hose. Every now and then I’ll make her giggle by dangling her by her ankles.

After only fifteen minutes, it is already starting to get dark. Making the pool was harder than I expected. I took too long. Chloe attempts to jump over a sagging wall, ready to run inside for her tub toys. 

“It’s getting late, sweetie,” David says.

“No!” Chloe says, beginning to cry. 

“Hold on, hold on, girl!” I say. 

“I’ll make it up to you. Trust me. Head on in and dry off, and we’ll get up to something fun.”

Later that night, we decide to paint each other’s nails. Although I have never painted my nails before, we both take to it with overabundant misplaced confidence, staining our cuticles with polish in the process. We have ten different colors, so we paint each nail a different hue. 

I have a feeling the Russian police may give me a hard look at the border. All is well, though, as Chloe has fun using the nail polish remover.

“When are you gonna be back, Uncle Brian?” she asks me, just before bedtime.

“It’s gonna be a while,” I answer.

“Like a month?”

“Like longer than a month,” I say. “You know Christmas? I’m hoping I can come home then.”

She does not cry. She nods and hugs me before quietly turning around and heading back to Grandma’s room. David sits in Granddad’s old recliner, staring dully at the television, his bottle of Percocet snuggled into the cushion next to him. The only other light in the room comes from the couch as Megan’s phone illuminates her face.

~~~

Brian Selman writes memoir and personal essays exploring family, memory, and identity. His unpublished memoir, Through the Briars and Brambles, was shortlisted for this year’s Bridport Prize in Memoir.