Girl Underwater (18 page)

C
oach Toll's office is a chlorinated hovel. Thanks to years of sweaty swimmers and poor airflow, it reeks of polyester, body odor, and moldy concrete. A random assortment of trophies proclaiming various triumphs lines the shelves: league champs, division champs, national champs. Brass figurines loom over his desk with outstretched arms, condemning the state of chaos. Because it truly
is
chaos: Papers strewn about. Ribbons hanging on nails. Pens scattered on the floor. No sign of a computer unless that boxy antique in the corner turns on.

He twirls a pen in his thick fingers while he looks at me with deep-set eyes. I've come to believe his intimidating presence is just part of his shtick. It takes a special person to control a bunch of college jocks.

“You sure you're ready to get back in there?” The daily calendar over his head displays the date: January 15. After a week on a cross-country train and another back on campus, I'm prepared to swim again—or so I tell myself.

“I think so.”

“You
think
so?”

I try to sell my enthusiasm with a smile. “Absolutely, Coach.”

“But?”

“But what?”

“You've got something on your mind.”

I never took Coach for an empathetic individual—or maybe I'm just that transparent. It's true that the water makes me nervous; it's also true that I've avoided pools since the day we were rescued. But this is
my
pool.
My
team. I don't have to go out there and muscle through the 200 anymore. I just need to get in the water and swim. The rest will fall into place.

“Well, I see this as a chance to start fresh,” I say. “Maybe break out of my routine a bit.”

He stops the pen twirling. “How so?”

“I'm not sure yet.”

“Fair enough,” he says, and I let out a breath.

“I know I'm out of shape, but I'm ready to work really hard—”

“Of course you're out of shape. That'll change.”

“Great.” I try not to think about the eight-thousand-yard beatings sure to come in the next days and weeks. Coach Toll will whip me into shape, all right. And I'll endure it, and savor it, because I'm not fighting a career-ending injury. I still have a future in the pool.

“I'll need medical clearance from your doctor,” he says.

I hand it over. It's signed by three different doctors: my family physician in Boston, the internist in Denver, and my dad. The first two had no problem clearing me to do whatever I liked; my dad, however, wrote an addendum three paragraphs long.

Coach waves the forms. “What's this about mental health issues?”

“It's not an issue,” I mumble, feeling the sting of shame. “My dad is just paranoid.”

“Says here he insists you see a psychiatrist on campus.”

“I already did.” Which is true. Last week, I visited a meek, turtleneck-loving woman who struggled to be heard over the hum of the noise machine. She was technically a guidance counselor, who specialized in things like homesickness and binge drinking. Even though my dad wrote “PTSD” all over his addendum, she never mentioned it and I didn't ask.

“Can you get me a note from this person?” he asks.

I hand this over, too. Her signature is indecipherable scrawl, and so are the letters after her name. Coach doesn't seem to notice. I doubt he really understands the difference between a psychiatrist, a psychologist, and a guidance counselor.

“Hmph,” he grunts. He leans back in his ancient desk chair and folds his arms across his chest. It's a wonder he can reach: Everything about him is huge, taut, and wound extremely tight.

He extends a hand, which is the closest he gets to a grin. “Welcome back, Ms. Delacorte.”

•

My first day back starts like the hundreds that have come before it. Alarm goes off at 4:30
A.M.
Hit the snooze once. Now 4:39. I roll out of bed, relieve my bladder, brush my teeth, and throw on an old Speedo—usually with my eyes still closed, but today I'm wide-awake. Even the snooze was unnecessary. I pull on my heaviest tracksuit and brace for the blitz of January weather that never comes. Without that awful arctic blast, it's actually a lot harder to wake up. But today, alertness is not an issue. Today, every cell in my body feels like a live wire.

The boys are practicing later on, so it's just the girls out there now. The locker chatter is minimal. A cluster of freshmen wave hello; one even manages to squeal, “Welcome back!” I do my best to ignore the attention and make my way to lane 2, my home base. It shimmers in the overhead lights, the clear waters pulsing with a surrealist energy. I have always savored this moment, before the water swells with the furious rhythm of windmilling arms and fluttering ankles.

But today, my usual sense of calm is overwhelmed by a deafening roar. It's coming from within, building and swelling despite my best efforts to push it back down.

A wet hand lands on my shoulder. “Avery?” Marjorie Kline comes into focus. “Are you all right?”

“Yep.” I inch closer to the water. “Great.”

She answers with a confused stare. “Okay. Great. Do you wanna jump in?”

I usually go first in lane 2, which means I'm fast enough to swim in lane 3 but don't really want to. I've never strayed from the comforts of my “medium speed” lane. Coach doesn't push me on it; I guess he figures I'll make the move when I'm ready—which, of course, is never. But today, lane 1 (for “the slackers”) looks appealing.

