In Deep (23 page)

I turn then and run back upstairs where I slam my bedroom door even louder than before. And though I hate her, and Dad, and Van, and Louis, and everyone for bringing me to this point, for the second time in not even twenty-four hours, I cry so hard, I think my lungs will explode.

AN HOUR LATER, MAYBE TWO,
I'm still curled up in my bed, staring at the wall. Though my vision is blurred from exhaustion and tears, in my mind I see all kinds of things swirling together like bubbles underwater.

I see Dad standing waist-deep in a lake we used to go to for firehouse picnics, me stretched out in front of him with his hands propping up my narrow back just under the surface. Teaching me how to float.

I see Mom bringing in the mail, tired from work, her eyes pouched underneath in a grayish purple. A glass of wine, and the TV, and me bringing in frozen dinners bought with coupons.

I see myself on the block, poised and ready. My shelves and bulletin board full of trophies and ribbons.

I see my girlfriends dropping away one by one.

I see Van leaning down over my lane, telling me what to do next.

I see Charlie wiping his eyes.

Kate telling me I'm an asshole.

Gavin whispering hotly what a bitch I am.

And I see Grier, too, standing there, shocked in the hallway light.

All these sacrifices, this discipline—they've been so nothing would get in the way of becoming the best at what I was built to do. So it isn't fair—it doesn't seem real—for Mom to step in and make me question it now.

•  •  •

Later—much later, though maybe not as late as it feels—Louis comes upstairs and knocks on my door.

“What is it?”

He opens it and leans in, carrying one of the dinner trays. On it is a plate with leftovers from our Italian feast Friday night.

“We didn't know if you were hungry,” he apologizes.

“It's fine. You can just put it on my desk.”

He picks his way around my laundry piles and my discarded gear bag leaking suits and towels, and puts the tray down.

“Hey, Louis?” I say, still prone on my bed, my arm tossed over my eyes.

I hear him pause between my desk and the door.

“Tell me what Van meant.”

There's a quiet beat. “He meant he's worried about you. We all are.”

I lean up on my elbows to look at him. “No, I mean that thing he said this afternoon. About a break. About the club.”

He makes an uncomfortable sound out his nose.

“What did he mean about paying attention to Grier?”

“Look, Brynn, this is about you right now.”

“I know it's about me. Van is my coach.”

He moves from foot to foot and puts his hands in his pockets. “Nothing's been decided yet, okay? It's just a lot of angry e-mails from what I can tell right now.”

“What are the parents saying, Louis? Quit beating around the bush.”

He looks at me, hard. “Grier's parents are concerned. She . . . posted some things online . . . and there are some accusations going around that she was maybe compromised by one of the older teammates.”

“You mean Gavin. That's why he and the other guys got switched to evening practice.”

He clears his throat uncomfortably again. “No one's saying names. But the Hawkinses are pretty upset. They think that Van was . . . irresponsible. That there wasn't enough supervision.”

“So they're going to fire him.”

“That's not what anyone's saying right now.”

“But that's what they think. Even if it isn't his fault.”

I lie back down and shut my eyes under the weight of my arm. I know Grier's parents. I know they don't care, until suddenly they really, really do.

“You don't need to worry about all that right now,” he says quietly. “Right now you need some rest.”

“Yeah,” I say with a laugh, though it comes out sad. “You know me. Worrying way too much about everyone else.”

“Your mom's writing your teachers,” he says. “You won't have to go to school until you're ready.”

Sure, school.

Like that's the top thing I'm worried about fucking up.

•  •  •

When Louis leaves, I sit there in my bed, robotically forking lasagna into my mouth and staring into space. Today's pretty much been one of the worst in my life since Dad's accident, and talking to Louis just made me tired all over again. I don't want to think, but I know there won't be any swimming this off for a while. Mainly I want to lie down and fall asleep and never wake up. It's not that I want to die—I just don't want any of this.

