My blood pressure monitor starts beeping. Pierre rushes over.

“Holy shit,” he frowns at numbers. “Her pressure is at one-eighty. Get the hell out of here. I’m paging Dr. Foreman.”

SLOW DISSOLVE TO:

EXT. MALIBU COLONY BEACH

MIDDAY

AUGUST 1977

Our mothers met first, sidling toward each other in straw sun hats. Merilee wore her gold bikini while Steffi was stuffed into a green crocheted number, her breasts like fruit swinging in a woven bag. They both held tumblers, and as they puffed on menthol cigarettes, they extolled the virtues of cold vodka on a hot sunny day.

It was the weekend, Anna’s time off. “Don’t forget to put on your Sea & Ski,” she had reminded me before my father drove her to the bus stop. Anna spoke often in brand names. Like, “Do you want Heinz on that?” She called all soups “Campbells.”

Now in my mother’s care, I sat down by the shore in my yellow playsuit, building sandcastles, my arms streaked white with sunscreen.

“Lookie, Jacqueleeene,” my mother drew my name out. I hated my name, to begin with. I didn’t need her making it sound any longer than it already was.

“This is Steffi’s little girl. She’s going to be in second grade with you this fall.” Nicole had choppy blonde hair and bangs like Hayley Mills, and she was wearing the exact purple two-piece I had recently begged for and which my father had rejected as “too mature.”

We nodded at one another with the weary look of fellow travelers.

“Don’t just stand there like you’ve got sunstroke, say hello, Nicole.” Her mother nudged her forward. Nicole stubbornly took a step back and reclaimed her original stance.

Merilee brought out lounge chairs and our mothers reclined their shiny, buttered bodies on the woven plastic, conversing, ice clattering in their glasses. Nicole and I sat in the sand and began wordlessly digging tunnels. Soon, we competed, each of us digging faster and harder until our fingers unexpectedly met underground. We kept our hands there for a while where no one could see, thumb wrestling and giggling.

On that narrow strip of priceless sand, Steffi and my mother gossiped and commiserated as the tide crept closer to their chairs.

“At least you’ve got a husband,” Nicole’s mother said too loudly, slathering another handful of oil onto her long legs.

My mother laughed and shushed her. “Lemme freshen that drink, hon,” she said, rising.

“You’re getting a burn.” Steffi pointed to where my mother’s chest and belly had reddened significantly.

“Not you, lucky ducky!” Merilee said, referring to Steffi’s mahogany-toned skin.

“I got Portuguese in me,” Steffi called out.

Merilee came back out with freshly poured glasses of vodka mixed with grapefruit juice.

Between sips and puffs, Steffi recounted how Nicole’s father had left four years earlier right in the middle of a tennis game—a doubles tournament.