“Avery?”

“Yeah. Sure.” Everyone except me, Marjorie, and the three other girls in lane 2 is already in the pool. Coach sits under his chalkboard, staring at me. The sun's begun to rise, creating a searing glare through the glass. The temperature bumps a few degrees. Sweat slinks down the back of my neck, pooling in the groove between my shoulder blades.

“Why don't you go ahead?” I say. “I'm out of shape.”

“Oh.” She wipes her goggles for the thirtieth time. “Sure. Right. Okay.”

She dives in—a smooth, graceful motion. The others follow. A steady beat of swimmers, all muscled shoulders and tanned legs, disappearing under the surface. Everyone starts with freestyle. Smooth, reliable freestyle. It all looks so easy. Mechanical, even.

I'm alone on deck, teeth chattering from the cold. There is nowhere to hide, no excuses worth offering. Coach caps his felt-tipped marker and heads in my direction. His eyes are narrowed and questioning, his pale lips set in a thin line. He parts them to say something—

And I dive in.

Cold.
So cold.
It worms its way into my blood through every pore, every imperfection in my windburned skin. It steals the oxygen in my lungs and dulls my senses. Liquid ice flowing in my veins. My heart skips out of rhythm, beating in frantic defiance of what I've done.

The agony of drowning hits me like a jolt of electricity, a wretched tightening in my throat. I don't fight for the surface; I just breathe, inhaling water instead of air. Soon, the quietude returns. The fire and fear and cold just slip away, releasing me into some strange, soundless in-between.

I'm not strong like you.

Then: pain. God, it's awful. A tearing through my chest, the bones splitting open at the hands of some invisible demon. My lungs fight to expand against it, but someone is pushing down on them. Breaking them. Breaking
me
.

I can't breathe.
Can't breathe.

“Sit her up. Sit her up!”

The water in my lungs hits the deck with a sickening splash. My tongue tastes like chemicals and blood, a stinging fire. Someone rolls me onto my side and waits until the coughing stops. Pain begins to mingle with the sting of humiliation.

I finally open my eyes to see a dozen ankles and feet, then legs and hips and shoulders, then stunned faces. “Paramedics are on their way,” someone sobs, and I know it's Marjorie Kline. Her ankles disappear from the group into the locker room.

Coach waves everyone else away, but it doesn't matter. It's too late. Now everyone knows my secret. Everyone knows that I'm not ready; I'm not even okay.

I'm still in that lake, searching for rescue.

T
hat night, after a battery of tests, Lee takes me back to the dorms. He usually drives with the seat pushed back, music blaring, one hand on the bottom of the wheel. Tonight he drives in the ten-two position, in silence.

At least the dorms are quiet. It's a Tuesday night, and the campus has settled into its usual, industrious calm. Lee carries my bag and scans us into the building. A dozen other swimmers live in my dorm, and two of them pass us by, their heads down as they race down the stairs. Shame floods through me. Shame, and embarrassment, and the dreaded realization that this episode will change everything. Coach will hire a lifeguard for practices. I'll be relegated to the diving well, forced to swim with a chaperone. In meets, I won't even compete. I'll serve Gatorade and orange slices to the people who do.

The logical part of my brain tries to argue that it was just a bad day. It wouldn't have happened yesterday, and it won't happen tomorrow. A weird moment. Maybe it was Marjorie Kline's awkward smile, or the way the lights hit the pool, a scattering of shadow that felt wrong. Maybe it had nothing to do with those things; maybe I just swallowed a ton of water and blacked out. It could happen to anyone.

Except it doesn't. It never has. In my fifteen years of competitive swimming, I've never seen someone drown—or even require the services of a lifeguard. People don't break their necks while walking down the street. It's the same thing. Swimming comes as naturally to me as breathing. The fact that this happened isn't just shocking; it's pathetic.

Lee scans me into my room and flips on the light. The state of disarray is astonishing. Clothes hang on windows and lamps and the TV. Useless textbooks and paperbacks litter the floor. My laptop is frozen in a state of abrupt abandonment. I used to be better than this. More organized. I used to have a little pride.

Lee, thankfully, doesn't acknowledge it. He ignores the piles of clothes on the bed and sits on top of them. He waves me over, patting the bedspread. I shuffle toward him. My throat still burns and my ribs are sore, but it's nothing compared to the anguish of letting him down. Lee tried to talk me out of getting back in the water so soon, and I ignored him.

He sweeps a wisp of hair out of my face and takes my hand. He sighs, but his expression isn't angry or judgmental. It's pained. Like he saw this coming, watched it happen, and now somehow feels responsible for it. “Can you stop tempting death, Aves?” He tries to smile. “I'm really struggling over here.”

