by Darren Groth
the woman—she was in her late fifties by now—she
happened to be looking for him online and came across
it. She got in touch, and when they met again it was like the forty-two years hadn’t even happened. He played
her the song he’d written for her back when they were
kids. They got married. And now they’re living happily
ever after.”
Clayton whistled. “That’s some story.”
“Word. And you know what my first thought was
when I heard that story?”
“What?”
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“I thought, That’s our story too. We would be with
each other, no matter where, no matter when.”
She kneeled on the edge of the bed. He leaned
over, cupped the back of her neck and laid his forehead
against hers.
Q
Thirty minutes after Ash departed, Clayton wandered
into the kitchen. Tuula’s old radio was on—she preferred local am and didn’t appreciate it when Clayton changed
stations. He drank coffee through a news update and a
few old tunes before an announcer spoke.
“Coming up in the next hour we’ve got a live press
conference with Australian swimming’s golden girl, Ash
‘Wake’ Drummond.”
He sat at the kitchen table and flicked through his
feed. Some replies and likes, but no new purchases. He
followed a few links and listlessly scanned through walls of memes and gifs, paying little attention. It occurred to him that this would be their future. They were making
it right now—Ash about to speak at a press conference,
Clayton working on his craft. There would be more tours, more fame, more separation. But they would always be
there for each other.
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I N F I N I T E B L U E
He had drained his cup and began to make another
when the radio broadcast again caught his attention.
“We’re a few minutes away from that press confer-
ence with Wake Drummond, and for anyone who has been living under a rock and needs a reminder, we’ve got the live call of Ash’s world-record swim two months ago. Here are the final laps. The caller is Mark Cannon…”
Clayton smiled and opened his sketching app to
a blank canvas. With his index finger, he began idly
marking the tablet screen.
“Drummond is really asking the question now. Look at
the kick, that silken turn. It really is something to behold.
The race is now for second. Ash Drummond has absolutely slaughtered the field here.”
Clayton zoomed in and switched tools to work on
some of the textures. He used the watercolor brush. He
dabbed at the image, throwing uneven blotches of blue
and green to effect just the right tone.
“The only competitor now for Wake Drummond is that
world-record line, and, ladies and gentlemen, she is still in front of it!”
He used the ink tool to shape the long tendrils of hair
into just the right delicacy.
“WORLD RECORD! Ladies and gentlemen, you will
remember this day! ”
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Clayton blinked as if waking from a dream and
zoomed back out to consider the picture in its entirety.
The setting was the same, the texture of the water
almost identical. Ash’s posture, though, had changed.
She was still pictured from behind, but her arms were
planted on her hips instead of reaching out. Her legs were wider apart. She was pushing back against the tide.
And failing.
The blending of her extremities with the water had
spread. Her body was an outline, still visible but not
distinct.
Clayton frowned, turning the device this way and
that.
No matter where, no matter when…
Leaving the page open, he pushed the chair back.
It teetered for a second on its back legs, then toppled to the floor. He scrambled across the kitchen, desperate for his phone.
The radio announcer returned. “Well, it seems there’s been a delay with the Wake Drummond interview. Not sure if there’s a problem, but we’ll update you on that as information comes to hand.”
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Seventeen
Her senses were sharp, heightened by adrenaline. Loose,
damp gravel pressed into her cheek. Shards of glass
pocked her twisted torso. A thin stream of fluid, bright green, fell from what remained of the engine and pooled
near her shoulder. She wanted to move, to push herself up off the road, but her mind opted for reason over motion.
How did I get here?
Hands on the steering wheel. Text explosion. A message from Mum.
No farther back.
Kissing Clayton.
Wait, is Clayton here too? Is he okay?
She closed her eyes. Opened them again. Clayton
was back at home. Her phone rang, the sound either
in her head or out somewhere in the world beyond
gravel and glass. The message from her mother—had
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D A R R E N G R O T H & S I M O N G R O T H
she tried to read it? Had that been the distraction? No.
She’d kept her eyes on the road. What she could see of
it anyway.
It had been raining. Pouring. That western storm had
come in, all right. Centimeters in minutes. Fat drops had blatted the windshield. Feverish wiper blades had done
their best to flick them away. There’d been split-second blindness, pangs of panic.
This debriefing wasn’t helping. She squeezed her eyes
shut and gently lifted her head. Pain flowered in her neck and down her back. She waved her outstretched fingers
around. The ringing phone. She wasn’t imagining it—
she could hear it. Only in one ear, but she could hear
it. She had to find it. She looked around for a sign of it.
