Authors: Ilsa J. Bick
Oh, what‘s the matter? Is widdle Bobby
mad
? Like, wait a minute, she skipped a
month
? Well, what were you expecting, Bobby-o, a blow-by-blow? Every
minute
? God, you
are
a perv.
Oh, all right, short and sweet: yes, this meet was about a month later. I‘d run in three meets since . . . since
before
. (I‘m not being coy here; I just don‘t see that it‘s any of your business.) I‘d done okay: third in my first meet and second in the two after that. My joining the team seemed to have lit a fire under Danielle. Maybe that‘s what Mr. Anderson had counted on. If so, it had worked. She‘d poured it on the last three races.
But I would catch her soon, and I knew it. Her splits were way off, and when we did flat courses on the treadmill, I could punch up a six-minute mile for five and she couldn‘t.
She‘d gotten surlier and more withdrawn, too. In the locker room—yes, I still changed in the handicapped shower—I overheard how she and David might be splitting up; how her older brother, who was in the local university extension and had suddenly taken to showing up to take her home from practice, had gotten in David‘s face the other week. I could believe it. The way her brother acted—wedging himself between her and any other guy, even Mr. Anderson when he was just coaching—you‘d have thought
he
was her boyfriend.
Stuff like that.
But with me coming on board, we‘d done well enough. My teammates were pumped because we might make regionals after all, even state. Mr. Anderson—Mitch—was psyched. Me, too. I knew it was only a matter of time until I
really
came in first—not just first on our team, but for the race.
For him.
Which didn‘t exactly endear me to Danielle, who had even more reason to hate my guts and . . .
Oh, wait.
I
know. You don‘t care about Danielle, do you, Bob? Why is she wasting time with Danielle, you‘re saying; why isn‘t she getting down to the nitty-gritty, what‘s
really
important. Where‘s the
good
stuff?
Well, know what I say to that, Bobby-o? Screw you. This is my story, so get over it.
Oh, okay, I‘ll cut you a break. I mean, since you asked.
Yes, Mitch and I saw one another almost every day and I don‘t mean
just
in that way, although . . . yes, in
that
way, too. And you know what, Bobby-o?
It was wonderful. It was magic. It was a fairy tale come true and the best thing that ever happened to me, and you can‘t take that away. I know that‘s killing you. You want this to be a different kind of story, but it‘s not and . . .
Okay, deep breath.
Mitch and I were together nearly every day, most mornings and after school but very, very late, after everyone else had gone home. I studied in the library, or we set up labs for the next day. Yes, we really
did
work, shocker there. There was also practice, conditioning work, stuff like that. We were extremely careful and always made sure that doors were open and there was music and, usually, other kids. Like we had nothing to hide.
Although sometimes his hand would brush my arm and a little shock would zing through my chest. Our eyes might meet, and then heat would crawl up my neck and warm my thighs, and I would have to look away. More often than not, we both drove away when our work at school was done or practice was over, so everyone would see us go in separate cars. We‘d meet up again: for dinner, coffee—
And other things.
In his car. In mine. Huddled under blankets in darkened fields, where we explored ways of keeping one another warm: when he showed me what he liked, and how.
We ran on the weekends, too. And, yeah, a couple times, we couldn‘t wait until we made it to the cabin. That‘s not to say that we didn‘t spend a lot of time in our hideaway.
That was ours: a private, magical space where we could talk and fill volumes.
I remember one afternoon—a Saturday after we‘d . . . well, you know. We were wrapped in a comforter on that window seat in his study: my back snugged against his chest, his arms hugging me close. No rain this time, but the day was gray and the woods so filled with mist, we might as well have been on our own little island. There was music, something as gauzy and soft as that fog.
―I love it when it‘s so still,‖ he said. I remember that his fingers brushed and stroked my breasts, back and forth. Nothing grabby. Just a gentle touch you‘d almost swear wasn‘t there but which sent tiny electric shocks dancing over my skin and stabbing through my thighs. ―It always reminds me of diving, the way you hover between the water below and the world above.‖
―I wish we didn‘t have to leave.‖ My hands were hooked on his arms the way they‘d been that first afternoon when I told him everything. ―It feels like we‘re floating.
Everything‘s so calm.‖
―Mmm-hmm.‖ He pressed his lips to the top of my head. ―I‘d forgotten what this was like, feeling really
at
peace and not just putting on a show for family, my father, my . .
