A wave rushed over: a short story by Marjorie Maddox.

What Megan liked most about the breaststroke was how it pushed her into a silent, undersurface world--then brought her back, her body surging up for a large breath and a quick clip of voices and pool noise at the YMCA. Then again. She plunged under-and-forward, then up, breath, under-and-forward; the world was crisp and clean. She was both participating in and separate from everyday life, both anonymous and known. She liked that duality.

How she understood this had less to do with logic than with the smell of chlorine and the smooth water whooshing off her shoulders. Each time her legs pushed off a wall, she descended again into that first long stroke; the lane lines blurred underneath into watery fog, and she couldn't see the other end. For a few seconds, the lanes seemed to go on into infinity. But then--her arms parting the water and pulling her forward, her head rising above to see the outer world, her frog-like legs snapping into a glide the end moved into view. At each wall, she could stop or turn, kick off the concrete, and continue. Under-and-forward, up, breath, under-and-forward. Below the surface, the water sounded like the inside of a conch shell, like whispered dreams swirling the cochlea of her ear.

Afterwards she jogged in the waist-high water, watching women younger than she kick side-by-side with Styrofoam boards and chat about daughters' Confirmations. She might have a daughter, too. And a son. She didn't know. It had been six days since she and Todd went to the clinic for the embryo transfers; six more to go before they returned for the blood test. Inside her now were two fertilized eggs--anonymous and known--that moved when she moved, forward and back in the water. She thought she could feel them at each step and stretch of her legs; each time the water pushed against her thighs telling her to stop. The chances of both eggs surviving were slim, but she had the power of prayer and science as her arsenal. Even Todd would laugh at such reasoning, but she knew that deep inside her something was different. Or maybe she was becoming the same as others, entering that strange world of what it meant to be average.

Of course, she would never get there completely. She wasn't absolutely sure she wanted to. The first of six children--Catholic, obviously--she was the only one of her siblings who was childless, at least until now. She had 15 nieces and nephews, from 2 months to 21 years. All of them who could talk called her "Auntie Meg." She was the "fun" aunt, free and easy, not strapped down by a household of children. She took the older ones to concerts and the younger ones to birthday parties. She was the last-minute babysitter when Mom and the teens had plans, the one who only had a husband and couldn't possibly say no. That was her sometimes-identity.

Other times she was the "poor big sister" who "wasn't getting any younger, after all." Sometimes they looked at her with pity; sometimes with annoyance. The next oldest, Beth, told her that as a morn, she didn't have time to chitchat and, besides, what did they really have in common? "Your priorities are focused solely on yourself, whereas mine are centered on my family." Beth said this snidely once after Megan had called to find out what the kids wanted for their birthdays since she planned to shop after work. Baby Anthony had been screaming in the background, so Beth had hung up quickly without answering the question. What Megan remembered most was how loudly the dial tone had echoed in her ear. When she tried to tell Todd later about the episode, he laughed. "Beth's just jealous of your job. With all the babies she's had, she thinks she's the one who should be teaching the little guys at St. Joe's. But look at her; she's got a kid in college and is still at it. She's making her choices."

"Was she?" Megan wondered as she started her last lap. Beth had gotten married to her husband right out of high school. That was when she and Todd were still dating. He was an usher and she was the maid of honor in the family's first big shebang of a wedding. Her dad was still alive and walked Beth down the aisle. That part was nice. Megan remembered how small Beth had looked next to his large, 6-toot-4 frame. Dad had leaned over and whispered something to her. Even now, Megan wondered what it was. For some reason it had seemed too intimate to ask. Often Megan watched the same thing with Beth and Tony, but it was Beth leaning over to whisper to her husband. Her face always had a question on it.

Even now Beth rarely did anything without first calling Tony at his sporting goods store. Whenever Megan stopped there to get new goggles or a swim cap, she was bound to hear his phone ring. He'd smile and flip open his cell, "Hey, baby, I'm here working hard." What followed was usually something like, "Yeah, sure make the chicken cacciatore," or "Nah, wear the green slinky one I like." Sometimes, after he hung up, he'd look Megan straight in the eye and ask, "So how much are you and Bethy really alike?" Each time, his dark eyebrows would rise comically, waiting for an answer. She never gave him one. Still, she took whatever discount he was offering that day.

