by Kobe Bryant
I’m instructed to turn right into Crosswind Farms, which has neither wind nor farms from what I can tell. The houses here are massive, all built with a Spanish Colonial flair—cream stucco and red tile roofs with lush green lawns that don’t give the impression that any drought rationing has been happening in this zip code. I mean, it hasn’t. That’s obvious. Just down the road from here is the infamous Blackhawk neighborhood—once home to John Madden and that guy from Mötley Crüe—which is not only gated but used to have its own grocery store featuring a man in tux and tails playing a grand piano. People like that don’t ration.
The house I’m looking for is indistinguishable from the ones around it, but the architecture, the landscape, the lighting, everything there is crafted to be inviting. I find it finally and pull to the curb and sit in the idling car, which is a surefire way to get the cops called on me, or worse. But it’s hard for me to get out. To do what I came here to do.
Another call from my mom comes through and I don’t answer, because why the fuck does she get to need me when it suits her? Everything’s always about her. It always has been. She calls again and I do it. What I’ve dreamt of doing for as long as I can remember. I pull up her number and hit block.
My mouth fills with spit and I push the door open just in time to puke all over the street. Also the side of the car, which is fucking great. At least I have the motivation to finally move my ass or else I really will end up in jail. I wipe my mouth, step carefully out of the car, and approach the house, with its wide cobblestone walkway and neat path of perfect copper lighting. I kick at one of the lights, then kick it again, just to watch it flicker out.
A dog barks from inside, a low throaty sort of utterance. I try bounding up the steps only to trip and bang my shin hard. It’s a chore getting up again, but then I’m knocking on the door. Pounding because it’s hard to imagine anyone inside can hear me. Then I spy one of those fancy brass knockers that’s in the shape of a mermaid, which gets me to roll my eyes, but I switch to that, banging even harder with the added weight.
No answer.
“Fuck me,” I mumble, and I take a step back and look up at the house. Three whole stories spin wildly, and I straighten up before I fall over. It strikes me as a good idea, however, to throw something at one of the upper windows, which must be the bedrooms. That’ll be more productive than banging on a first-floor door that doesn’t even have a fucking bell.
I bend over and inspect the stone porch for anything I can use. There’s nothing, so I back down the stairs and fumble around in the flower beds. They’re immaculate, of course, lush with neat rows of blooms, even in November. But my fingers grasp a good-sized river rock and I heft it once in my palm, making sure it’s of adequate weight, which it is. Then I set my jaw, lift my arm, pull back, and that’s when I hear it. A voice. It says:
“You better think real hard about if you want to do that, son.”
70.
I falter, confused. Is this voice inside my head or out? But then the porch light comes on and I spot a silhouette of a man walking straight toward me.
I breathe a sigh of relief. “Coach Marks!”
“Gus?”
“Yeah.”
“What’re you doing here?”
“I need to talk to you.”
“Talk about what?” Coach Marks approaches and we’re both standing there on his lawn and he’s wearing a robe and glasses and he doesn’t really look like how I remember him even though I only saw him this evening. Well, technically yesterday evening, now, but that sounds weird seeing as I haven’t slept or anything since. Plus, I’m panting, I realize with a strange wave of awareness.
“Training,” I say. “For Vancouver.”
“That’s what you want to talk to me about? Now?”
“Well, we’re only three weeks out and I feel like I’m ready. I got this. I fucking know I do.”
“You all right, Gus?”
“Yeah, I’m good. But see, it doesn’t make sense that we’re not practicing again until Monday. Now’s when we need to push—look, maybe I haven’t told you that before, but it’s what I need. To be pushed. Hard. I know I can be . . . difficult, but I can do anything you tell me to. I can do more, even. I can be epic. But you just need to get me there. Okay?”
He doesn’t move. I stand there, gasping for breath, and hear the whip whip whip of sprinklers from somewhere down the block.
“Why don’t you come inside?” he offers gently. “It’s late.”
“I don’t want to come inside!” I shout. “I need answers! You’re my coach. You told Danny how to do it. Now tell me!”
“Okay,” he says, walking toward me. “I’ll tell you. I’ll give you answers. Right now you need rest. I think you might need more than that, but taking some time off from swimming will be a good start.”
“Fuck that,” I say. “That’s the last thing I need.”
He takes another step. “You think I don’t know about all the extra training you do on your own at the pool in the valley? You think it’s going to help if you get yourself injured before Vancouver? Or to overtrain? Your splits aren’t getting any better and you know it. That means you need to back off before you move forward. But because you won’t listen to me when I tell you what’s best for you, scheduling days off might be the only way I have to save you from yourself. Although I doubt it.”
“So you lied to me?”
“No, I didn’t lie. The truth is that I’d rather spend time with my family for the holiday. Maybe you should do the same.”
“Is that what you told Danny? That he should take time off when he felt like it?”
“I should have.”
“You don’t mean that.”
His eyes blaze. “You think I don’t mean that? You think I don’t wish that I’d done things differently with him? That I know I shouldn’t have pushed him like I did?”