Something keeps nagging at me though, while I scrape my plate clean and lick off the remnants of sauce and ricotta. About Van, and Gavin, and why he didn't come over on Thursday night.

So, since today's already been Mega Revelation Suck Day,
I go ahead and text him:
hey i have a question. just one. okay?

I sit there, cross-legged, jiggling my knee, waiting. He still may not text me back. I could call, I guess, but I don't want to hear his voice, his breathing. It'd be too close. I could pull a Grier and text him relentlessly until he answers, but I think I've had enough crazy for today. I look at the clock—6:21. He could be anywhere. Having dinner, partying, hooking up with one of those sluts from the lake house. I might never hear from him again. Which, mostly, would be fine. The thought of him now—all the game-playing and secret grabs, him sneaking over here at night—feels stupid from this side of it. Even when I picture his hands on me, kissing him, I can't conjure up the same heat. All I feel, when I see him in my mind, is one big, deflated
Why?

So it doesn't hurt—it isn't even annoying—when he finally texts back an hour and a half later:
i don't really want to talk.

“Yeah, I don't either,” I say to the air. “So let's get this over with.”

jst want to knw if ur out of the club or not?

A minute, two, then:
not for now. evening practice w/ littler kids, though they still may not think that's safe. if van's not coaching, i'll look at other options, anyway. not worth it.

I shut my eyes. If Van's not coaching . . . If. It's not a thing that's happening right now, but apparently it really is more than angry e-mails. I picture Van having to work with Troy, Linus,
and Gavin all in one lane while encouraging the middle level at the same time. And Grier's mom, still squawking about how Gavin's some kind of predator.

Christ.

i'm sorry,
I type. I don't know for which part right now, but I am. Sorry.

it's not your fault
, he finally sends.
but you can understand if—you know. it was fun though. i'll look for you in 2016.

Yeah, I can more than understand. The pit of my stomach feels hollow and raw even though I just ate. Gavin says it's not my fault, but there's no one else I have to blame right now for ruining my life and everyone else's.

MOM COMES IN TO CHECK
on me before she leaves for work the next day. I've been awake for at least a half hour already, thinking. Thinking too many things I don't want to think.

She comes over, presses the back of her plump hand to my forehead. “How are you feeling?”

“I don't have a fever, Mom.”

“I know you don't.” She slides her hand down to my cheek. “Old habit.”

Maybe before yesterday I would've told her I haven't been sick in years, say she hasn't done that in forever, and I haven't needed her to. But I don't really feel like saying anything to her right now. I turn my head away.

“You going to be okay here on your own?”

“I'm upset, Mom. Not suicidal.”

I can feel her looking at me. “I know you're not. I'm just wondering if you need some company, maybe talk some more about yesterday.”

Talk about yesterday? I have no idea how to start.

“You said what you had to say. I don't know what there is to talk about. Dad screwed everything up, and now it looks like I'm exactly like him. What is there to talk about?”

“Sounds like there's a lot to talk about, actually.”

“Yeah, well, I'm not in the mood.”

“Brynn—”

“Mom.” My voice gets harsher. Her being in here, asking me, just makes it all worse, and I'm not going to cry again. Not today. “I said I don't want to talk right now, okay? You're going to be late.”

She sighs and stands up. “I know it'll take some time, honey. And I want you to know I'm here when you're ready. I'm sorry I didn't tell you before. All I can do is be here now.”

She waits, but I still don't feel like talking.

Eventually she goes, shutting the door behind her.

•  •  •

I stay in bed for hours, mostly doing nothing but watching a few videos, thinking, and drifting in and out of sleep. There haven't been any revelations, and I don't feel better about anything, but by one thirty I finally get up. I realize I haven't eaten much
except the lasagna Louis brought in last night. Might as well eat some more, put some clothes on. Take another shower first. Act like a human.

