by Darren Groth
the elite athlete she was.
Soon, though, her recovery slowed. She faltered more
and more on the parallel bars. Heaving herself from
surface to surface was hard. Occasionally she wouldn’t
bother with transfers at all, preferring to stay in her chair.
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She began skipping rehab sessions altogether. Her bones
ached. Her skin was like parchment.
She missed the water.
Then, five months and twelve days after the accident,
a few stiff, twitchy movements in Ash’s calves sent excitement prickling through Team Drum. Wake was on the
comeback trail. Blythe was triumphant. The physios and
nurses were impressed. The doctors wrote more often
on their charts. Len talked of recovery instead of divine intervention.
Ash didn’t bother correcting them. It was good to
put a smile on their faces. But Ash sensed this wasn’t
improvement.
This was change.
Q
Coach Dwyer took a long, deep breath and regarded
Clayton with a heavy-lidded gaze. He’d aged alarmingly
in the last few months.
“Yeah, I’m concerned for her,” he said, as though
considering the question for the first time. “She’s in the wilderness. A lot of athletes go through this when their careers end. Maybe not as extreme. But, you know, I’m
seeing some signs in her. Real good signs.”
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Clayton squinted and twisted his mouth to one side.
After a year and a half of Ash’s media management, he
knew a rehearsed statement when he heard one. “Come
on, Coach.”
“We have to stay positive, kid. I see flashes of her old self. You do too, don’t you?”
Clayton nodded, but he knew as well as Coach Dwyer
that those flashes faded fast.
Coach shrugged. “I don’t know, son. I don’t know
what more we can do. This accident, it’s rocked her. All she’s ever been is a swimmer. Now she has to find out
who she is all over again.”
“She doesn’t need to find out who she is,” said
Clayton.
Dwyer frowned and scratched his ear. “How so?”
“She knows who she is. She needs to get back in the pool.”
“You don’t want to start sounding like Cyclone
Blythe, kid.”
“I’m not talking about competing. I’m talking about
what she needs. She’s pale and thin. Her mouth is always dry, and she’s irritable. She’s brittle. When she did the talking circuit in the States, it was the same. She needs the water, Coach. I don’t exactly know why she needs
it so bad”—he paused, trying to think of reasons and
failing—“I just know she does.”
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Clayton thought the coach might recommend he
do a stint in hospital himself. Dwyer’s response, though, made his heart jump.
“What would you like me to do, kid?”
“Talk to the physios, Coach. They won’t listen to
me, and they definitely won’t listen to Blythe. You can convince them that this would be good for her.”
Dwyer stroked his chin. “This is what Ash wants?”
“For sure.”
“I’m worried she’ll be set up to fail.”
“This isn’t pass or fail. This is destiny.”
Dwyer smiled at him, an awkward grimace that
suggested destiny wasn’t an expression he used much.
“Love the passion, kid. You’re a good friend to Ash. And I tell you, after the marriages I’ve been through, never underestimate the importance of having a good friend as
your partner. She’s lucky to have you looking out for her.”
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Twenty-Two
Ash moved off the chair and heaved her lower half to the water’s edge. Easing in, she felt nothing, nothing, nothing.
Then the glorious, cool touch of quicksilver, at the top of her thighs and groin. She closed her eyes and sighed.
Seconds later she was in the center of the pool, floating on her back, hands gliding along the surface, ripples let loose like doves from a cage. A group of elderly women
at the shallow end moved awkwardly to some disco tune.
Ash paid no attention. She stretched her arms, laid her
head back. As the water rushed into her ears, filtered
sunlight from the ceiling’s skylight warmed her face. The ring on her thumb winked like a tiny lighthouse.
Floating in the water—cradled in its gentle sweep—
Ash felt as complete as she ever had. Her spinal column
was a footnote.
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“Thank you,” she whispered.
She wasn’t sure exactly who she was talking to.
Q
Conversation seeped through the thin walls separating
the deck from the viewing area. Clayton could visualize
the scene without difficulty—Blythe holding the
rolled-up brochure in her sweaty hand, its gloss faded
from too much contact, patches of ink rubbed away
from being carried around for days at a time and laid out every ten minutes for some willing—or unwilling—
person to see.
“What do you mean we can’t do it?” she cried.
“She’s made it to the pool. Now is when we push to the
next level.”
She would be waving the brochure in the specialist’s
face, causing him to blink. Perhaps she had it open, trumpeting technical specifications. The twin magical ther-
apies: electric stimulation to the spinal cord to encourage regrowth, and a walking-machine contraption from which
a strapped-in Ash would hang from an overhead frame,
her feet on a treadmill. It would release her from the wheelchair that limited her belief. It was the next logical step.
