Infinite Blue

by Darren Groth

  tors. No time clock. Just Ash and the water. For what

  purpose? To set a record, inspire the world. To raise money.

  A lot of money. And to provide hope. Not just on a global scale—on a personal level too. It would give Ash a goal, a challenge, a process to channel her energies into. It would offer a different opportunity for fulfillment. A chance to become something new.

  Ash whistled when her father’s pitch was done. “Man,

  that’s quite the sell job. A hundred and eighty kilometers, you say.”

  “Apparently that is the distance.”

  She pointed to her legs. “You do realize these aren’t

  the same as before.”

  “You’ve been in the pool every day since coming

  home,” said Len, stepping quickly over the statement.

  “You’re strong. Fitter than I’ve ever seen you. Lord knows it would be hard, but I think you can do it.”

  “Mum put you up to this, didn’t she?”

  Len clutched something in his cupped hands. Ash

  knew he had rosary beads in there. You could almost see

  the Hail Marys ticking over in his mind.

  “Not at all,” Len said.

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  “Not at all?”

  “No.”

  “Not even a little bit?” The clutch intensified. Ash

  smiled. “You’re a terrible liar, Dad. You’re going to have to do some extra confession, you know.”

  “Look, love, the swim…You’re keen, aren’t you?”

  “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why didn’t Mum just come and tell me about this

  herself? Why did she ask you to do it?”

  Len shrugged and stammered. Eventually words

  formed and tumbled out. “I don’t know. Maybe…maybe

  she just thought it would be better coming from me.”

  “Because if it came from you there’d be a better

  chance of me agreeing to it.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “It’s true though. She thinks I’d turn it down just to

  spite her.”

  “Would you?” Len sat up a little straighter on the

  bench. The rotting purple flowers by their feet, courtesy of the nearby jacaranda, lent the air a sickly perfume. “Thou shall not avenge, nor bear any grudge against the children of thy people, but thou shall love thy neighbor as thyself.”

  Ash sniffed. “My ‘neighbor’ is the one bearing the

  grudge, Dad. She can’t admit that it’s over. Forget Mum

  for a moment. What do you really think of this? Do you

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  think it’s a good idea? You don’t, do you? All that shit you were just talking—you don’t agree with any of it.”

  “Don’t swear, Ashley. Please.”

  “Then you swear, Dad! Swear to tell the truth for once. You don’t want me to have any part of this. Do you?”

  “I don’t think—”

  “Just this one time, tell me you don’t want me to do

  this. Forbid me to do it. Go on, say the words. I forbid you to do this! I am your father, and there is no way in Hell you’re going to do this! ”

  Len bowed his head and pressed his white-knuckled

  hands against the bridge of his nose. Veins throbbed in

  his neck and temples. His heaving chest pumped mutter-

  ings of verse from his twitching mouth. It took thirty

  seconds for a semblance of calm to return. When he

  dropped his hands to his lap and brought his head back

  up, Ash was waiting. His daughter’s unblinking gaze had

  not shifted.

  “God has a plan,” said Len. “Let His will be done.”

  Ash nodded. “Will be done,” she repeated. She shook

  her head and turned her wheelchair around. On the

  garden path back toward the house, she spoke over her

  shoulder.

  “I’ll do the swim.”

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  Twenty-Five

  “Ladies and gentlemen of the media, if I could have your attention, please. Thank you. Thank you very much.

  Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to Wake the World, the

  record swim that will rejuvenate hope, provide inspira-

  tion and redefine heroism. Ash was going to start things off by reading a prepared statement, but I believe we’ve had a slight change of schedule. Is that correct?”

  Ash nodded. Blythe hesitated, then nodded too.

  “Okay then. Over to you, members of the media.

  Fire away.”

  “Wake, when did you decide to do this?”

  Ash drank from her sponsor’s bottle of sports

  beverage. Prior to coming onstage, she’d emptied the

  contents—a cloudy, fizzy, purple liquid—into the

  bathroom sink and replaced it with tap water.

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  I N F I N I T E B L U E

  “Four months, two weeks and five days ago. I came out

  of physical rehab and I was in the pool, sunup to sundown, working hard. It was like when I was in competition—

  training, preparing—but it wasn’t the same as before the accident. Before the accident, I would be satisfied at the end of a long day in the water. After the accident, I was getting to the end but it wasn’t enough. I wanted to keep going. It was my dad who came up with the idea for this.

  One hundred and eighty kilometers in the ocean. The

  ultimate swim. He didn’t have to do much convincing.”

  “And now that it’s only a few days away, how are you

  feeling?”

  “Not much below the waist.” She made a sad trom-

  bone noise, disarming the uneasy laughter. “I’m ready.”

  “How much are you hoping to raise?”