“I don't know what happened.” I attempt a deep breath, but my lungs feel like they've been power-washed with a garden hose. “I'm so embarrassed.”

“Embarrassed? Come on. This isn't about your reputation.”

“Of course it is!” I turn to face him, braced for an argument. But it's all gone out of him—the anger, the defensiveness, the bravado. He looks wounded.

“I just want you to be okay again,” he murmurs.

“I
am
okay.”

“No, Aves.” He looks up. “You're not.”

I can feel it shift, then: the axis I'm turning on, the ground under my feet. Even the ceiling feels like it's tilting away from me. “I'm trying. I've
been
trying.”

His gaze latches on to a crescent-shaped stain in the carpet, which is what remains of a Jell-O shot that never quite solidified the way we'd intended. That was freshman year, just two days after we met.

“I talked to your dad,” he says.

“What?” It comes out like a hiccup.

“I called him.” He puts his hand on my arm, and I feel the tension everywhere. Like a coiled spring compressed to the breaking point.

“Why?”

“He wants you to see someone,” he says.

“I did see someone.”

“Someone with actual credentials.”

I glance at the window and imagine myself hurtling out of it. Anything would be preferable to this topic of conversation.

“Your dad is a doctor,” he says. “I don't get it. Are you afraid of mental health people?”

“Psychiatrists?”

“Look, I don't know what they do. I'm no expert. I'm just trying to figure out how to help you.”

“I don't need your help.” Again, the open window draws my attention. The night is quiet, the campus wiling away the hours of the midweek doldrums. There are always some people out, of course. Groups of friends walking back from dinner in town. Intense pre-med, pre-law, pre-whatever gunners making the trek from library to dorm and back again. Couples talking or fighting or kissing, or maybe one couple accomplishing all three. I can't see faces in the dark, just shapes, passing by my window in a great collegiate march.

“Your dad said he's going to pull you out of school if you don't get help.” He says this as gently as possible.

“So? He's always making threats.”

“This sounded legit.”

“So I leave school. Who cares?”

His muscles tense as his arm grazes my side, rustling my shirt. “Is that how you feel about it?” He takes a breath. “About us?”

A light from outside falls on his face, accentuating his sculpted features and perpetual stubble. I reach out and touch it, savoring the feel of something so predictable. “No,” I whisper. “It's not how I feel.”

“Then let me help you.”

“You can't—”

“I can.” The edge in his voice surprises me. I look up, expecting to see signs of Lee's short-fused (and completely benign) temper, but whatever anger he brought into this room has long since dissipated.

“How?”

He smiles. A true, unconstrained Lee classic: more mischievous than polite, his eyes dancing with it. “I've got a few ideas.”

•

My father delivered on his threat. He showed up on campus the next day, dragged me back to the hospital to review my discharge plan, and coordinated a deposition with Coach about “my future in this organization.” After an agonizing ninety minutes in that mildewy office, an agreement was reached, a contract signed. I committed to weekly sessions with Dr. Linda Shin, a psychiatrist who specializes in post-traumatic stress disorder and specific phobias. Dad knew her from medical school (of course—who
doesn't
he know?), but this time, I had veto power. If the first appointment didn't go well, Dad would round up someone else.

Two days later, I'm sitting in Dr. Shin's pristine office downtown. So far, our future together doesn't look promising. Her office has too many potted plants. The paintings are bland, the carpet an overly enthusiastic yellow. The window looks out onto the street, and I sit as far from it as possible, terrified of being recognized by passersby.

At least the magazines are up to date.
People
provides mild, mindless entertainment while the clock ticks toward two o'clock. I flip through the pages, wondering when my face will pop up with the caption
Whatever Happened to . . .

“Avery?” The door opens and Dr. Shin pokes her head out. She's a petite Asian woman, with sloping cheekbones and a gaze that misses nothing.

She extends a hand. “I'm Dr. Shin.”

I shake it, maybe a shade firmer than my usual. “Hi.”

“Please come in,” she says, gesturing toward the cozy office. For such a small woman, she has a surprisingly deep voice.

The tidy room offers several seating choices: two chairs or a stiff-looking couch. I opt for the chair. It's a little closer to the door, a little farther from the window.

She takes the other chair. “How are you?” she asks.

“Fine. You?”

She gives an infinitesimal nod. “I'm doing well, thank you.”

I hand her the questionnaire she asked me to fill out prior to our appointment. It's pretty much a blank sheet of paper except for my name. No to
depressed mood,
no to
hallucinations,
no to
flashbacks
and
nightmares
and
history of trauma
. It's all relative, after all—my little episodes are nothing compared to the full-on psychotic breaks she probably manages on a daily basis. I've seen those people in my dad's ER, coming down from manic highs or talking to imaginary government agents. I've seen failed suicide attempts and successful ones, too. Teenagers, veterans, professors. All of them going about their daily business, hiding their demons.

