That night, after a battery of tests, Lee takes me back to the dorms. He usually drives with the seat pushed back, music blaring, one hand on the bottom of the wheel. Tonight he drives in the ten-two position, in silence.
At least the dorms are quiet. It’s a Tuesday night, and the campus has settled into its usual, industrious calm. Lee carries my bag and scans us into the building. A dozen other swimmers live in my dorm, and two of them pass us by, their heads down as they race down the stairs. Shame floods through me. Shame, and embarrassment, and the dreaded realization that this episode will change everything. Coach will hire a lifeguard for practices. I’ll be relegated to the diving well, forced to swim with a chaperone. In meets, I won’t even compete. I’ll serve Gatorade and orange slices to the people who do.
The logical part of my brain tries to argue that it was just a bad day. It wouldn’t have happened yesterday, and it won’t happen tomorrow. A weird moment. Maybe it was Marjorie Kline’s awkward smile, or the way the lights hit the pool, a scattering of shadow that felt wrong. Maybe it had nothing to do with those things; maybe I just swallowed a ton of water and blacked out. It could happen to anyone.
Except it doesn’t. It never has. In my fifteen years of competitive swimming, I’ve never seen someone drown—or even require the services of a lifeguard. People don’t break their necks while walking down the street. It’s the same thing. Swimming comes as naturally to me as breathing. The fact that this happened isn’t just shocking; it’s pathetic.
Lee scans me into my room and flips on the light. The state of disarray is astonishing. Clothes hang on windows and lamps and the TV. Useless textbooks and paperbacks litter the floor. My laptop is frozen in a state of abrupt abandonment. I used to be better than this. More organized. I used to have a little pride.
Lee, thankfully, doesn’t acknowledge it. He ignores the piles of clothes on the bed and sits on top of them. He waves me over, patting the bedspread. I shuffle toward him. My throat still burns and my ribs are sore, but it’s nothing compared to the anguish of letting him down. Lee tried to talk me out of getting back in the water so soon, and I ignored him.
He sweeps a wisp of hair out of my face and takes my hand. He sighs, but his expression isn’t angry or judgmental. It’s pained. Like he saw this coming, watched it happen, and now somehow feels responsible for it. “Can you stop tempting death, Aves?” He tries to smile. “I’m really struggling over here.”
“I don’t know what happened.” I attempt a deep breath, but my lungs feel like they’ve been power-washed with a garden hose. “I’m so embarrassed.”
“Embarrassed? Come on. This isn’t about your reputation.”
“Of course it is!” I turn to face him, braced for an argument. But it’s all gone out of him—the anger, the defensiveness, the bravado. He looks wounded.
“I just want you to be okay again,” he murmurs.
“I am okay.”
“No, Aves.” He looks up. “You’re not.”
I can feel it shift, then: the axis I’m turning on, the ground under my feet. Even the ceiling feels like it’s tilting away from me. “I’m trying. I’ve been trying.”
His gaze latches on to a crescent-shaped stain in the carpet, which is what remains of a Jell-O shot that never quite solidified the way we’d intended. That was freshman year, just two days after we met.
“I talked to your dad,” he says.
“What?” It comes out like a hiccup.
“I called him.” He puts his hand on my arm, and I feel the tension everywhere. Like a coiled spring compressed to the breaking point.
“Why?”
“He wants you to see someone,” he says.
“I did see someone.”
“Someone with actual credentials.”
I glance at the window and imagine myself hurtling out of it. Anything would be preferable to this topic of conversation.
“Your dad is a doctor,” he says. “I don’t get it. Are you afraid of mental health people?”
“Psychiatrists?”
“Look, I don’t know what they do. I’m no expert. I’m just trying to figure out how to help you.”
“I don’t need your help.” Again, the open window draws my attention. The night is quiet, the campus wiling away the hours of the midweek doldrums. There are always some people out, of course. Groups of friends walking back from dinner in town. Intense pre-med, pre-law, pre-whatever gunners making the trek from library to dorm and back again. Couples talking or fighting or kissing, or maybe one couple accomplishing all three. I can’t see faces in the dark, just shapes, passing by my window in a great collegiate march.
“Your dad said he’s going to pull you out of school if you don’t get help.” He says this as gently as possible.
“So? He’s always making threats.”
“This sounded legit.”
“So I leave school. Who cares?”
His muscles tense as his arm grazes my side, rustling my shirt. “Is that how you feel about it?” He takes a breath. “About us?”
A light from outside falls on his face, accentuating his sculpted features and perpetual stubble. I reach out and touch it, savoring the feel of something so predictable. “No,” I whisper. “It’s not how I feel.”
“Then let me help you.”
“You can’t—”
“I can.” The edge in his voice surprises me. I look up, expecting to see signs of Lee’s short-fused (and completely benign) temper, but whatever anger he brought into this room has long since dissipated.
“How?”