.‖ He paused. ―You remember when I said you can look at a guy in the water and not know he‘s in trouble? That he‘s drowning? I saw it happen once.‖
―You saw someone die?‖
―Mmm-hmm. There was this one guy, pretty experienced, and his dive buddy was this newbie-kid who‘d sucked down his air pretty fast. So the kid surfaced and this guy kept on by himself, which might not have been a problem if he‘d stayed close or partnered up again, but he didn‘t. So we‘re all back aboard and thirty minutes become forty and then forty-five and the dive master is starting to freak. Then, all of a sudden, the captain spotted the guy maybe a half mile away. Without binoculars, you could barely see him, but he was upright and floating. We all started waving, but he didn‘t wave back, and then the dive master was screaming that we had to get there fast. I thought he‘d gone crazy. I mean, the guy seemed fine: not shouting or splashing or anything. Only by the time they got the boat turned around and over there? He was gone. That‘s why the dive master was so frantic. He understood the guy had about twenty seconds left.‖
―But he was on the surface,‖ I said. ―How could he not breathe? Why didn‘t he scream if he was in trouble?‖
―Because you‘re thinking of the movies, and that‘s not what happens in real life,‖ he said. ―They call it the drowning instinct. It‘s when drowning doesn‘t look like drowning. In real life, if the water‘s very cold, a person can‘t help but gasp. It‘s reflex. The thing is as soon as water hits your lungs, your throat closes off, even if the water‘s warm. Your body‘s trying to protect itself, and the reality is that a lot more people suffocate than truly drown.
Regardless, to people on land, especially when you‘re really close to the end, you don‘t
look
like you‘re in trouble. You don‘t scream, but that‘s because you can‘t, and you don‘t wave your arms either or expend a lot of energy flailing. You‘re just
there
. So people don‘t notice that you‘re dying.‖ He was silent for a moment. ―That‘s me. I think I‘ve been drowning all this time and doing it so quietly, even I didn‘t know it.‖
That sadness was there again. For some reason, I thought back to those pictures of Mrs. Anderson: happy and beautiful as a princess on her wedding day; then pregnant but scarred. I wondered what had happened in the middle; if maybe she‘d been drowning and Mitch hadn‘t known that either. Maybe they both had.
Despite how Mitch made me feel, I never quite forgot what Danielle said about him and broken people. You can‘t spend a million hours in therapy and not have it rub off a little. So was Mitch always trying to help because he hadn‘t been able to do the same first for himself and then for his wife? I could see where the shock of what happened to her—the pain and guilt— would . . . well, rip and then scar a person on the inside. Look at my parents. Look at Matt.
My therapist once said that everything I did was a repetition: a way of trying to make what was wrong with our whole family come out differently and right. So why should Mitch be any different? Maybe he couldn‘t help himself. He might not understand what he was repeating, or that he was even doing it. Adults don‘t know everything, Bob.
I only understand this
now
, of course: sitting here, still freezing cold, in this awful emergency room. Listening to the quiet.
Back then and at that moment, warm and safe in his arms, all I wanted was to help.
But I didn‘t know what to say. I had this urge to tell Mitch that I would save him—that he could grab on to me—but that felt dumb. Mitch had so much already. What could I do or give that he couldn‘t find somewhere else?
―But I‘m here and now you
do
know that you‘ve been drowning.‖ I sat up and when I turned to face him, the blanket slid from my shoulders and down my back. The scars were still there, on my stomach and thighs. They would never go away. I wouldn‘t be me if they did. ―So you don‘t have to do that anymore, Mitch. You don‘t have to drown.‖
For once, I did the right thing. Something unclenched in him; I could see the strain and tension drain from his body. His eyes drifted over my face and then to my breasts, my belly, those scars, and then he was reaching for me—and then there was no need to say anything.
Except for the moment when he guided my hand to where he wanted: when I gasped and he sighed and said my name, and then we were drowning in each other.
It was all so shockingly easy, as long as we were careful. I know you don‘t want to hear that, Bob. You want to hear that we felt guilty or lived in constant fear of discovery.
You want to know about our near-misses and how awful we felt, how criminal.