I'm not like them.

She flips through the pages and tosses them onto her desk. A queasy feeling blooms in my stomach. I left too much out; I left
everything
out.

And she knows it.

She uncrosses her ankles and studies me for a long moment. The bland reassurance in her eyes is gone. “Avery, what exactly do you hope to get out of these sessions?”

The noise machine whirs its toneless tune, an idle static that heightens every other sound. I put my head in my hands and let it wash over me: the silence, the expectations, the weight of Dr. Shin's question hanging in the air.

“I'm not sure,” I say. “A free pass from my dad?”

She doesn't smile. “You know, I can tell a lot about someone from this form.”

“Seemed pretty standard to me.”

“It is standard. And meaningless, at least in terms of understanding someone. But the people who actually
want
to be helped? They check all the boxes and answer all the questions. They're honest. Maybe a little too honest.”

“Well, maybe I don't fit into a neat little box.”

“Maybe you don't. Or maybe you
really
don't want to be helped.”

My gaze drifts to the window, to the careless throngs of people walking through town. Kids laughing. Dads pushing strollers. Women on their lunch break, talking business strategy. “Maybe I don't
need
help.”

“I think your coach and about twenty-two other swimmers might disagree there.”

“I had a bad day.”

“Is that all it was?”

Of course not,
I want to scream. That day was all of my worst fears wrapped into one harrowing moment of fear, pain, and loss. It was about my old life and the new, the
before
and the
after
. Before I watched two hundred people scream and cry and pray to a god that had deserted them. Before my trust in air travel crashed and burned in an icy lake, shattering my ability to feel safe anywhere. Before Tim and Aayu and Liam lost their parents, before they became orphans in the span of minutes. Before Colin grasped my hand, told me everything was going to be all right, and it wasn't. It hasn't been all right since that night, and in my darkest, quietest moments, I'm convinced it never will be.

I know she can't hear my thoughts, but her slate-gray eyes and sleek professionalism make me feel like I'm under scrutiny, although scrutiny is a far cry from judgment.

“Are you familiar with post-traumatic stress disorder?” she asks.

My gut cramps in response. I hate those words, their calculated ambiguity. I wonder if it's possible to experience symptoms of PTSD just from saying its full name.

“I've heard of it,” I say, choosing my words carefully.

“It's become fairly common vernacular in today's culture, which is unfortunate in my opinion. PTSD is a severe anxiety disorder that requires careful, focused, and longitudinal treatment. I'm not saying that's what you have, Avery—although your father seems to think so.”

“He's an ER doc.”

She allows a small smile at this. “Yes, well, I imagine that's why he called me.”

“And you're an expert?”

“I work with a lot of patients with the disorder. I've devoted my entire career to it—conducted clinical studies, taught hundreds of residents, met with experts all over the world. I've spoken at a number of conferences.” Her voice lacks the haughtiness I've come to expect from some doctors. “Does that make me an expert? I don't know. But I like to think I'm qualified.”

“So how do you, uh, make the diagnosis?”

“I ask you about your symptoms. Psychiatry is unlike other fields of medicine in that I have to rely on your insights and experiences to make a clinical diagnosis. I can't really do that if you don't talk to me.”

“What kinds of symptoms?”

“Well, there are a number of them, and no one experiences them in the exact same way. Nightmares. Flashbacks. Avoidance of triggers that stimulate memories or feelings associated with the traumatic event.” She lingers on that word:
event.

“Is that all?” I ask.

“No. Some patients experience hypervigilance—they scare easily, have difficulty sleeping. It's really a spectrum. PTSD requires individualized treatment because individuals are different. That's what makes it challenging for me as a provider. For you, the challenge is internal.”

I look at the clock. So much time left—an eternity, really. Dr. Shin leans forward, her wrists on her knees. “So,” she says. “Second chance.”

“For what?”

“For you to tell me why you're really here.” She nudges the clock in my direction. “You could have walked out ten minutes ago.”

The noise machine continues to whir, but it feels quieter now, the static in my head less intrusive. “I want to swim again.”

It's hard to imagine this tiny Asian lady hurling me into the pool, but maybe she has other ideas. I don't want to experience them in all their psychoanalytic glory, but I'm desperate.

“All right,” she says.

Her answer startles me. “Seriously?”

“Yes. We can work on that.”

“Okay, great.” I reach for my coat. No matter the hourly fee, I've had enough for one day. Dad will just have to understand.

“So,” she says. “Let's plan on the same time next week.”

“Wait a second.”

She stops, her neutral expression replaced by a knitted brow that suggests real concern. “Absolutely,” she says. “What's on your mind?”