Coach Toll’s office is a chlorinated hovel. Thanks to years of sweaty swimmers and poor airflow, it reeks of polyester, body odor, and moldy concrete. A random assortment of trophies proclaiming various triumphs lines the shelves: league champs, division champs, national champs. Brass figurines loom over his desk with outstretched arms, condemning the state of chaos. Because it truly is chaos: Papers strewn about. Ribbons hanging on nails. Pens scattered on the floor. No sign of a computer unless that boxy antique in the corner turns on.
He twirls a pen in his thick fingers while he looks at me with deep-set eyes. I’ve come to believe his intimidating presence is just part of his shtick. It takes a special person to control a bunch of college jocks.
“You sure you’re ready to get back in there?” The daily calendar over his head displays the date: January 15. After a week on a cross-country train and another back on campus, I’m prepared to swim again—or so I tell myself.
“I think so.”
“You think so?”
I try to sell my enthusiasm with a smile. “Absolutely, Coach.”
“But?”
“But what?”
“You’ve got something on your mind.”
I never took Coach for an empathetic individual—or maybe I’m just that transparent. It’s true that the water makes me nervous; it’s also true that I’ve avoided pools since the day we were rescued. But this is my pool. My team. I don’t have to go out there and muscle through the 200 anymore. I just need to get in the water and swim. The rest will fall into place.
“Well, I see this as a chance to start fresh,” I say. “Maybe break out of my routine a bit.”
He stops the pen twirling. “How so?”
“I’m not sure yet.”
“Fair enough,” he says, and I let out a breath.
“I know I’m out of shape, but I’m ready to work really hard—”
“Of course you’re out of shape. That’ll change.”
“Great.” I try not to think about the eight-thousand-yard beatings sure to come in the next days and weeks. Coach Toll will whip me into shape, all right. And I’ll endure it, and savor it, because I’m not fighting a career-ending injury. I still have a future in the pool.
“I’ll need medical clearance from your doctor,” he says.
I hand it over. It’s signed by three different doctors: my family physician in Boston, the internist in Denver, and my dad. The first two had no problem clearing me to do whatever I liked; my dad, however, wrote an addendum three paragraphs long.
Coach waves the forms. “What’s this about mental health issues?”
“It’s not an issue,” I mumble, feeling the sting of shame. “My dad is just paranoid.”
“Says here he insists you see a psychiatrist on campus.”
“I already did.” Which is true. Last week, I visited a meek, turtleneck-loving woman who struggled to be heard over the hum of the noise machine. She was technically a guidance counselor, who specialized in things like homesickness and binge drinking. Even though my dad wrote “PTSD” all over his addendum, she never mentioned it and I didn’t ask.
“Can you get me a note from this person?” he asks.
I hand this over, too. Her signature is indecipherable scrawl, and so are the letters after her name. Coach doesn’t seem to notice. I doubt he really understands the difference between a psychiatrist, a psychologist, and a guidance counselor.
“Hmph,” he grunts. He leans back in his ancient desk chair and folds his arms across his chest. It’s a wonder he can reach: Everything about him is huge, taut, and wound extremely tight.
He extends a hand, which is the closest he gets to a grin. “Welcome back, Ms. Delacorte.”
•
My first day back starts like the hundreds that have come before it. Alarm goes off at 4:30 A.M. Hit the snooze once. Now 4:39. I roll out of bed, relieve my bladder, brush my teeth, and throw on an old Speedo—usually with my eyes still closed, but today I’m wide-awake. Even the snooze was unnecessary. I pull on my heaviest tracksuit and brace for the blitz of January weather that never comes. Without that awful arctic blast, it’s actually a lot harder to wake up. But today, alertness is not an issue. Today, every cell in my body feels like a live wire.
The boys are practicing later on, so it’s just the girls out there now. The locker chatter is minimal. A cluster of freshmen wave hello; one even manages to squeal, “Welcome back!” I do my best to ignore the attention and make my way to lane 2, my home base. It shimmers in the overhead lights, the clear waters pulsing with a surrealist energy. I have always savored this moment, before the water swells with the furious rhythm of windmilling arms and fluttering ankles.
But today, my usual sense of calm is overwhelmed by a deafening roar. It’s coming from within, building and swelling despite my best efforts to push it back down.
A wet hand lands on my shoulder. “Avery?” Marjorie Kline comes into focus. “Are you all right?”
“Yep.” I inch closer to the water. “Great.”
She answers with a confused stare. “Okay. Great. Do you wanna jump in?”
I usually go first in lane 2, which means I’m fast enough to swim in lane 3 but don’t really want to. I’ve never strayed from the comforts of my “medium speed” lane. Coach doesn’t push me on it; I guess he figures I’ll make the move when I’m ready—which, of course, is never. But today, lane 1 (for “the slackers”) looks appealing.
“Avery?”
“Yeah. Sure.” Everyone except me, Marjorie, and the three other girls in lane 2 is already in the pool. Coach sits under his chalkboard, staring at me. The sun’s begun to rise, creating a searing glare through the glass. The temperature bumps a few degrees. Sweat slinks down the back of my neck, pooling in the groove between my shoulder blades.
“Why don’t you go ahead?” I say. “I’m out of shape.”
“Oh.” She wipes her goggles for the thirtieth time. “Sure. Right. Okay.”
She dives in—a smooth, graceful motion. The others follow. A steady beat of swimmers, all muscled shoulders and tanned legs, disappearing under the surface. Everyone starts with freestyle. Smooth, reliable freestyle. It all looks so easy. Mechanical, even.
I’m alone on deck, teeth chattering from the cold. There is nowhere to hide, no excuses worth offering. Coach caps his felt-tipped marker and heads in my direction. His eyes are narrowed and questioning, his pale lips set in a thin line. He parts them to say something—
And I dive in.
Cold. So cold. It worms its way into my blood through every pore, every imperfection in my windburned skin. It steals the oxygen in my lungs and dulls my senses. Liquid ice flowing in my veins. My heart skips out of rhythm, beating in frantic defiance of what I’ve done.
The agony of drowning hits me like a jolt of electricity, a wretched tightening in my throat. I don’t fight for the surface; I just breathe, inhaling water instead of air. Soon, the quietude returns. The fire and fear and cold just slip away, releasing me into some strange, soundless in-between.
I’m not strong like you.
Then: pain. God, it’s awful. A tearing through my chest, the bones splitting open at the hands of some invisible demon. My lungs fight to expand against it, but someone is pushing down on them. Breaking them. Breaking me.
I can’t breathe. Can’t breathe.
“Sit her up. Sit her up!”
The water in my lungs hits the deck with a sickening splash. My tongue tastes like chemicals and blood, a stinging fire. Someone rolls me onto my side and waits until the coughing stops. Pain begins to mingle with the sting of humiliation.
I finally open my eyes to see a dozen ankles and feet, then legs and hips and shoulders, then stunned faces. “Paramedics are on their way,” someone sobs, and I know it’s Marjorie Kline. Her ankles disappear from the group into the locker room.
Coach waves everyone else away, but it doesn’t matter. It’s too late. Now everyone knows my secret. Everyone knows that I’m not ready; I’m not even okay.
I’m still in that lake, searching for rescue.