The Weight of Water (15 page)

I only hear an underwater din,

A ringing-babbling-vacuum,

And a kind of coaxing

Coming from the water.

In the bright light the people look

Like ghosts, and then I see one – Tata –

Standing up in the crowd,

Quiet and stern, as focused as I am.

And then I spot William too,

Holding up a sign with my name on it.

There isn’t time to check whether they’re real

Or phantoms in my mind.

There isn’t time to check for Mama.

We’re on our marks.

Ready.

Set.

Go.

Home

Water is another world:

A land with its own language

Which I speak fluently.

It’s alien and dangerous.

I can’t even breathe down here.

Treading water

Works only if I relax;

If I fight,

         
  I sink.

I have to trust myself,

Trust the territory and

My own body,

The power of each limb.

It’s the silence I want.

And the weight of the water

Over me –

         
 Around me –

The safe silence of submergence.

At the pool’s edge I might be ugly,

But when I speak strokes

I am beautiful.

Gold

Tata hugs me when I finish

Even though I am wet

And he’s wearing a suit.

‘My Olympian,’ he says,

And looks so proud

I couldn’t care less

Who sees me crying.

Metamorphosis

Clair tears open my cubicle door

Without knocking,

But I am already fully dressed.

‘You think you’re something,’

She barks.

There are two girls behind her

But they are far enough away

For me to know they won’t interfere.

I step close to Clair and whisper,

In a language I think she’ll understand,

‘Why don’t you just piss off.’

The girls behind her giggle and

Clair gapes, about to retaliate,

When suddenly she sees my joy,

My win,

And her power dissolves.

The two girls cough and step away

And Clair is left

To face me unsupported

Which she cannot do.

‘Whatever,’ she says and

Turns, runs, shouts –

‘Wait for me!’

Forgiveness

Mama does not know how to say sorry,

But now Kanoro has gone

She is lonelier than me,

And much quieter,

So quiet I sometimes check she

Hasn’t died of heartache.

With Kanoro gone

And Tata gone

Maybe Mama is unhappier

Than I can understand.

When she sees the trophy,

A golden swimmer

Diving from a marble platform

Into space, she says,

‘It wasn’t your fault, Kasienka,’

And that’s as much as she can admit,

Or as happy as she can be for me.

And for now, that’s OK.

Reunion

         
                                 I am sitting on the

         
                       Front steps of our

         
                 Building, chewing on a

         
       Peperami, waiting for William,

         
 When Kanoro arrives

Without warning.

I jump to greet him

And he takes me

Into his arms without embarrassment.

‘Where’s the birthday girl?’ he asks.

Mama was standing at our window

Watching me and is down the stairs

Before I have a chance to answer.

Mama runs to Kanoro.

They look stupid together:

Mama is bright-white.

Kanoro is too-black against her.

And yet, the picture is pretty good.

Treat

Kanoro takes Mama to dinner.

She wears a yellow dress

And shoes so high

She wobbles when she walks.

Mama wore that dress once before,

In Gdańsk,

When Tata took her to the theatre

And they came home

Holding hands.

But Mama and Kanoro

Are not hand holding

When they get back from dinner

At all.

They are holding their tummies

Because they ate too many

Tacos

And then they are holding their sides

Laughing.

Kanoro sleeps on the couch

And in the morning,

After tea and toast,

He honks his horn,

Waves from the window of his

New car and disappears

On to the ring road.

I watch Mama closely,

Afraid she will rearrange herself

Into grief.

‘People usually come back, Mama,’

I say, and she nods

As she folds the sheer yellow dress and

Lays it neatly in a drawer.

‘I think I need a haircut,’ she says.

Resurrection

Mama is alive again,

A little bit alive.

She isn’t singing.

But now and then she

Hums

Without meaning to.

Side by Side

Clair still stands in the centre

Surrounded by a thick circle of girls.

I can feel their desperation,

The thirst for admission.

It is a dance for popularity,

Swapping places every day,

Knowing that tomorrow

Any one of them could be

         
                  out.  

Maybe it’s lonely for Clair

         
       There

         
 In the centre

Directing the dance.

She ignores me again,

Which is better than being bullied.

Dalilah and I stand together

         
                 Side by side.

There is no one in the centre,

We’re just looking out

In the same direction

Not desperately at one another

Fearing betrayal.

Epilogue

Butterfly

Now that I can front crawl,

Back crawl,

Breaststroke,

I am breaking out.

Ms Morrow is teaching me

         
 The butterfly.

When I am in the water

My body moves like a wave:

There is a violence to it

And a beauty.

I lie on my breast,

My arms outstretched

My legs extended back –

Waiting to kick.

And I pull,

         
 Push,

         
       Recover.

This is how the Butterfly works.

I have to hollow out spaces

For breathing,

And if I miss them

I can’t swim.

But I do.

I know when to come up for air

When to keep my head down.

At practice,

On the starting block

I am not frightened at all:

I am standing on my own,

And it

Never felt so good.

Acknowledgements

This book might never have found the light were it not for several special people: my agent, the wonderful Julia Churchill, who worked tirelessly to read, edit and champion the project; everyone at Bloomsbury, especially my editor, Ele Fountain, for her hard work, insight and sensitivity; the Edward Albee Foundation (its founder and fellows), which gave me the space and time to complete this novel; my friends and early readers, Erin Whitcraft and Jill Wehler; the Hudson School, notably its principal and founder, Suellen Newman, who has always been a remarkable source of support and inspiration; Marta Gut for her invaluable cultural advice on Poland.  

Many books influenced my writing, and it would be impractical to mention them all, but I would like to highlight
Odd Girl Out
by Rachel Simmons, which informed so much of my understanding about girls and bullying.

I am especially grateful to Mum, Dad, Jimmy and Andreas for their love and support.

Glossary

Mama
– Mum

Tata
– Dad

Babcia
– Granny

Gdańsk
– a seaport city in Poland

Gdańsk Główny
– a train station in Gdańsk

Pierogi
– boiled dumplings of unleavened dough often stuffed with potato

Bigos
– traditional Polish stew

Golabki
– stuffed cabbage rolls

Bloomsbury Publishing, London, Berlin, New York and Sydney

First published in Great Britain in January 2012

This electronic edition published in January 2012

by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

50 Bedford Square, London, WC1B 3DP

Copyright © Sarah Crossan 2012

The moral right of the author has been asserted