Since there's nowhere I have to be, I spend a long time in the bathroom, letting the warm shower spray sluice down over me, feeling the hard muscles under my skin. Muscles that I've worked for, that can do anything. Anything except deal with all the shit in my head and figure out what my life will be like if I really have to take a break from swimming.

After I towel off, I put on a robe and go downstairs to make a sandwich. I bring it and a half a bag of popcorn up with me, climb back in bed with my computer. I don't know what I'm looking for. Maybe I'm just feeling sorry for myself, thinking about everything I've jeopardized, but the first thing I do is go to Charlie's pages.

There isn't a lot up. Like me, he's too busy to go online much. Maria's posted a few pictures from the Friday night dinners, but I'm not in any of them. Instead it's Charlie, Ethan, Nora, and Maria, plus some other people I don't really know, all smiling and making goofy faces, posing with chopsticks and holding up hands of cards. I look out the window toward Charlie's house. Maybe I should try to tell him I'm sorry, that he really was a good boyfriend and I didn't deserve him. Maybe he'd be willing to let me come over to try and explain. Maybe he would listen, help me sort out what's what, instead of all this mixed-up I feel.
But I also know that part of what I'd need to talk about would involve what ended up happening with Van and Gavin, and he sure as shit won't want to hear about that. Besides, sorry doesn't fix anything. Mom's said sorry a dozen times since yesterday, and it doesn't change how she was when Dad died or the fact that apparently he loved his gambling more than he loved me. Tears well up, thinking that plus seeing Charlie's smiling face on my screen. Charlie who didn't want me to prove anything. Charlie who kissed me in the only way that helped me sleep. Charlie, who made me laugh. Who thought I was a winner just by being around.

I close my eyes. I totally lost him, and I can't get him back. No matter how hard I work from now on, I'll never get anything back from the way it was before.

•  •  •

After a while of feeling sorry for myself, I go back to my screen so I can disconnect from Charlie. It's probably better that way. For him and for me. As I do, I realize I have fifteen different notifications, most of them tags from a page I follow, “What Should Swimmers Call Me,” and one or two old things from Van or people on the team. The last one, from a week and a half ago, makes me pause though:
Kate Braught Wants to Connect.

“No, she doesn't,” I say out loud, laughing a little as I accept for the hell of it.

At first I'm not surprised by what's there, mainly posts about
animals: lots of photos and quotes, plus links to Web cam videos surveying different animal babies—herons, hummingbirds, some rescued tigers in India. There are also several petitions, calls to support various animal rescue groups. I click through a bunch of photos of some weird collective called the Inman Park Squirrel Census, amazed. It looks like Kate is online almost all the time with this stuff, and she's connected to a ton of people. I'm stunned, seeing this supersocial online version of her. When she changed her status to “dating,” for example, nearly eighty people sent up exclamation points and smiley faces, even the ones who seem to live in different countries. I liked Kate before, but now I am fascinated by the fact that her life is so much more complex and interesting than mine.

Turns out, she's not just social online, either, and not all her photos are of animals. There are five whole albums, all labeled Camp Callanwolde, from different years. In these are pictures of Kate in a canoe; Kate holding up charred marshmallows with two guys who have their arms around her shoulders; Kate participating in some kind of water balloon game; Kate smiling down from the back of a horse (and then several more of this horse, and Kate doing various things like combing it or cleaning its hooves); Kate doing cartwheels in a field with other girls; Kate hugging at least twenty different people.

I realize, looking at them, that I want to be in photos like this with Kate.

And then my chat screen flashes open:
are you dying or something?

I laugh out loud, not believing.
no
I type back to her.
just recuping.

i saw you were online. mr. woodham said you were in the hospital.

Then a second one:
are you okay?

I'm amazed she's asking me, considering how mad she's been. Considering I was just looking at her stuff, missing her, and now she's here, just like that.

i guess i'm ok.
And then, before I think too much about it:
thx for checking. and i'm sorry.