by Anna Jarzab
* * *
The end of the semester is looming, which means Harry’s not going to finish it out with the rest of us, and I can tell that bothers him. He has continued to progress in his recovery, so he’s transitioned into Regency’s outpatient program. This means less time at the hospital and more time at home, more time to think about where he would be if things were like they were before. I rearrange my physical therapy schedule so that I can visit with Harry in the afternoon, when he comes back from treatment.
I know it’s the worst time to be skipping workouts, even if only occasionally, but the tension between Dave and Beth is suffocating, and I want to prove to Harry that swimming isn’t the only thing that’s important to me. That he’s important, too.
“I had a physics test today,” I tell him, settling on the couch with a bowl of popcorn Paula made for us. Harry’s sitting opposite me, in mismatched sweats with a blanket pulled over his lap. I offer him the popcorn, but he shakes his head. “It was rough.”
“How do you think you did?” he asks. He seems to be having a good day, as evidenced by the fact that I’m here. Sometimes on mud days he won’t leave his bed, and he doesn’t want to see anyone.
He’s still not totally comfortable with telling me how he’s feeling. He’s convinced it’s a burden to me to hear when he’s having a hard time. A special language has developed between us, one that lets him communicate without making him feel too exposed. When he’s struggling, it’s a mud day, a day when he’s slogging through the quagmire of his own emotions. When he’s feeling better and has more energy, it’s a good day. He rarely wants to see me on mud days.
But even on good days, he doesn’t talk much. Neither of us wants to discuss swimming, so we never do.
“Fine, probably,” I say. I point to myself and say, “Dumb jock, remember?”
Harry sighs. “Another semester of school missed. Can’t wait to be a twenty-one-year-old senior.”
“You’ll make it up,” I assure him.
It’s clear that beneath the weary jokes at his own expense, Harry is unsure about leaving Regency. He hates it there, because he says it makes him feel crazy—his word. But it makes him feel safe, too. Paula has taken a leave of absence from work to tend to Harry, his adjusted medication seems to be helping and he’s worked out a therapy schedule with his doctors, but there are still so many variables. Anything could happen. And that scares him.
He’s not alone. Unused to all this as I am, I hoped that once he left Regency he’d recover fast and things could go back to the way they were before. The relentless emptiness of the place seemed to be part of what was getting him down. But Harry’s depression is chemical and fierce; it’s not letting go of him without a fight.
* * *
The longer Harry is home, the less I see or hear from him. It’s not unusual for a week to go by with no communication at all. I check in with Paula every day, and I visit him as much as he’ll let me, but more often than not he isn’t feeling up to seeing people. Mud days multiply, and good days are few and far between.
When I do see Harry, it’s always at his house. He never leaves it except to go to treatment. We curl up on the couch and watch a movie or reality television with his light box humming nearby. Sometimes I read him poetry, because he’s often too tired to read himself.
One time, he falls asleep while I’m reading, and even though he is careful not to touch me when he’s awake, his head ends up resting on my good shoulder. I’m exhausted, too, from the long workout I endured before I came over, so I close my eyes and drift off.
Twenty minutes later, I wake to find his nose pressed against my neck and his hand tucked between my thigh and the couch cushion, as if he’s trying to keep his fingers warm.
His nearness is at once a comfort and a torment. The fact that his body seeks mine out in sleep is a knife in the heart, evidence of an enduring affection that cannot make any promises. I disentangle myself and leave the room quietly so I don’t disturb him. There are no words to express how much I miss being with him, and how painful it is to know how much he’s suffering, how far he is out of my reach.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
15 days until US Olympic Team Trials
IN THE MIDDLE of May, Joan cleared me for more rigorous training, however reluctantly, but I still have to go to physical therapy a couple times a week right up until I leave for Omaha. As for the other type of therapy, Mom and Dad have been exploring the options our insurance will cover. I convinced them to table it until after Trials, and they agreed, but I still see Dad on the computer late at night, scouring the internet for the right fit.
“You know I think the safest thing would be to skip Trials altogether and take it easy through the summer,” Joan tells me during a deep tissue massage at the end of a session.
“Not going to happen,” I tell her, wincing as she works out a knot near my neck.
She sighs. “You’re so fucking stubborn, Susannah. Sometimes I don’t know whether to hate you for it, or admire you.”
“Whichever one gets me back to where I was.”
“Swimming in that meet before you were ready was the stupidest fucking thing you’ve ever done,” Joan says. It crosses my mind to shoot back that she only says that because she hasn’t known me very long, but I keep my mouth shut.
“But I’ve worked with professional athletes who complain a thousand times more than you do about injuries half as bad,” she continues. “And I’m proud of you for sticking up for yourself—even if it did set your fucking therapy back.”
“Look at it this way,” I said. “More money for you. I don’t have NBA millions but my insurance always pays on time, right?”
Joan doesn’t respond to that, but she does push harder on my muscles, which I suppose is a sign that she doesn’t appreciate the joke.
Returning to full workouts is like being let off a leash. I’m practically flying through the water now. But I don’t just want to attend Trials. I want to crush them.
