As kids, we would have what my mother called our night swim before bed. She’d walk us down to the dock, a cocktail in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Darkness would be waiting patiently at the doorstep as the sun slowly sank low in the sky. My mother would stretch out on a recliner, her long legs crossed at the ankle, slowly alternating between sips from her drink and inhales from her cigarette, which would glow red in the purple light.

May and I would splash around in the lake, ducking underwater whenever a bat skimmed across the surface in pursuit of dinner. We knew it was time to get out when the red tip of our mother’s cigarette died away and the sound of ice against the walls of her glass rang out.

She’d hurry us both up the path to the cottage, warning us each and every time not to trip on the rocks or tree roots. Inside the cottage we’d kiss her good-night and take ourselves upstairs to put on our pajamas, brush our damp hair tight against our skulls, and brush our teeth with sharply minted toothpaste.

Our mother would stay downstairs, puttering around, listening to her records and doing whatever she did into the night. That time of night was when our worlds split into two, leaving me and May as one island and my mother as her own. She never said it outright, but we knew we were not to come downstairs after the night swim.

We’d turn all the lights out except for the bedside lamp and climb into May’s bed. My mother’s music would drift up the stairs and under the door, a soft soundtrack to our hushed conversations. Our cheeks would still be pulsing with the power of the day’s sun, our eardrums still pressurized as though we were underwater—until we yawned enough to pop the sensation away.

We’d talk until May became sleepy; she was always the first to give in, which meant I got sent to my room. May was serious about sleep and claimed I kicked too much and called out. Restless in life and in sleep, Leo used to say about me.

Even when my mother left us on our own to go across the bay to the resort, we followed the ritual of a night swim and climbing into May’s bed. When we got older, it was to talk about boys we liked and girls we didn’t. I’d stretch my tanned legs up the slant of the wall to admire my brightly painted toenails. Once or twice we smoked a cigarette we’d stolen from my mother’s purse, blowing the smoke through the screen, where the breeze whisked it away.