“Black tips and reef sharks,” Tommy, my brother, said with his short, breathy voice that made him sound like a little old man. “Maybe tigers and bulls, too. Definitely bulls.” I nodded and let him go sharky on her. Mainly, I had my eye on my mom, who had stopped about halfway up the aisle to speak to a guy in a business suit. Mom had her phony smile on, the one she uses when she meets men, and she wore the wide, hippie-dippie skirt that didn’t really match the guy in the business suit. It was all wrong but she couldn’t see that, never saw that, even though he probably pegged her for what she was—a woman too friendly to guys, a woman who would always stop in a plane aisle to say hello to a potential boyfriend. A woman who didn’t notice the knot she made in foot traffic. A woman who tried to make things happen too fast. That was our mom, Grace. Grace Ouroussoff. She had taken her maiden name back after our father left.