Nothing.
She needed to move. And to move, she needed to
narrow her consciousness down to a single thought: keep
going. With a deep breath, she pushed the pain away, as
far down as she could manage. She carefully placed her
hands flat against the road surface and pushed.
Keep going.
No pain. She pushed harder. She felt okay, strong
even.
Keep following the black line.
It was like in the eight—localize the pain, acknow-
ledge it, understand it, set it aside. Never deny the pain, 106
I N F I N I T E B L U E
just leave it out of reach. It was working. She took hold of the hurt in her arms, shoulders and neck. Her back. But
not all the way down. Strange. No pain in her legs either.
In the eight, the legs were last to feel it.
“Oh. Oh Jesus. Hey, are you okay?”
Ash startled, so lost in her thoughts she hadn’t
noticed the sound of footsteps running toward her. The phone, she said. Only she didn’t say anything. The words formed in her mouth and stopped. Somewhere between
intention and reality.
“Oh shit, I gotta call somebody.” A panicked male
voice.
Clay. Call Clay. Still no words.
“Hello? Yeah. We need an ambulance. A girl has totaled
her car in the storm…”
Ash relaxed her arms and lowered herself back onto
the road. Onto the pool floor.
Keep going.
Keep.
Going.
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Blue
Eightee n
ASH “WAKE” DRUMMOND CRASHES CAR,
IN CRITICAL CONDITION
Champion swimmer and current world-record holder
Ash Drummond has been hospitalised after a car
accident in Brisbane’s western suburbs.
The car veered off a stretch of Ellsworth Road in
wet conditions shortly after 2:00 PM yesterday. Police
say nineteen-year-old Drummond was thrown from
the driver’s seat after overcorrecting a turn and rolling the vehicle.
The swimming prodigy, dubbed “Wake” for her
devastating fi nishing kick, has been admitted to intensive care at St. Sebastian’s. The extent of her injuries has not been revealed, though her condition is listed as critical.
A source close to the family said that damage sustained
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to her spine remains the biggest concern. When asked
if the Olympic hopeful’s career was over, the source
declined to comment.
A formal statement from doctors is expected later
today.
The accident has sent shockwaves through the
wider community, with athletes, fans, celebrities and the general public fl ocking to social media with messages of disbelief and support for Drummond and her family. In a
brief interview during her morning treadmill session, the prime minister said she was “shattered” by the news and
was “praying along with the rest of the nation for Wake’s full and speedy recovery.”
Many have recalled the chronic shoulder problems and
failed reconstructions that ended the promising athletic career of Drummond’s mother, Blythe, at a similar age.
Some have gone so far as to suggest the family is cursed.
But ABC sports commentator Ziggy Moore angrily
responded to suggestions of a Drummond jinx.
“This is nothing more than a tragic coincidence. The
lowlifes claiming some sort of voodoo is behind these
poor people’s misfortunes should be rounded up, taken
out to sea and thrown overboard,” he said in a blog post this morning.
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Nineteen
Silence was never absolute. Machines beeped. Someone
was always watching television, though the canned
laughter did nothing to drown out the groans and grum-
bles that punctuated life on a ward. You need to rest, dear.
How many times had she heard that? How could anyone
actually rest in this place?
Darkness was never complete. Low lighting aided
the twilight walkers—the oldies who couldn’t get
through a night without a few pit stops—but it did
nothing for someone in need of a decent sleep. Closing
her eyes made no difference. The light was burned into
her retinas, along with a parade of smiling, encouraging faces. Friendly faces in unfriendly circumstances. There was something false, something desperate in them—
doctors and health professionals who didn’t know her
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or only knew her from television, her father (between
his rosaries), Coach Dwyer, even Tuula.
You’ll be all right.
You’ll come out of this stronger.
You’re young. You still have your whole life ahead of you.
You’re so lucky.
Ash recalled a conversation she had heard backstage
on one of the talk shows. Two executive types by the
donut table, talking about a colleague. He’ll be gone by the end of the week, one guy said.
When people start reassuring you, you know you’re
screwed, said the other.
Sitting up in a hospital bed, supported by a tower of
pillows, surrounded by friendly faces, Ash’s entire exist-ence was now nothing but reassurance. She was lucky.
She would be all right.