“There’s no point, Mrs. Drummond.”
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“No point? This will get her walking again!”
“We don’t have access to those machines.”
“And I’ve told you a hundred frickin’ times already,
we can get the sponsorship dollars. It’s not a problem.
You organize it, I’ll get you the money.”
“It’s not the money, Mrs. Drummond.”
“Then what the hell is it?”
A pause. Clayton bowed his head. They won’t work.
“These therapies are not suited to Ash’s injury.”
“What?”
“They won’t get her walking again. Those machines
are effective for people with very different injuries to Ash’s. It’s been six months now. This is her recovery.”
“Are you telling me this is as good as it gets? Is that
what you’re saying?”
“I’m saying this is her recovery.”
Blythe began to pace back and forth, each step a stake
piercing the ground. “You’ve never worked with anyone
like Ash before, have you?”
“I have worked with elite athletes, yes,” countered the
specialist. “From the time of her injury, your daughter
has made tremendous progress, Mrs. Drummond. She’s
regained a lot of function. But there’s only so much the body can do to heal itself, electrical stimulation or not.
She will not walk. But she can be a champion again.
Whether she wants that is up to her.”
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“There are places that will do this for her,” railed
Blythe. “We can take her there.”
“There are places that will tell you anything if your
throw enough money at them, but all they’re peddling is
false hope.”
Blythe let out an exasperated shout. “She’s trained
her whole life for greatness! And you’re giving up! You, a no-name quack, unfit to share the same space as her!”
“Mrs. Drummond, insulting me certainly isn’t going
to help your daughter. No one is giving up on her. But
she needs time to take stock before moving forward. She
needs to rest for a while. Find some peace.”
Q
Clayton watched Ash roll over, positioning herself to
glide. She began to swim. Her hands carved through the
water with practiced efficiency, relaxed but in a perfectly held shape.
Even without assistance from her legs, she lifted her
body out of the water with each stroke. She touched the
wall, turned and made her way back to the middle of the
pool before once more rolling over onto her back.
“Hey,” he called out.
“Hey yourself.”
“Having fun?”
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Ash took a mouthful of water and blew a fountain
straight up. “You know it.”
“Are you okay?”
“Come in.”
“I haven’t got my togs.”
“Suit yourself.”
“Ash.”
“Yep?”
“Are you okay?”
She continued floating, staring straight up. Clayton
waited a while for an answer, then turned away from the
pool edge.
“Yeah,” she said after him. “I’m good.”
The familiar tone skewered Clayton. He turned
back and watched her closely, echoes of the twin falls
in his ears.
They were there moving like usual.
You could see right through them.
There was fear in that tone, but also acceptance, like
she had decided on a course from which there was no
escape.
“Let’s see where this goes,” added Ash.
It was like she was answering another question.
One she had posed to herself.
128
Twenty-Three
The room, lit only by a series of track lights snaking across the ceiling, was a temple of excellence. Dozens of trophies occupied a shelf spanning the full perimeter of the space.
A variety of hooks and screws strained under the weight
of medals, the overwhelming majority of them gold.
Photographs hung on the walls, the older shots featuring a young woman with broad shoulders and a steely gaze.
In the newer ones a girl clearly from the same bloodline stood with those same broad shoulders but with a face
softened by a lopsided smile and a less forbidding stare.
Newspaper and magazine headlines bellowed at each
other from their frames. Teen Sensation Stuns Champ!
Move Over Madam Butterfly! Ash Drummond—The
Next Big Thing! Wake Leaves Field For Dead! The loudest shout was reserved for a double-page West Coast Digress spread that showed Ash propped up on a massage table
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in Denver, her feet in the foreground, the block title
booming overhead: WORLD AT HER FEET!
Blythe checked that the door was locked. Her focus
was not on the shrine of success, but on a small photo
in her hand, one she’d opted a while back to keep for
herself rather than pin up with past glories. It showed
mother and daughter post-world-record swim, Ash
down on one knee, the two of them touching fore-
heads. Blythe twisted and turned the print as if it were a shifting hologram.
A lifetime ago now.
Time passed, and Blythe continued staring at the
image. She always had to wait before anything happened.
It began with a burning sensation in her chest, the sort she would usually suppress. Not now though. Not here.
Instead, she let the feeling fester. And it grew. It branched out through her chest and engulfed her heart. It speared her abdomen and clawed its way up her neck, sending a
red rash across her face.