I know that my chances of making the team are slim. They take two people per event, and the competition is near-unbeatable. But if I’m going to do this, I can’t admit defeat before I even set foot on that deck. I’m going to the Olympics, I tell myself. I’ll deal with the future when I get there.
Beth believes I can do it. Dave is not so sure. It’s one of the many things they continue to fight about. Their constant bickering is wearing on me. Realizing this, Amber stages an intervention.
“You need to have some fun,” Amber says at lunch one Saturday after practice. It’s just me, her and Jessa, who I haven’t hung out with outside of the pool since April. I haven’t hung out with her much inside the pool, either.
Amber arranged this lunch, supposedly because she misses us now that she’s not swimming anymore, but she’s always at our house. I’d have to be stupid not to figure out what’s really going on.
It bothers Amber that Jessa and I are no longer close, probably more than it bothers Jessa or me. The closer we get to Trials, the further apart we drift. I’m not the only one who’s noticed Beth and Dave squabbling over me, and Jessa was never the sort of person to cede the spotlight to anyone. She resents the attention I’m getting from the coaches, and the times I’m clocking postinjury. Doubtless she assumed that when I tore my labrum I was no longer a threat to her, and my refusal to float off to whatever desolate island swimmers go to when they break seems, to her, like a sort of betrayal.
She hasn’t said any of this to me, but I know her well enough to guess.
“There’s a party tonight at Nash’s house. We should go,” Amber suggests. I look up from my salad in surprise. She quirks an eyebrow at me. “What? I’m still on all the group emails.”
“I can’t. Harry and I sometimes hang out on Saturdays. He might want me to come over.”
“You can’t jump whenever he deigns to talk to you,” Jessa says in t
he same sharp tone she uses whenever she speaks to me these days, no matter what she says. “Have a little dignity.”
I dismiss that with a shake of my head. “I want to be there for him.”
“He broke up with you.”
“That’s not what it’s about,” I say defensively. “He needs to know there are people he can depend on. I want to be there as his friend.”
“I know you do,” Amber says. “But you need to take care of yourself, too.”
“Don’t you think you should find a boyfriend who doesn’t make you feel like shit?” Jessa asks.
I bristle. “He doesn’t make me feel like shit.”
That’s a lie. I feel like shit constantly, but not for the reasons they think. Sometimes I feel like I can go on like this for a long time, but I’m running on fumes. Swimming is all-consuming, and I’m still struggling to figure out how I fit into Harry’s life.
“We’re going to the party,” Amber says. “Come with us.”
“I don’t know.”
“If you’re waiting on Harry, don’t,” Jessa says. “You’ll probably end up sitting at home.”
“Just say you’ll think about it,” Amber pleads. “It could be good for you.”
“How will a party be good for me?”
“You’ll dance and hang out and have fun,” Jessa says. “How could that not be good for you?”
I don’t want to go—some things never change—but I know what Jessa said is true: I’ll probably end up watching TV on the couch, staring at my phone, willing Harry to call.
So later that evening, I let Amber and Nina dress me and make me up, and when Jessa honks her horn in my driveway I’m ready to go.
* * *
Nash’s house is not the sort of place I’d expect a six-four, broad-shouldered swim god to live. The house is on the smaller side, with low doorways Nash must have to duck under every day. His mom has a thing for cows and they’re all over the place: ceramic cow figurines, cross-stitched cow pillows, cow paintings, stuffed cows...it’s like partying in a Cracker Barrel, which isn’t altogether unpleasant.
It’s a modest home that reminds me more of my house than the McMansions Jessa and Amber live in. I never imagined Nash and I might have more than swimming in common, and it’s a bit humbling to realize I’m not the only person on the team who doesn’t come from money.
“What’s going on in there?” Jessa asks as we walk through the front door. Everybody has congregated in the living room and the music is blasting. It takes a second, but I recognize the song.
Amber glances at me, eyes widening. “I thought you said he doesn’t go anywhere.”
I push through the crowd, determined to prove to myself that Harry’s not here, that the fact the stereo is blasting his Flow song is a coincidence. But there he is, eyes closed, dancing in time with the beat.
All around me, people are singing along, cheering him on as if it were nine months ago. Our teammates, who gossiped about him for a week and then forgot about him. But his spirits seem as high as I’ve seen them since before Battle of the Sexes, like he’s absorbing the energy of the crowd.
“The Flow is back!” Avik cries from behind me. I want to throttle him. Where was he when Harry was in the hospital? I know from Paula that Tuck and I were the only people from school who came to see him.
When the song ends, Harry’s shoulders slump. He heaves a big sigh and opens his eyes. I give him a small wave. He pushes through the crush of people to reach me, accepting back slaps and compliments with grace.
“Hi,” he says, shoving his hands in his pockets and rocking back on his heels. His hair sticks to his sweaty forehead and he’s slightly out of breath.
“Good day?” I ask.
He nods, smiling tentatively. “Yeah. Good day.”
