How Not to Be a Loser

by Beth Moran

  Ten minutes of freaking out later, I prised my hands off the side of my head and flipped the duvet back.

  ‘Enough, Amy!’ I barked. ‘A few hours ago, it was apparently “time”! What, a couple of stupid setbacks and you instantly revert to a pathetic mess? Get up, get the kettle on and get a plan together. You used to be a winner, for pity’s sake. You have to get a winning plan again. You have to!’

  So, amazingly, after thirteen long years of flailing, wallowing, eating way too much processed sugar, hiding and letting life kick me in the butt, I somehow found the strength to haul myself out of bed, arm myself with a cup of chamomile tea and give it a bloody good go.

  The Stop Being a Loser Plan was beginning to take shape when Cee-Cee and Joey returned:

  Do more research on how not to be a loser

  Stop being a loser

  Open front door

  Walk/crawl/wriggle on belly out front door

  Go somewhere

  Don’t die

  Come back

  Repeat

  I quickly slid my journal into a desk drawer as they entered the kitchen and tried to find a neutral expression to hide how the effort taken to formulate the plan had reduced me to a pile of jitters.

  ‘That was quick,’ I said. ‘How’d it go?’

  ‘Fine.’ Cee-Cee handed me a few sheets of paper. ‘It’s all here.’

  ‘Great. I’ll look this over with Joey later.’ When you’re not here, so it doesn’t hurt quite so much that you took my place yet again.

  ‘There’s more. Joey – you’ve got maths questions to finish.’

  We took a seat in the living room, Joey suspiciously willing to complete his first homework of the new school year. Cee-Cee took her time, making sure her mug was exactly in the centre of its coaster, adjusting her arthritic knee, fussing about with cushions. An ungenerous thought popped into my head, wondering if this was on purpose, if Cee-Cee was enjoying making me wait. Perhaps she was still annoyed by my comments earlier. Maybe she had sensed a change in my energy this evening, that I was on the brink of something. After all, Cee-Cee knew me better than anyone. Or maybe she’s just nervous, I scolded. Maybe it’s bad news. Joey could be in a whole heap of trouble for all you know.

  ‘I had a call from an old colleague.’

  ‘Okay.’ A tiny warning buzzer sounded in my brain.

  ‘He saw Joey at the meet last week. He was impressed.’

  ‘Well, he’s pretty impressive.’

  The buzzing grew louder.

  ‘He’s been invited to try for the Gladiators.’

  The buzzer upgraded to a furious siren now, drowning out all rational thought.

  ‘What? No! You know I don’t want him competing at that level.’ I sat back, folding my arms tight against my chest. This was not open for discussion.

  ‘They wouldn’t ask if he didn’t have potential.’

  ‘You mean the potential to spend years sacrificing his whole life on the altar of swimming, only to realise that he’s one-hundredth of a second too slow for it to count for anything other than a part-time job as a lifeguard?’ I snapped, voice bitter.

  ‘Why not let the Gladiators coach decide if he’s good enough?’ Cee-Cee’s weathered face was a granite cliff.

  ‘Because the coach won’t factor in the cost to Joey! You know how I feel about this! Why are we even having this conversation again?’ I banged my mug down on the coffee table.

  ‘Don’t punish him for your mistakes.’ Her mouth turned down in disapproval.

  ‘That is not what I’m doing! And I don’t have to explain myself to you. If Joey wants to try out for a different club, he can talk to me about it. I’m his mother.’ Later on I might stew about what Cee-Cee considered to be my mistakes. Right now I was too busy seething in a cauldron of fear, pain and resentment.

  She narrowed her gaze. ‘I’m the one who’s seen him in action. Seen the drive and passion. Seen him win. Taken him training, to competitions. I deserve a say.’

  I jerked back on the sofa as if I’d been slapped. ‘That’s what this is about. A second chance at second-hand glory. An old colleague called you, or did you call him?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ scoffed Cee-Cee.

  ‘I’m sick of you undermining my authority as his mother—’

  ‘What authority? You’ve not a clue what might be best for Joey. He’s already said yes. I’m the one who insisted we tell you.’ She shook her head, dismissing the point.