A single sob skewered her, enough to tip her over
the edge of despair. For several minutes she bent over,
huddled with a great squall of pent-up tears that just
wouldn’t come.
“It’s not fair. This is not bloody fair.”
Still bent over, she curled her free hand into a fist
and waved it around, lashing out at phantom enemies,
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the evil forces that had torn her down, her and her child.
They would not get away with it.
“No,” she murmured. She said it again. And again.
Each time she spoke, the intensity and volume lifted. The final refute—the tenth—was a scream frightful enough
to curdle blood. She shifted her attention back to the
photo, to her husband’s presence in the background, his
eyes skyward, hands together in joyful prayer.
“Where was your God? Huh? When she was caught
in the storm? When she was lying on the road?”
She tore the photo in half, crumpled the piece
containing Len and threw it across the room. A gasp
escaped her mouth as her shoulder recoiled from the
sudden thrust. She gritted her teeth as the pain bloomed, withered and died. A prod of the surgical scar and several shrugs brought muscles and ligaments back into align-ment. Blythe wiped the perspiration from her upper lip
and perched on a stool, facing the shrine. She folded the photo, placed it in her pocket.
“We’re not done,” she hissed. “We’re never done.”
Blythe stood, took a deep breath, wiped the tears
from her eyes and unlocked the door. As she crossed
the threshold, she flipped a switch at the wall. The lights went out in the temple.
131
Twenty-Four
Ash wedged her wheelchair into the open driver-side
door of the car, ensuring she was parallel to the seat. With a combination of effort and caution, she lifted herself
out of the chair and eased in behind the steering wheel.
She considered leaving her legs dangling, then relented, hoisting them over the threshold and depositing them
under the foot pedals. Inside the cab, the smell of leather interior mingled with the odors of the closed garage—
grease and dust and insect spray and old upholstery.
An aged fluorescent tube buzzed and flickered above
the Corvette.
Everything was different, down to the last detail. Red
luminous dials on the dashboard. Suede steering-wheel
cover. Gold knob on the gearstick. The starkest difference between then and now was the body paint. The previous
car had been gray—the same hue as the storm clouds
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that had overseen her near-fatal crash. The vehicle she sat in today? It was blue. She’d requested it.
Ash pretended to shift through the gears, then leaned
back, arms folded. The silence was deafening. Nobody
ever ventured this far back on the Drummond property.
The garage was an outpost, a distant colony for
junk and stale air. And the vintage muscle car. Blythe had banished it here. I do not want to see it. Ever, she’d said. She couldn’t understand why Ash had wanted the car rebuilt. Ash didn’t bother to explain. It was a visceral thing. The car ought to rise from the accident, ought to be elevated to a new glory.
She looked to the adjacent seat. She conjured a vision
of Clayton in his passenger traveling pose, chin cradled, feet up on the dash, elbow resting on the open window. So relaxed. So carefree. She hadn’t seen him like that since…
since forever. He was care ful these days. Full of care. So full of care there was no room for anything else. It gutted her seeing him like that, taking on additional weight. He didn’t have to do that. He didn’t need to do that. If only he could share her sense of what was happening, what she was becoming.
Ash plucked the key from her pocket and held it in
her closed fist. She squeezed tight, feeling the teeth bite into her palm. It felt good, real. She drew the stem of the key out of her fist, then ran the point down along her
exposed thigh. The skin was soft, pliable. Veins glowed in 133
D A R R E N G R O T H & S I M O N G R O T H
the dim light, like trails of phosphorescence on the night ocean. A ghostly line of tiny half circles started at her knee, wound around her calf and cradled her heel.
She felt nothing.
Ash tapped the key on her chin, inserted it into the
ignition and turned it partway. The dashboard dials lit
up, chasing the dark into the backseat. The stereo came
to life. Paramore’s “Misery Business.”
Water, she thought. It embraced you, filling all your
senses.
“Ash? Are you in here?”
She sighed and pressed the button to open the
sunroof.
“I’m here, Dad.”
Len Drummond’s face appeared at the passenger-side
window. “Been looking all over the place. Thought we’d
lost you.”
“No. Just having some time to myself.”
“I’m sorry. I interrupted. Do you want me to come
back later?”
“No, it’s fine. I’m done.”
The elder Drummond held up a hand, then coughed
into a handkerchief. “Love, would you mind if we
moved outside to the yard? I’d like to talk to you about something.”
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Q
It was a swim. A long swim. The infamous 180-kilometer
stretch between Cuba and the United States. No competi-