Q
Clayton mirrored Ash’s preferred silence. Initially he
had clung to the same clichés as everyone else, but then he saw the words bouncing off her like tennis balls. So
he became silent, still. He held her hand and her gaze
with a level-headed calm. His smile was subtle. At low
points Ash became irritated with his saintlike demeanor.
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When she pushed him away, he took a deep breath and
gave her space. When she clawed at his arm in despera-
tion, he stayed beside her.
Q
Ash heard her mother in the corridors. Everyone heard
Blythe in the corridors. Grunting, stamping. Raging. She was disgusted that Ash might not be placed in a private
room. She was appalled at the suggestion that a wheel-
chair was inevitable. She was insistent in her belief—her absolute certainty— that her daughter would walk again.
But Ash never saw her mother. Blythe never set foot
in the room. She was present and absent. When they
wheeled in the temporary chair, Blythe Drummond was
nowhere to be found.
Q
The staff was good. They apologized for the wheelchair’s cheap cracked vinyl and flaking chrome veneer.
“You’ll be fitted out for something more suitable
soon.”
Soon was three days. Gleaming and flawless, her
permanent chair was a marvel of engineering. Ash regarded it with detached curiosity.
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D A R R E N G R O T H & S I M O N G R O T H
In physio, she felt more at home. This was something
familiar—a hard-nosed trainer pushing her to the brink.
You’re a champion! Check out the strength in those
arms! You’re like a gymnast on the high bar!
Ash smiled, but she didn’t reply. She didn’t feel much
like talking. It concerned the medical team and Coach
Dwyer. It urged her father to additional prayer, if that was possible. They discussed a depression diagnosis openly, as if she wasn’t there.
She wasn’t depressed.
She spent a lot of time thinking about swimming,
how controlled it was. How contained. When the black
line ended, you had two choices: tumble turn and head
back in the opposite direction, or stop. She couldn’t do either anymore. But where many saw tragedy, Ash sensed
opportunity.
When the black line ended, who said you couldn’t
keep going, right out of the pool, through the earth and into some big wide-open blue?
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Twenty
Clayton watched her from a distance, partly concealed
by the nurses’ station as Blythe stared at the backlit
bottles in the vending machine. Ash had once told him
her mother drank nothing but bottled water, believing
city water to be unclean. Clayton wondered whether
the real reason was that city water had no sponsorship
potential.
Blythe gave the machine a shove, leaning heavily
into it, pushing it back against the wall. She kicked once, twice. She switched legs for a third attempt. The water
bottles remained unmoved. Blythe rolled her shoul-
ders, jutted her chin and walked back up the corridor.
Clayton thought of turning away, then stepped into
the open.
“Oh. It’s you, Clayton.”
“Clayton? Not ‘ComiCon’ or ‘Boy�
��?”
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“What?”
“You used my name.”
Blythe waved a dismissive hand. “Ashley—what’s
she been telling you?”
“You could ask her yourself.”
She reared back a little. “I am defending my daughter!
She needs to be up and doing more physio, she needs to
be in the pool. These doctors are clueless.”
“They told me she’s still in danger of infection. They
said rehab takes months, sometimes years.”
“They don’t know her. Not like I do. I’m her mother.
I’ve heard them talking about depression. Depression!
Ash Drummond! Are they insane? Do they have any idea
who they’re dealing with?” Blythe leaned back on her
heels, balance regained. “This is a blip. A slight detour.
We’re not going to give up because of some accident and
all the losers who want to kneel at its feet.”
Clayton raised an eyebrow at her capacity for denial,
her complete rejection of reality. A pang of compassion
tugged at him. “Why don’t you just go in and see her?”
Blythe shook her head, slowly at first, then with more
vigor. “Someone needs to play the long game. I know
her. Nobody knows her like I do. Nobody.” She jabbed a
finger at a window by the nurses’ station that overlooked the city. “There are billions of people in this world that need someone to believe in. The world needs heroes.
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And we have one right here. I don’t expect things to go
back the way they were before the accident. I expect
things to go forward. Better than ever.”
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Twenty-One
At first Ash’s progress was remarkable.
Work began on the floor—stretches and upper-body
work and what looked like a whole lot of rolling around.
Then the transfers, bed to chair, floor to chair, chair to chair. Ash felt the difference, the confidence in moving, taking control. From the transfers she progressed to the parallel bars, holding herself stiffly and willing her legs to approximate natural movements without bearing weight.
Her fitness and age were clear factors in her favor, and she took to the program with the single-mindedness of