  Blythe leaned into the microphones. “Fifty million

  dollars is the goal for Wake the World. It’s ambitious, but we’re confident of achieving it. When this is over, Ash

  Drummond will not only be the first teenage paraplegic

  to swim the Florida Straits, but she will stand alongside Terry Fox and Rick Hansen as a charity-fundraising icon.”

  “Ash, this is a grueling swim. You mentioned the

  distance, but the passage also has the reputation for being treacherous. Susie Maroney felt it was the toughest she

  ever did. And it has claimed the lives of Cubans trying

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  to get to the States. You are aware of the recent death of Liliana Daminato, who drowned while trying to make

  the journey in a homemade canoe?”

  “I am aware, yes.”

  “Any concerns for your own safety?”

  “Well, we’ve got a very strong canoe.”

  More laughter, this time without disquiet.

  “But you are doing this swim barely a year after your

  accident. Do you have any fears your body may give out,

  may not hold up?”

  Blythe, fidgety and breathing hard, started to speak.

  Ash halted her indignation with an extended arm.

  “I’m not worried. I’m built to swim. I always have

  been. The accident hasn’t changed that. I’m at home in

  the water.”

  “So you don’t think attempting this brutal marathon

  now is a bit premature?”

  “I trust my team. Coach Dwyer knows me better than

  I know myself. If he says I’m ready, then I know I am. In all honesty, I don’t think there could be a better time to do this. Everything has led up to this point. Everything that has happened has been for a purpose.”

  “Coach Dwyer, this is a pretty remarkable charge

  you’ve go
t here.”

  “Yes. She is.”

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  “In your mind, how does first teen paraplegic to swim from Cuba to America—how does that compare to the Olympic gold that could’ve been?”

  “No comparison.”

  “You don’t think they can be compared, or you don’t

  want to compare them?”

  “No comparison.”

  “Wake—same question.”

  Ash sat up straighter. “Records and medals are nice,

  but that was never the motivation for getting in the pool.

  For me it’s all about the moment, the connection. Every

  time I’m working through my strokes or training, I’m

  striving to be seamless. To be at one with the water.”

  “Have you ever achieved perfection?”

  “No. But there’s still time.”

  “So you think complete perfection awaits somewhere

  between Havana and Key West?”

  Ash took a sip from her bottle and smiled. “I think so.”

  Q

  Clayton sat by the fountain, hands burrowed in his jeans pockets. He tried to focus on the warmth of the sunlight, the smell of barbecued onions in the air, the symphony

  of jets sending streams of water skyward. It was pointless.

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  The distraction would only last ten seconds or so before his thoughts returned to the post-press conference scene outside the small marquee. Ash, in her chair, barely

  visible amid the handlers, well-wishers and media.

  Her answers, so easy, so straightforward, so likable.

  And brave. So very brave. That was the superficial take, presumably the one that would soon be plastered all

  over news sites and the evening tv news bulletins.

  Clayton heard something else in those answers though.

  Something calculated.

  I don’t think there could be a better time to do this.

  Everything has led up to this point.

  Everything that has happened has been for a purpose.

  The media knew that purpose. So, too, the viewing

  audience at home. Ash was a hero. A role model. A beacon of humanity, a symbol of faith. She would make Wake the

  World a true message of hope and not just another shtick slogan on a colored wristband.

  Clayton knew it was a crock. She was covering for

  something else, something powerful and, in her mind,

  inevitable. Something she dared not tell.

  Q

  Coach Dwyer lobbed a coin into the fountain and patted

  his comb-over.

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  “You worried, kid?”

  “I’m…confused.”

  “Did those vultures in there talking about the

  poor bastard who drowned…did that scare you a bit?

  Remember, they were on their own. There’ll be a dozen

  people monitoring her. And she’ll be in the cage.”

  “I know the setup. I know she won’t be in danger.”

  Clayton shuffled on the spot. “I’d prefer she didn’t do this.”

  Coach Dwyer watched the ongoing post-press-con-

  ference scrum. It had thinned in the last few minutes,

  but catching sight of Ash was impossible. “She’s in good nick,” he said. “And she wants to do it. Christ knows, I’ve tried to talk her out of it, but she’s made up her mind.

  She’s committed.”

  Clayton tried to speak, but the words crumbled on

  his tongue.

  “Look,” said Coach Dwyer, “I’d rather she didn’t do

  this either. But we don’t have a say, do we? This is Ash’s decision. And she’s made it clear—she’s doing it. The

  only thing we can do is choose whether or not we want

  to be a part of it.” Dwyer placed a hand on Clayton’s

  shoulder. “You can walk away, you know.”

  “Are you serious?” said Clayton. “I can’t walk away

  now.”