  ‘Get out.’

  Cee-Cee looked at me for another long, hard minute, before pulling herself up to go.

  ‘Leave the key.’

  She stiffened in the doorway, still facing away.

  ‘We’re done. You’ve controlled my life for twenty-three years. You will not do the same to my son. Manipulate him to go against my wishes…’

  She twisted round, her face mottled. ‘Your wishes are wrong! They’re the wishes of a mentally ill, housebound, has-been. I don’t control your life, fear controls your life. I saved it! I saved you both! We are not done. You need me.’

  ‘I’m starting to realise that’s just another lie. It’s you who need us. You’re the has-been. You were grateful to have us, after everyone else turned their back on you. Without Joey, you have nothing. But he isn’t yours. And I’m taking him back. I’m taking both our lives back. Leave. The. Key.’

  ‘I respected your wishes. Even now, I didn’t tell him.’ And with those words, the person who knew me better, longer, than anyone else in my life, who took me in when my partner, my parents, the world, didn’t want to know, took the key to my house – my life – out of her jacket pocket, deliberately placed it on the windowsill and walked away.

  Feeling numb, and weirdly detached from my body whilst at the same time more grounded, more solid than I had done in years, instead of crying or raging, I simply stared at the carpet for a long, long time and wondered what on earth we were going to do now.

  I found Joey huddled behind his laptop.

  ‘Here.’ Swapping his laptop for a mug of hot chocolate, attempting to ignore my internal stampede of multiple deep, dark issues, I wriggled beside him on the bed.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Tears hovered on his eyelashes. ‘I wanted to tell you.’

  I leant in and rested my cheek on the top of his head. ‘I’m sorry, too. I shouldn’t have made you feel you couldn’t talk to me.’

  He nodded, his soft blond hair rubbing against my skin.

  ‘Will you tell me about it now?’

  ‘You always say your problems mustn’t stop me trying stuff. Or doing what I want to do. And I want to try out for the Gladiators.’ He caught a tear that spilled over onto his cheekbone. ‘But I knew if I asked, you’d say no.’

  ‘Oh, Joey.’ I wrapped my arms as tightly as I could around the torso I’d watched broaden into swimmer’s shoulders over the past year, and reminded myself that this wasn’t about me. ‘It must have been rubbish, keeping something so exciting from me.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I’m worried Cee-Cee might have persuaded you to want this, without being honest about what it would actually entail. Do you really want to be swim training five or six days a week, often twice a day? You’d have to stop football, and cricket in the summer.’

  Joey wiped his nose on his hand. ‘I’d rather be swimming than anything else! When I’m swimming, it’s like, I dunno, I forget all the other stuff going on. I feel free of everything. I feel invincible. Like I’m flying. Like I really am a superhero!’

  ‘I understand, believe me.’ I understood so hard, it was a searing ache in my chest, a burning behind my eyes. ‘But why not carry on with the Brooksby team? Once you start training at Gladiators level, it’s really hard to keep that feeling. It becomes about split-second timing and practising until your arms nearly drop off, and teammates being rivals, because only the very best will make it to nationals. It’s never being satisfied, always being pushed and pressured to be good enough.’

  �
��But I am good. That’s why it’s awesome. This is my thing. Mum, I’m faster than every person in the club. I can beat everyone in our league without thinking about it. I want to do even better, to learn more. To be the best I can be at this. To see if I can be really good.’ He sat up and looked at me, eyes wide, mouth trembling. ‘What if I could be really good? You said I’m an athlete. I have to at least try.’

  I took his hand and gave it a squeeze. ‘It’s getting late. We need to talk some more about this, after I’ve had a think. But – let me finish – I’ve heard you, Joey. I understand what you’re saying. You know I love you and I want the best for you.’

  ‘If that were true, you’d let me try!’

  ‘Like I said, we’ll talk tomorrow. But, I promise you we’ll make any decisions together. You and me. Now, finish your drink and get some sleep.’

