“But it wasn’t on the other side. We had reached our destination. The bathroom was right there beneath us. She was a young girl. She just pulled down her pants, and went.” My mom pauses for dramatic effect. “I’m telling you she did more than urinate. After this, these bubbles suddenly rose to the surface. I looked down and saw dozens of little round white fish mouths emerging to feed.” My mom made her hand like a Pac-Man mouth, opening and shutting while she makes a fish face and sucks her cheeks in. Her aspiring actress side has made a comeback after the divorce.

“Michelle wouldn’t shut up. She started wailing because it was her feeding time. I was balanced on a piece of plywood, squatting there, and cradling her in one arm. There was no way I could have pulled my breast out. Now that would have been a balancing act. Imagine if I’d had dropped her! Can you imagine?” My mom can’t help but suppress a smile. “Michelle would be darker than she already is!” The driver looks in the rear view and catches mom’s eyes like a subtle amen to that. I can’t wait to tell my little sis this seriously damaging story about her infancy.

My mom continues, “The worst part of the story is that while I was worried about not falling off or dropping her in, the blanket was ruined. It was hanging right in that nasty pond water. It was a shame. I had to throw it away. After that, my mom, your grandmother never wanted me to visit your dad’s people again.”

Mom states, “The one thing I’ll never forget is how they swallowed.” Her eyes are glazed over as she says this with that looking out of the third eye look they talk about in yoga class. She says in a voice of awed recall, “The way their mouths opened up into these perfectly white round suctioning holes . . . .”

“Why didn’t Aunt Persimmon’s family just dig holes in the ground?”

“How would holes in the ground feed the fish?”

My mom clears her throat and adds, “They say the fish grow to be bigger than average that way. Right before they take the fish to market, they feed citrus rinds to them for a couple of weeks to get rid of the shit smell.”

“Your story’s ruined me for the next couple of years, thank you.” My mom believes in the things could always be worse method of motherhood. I say, “What’s up with the obsession with all things scatological here?”

“Scata-what?”

“Shit Mom, shit!”

“Don’t get foul-mouthed, Missy.” My mom crosses her arms and stares out the window giving me the silent treatment for the rest of the drive.