“He wanted you to push him. It’s all he wanted.”
“That doesn’t make it right.”
My lip curls. “Well, then I hope he suffered. I hope he felt what he made me feel that day. The way he still makes me feel. I hope it hurt like hell, what he did to himself. He deserved it.”
“Jesus,” he breathes. “Don’t say that, Gus. I know you’re hurting, but don’t ever, ever say that.”
“Fuck you! Stop caring about him more than you care about me!” And with that, I rear back and hurl the river rock as hard as I can at one of those wide leaded windowpanes on the second floor. The sound of shattering glass is deafening.
I whirl to face his rage. It’s lit by the motion-activated floodlight and scored by the now-shrieking alarm system. There’s no kindness left. No concern.
“Get out!” he bellows. “Get the hell out of my sight!”
71.
He realizes his mistake an instant later and lunges after me, apologizing, begging me to come inside. Not to leave, for God’s sake, or get behind the wheel. He’s fast. But I’m faster. I jump in my car, hit the gas, and leave.
Well, shit. That episode kind of cleared my head and made me see what was true all along. I can’t trust anyone with my future. No one’s really on my side but me, and so I’ll do it all myself if no one’s willing to coach me. If no one’s willing to push me where I need to be and let me be better than the one force on this earth who worked the hardest to keep me down. I drive even faster on my way back to Lafayette and I roll the window down to keep myself awake.
To keep myself afire.
I make it to the LCC. Both the places I have memberships to are closed, but this is the one with the standard-sized pool and that’s what I need. Time for some breaking and entering again. It’s barely one a.m., and I don’t have my suit or a towel or goggles or anything. But this doesn’t stop me. At this point, nothing will. Scaling the fence is a trickier proposition now that I’m drunk and my shin’s bleeding fro
m when I fell earlier, but I make it over somehow, although I slip the last bit and slam onto the dirt below. I land on my side with a whoof, which knocks the wind out of me but I don’t waste time looking up at the sky or lamenting my pain. No, I’m up again in an instant, heading for the aquatic center, stripping off my clothes and bounding for the water’s edge.
I dive deep. There’s solace in the cold, the discomfort, in having to force myself to keep moving so that I don’t sink slowly to the bottom. It’s the only way to stay alive, isn’t it? When I was a kid our school took a trip to the aquarium in Monterey, where they were trying to keep a great white shark in captivity but the damn thing wouldn’t swim. They stuck a diver in there with it to push the shark forward, to keep the air flowing through its gills, and endlessly spiral through the murky tank. It was futile, though. The shark died the next day. I read about it online and couldn’t understand why the aquarium had even tried to keep it in the first place. Some people would call that hope, I guess, but it seemed like cruelty to me.
I ease into my warm-up, keeping my strokes crisp and sharp. Alcohol’s no excuse for poor form. It’s no excuse for anything. And see, Coach Marks was right, in a way. I haven’t been lowering my split times. Not to where I need them to be, and it’s not for lack of trying. But maybe it’s for lack of support. Or guidance. Or a lack of fucking faith. He’s always loved Danny more and, whether consciously or not, he can’t stand the fact that I’m better than my brother. Just like he can’t stand the fact that my brother left him.
Sufficiently warm, I crawl from the water, teeth chattering, bones shaking, and my wet feet slap on tile as I dart to the utility shed to retrieve one of the starting blocks. I know where the key’s kept, so that’s no problem, but once I’m in the shed, the blocks are stacked together and heavy and difficult to maneuver on my own, and pretty soon I thank God for the gusting wind. It masks the noise of me clambering around in there for what I need. Finally, I’m able to grasp the block in my arms. With a grunt and a groan, I drag it back to the deep end and shove it into the mount.
Click.
Up on the block, I shiver harder, but this is it. My time that I’ve made happen because no one else fucking will and this is my chance to get a sub-1:47 time on my 200 m free. I stare first at the clock on the other side of the pool, that sweeping red second hand, then down into the murky depths.
Time and the elements: both are my mortal enemies. I hold my breath, and at the top of the minute I go, launching myself through the air, determined to destroy both.
On my terms.
72.
01:49.23.
Fuck.
I go again.
01:48.33.
Again.
01:48.21.
Again.
01:49.24.
Again.
01:50.27.
Again.
01:49.23.
Again.
01:49.34.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Again.
73.
I don’t know what I notice first: the bloodstains—dark streaks of crimson—or the sun peeking over the horizon, a smooth orangey glow. I’m standing on the block, more sweat dripping off me than water, and when I bend down, the blood’s everywhere, lit by the sun, and jagged pieces of flesh gape from my heels.
My knees sway at the sight. It’s clear what the source is: blisters worn raw and then some. I deserve it, though. The pain. I’ve been at this all night and have nothing to show for it but failure.
I give it one more go. My feet throb now that I’ve noticed them, and my dive is determined but off-center. I hit the water wrong, but that doesn’t stop me. Every chance is a chance to make it right. A chance for redemption. But my stroke won’t come easy. I picture the trail of blood in my wake and the dying shark at my heels. I kick and pull and breathe and kick, but it’s no use and this is where hope dies, I guess. Not in my surrender but my ineptitude.