  As if that was going to be possible for either of us, after the day that changed everything…

  2

  Stop Being a Loser Plan

  Day Two

  ‘Come on, Amy, remember when you used to be a winner?’ It was seven o’clock. I’d watched the minutes tick by through most of the night. Dozing had only led to jumbled dreams, ripe with yearning: the echo of the whistle, the exhilaration of the first dive, followed by the silent cocoon of water for that sweet moment until I burst up into the real world again. The tug of a swim cap. Lungs near exploding, muscles on fire, heart hammering as I strained to outswim the arguments bouncing off the tiled walls, the disappointment and the fifty-metre lane that became my prison.

  I had been a winner, once. Funny how the memories still floating in my subconscious were all about losing.

  I pressed at the ache in my temple, took a deep breath, and in some vain attempt to outrun what I was about to do, skidded out of the bedroom, tumbled down the stairs and threw myself at the front door. As I hauled back the bolt, which felt as though it weighed twenty kilos, my slippery hands grappling with the key, the panic caught up with me, freezing my fingers on the door handle. I remembered how I used to block out everything but my goal – shut off pain and stress and exhaustion and will my body into submission. So, I ordered it to open the door. Begged, pleaded, wept. Wrestled to overrule the paralysing fear clawing at my throat, whirling behind my eyes, screaming at me that I was dying, that if I opened that door one inch I would be destroyed.

  ‘It’s a panic attack,’ I whispered to myself, even in the grip of it still aware of Joey sleeping upstairs. ‘You’ll be okay, you’re not dying, it’s just your crazy brain. You will be okay. Open the door. It’s okay.’ Still my hand gripped the handle, as I curled round into myself and slumped to the floor, arm sticking awkwardly behind me, refusing to let go. My whispers now punctuated with rasping sobs, ‘It’s okay, just open the door… open the damn door.’

  My traitorous, stubborn, cowardly hand did not open the damn door.

  When I had finally managed to claw myself back together, I got a bleary-eyed boy out of bed and off to school, reassured by the bounce in his step as I watched out the living room window to see him jogging up to the gangly gaggle of boys waiting across the road.

  I showered, cried, forced down a mug of coffee, opened a couple of bills, remembered the glossy invitation and cried again. I felt as though I was being wrenched apart inside – one half desperate to take these first steps towards finally recovering my health, my freedom and some measure of control; the other part of me was, quite simply, terrified. Scared, alone and utterly beside herself at the risk of facing the world again.

  I dragged myself through three hours of turning rambling drivel into what would hopefully be a successful tender for my current client, a storage company, and cut myself a quarter of a carrot cake.

  Plopping down at the kitchen table, I stared at the cake. Looked down at my ex-world champion thighs, now flabby and blobby and weak, like my heart. Twanged the extra inches dangling beneath arms that were once solid and strong. Powerful and resolute.

  I was thirty-two years old. I felt about a hundred and two.

  What was I going to do? Would the fear or the hope win?

  Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath in and threw the cake in the bin, for starters.

  When Joey arrived home, I was in the living room. He hacked about half a loaf of bread into a gigantic cheese and turkey sandwich, surprised that for once I didn’t join him in eating the other half, and threw himself down next to me in front of a cardboard storage box that took up most of the coffee table.

  ‘What’s this?’ he asked.

  ‘This is the real reason I’m scared about you joining the Gladiators.’

  He took another bite of sandwich. ‘Cee-Cee told me you nearly drowned, that’s why you hate me swimming.’

  ‘I don’t hate you swimming. And I couldn’t drown if I tried.’ Opening the box, I let Joey remove the first object, unwrapping the thick blue velvet.

  ‘A medal?’ He glanced up at me, eyes lighting up. ‘What’s it from?’ Peering closer he read the wording. ‘“FINA World Swimming championships”. What? Is this a gold medal? Where did you get it from?’

  ‘I won it.’

  Joey’s eyebrows shot up into his fluffy blond hairline. He jerked his head to look at me, then back at the medal. Back up, then down again. ‘No way!’

  Reaching into the box, I passed him a newspaper clipping: Piper pips competition to bring home the gold!