Such family interactions were a ritual--like being Catholic and making love. Sometimes thinking of any of it made her queasy. Lots of kids, lots of family--it all went with the territory. What choices were there? What choices had her mother had? A new kid every year? Still, when her doctor had first told Megan there were "some complications" and she might have "difficulty conceiving," she had stared at him in disbelief before bursting into tears. He had delivered all six McGinney kids. He went to the same parish; he knew what her family was like, what was expected. How could he tell her the news so calmly? She wanted to punch him in the face--that's what she wanted to do--but he looked so tired and was kind and obtuse. He had even come to her dad's funeral the year before. She didn't have the heart to reject his reassurances and box of tissues. After a few more minutes of sniffling, she had tossed her Kleenex in his trash can, then walked briskly out of the office. When the waiting room receptionist called after her, she hadn't turned around.

Now 12 years later she filled her weekdays teaching stories and math problems to 6-year-olds at the local parochial school. Most of the kids there already had three or four siblings. Why couldn't one of them be hers?

In the pool she slowed to a walk. Coming up to the wall, she stretched first one calf muscle, then the other. She leaned side to side, feeling the tug near her rib cage. She bent halfway over at the waist, staring at her toes beneath the water's surface. At 43 and 135 pounds, she looked better than her four sisters and as good as her brother Patrick, the only boy and the baby of the family. Even he had three kids notched up and a young wife who did volunteer work on the side by fundraising for charities over the telephone. She had a headphone set and would nurse while she lectured strangers on the importance of feeding orphan children in Somalia.

Once Cassie, that's her sister-in-law's name, had even tried to talk Megan and Todd into adopting. It was a couple of years ago at one of those large Thanksgiving dinners at her mom's house. As usual, kids were running everywhere, a Monopoly game was started in the den, a football game was blaring on the TV in the family room, and Cassie and all four of Megan's sisters--Beth, Abby, Kathleen, and Mary--were sitting in a row on the couch nursing. Megan and Todd were clearing the dessert dishes, trying to pass relatively unnoticed from one room to the other, when Cassie, seemingly immersed in a conversation with her sisters-in-law, blurted out, "Isn't that right--you guys want kids? There's a real neat opportunity going on right now because of some flexibility in the laws. I mean it's a great thing. You might even be able to get a kid from Somalia." She turned to the other women with a knowing glance, "a real win-win situation for everyone involved, and I know you guys would be really good parents if only you had this chance."

Megan hadn't known what to say, but Todd saved her with his big smile. "Good idea, Cassie, we'll have to check that out." Somehow he'd managed to throw this out in a friendly way, while juggling four pie plates and making his way quickly to the kitchen before Megan's face could get too red. Once there, Megan immersed her hands in hot, sudsy water. The sudden sting was a strange relief from what she felt as judgment. She was the "broken" one after all. The other sisters--all fertile Myrtles--kept popping out the kids. She was tired of going to Baptisms and First Communions. Whenever she was introduced to her sisters' friends at these events, someone always asked, "And which kids are yours?" Even at her dad's funeral, she had to explain six times that she didn't yet have children. After Cassie's comment, in the same kitchen where Megan's morn had cooked for a family of eight, she couldn't look directly at Todd. He didn't notice. Or at least he didn't let on. She handed him each fragile dish to dry while they discussed Christmas plans at his family's.

Yet Megan kept thinking about Cassie's comment--long after the dozen family hymns sung later at the piano. This was yet another McGinney tradition. Beth's oldest, Claire, played while Megan turned the pages and all the others huddled around and sang parts. Even the babies pitched in with squeals and occasional wails. When she heard Todd's strong, clear baritone blend with Claire's careful playing, she was more than proud.

Beth's Claire was Megan's favorite of the nieces--strong, loving, independent but sweet--a lot, Megan thought, how Beth used to be. Megan missed those days when she and Beth played in the school band--she on the trumpet, Beth on the drums. And how they loved to play at the family gatherings, especially "When the Saints Go Marching In." She could still hear her dad bellowing over everyone else, "Oh, Lord, I want to be in that number, Oh when the saints go marching in!"

That was before. Once dad died and Beth became a baby factory, Beth couldn't stand what she called "uncontrolled noise." "It's everywhere," she'd tried to explain once to Megan. "All I want is a little quiet and a little practicality."

Still, despite Beth's objections, her oldest daughter wanted to be a musician. Now Claire was at the state school an hour away, close enough so she and Megan could meet a few times a month over coffee or pizza. They had what Megan wanted with a daughter: that familiar chit-chat about music, reading, and sports (Claire had made the swim team at State), as well as Claire's occasional questions about which guy to date or drop. When Claire played the piano at these family get-togethers, Megan was certain she wanted a daughter most, maybe even one who, like Claire, shared her hazel eyes and long fingers. For a time all Megan's fears disappeared in the confident way Claire struck even the black keys.