I hit the wall.
Look at the clock.
01:54.12.
74.
Chest heaving, muscles trembling, I make my way toward the diving pool with its twelve-foot drop. With all its pressure. The platform calls to me. Twenty-five feet up. I use all four limbs to climb the ladder, and my bloody footprints offer a rush of contentment. I’ve left my mark in some way. That has to count for something.
I reach the top. Look around. The sun’s breaking through the clouds, lighting up the whole club—the glittering golf course and immaculate grounds. It’s whisper quiet, which surprises me. Even without swim practice there are usually people here, hitting balls, jogging, heading to the fitness center. But the place is empty. No cars. Nothing.
The breeze rustles through my hair. The chalky dusk grows brighter and maybe I’m asleep or at the bottom of the pool or the entire world population died while I was swimming and I’m the only survivor. I don’t think I’d mind. The quiet. The peace. This is what I relish. What I’m seeking. I walk to the end of the platform. Gingerly step on wounded feet, and I can’t help but wince. The pain’s broken through by now.
My toes curl around the edges of the rigid platform, and I risk a glance at the depths below. My head sways at the sight and my muscles tense in an effort to hold me back. To keep me from falling.
But it’s too late. My strength is gone. Or else gravity is just the better competitor this morning. I don’t doubt it.
And at this point, I simply don’t care.
75.
Crumpling like I do and hitting the water from that height and that position is akin to crashing through glass. My bones and body smack hard, erupting with pain and brokenness, and then I’m sinking, sinking, submerged.
Sunk.
My eyes sting when I open them. My lungs burn. Every part of me aches inside and out. Every part of me has been hurting for a long time, I realize. And I’m sick of this pain, more than anything, but the longer I stay under, the more my pain’s replaced with a rocketing sort of euphoria. Of wild tumbling need. It fills me up in a way I haven’t been filled in a long time, and there’s a passion to dying, I think. To ending one’s suffering, and maybe this is what Danny was chasing more than death itself.
Not the end so much, but the anticipation.
Is this what he felt with that belt tightening around his neck?
A certain sort of grace?
I’ll never know, I guess, because I’m not Danny. My passion’s more pragmatic than his. He was fire where I’m all ice. Or else my spite’s too strong. My method too weak. So as I hover at the point of no return, that place where my lungs can no longer bear the pressure of this pool, its depths, I turn and kick.
And kick.
And kick.
76.
Daybreak.
I’m driving home because I don’t know who or what I am anymore. The sun’s rising in the sky, having burned off all the fog, and I’m driving home because even though everything’s changed, nothing has, and so I’m driving home because I know I always will.
77.
Winter.
She’s the first thing I hear when I drag myself into the house. It’s not her normal pissed-off baby screaming to be fed or pick me the fuck up or love me for once, goddammit. No, this is a different sound. A gurgling one. Like she’s choking.
I bolt forward. The sound is coming from the kitchen and this is where I find her, stuck in her high chair but struggling to get out. She’s managed to slip halfway out of the harness, sliding partway under the tray and catching her neck against the seat while her tiny body dangles a good foot above the floor. She thrashes and cries out more and I grab her, unclip the harness, and pull her to safety.
“You’re okay,” I say breathlessly. “You’re fine, baby.” The words provide more reassurance for me than her, but she is fine other than her fear. Her anger
. My fingers run along the red line where the strap was pressed across her throat. It’s not a bad mark. She wasn’t in true danger, I don’t think, but why was she in any at all? Her wails ease as I rock her and soon she quiets enough to grab my chin, touch my hair.
“Gusssss,” she coos, and while she may have recovered, I’m suddenly furious. Adrenaline floods my body and I get that accidents happen, but this is inexcusable. She’s a baby. Helpless.
She could’ve died.
Red heat fills me. I march through the sunlit house, shouting for my mother to account for what she’s done. You don’t take on the care of a child if you aren’t going to care. Darien knew that. She knew enough not to pretend and wear a mask of motherhood, because that’s even crueler than abandonment. All it does is teach a child they aren’t deserving of love.
My mother doesn’t answer. This enrages me more, enough that it pushes back my fear and lets me pound right up the stairs to the second floor in search of her. After last night, after all I did, I’m ready to tear shit down. I’m ready to burn.
I don’t find her in her room—a quiet space with oak furniture handed down from her parents and walls lined with her photography, images that have always shown me how she sees the world and what in it matters most to her. Almost all are of Danny throughout the years, but I’m startled to find a framed photo of me hanging over her dresser. I can’t be older than ten or eleven in the shot and no, I’m not swimming but at least it’s of me alone—not me and Danny or even Darien. I’m reading a book and I’ve tucked myself beneath an antique side table that sits in our living room. There’s a vent there, and I used to plant my butt on it in the winter as a means of stealing the heat before anyone else could get it.