  Joey scanned it greedily. He looked back at the medal, up at me, his grin a perfect mirror image of the one on the face of girl in the photograph, although her hair was chestnut.

  ‘You won the world championships for 400-metre freestyle? In Moscow?’

  ‘And a silver in the medley.’

  ‘Why didn’t you show me this before?’ He delved into the box, glancing at other articles, certificates, medals and a couple of trophies. ‘You were a world champion swimmer? Why would you keep that a secret? Why is this stuff in a box, not on the shelf? Why does that mean you don’t want me to swim, when you won? I just… I can’t believe this!’

  Of course he couldn’t. He could only remember me as his mum, without the prompts of photographs, stories or tarnished trophies to tell a different story. After all, this mum hadn’t left the house in two years, three months and nineteen days. Had no friends and an invisible, online job. Ensured her time revolved around her son, making up for the lack of holidays or trips to the cinema with indoor picnics, movie nights, camping in the living room, an all-you-can-eat ice-cream factory in the kitchen.

  And to imagine your out-of-shape, anxiety-riddled parent, who’s about the worst example of strong and successful you can think of, as a champion. Well, I could hardly believe it myself, and I’d been there.

  ‘Who’s this?’ Joey pointed at a photograph of me at the side of the pool, arm around another woman with cropped brown hair, both our faces exploding with joy.

  I quirked one eyebrow at him. ‘That’s Coach Coleman. Known to her squad as Cee-Cee.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Cee-Cee got me to the championships.’

  ‘Is Coach Coleman not coming for dinner?’ Joey asked a couple of hours later, getting out plates as I stirred a jar of pasta sauce into some penne. He’d been totally absorbed by the contents of the box, forgetting for the moment how my past career had impacted his current situation.

  ‘No.’

  ‘But I want to ask her about it, what you were like. How you trained.’

  ‘I’ve asked Cee-Cee to give us a bit of space for a while.’ Does forever count as a while?

  Joey took his pasta, looking at me for an explanation.

  I sat down opposite him. ‘I’ve decided it’s time to start facing up to my issues. I want to be a proper mum. Be able to chuck a spider outside. Go to your school meetings. Go out for the day. Watch you compete.’

  ‘Mum, you’re sweating even talking about it.’

  ‘But I’m talking about it! That’s one step better than yesterday. And, well, I think having Cee
-Cee around to do things for me isn’t helping. I kind of need to sink or swim with this.’

  ‘Well that’s good then, isn’t it? No way you’re going to sink!’ Joey grinned, then paused with a forkful of pasta halfway to his mouth. ‘It’ll be weird not having her around, though.’

  It would be more than weird. I could barely remember life without Cee-Cee. Try panic-inducing, gruelling, lonely, impossible… liberating.

  We ate for a while, contemplating what might happen if I actually swam. It felt good to get the words out there – good, but equally horrifying.

  ‘Are you angry with Cee-Cee about the trial?’ Joey poked at the remaining pieces of pasta on his plate.

  I took a slow drink of water. ‘Honestly? I am a bit. Cee-Cee was my coach from when I was ten. I spent more time with her than anyone, even my parents. She told me what to eat, when to go to bed, how to train. She disapproved of any distractions, so I stopped piano lessons. She banned boyfriends, parties, even restricted exam revision. It sort of created a pattern. She made the rules, took all the decisions, and I went along with them.

  ‘And then, when we lived with her, it just carried on. You know she’s got no family, and coaching was her life. I don’t need a coach any more, and even though she retired soon after I stopped competing, I don’t think she knows how to be anything else. It’ll be good for her to have a chance to think about herself for a change, maybe find a hobby and make some friends. And if we’re going to find a way for you to take swimming more seriously, I want it to be with someone who can find a better balance so that it won’t end up taking over.’

  ‘But isn’t she the best, at getting someone to be a winner, I mean? Won’t I need someone to tell me how much to train?’

  ‘She definitely used to be one of the best. But if you did join the Gladiators, then you’d need to listen to their coach. And hopefully in a way that means you can be a winner your whole life, not just for a few years in the pool.’