Girl Underwater (24 page)

I
spend the fading weeks of summer at my old desk—laptop cast aside, hands cramping despite the stress ball on the shelf. Two pens have already run out of ink. The stack of paper next to my weathered paperbacks dwindles by the hour.

I write until dawn breaks over the city.

I write until it feels like I can't possibly write another word.

I write until my sorrow turns to pain, and then I know I'm getting somewhere.

•

On the last Saturday of the summer, I ask Edward to drive me to a tidy house in Newton. He owes me one for the schoolyard disaster yesterday, where a sword fight (with baseball bats) at one of his elementary schools ended with stitches over my left eye and a bloody nose.

I tried some makeup, but the skin is still inflamed, the sutures obvious. Edward closes the mirror on the sun visor with a decisive thump.

“You look great. The stitches add character.”

I take a breath, but my nerves are frayed beyond physiologic repair. The stack of pages in my lap suddenly feels like it weighs a hundred pounds. I tried for a decent presentation, but some of the papers are crinkled, and quite a few have cross-outs. A number of pages look like they went through a washing machine—stiff with dried tears, emotions laid bare.

I should have written less. More. Fewer details. Richer details. I should have left out the part about the pregnant woman, or the bear, or the way the snow sounded right before dawn. What if they read this when they're too young to process it? What if they
never
read it?

“Edward . . .”

He lays a gentle hand on my shoulder. “This story was never meant for anyone but them,” he says. “It doesn't have to be perfect. It just has to be
yours
.”

Mine.
Ours.
I wonder if Colin's version of events would play out any differently.
What would Colin think about Tim saying he loved me?
Our story, in this sense, is incomplete. I suppose now it always will be.

“Thank you,” I say.

“Don't thank me,” he says. “You did all the work.”

Recounting those five days in all their harrowing detail
was
work—harder, in some ways, than getting back in the pool, or going back to college, or even swimming across that desolate lake under hopeless skies. Dr. Shin knew how hard it would be. Colin knew. And Edward . . . Well, Edward's my big brother, and he knows everything.

We approach the quaint, colonial-style home that sits under a swath of maple trees. The sun shines warmly on its red brick walls, and its bright, lived-in feel reminds me of my own house in Brookline.

I don't have to ring the doorbell. As it turns out, I didn't have to worry about the neat stack of pages under my arm, or even the walk across the lawn, which felt like a journey of a thousand miles. The boys know I'm here. As Edward says, they've probably been up since dawn, waiting for me.

Liam tackles me first—stocky arms and a big grin, which grows even wider when he recognizes Edward. Four years old, and he could probably name every player on every team in the American League. Maybe the National, too.

Aayu approaches us with more reserve. He watches me for a long moment before letting go of his grandmother's hand. His amber eyes soften. He knows who I am.

He remembers.

“Pretty,” he says, and smiles.

My heart soars.

•

Unlike Edward, my father lacks the subtlety gene. I had planned on spending my last night in Brookline adhering to the same routine of dinner, Internet, and sleep, but it takes a turn when Dad offers to take me out for ice cream. He hasn't blown off work since I was eight years old, and only then after a particularly brutal afternoon in the ER that, even now, he refuses to talk about. My mind considers all sorts of reasons to explain this strange behavior. Does he want to propose additional psychiatry appointments? A stint in an institution? Maybe he wants to talk about “my future” (ugh). Or maybe he just has a craving for ice cream.

I climb into the front seat and buckle myself in. He's a seat belt nazi, always has been, and he won't start the car until he hears it click. Tonight, though, he barely glances my way. I don't know if it's because he trusts me or because he's preoccupied. He grips the wheel in his usual ten-two, white-knuckled position and fixates on the road ahead.

For a while, we coast along in silence. I find myself admiring the prim, regal homes, the lush gardens and crooked maple trees. The echoes of Brookline's weekly concert series float through the open windows. I close my eyes, hearing the dissonant sounds of conversation as it mingles with the melody. I think about Tim, and Liam, and Aayu. About their new families, their new lives. I wonder if they will remember me five, ten, twenty years from now.