It was well after midnight that Thanksgiving when Megan and Todd got home, but the hymns kept running through her head, and Megan couldn't sleep. After an hour of tossing, she got up, had a bowl of cereal, then surfed the Web on their computer, lodged in a nook off the hallway of their modest ranch. She couldn't help but type in "Somalia" and "adoption," then wait for the computer to whir its magic. For an hour she clicked on one site after another. There was a lot of red tape involved, the sites all said, but it could be done. Cassie wasn't wrong.

Megan thought of the photos of Somalian children she had seen in magazines. All she could remember were the protruding ribs. Could she and Todd get a baby? One who was healthy? She thought of all the infants she had held, all the Baby's First Christmas ornaments she had given. That night, she dreamed Claire was playing "Rock-a-bye Baby" for the entire family when, outside the window, the Christ child toppled from the highest branch of her mom's oldest oak.

The next morning when she mentioned Cassie's suggestion to Todd, he stared at her in disbelief. "You can't be serious," he blurted out, tugging on his T-shirt. "I mean, we've talked about this a million times. I want someone who looks like us. I don't want everyone pointing and saying that's the adopted kid. Jeez!" He pulled on a pair of jeans. Then a pang of conscience struck out; he paused and touched her shoulder. "Don't give up now, Meg, sweetie, OK?" And, two years ago, that was that.

"Yep, and this is this," she whispered to herself, patting her stomach twice as she climbed out of the pool. She grabbed her backpack and towel and headed to the locker room showers. No one in her family knew yet about the in vitro. She might keep it that way. The pope didn't approve, and that meant her mother, Beth, and probably the others wouldn't either. When Megan asked Todd if he thought they'd need to mention the clinic visits in Confession, he surprised her with his vehement rebuttal: "That's none of Father Bob's business ... or your family's either!"

As far as the pregnancy went, if there really was one, she and Todd were waiting to tell anyone until they knew for sure--maybe until after those first iffy months. She had explained away as romantic getaways their long weekend trips to the city. And then she had said she'd had the flu and needed a few days of rest at home. What was the point of getting her family's hopes up? Of having her morn start knitting yet another pair of booties, this time maybe two? No one else in the family had had twins. They might wonder about that, too. "One more difference," she thought, "but this one would be acceptable."

Earlier that week Megan was back to her routine, and that felt good. Except for the implanted embryos and a bit of an upset stomach, everything was the same--morning workout, then school, then home to make dinner. Here at the Y, she saw the same women in the shower room, peeling off their wet bathing suits. Each day she watched them from the corner of her eye. They washed their body parts carefully and in the same order, all the while chatting with each other about their children and grandchildren: what they loved about them and what drove them crazy. When they noticed Megan at all, they smiled at her and called her "dear."

Today she took her own shower quickly, using up the last drops of her chlorine-removal shampoo. She made a mental note to buy more at Rite-Aid, then pulled on her panties, hooked her matching bra, and headed into the next room for her work clothes, all pressed and hanging up in a rented locker. She had a new craft for her first-graders and she wanted to get to school a bit early to set it up.

What she didn't expect was to see Claire. Her niece was standing in the corner near Megan's locker, kicking at a piece of dried gum with her tennis shoe. She looked like she had been up all night. Her T-shirt and jeans were rumpled and her mascara smeared. And she was supposed to be an hour away at school. But here she was, and she was reaching out her arms to Megan.

It didn't matter that Megan was barefoot and in her underwear, that her hair was still dripping. She ran toward Claire. "Auntie Meg," Claire began, her voice breaking, "You've got to swear that you'll never, ever tell my mom. I didn't have any choice."

In the morning light of the locker room, her arms stretching out toward this niece she loved like a daughter, Megan nearly tripped over the edge of a bench. Grabbing onto a locker handle, she tried to steady herself. She could almost see the child bobbing rhythmically in amniotic fluid, the girl's eyes, soon-to-be hazel, waiting for a mother's face. For hers? And then the unborn child was swimming against the current that rushed toward them, her small hands all that showed above increasingly violent waves.

Megan stopped herself from gasping and took a deep breath. She thought of Todd's hopes, her mother's expectations, her sister's horror. Then she looked again at Claire's thin, waiting arms. A wave of nausea rushed over her as she hugged her niece and let her cry.

"Full of Grace"
a poem

   And that one-true Good,
   your Magnificat soothes
   our mournings,
   cradles a world sad
   with its un-doing.

   Mother Mary,
   hold our earth-stained hands;
   let us crawl on the lap
   that held Him.

by Marjorie Maddox

MARJORIE MADDOX, is director of creative writing at Lock Haven University and is co-editor of Common Wealth: Contemporary Poets on Pennsylvania (Pennsylvania State University Press, 2005).