  Dwyer nodded and sat down at the edge of the foun-

  tain. He leaned forward, elbows propped on his knees,

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  hands clasped in front. “You know what, kid? I have a

  sneaking suspicion this might be it for Ash. She sees this as the last hurrah. She hasn’t said anything to me—it’s

  just a hunch. I don’t think she wants to be one of these circus acts swimming all these stupid distances, through garbage dumps and oil slicks, wrapped up in the flag of

  some good cause. It’s only a matter of time before she’s ready to cut ties with Cyclone Blythe. A short time. Yeah, she might be a changed girl after this is over.” He patted Clayton on the shoulder and stood back up. “There might

  just be a happy ending to this after all.”

  As the coach shuffled away, a short bald reporter

  approached him, hoping for one last story-breaking quote.

  Coach Dwyer waved a hand, told him to get a haircut and

  a real job, then headed off in the direction of the sausage sizzle laid on by Wake the World’s major sponsor.

  “Happy ending?” murmured Clayton. “Do those

  words even go together?”

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  Twenty-Six

  Clayton brought Ash’s wheelchair poolside, locked the

  brakes and draped a towel across the rear handles. Ash

  vaulted out of the water and pivoted her torso so she was side-on to the chair. She lifted her left leg out, placing it on the long ribbon of drainage grid running parallel

  to the gutter; she left her right leg dangling in the wash.

  After a few seconds catching her breath and stretching

  her neck, she reached up and gripped the armrests.

  “You good?” said Clayton.

  With a single, effortless movement, Ash hoisted

  herself onto the cushioned seat of the chair. She turned her head and nodded.

  “I’m good.”

  Clayton released the brake and pulled the chair back

  from the edge of the pool. Ash placed her palms on the

  tires, slowing their rotation. “I got it.” Clayton continued 145

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  to assist, forcing Ash to clamp down hard, halting any

  further movement. “I’ve got it, Clay.”

  “You do, don’t you.”

  “What?”

  “Forget it.”

  “No, what?”

  Ash stopped the chair by the front row of bleachers.

  Above them, bystanders in the grandstand—athletes,

  coaches, spectators—pretended not to watch.

  “You don’t want me to do the swim.”

  The rising anxiety in Clayton reached the back of his

  throat. He shook his head.

  Ash looked up at the crowd. Heads and bodies turned

  back to their own business.

  “Let’s take this somewhere private,” she said, nodding

  toward the change room. Once inside, she couldn’t meet

  his pleading gaze.

  “What do you think is going to happen if I do this?”

  she asked.

  “Some sort of transformation is my best guess,”

  Clayton replied, shocked that he’d said the words out

  loud. “But I think you know.”

  Ash opened her mouth to respond, then hesi-

  tated. What do I know? she thought. Nothing beyond a

  growing body of evidence, a building sense of method

  behind the madness. The out-of-body experience during

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  the world-record swim. The accid
ent, the break in her

  connection to the earth, which appeared now to be some

  sort of tipping point. The progressive rash of half circles on her legs. Added up, two and two equaled five. That’s

  what she knew. And the assumption had been that only

  she knew. Not so—her beloved Clayton was doing the

  same absurd math.

  And now the equation was simple: 180 kilometers,

  twenty-four plus hours. More than enough distance and

  time for destiny to be satisfied.

  “I don’t know exactly what’s going to happen,” she

  said. “I guess I’ll find out.”

  “You don’t have to do it, Ash. You can stay home. Stay

  with me.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “I love you, Clay. Always. But this…I have to do this.”

  Misery choked the air for a minute or more. Clayton,

  chest heaving, saw her gesturing for him to come closer.

  He complied, then fell to his knees on the cold tiled floor.

  She leaned over the side of the chair and they kissed. As he withdrew, Clayton realized she was crying. He stroked her hair.

  “It’s like I’ve been—I don’t know—cut loose,” she

  whispered. “Like I’m not attached to the ground anymore.

  And when I’m in the water…” Ash squeezed her eyes shut.

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  Tears fell from her jawline like tiny shooting stars. “I’m caught in a rip. You remember how that feels, right? And you remember how to deal with a rip? You don’t fight.

  You don’t struggle.”

  “So that’s it? You let this thing overtake you? You give up?”

  “No,” she said, wiping her cheeks dry. “You let go.”

  Clayton wrapped his arms around her thin knees

  and laid his head in her lap. There was a suppleness

  to her legs now, an elasticity that suggested the bones

  were shrinking or dissolving. A thin membrane, almost

  invisible to the naked eye, covered her ankles like gauze.

  Her toes had lost their nails and were flattening, tapering to points. The marks on her legs gave off a soft glow in the fluorescent light.

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  Twenty-Seven

  On the morning of the first anniversary of the accident, Team Drum milled around the gate, preparing to board

  the flight to Havana. There was a smattering of inter-

  ested onlookers. Two journalists. No camera crews.

  No fans.

  Ash scanned the concourse again and again, checking