But I‘ve got news for you, Bobby-o. I felt fine,
fine
, better than I had in months and months and months. Who would suspect a good, quiet kid like me and a nice, open, friendly guy like Mr. Anderson? I had straight As; I wasn‘t a troublemaker. The Tank decided I‘d adjusted just fine, especially after I joined the team. My parents were careful not to think too hard about anything. Hell, they were
glad
I was on the team. I was looking good, they said. I seemed so happy, they said. My dad told my mom to admit it, going to Turing was the right move, and what could my mom say? Personally, I think they were so getting into each other again and with Mom gearing up for the holidays—they were thrilled not to have to worry about one more thing.
I was happy and Mitch made me beautiful, Bob. He made me believe that we would keep each other afloat forever.
And no one asked questions, Bob. No one gave us a second thought. Everyone looked, and no one really saw. We looked fine, and none of you knew the difference.
So, the meet.
I trotted into the silent girls‘ locker room but didn‘t see anyone. ―Hello? Danielle?‖
A pause. Then a rustle, followed by a grunt. ―What?‖
Her voice had come from the bathrooms. I went past the showers, my spikes clicking on the tile floor, rounded the corner, and saw shoes under one stall. ―Are you okay?‖
―Like you care.‖ Her tone hardened as she recognized my voice. I could practically see her chin jut out. ―I‘m
fine
. I‘ll be out in a second. I just . . . I‘ve got cramps.‖
―Oh. Well, Coach wants you outside. We‘re starting in like five, ten minutes.‖
―Yeah, yeah, I‘m coming, okay?‖ When I didn‘t move away, she growled, ―You going to stand there until I come out?‖
―Coach said I should wait for you.‖ Technically, I could leave and let Mitch lay into her when she finally dragged her sorry ass out of the stall. She would deserve it, too. This was someone who‘d been nothing but mean to me. I didn‘t owe her a thing. But, I reminded myself, I didn‘t need to be that way. This may sound stupid to you, Bob, but in a weird way, I felt like I‘d already won. I was Mitch‘s go-to girl on the team. Danielle might
think
she‘d had something special with Mitch, but he‘d already told me that she had a lot of problems and didn‘t want to listen to what he had to say. (What problems? I didn‘t know.
Mitch was good that way. He never let on about anyone else. It was private.) Besides, Danielle had David. She had a brother. Her father was some high-power attorney. She had plenty.
The toilet flushed. The stall door opened and Danielle emerged on a cloud of vomit and sour peach. She elbowed her way to the sink. Under the fluorescents, her skin was yellow. The smudges beneath her eyes were black as runny mascara and her warm-up clothes hung like burlap. She‘d shed a lot of weight since the beginning of the year—to keep her speed up, she‘d said. The other girls on the team whispered that she was starting to look like one of those bobblehead dolls: all head on a spindly frame, like a runway model.
A real sickly looking kind of skinny.
―You don‘t look so good,‖ I said.
―Takes one to know one.‖ She sucked water from the faucet, swished, then spit.
―Are you sure you should run?‖
―Just shut up.‖ She rinsed out, spat again, then dragged her arm across her chin to catch the drips. ―Don‘t even pretend you care.‖
I shrugged, but didn‘t say anything more. If she wanted to keel over from a heart attack, what could I do? Besides, Mitch had to see the same thing we did. He was the coach. If he let her run, he must think she could take it.
At the exit, she turned. ―Let me tell you something. The more broken you are, the better he likes you.‖
―You know, I‘ve heard that somewhere before. I guess that explains you.‖
―Fuck you.‖ Turning aside, she mumbled something under her breath.
―What?‖
―I said your time‘s coming.‖ Her eyes, laser-bright, probed mine and then her face set. ―Just remember that when the next loser comes along.‖
―I‘m not a loser,‖ I said to her back, but she only flipped me off.
Mitch was giving last-minute instructions when we got back. His eyes flicked to me and then to Danielle, and I saw him wrestling with the decision.
―I can run,‖ Danielle said, her tone flat. ―I‘m fine. If we don‘t make regionals, this is the last race anyway.‖
Mitch closed his mouth, looked at both of us in turn and then nodded. ―All right.
Danielle, you set the pace. Jenna, you follow her lead. The rest of you, cover their backs and then when you‘ve got your wedge, you go for it, understand?‖
We did the whole hand-pump-team-chant thing, but when Danielle put her hand on mine, she grabbed my eyes and then her nails bit, hard enough for the pain to needle and my flesh to tear. But I didn‘t flinch or pull away. She was an amateur. There was nothing Danielle could do to me that I hadn‘t done better—and worse—to myself.