An emotion I can’t identify sits like a balloon in my throat, cutting off my air supply, and I realize it’s been there for weeks, slowly inflating as the pressure increased. What is going on with me? It’s great that he feels good enough to go to a party and hang out with his friends. That’s what I want for him. I press the heels of my hands against my eyes, digging in until fireworks burst behind my eyelids and tears wet my lashes.
“Susie,” he says in surprise. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s fine, everything’s fine,” I tell him.
“You don’t look fine,” he says softly. “You look sad.”
I take a deep breath. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“I tried calling you,” he says.
I take out my phone. “It’s dead,” I tell him.
“I wanted to see you, and I thought maybe you’d be here, so I came,” Harry tells me.
“I called you earlier today—you didn’t answer.”
“I was at therapy,” he tells me.
I nod. “How did you know about the party?”
“Avik texted me. Why didn’t you tell me about it?”
“I didn’t think you’d want to come,” I say. “I didn’t want to come. Amber and Jessa made me.”
It’s such a relief to hear him laugh. “I should’ve known.”
This feels so familiar, a looking-glass version of our conversation at Tuck’s party all those months ago. I’d give anything to pass through the mirror and be back there. But there’s no use thinking like that. Maybe that’s what all these tears are about—yearning for the relative simplicity of the past.
“I’m sorry, Susie,” Harry says.
“Don’t be sorry,” I say. “I’m happy you’re here.”
“It’s so hot in here,” he says, rubbing his temples. “Let’s go outside.”
He closes the front door firmly behind him and gestures to the empty porch swing. “Want to sit?”
For a while, we rock back and forth in silence. Neither of us seems to know how best to begin.
“It must’ve been a shock to find me here, doing the Flow, like everything is normal,” he finally says. “After the way I’ve been feeling lately, it was a shock to me, too, that I wanted to go out and be around people. I haven’t wanted that in a long time, so I embraced it. I was hoping you’d be here.”
“Can I be honest?” I ask.
“Of course. Sure.”
“I came here to forget for a few hours that we aren’t together anymore,” I say, shaking my head at the irony. “Instead, you were here, perfectly happy without me. That makes me feel... I don’t know. Irrelevant, I guess. Which is stupid and selfish, I know, but I can’t help it. I’m not perfect.”
He balls his fists up in his pockets, as if he’s trying to resist the urge to reach for me.
“I’m not happy without you. I miss you. But I miss me more, who I was when my medications were working well and I didn’t feel so lonely and empty and miserable all the time. I’m trying to get back there, and sometimes—like tonight—I do. I seized the moment.”
“I want you to enjoy feeling good. I miss you, too, that’s all. I want to be there for you, but sometimes it doesn’t seem like you want that.”
“It’s not that,” he says. “Knowing that people like you care is the only thing I have to remind me what I’m fighting so hard for sometimes. But so much of this I can only do by myself. And I don’t want to keep you on the hook for months or years while I sort it all out. I can’t have a girlfriend right now. I can’t have a goldfish right now.”
He turns to look at me. “For the record, I don’t think you’re selfish. I think you’re focused and driven and you’re doing your best. Nobody expects you to be perfect, least of all me. You’re trying to achieve something only a few people in the world ever will, and you need support, too. I wish I could give it to you right now, but I can’t.”
“I know,” I say. “But I appreciate you saying that.”
The front door creaks open and Amber peeks out.
“Sorry to interrupt, but I heard a rumor that the neighbors threatened to call the cops,” she says. “Susannah, I’m going to Jessa’s house. You should come.”
I nod. Jessa and Amber file out the door. “Give us a minute.”
“We’ll wait for you in the car,” Amber says. “Hi, Harry. It’s good to see you.”
Harry smiles at her politely, but his eyes don’t leave my face.
“I know we broke up,” I tell him. “I know that’s what you want, and I respect it. But sometimes it’s so hard to believe it’s actually over.”
“For now, it has to be.” He looks out at the street, at Jessa and Amber climbing into Jessa’s car. “Swim your race, Susie. Win it for both of us.”
“When I win, you win?” I say with a sad smile.
He gathers me into his arms and hugs me tight. “Exactly.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
13 days until US Olympic Team Trials
“WHERE’S BETH?” I ask Dave.
It’s a quarter to six in the morning. Practice has already started, and Dave’s swimmers are in the pool warming up. The rest of Beth’s swimmers and I are huddled near the diving boards like a flock of lost ducklings. We should be in the pool, too, but hitting the water is the hardest part of every practice, and we’re always on the lookout for an excuse to delay that first dive. A missing coach is as good an excuse as any.
Dave ignores my question. “Get in,” he commands us, jabbing a finger at the water.
The other girls and I exchange bewildered glances. A few of them give me looks like, Say something. I don’t know when I was elected spokesperson for this group, but I don’t like the way Dave is evading the question.
“She’s never been late to practice before,” I remind him. “Did she say when she’ll be here?”
Dave shoots me a dark look. “Stop causing trouble and start swimming. You of all people should know how important these last few weeks are. You’re going to need every second, so get in. Now.”