When I open my eyes again, a different scene plays out in front of me.

A pool.
My
pool.

We pull into the lot. Every space is occupied, so Dad has to park on the grass. A sign hangs from the front gate:
POOL CLOSED FOR MEET
. The cheers of parents, kids, and coaches float over the hum of cicadas. This is nothing like the white noise of my entourage back at school. This is swimming for the love of the game, as Edward would say.

We stay in the car, windows down. The fence that separates us from the pool grounds is moderately nicer than the one in Dorchester but still a little grungy, a little used. I remember wrapping my hands around the links as a kid, my fingers sticky with ice cream and Popsicle juice. Maybe the residue is still there, buried deep.

I steal a glance at my dad. “You want to get ice cream here?”

“Why not? I'm sure there's a snack bar in there.”

Of course there's a snack bar. Half the swimmers are only there for the food—the homemade sweets, the hot dogs, the ice pops and candy bars. Our coaches always told us to hold off on pigging out until after the meet, but it's hard to explain delayed gratification to a nine-year-old. I swam with stomach cramps more times than I'd like to remember.

“You didn't take me here for ice cream, did you?”

He doesn't say anything as he stares straight ahead, lost in the sights and sounds of a distant memory. My dad was never a swimmer, and baseball consumed much of his free time, but he made every effort to watch me swim. For years, he sat in the same spot on the bleachers with a stopwatch and a clipboard. My friends called him crazy; their parents preferred
eccentric
. I didn't care. I always swam my best when he was there.

He folds his arms, as if steeling himself to say something. “Look, Avery,” he finally says, “I'm no good at lectures. And to be honest, lectures are pointless. I can't tell the bad residents how to be good doctors. They've got to learn it on their own. Make mistakes. Give patients bad news. Realize their own shortcomings.” He finally looks over at me, and I can tell this isn't easy for him. “You know, when those folks finally got their shit together and found you on that mountain, I wasn't the least bit surprised. You're a survivor. Stronger than all your brothers put together.”

He puts his hands on his knees because his hands, steady as ever, have begun to shake. He hasn't spoken this many words to me since the day I left for college.

“Dad—”

“I'm not done.”

“Okay,” I say, sinking a bit in my seat.

“But sometimes we need a little help along the way. Doesn't matter if you're freezing your ass off next to some glacier or just trying to get your feet wet. Don't be afraid to ask for it, Avery. And don't feel like there's any shame in needing it.”

I nod, still unsure what to say to all this. My dad, the tough survivalist. The epitome of independence. The cutthroat ER doc who intimidates even the most senior surgeons when he has to—whatever it takes to help a patient. I'm not a patient anymore, but maybe he still sees me this way. Maybe he sees all of his children this way.

“We like having you home.” He puts his hands back on the wheel. “You're always welcome here.”

He sighs, like he's searching for the right thing to say. “You know, when I was your age I went halfway across the world to study glassblowing for a while.”

“Glassblowing?”

He waves this off, but something in his expression softens at the memory. “Yeah. I went to some crazy hut in the jungle and made vases that looked more like bedpans. After that, I finagled my way into an Ivy and chugged beer for a few years. Then I got a job—all kinds of jobs. Finance, research, law. I worked as a park ranger for a while, looking for hawks.” He chuckles at this, remembering. “In any case, I did it all. It took me fifteen years to come back here, to realize all that soul-searching was just a great big circular path. Why do you think I work in an emergency room?

“Because it's chaos?”

He cracks a smile. “Because it feels
right
to me. Always has.” He watches the pool for a beat. “You need to listen to that.”

“Are you saying you don't want me to go back?”

“No.” He glances at me, then back at the fence and the pool beyond. “I'm saying you should, if that's the life you want.”

“I thought it was,” I say, hearing the past tense.

I watch the water for what feels like hours, reliving my childhood in the races, cheers, and nervous energy of young kids experiencing the first taste of pressure and competition. There are other details, too: Coaches on deck, instructing little kids on legal stroke mechanics. Four little girls getting assembled for a relay. Two best friends playing Spit in the damp grass, their cards wrinkled from daily use. I have the sudden urge to go out there and be a part of it. To spit in my goggles and fix my crooked cap and grab the blocks like I know what I'm doing. At their age, I had no idea; I just wanted to swim. The buzzer would sound, and Edward would yell my name, and the water would wash over me like magic.

Then it hits me:
Before
isn't just aquamarine pools and California skies, parties and lush green campuses. A boyfriend with a peculiar but interesting accent. Middle-distance races and Fall Qualifiers and Scary Tan telling me to kick faster than a dead president.

Before
is also Brookline. It's this pool. It's my house that groans and creaks and rejects air conditioners like a bad meal. It's my street, always covered in leaves or snow or spring blossoms, depending on the season.
Before
is the ER my father took me to as a little girl, a place where I learned about survival. It's the city bus that delivered me to grade school, and middle school, and high school. It's those eight white letters, glittering on the list of departures:
BOSTON, MA
.

After
is who I am now.

And I think I'm okay with that.

•

My only piece of luggage is a small carry-on. In addition to the standard necessities, its contents include an odd mix of swim gear, sports memorabilia—and, of course, emergency supplies. I'm not just talking a first-aid kit: I've got matches, flares, antibiotics, freeze-dried packets of food, and other items that will surely buy me a pat-down and probably an arrest. I don't care. I feel better having those things with me.

As I approach security, my mind drifts to the same things, in the same order: California. Lee. Boston. The boys.

And always, always . . .
Colin.

He never told me his plans for the fall, but I saw the envelope on his kitchen table: MIT. He's transferring. His new life begins in an old, familiar place, but it's still new. No one would argue with that. Colin Shea found a way to move on.

Travelers swarm the security lines in a chaotic blitz, anxious to get their licenses checked, their boarding passes verified. It's contagious, this sense of urgency to stand in a series of lines. Unlike everyone else, I'm in no rush. I wheel my little suitcase behind me, ignoring the elbows being thrown in my direction. I keep my head down and follow the signs.

I'm traveling business class for the first time in my life, which means my own private security line. I guess this explains why these passengers are never late. A memory of irritated glares and champagne glasses flits across my mind, of the twelve people who started their journey in the lap of luxury and finished it at the bottom of a lake. I push the thought away.

“ID please.” A guy with a buzz cut glares at me. I search my pockets for my wallet, but it's buried at the absolute bottom of my carry-on. It takes me a full minute to find my license. The people behind me groan.

He studies it for a moment, his glare morphing into a curious look.
Oh no.
He recognizes me. As I brace myself for the inevitable comment that can only accompany a plane-crash survivor attempting to board a plane, he holds out my ID. “Have a nice flight.”

“Uh, thanks.” I stuff it back in my wallet.

Security is a breeze in the priority lane—no sign of little kids or loose pennies. My suitcase sits in the X-ray machine for a long time, which doesn't surprise me given the contents. A woman in oversized pants calls me over to the security bench.

“Are you carrying flares in this suitcase, ma'am?”

“Uh, yes.”

“Can you tell me why?”

I'm grateful for the attempt at privacy, but a few eyes penetrate the back of my skull as she points to my luggage. I stare at my hands, guilty as charged.

“I wanted to have them.”

“Ma'am, flares are prohibited in carry-on luggage.”

“Why?”

She looks at me like I'm speaking in a different language. “Why? Because they're considered a weapon by the TSA.”

“Then how is anyone supposed to find you if your plane crashes?”

She laughs. She actually
laughs
. A part of me crumbles inward; another part wants to punch her in the face.

“Ma'am,” she says, “if that happens, you won't need to worry about flares.”