He smiles. A true, unconstrained Lee classic: more mischievous than polite, his eyes dancing with it. “I’ve got a few ideas.”
•
My father delivered on his threat. He showed up on campus the next day, dragged me back to the hospital to review my discharge plan, and coordinated a deposition with Coach about “my future in this organization.” After an agonizing ninety minutes in that mildewy office, an agreement was reached, a contract signed. I committed to weekly sessions with Dr. Linda Shin, a psychiatrist who specializes in post-traumatic stress disorder and specific phobias. Dad knew her from medical school (of course—who doesn’t he know?), but this time, I had veto power. If the first appointment didn’t go well, Dad would round up someone else.
Two days later, I’m sitting in Dr. Shin’s pristine office downtown. So far, our future together doesn’t look promising. Her office has too many potted plants. The paintings are bland, the carpet an overly enthusiastic yellow. The window looks out onto the street, and I sit as far from it as possible, terrified of being recognized by passersby.
At least the magazines are up to date. People provides mild, mindless entertainment while the clock ticks toward two o’clock. I flip through the pages, wondering when my face will pop up with the caption Whatever Happened to . . .
“Avery?” The door opens and Dr. Shin pokes her head out. She’s a petite Asian woman, with sloping cheekbones and a gaze that misses nothing.
She extends a hand. “I’m Dr. Shin.”
I shake it, maybe a shade firmer than my usual. “Hi.”
“Please come in,” she says, gesturing toward the cozy office. For such a small woman, she has a surprisingly deep voice.
The tidy room offers several seating choices: two chairs or a stiff-looking couch. I opt for the chair. It’s a little closer to the door, a little farther from the window.
She takes the other chair. “How are you?” she asks.
“Fine. You?”
She gives an infinitesimal nod. “I’m doing well, thank you.”
I hand her the questionnaire she asked me to fill out prior to our appointment. It’s pretty much a blank sheet of paper except for my name. No to depressed mood, no to hallucinations, no to flashbacks and nightmares and history of trauma. It’s all relative, after all—my little episodes are nothing compared to the full-on psychotic breaks she probably manages on a daily basis. I’ve seen those people in my dad’s ER, coming down from manic highs or talking to imaginary government agents. I’ve seen failed suicide attempts and successful ones, too. Teenagers, veterans, professors. All of them going about their daily business, hiding their demons.
I’m not like them.
She flips through the pages and tosses them onto her desk. A queasy feeling blooms in my stomach. I left too much out; I left everything out.
And she knows it.
She uncrosses her ankles and studies me for a long moment. The bland reassurance in her eyes is gone. “Avery, what exactly do you hope to get out of these sessions?”
The noise machine whirs its toneless tune, an idle static that heightens every other sound. I put my head in my hands and let it wash over me: the silence, the expectations, the weight of Dr. Shin’s question hanging in the air.
“I’m not sure,” I say. “A free pass from my dad?”
She doesn’t smile. “You know, I can tell a lot about someone from this form.”
“Seemed pretty standard to me.”
“It is standard. And meaningless, at least in terms of understanding someone. But the people who actually want to be helped? They check all the boxes and answer all the questions. They’re honest. Maybe a little too honest.”
“Well, maybe I don’t fit into a neat little box.”
“Maybe you don’t. Or maybe you really don’t want to be helped.”
My gaze drifts to the window, to the careless throngs of people walking through town. Kids laughing. Dads pushing strollers. Women on their lunch break, talking business strategy. “Maybe I don’t need help.”
“I think your coach and about twenty-two other swimmers might disagree there.”
“I had a bad day.”
“Is that all it was?”
Of course not, I want to scream. That day was all of my worst fears wrapped into one harrowing moment of fear, pain, and loss. It was about my old life and the new, the before and the after. Before I watched two hundred people scream and cry and pray to a god that had deserted them. Before my trust in air travel crashed and burned in an icy lake, shattering my ability to feel safe anywhere. Before Tim and Aayu and Liam lost their parents, before they became orphans in the span of minutes. Before Colin grasped my hand, told me everything was going to be all right, and it wasn’t. It hasn’t been all right since that night, and in my darkest, quietest moments, I’m convinced it never will be.
I know she can’t hear my thoughts, but her slate-gray eyes and sleek professionalism make me feel like I’m under scrutiny, although scrutiny is a far cry from judgment.
“Are you familiar with post-traumatic stress disorder?” she asks.
My gut cramps in response. I hate those words, their calculated ambiguity. I wonder if it’s possible to experience symptoms of PTSD just from saying its full name.
“I’ve heard of it,” I say, choosing my words carefully.
“It’s become fairly common vernacular in today’s culture, which is unfortunate in my opinion. PTSD is a severe anxiety disorder that requires careful, focused, and longitudinal treatment. I’m not saying that’s what you have, Avery—although your father seems to think so.”
“He’s an ER doc.”
She allows a small smile at this. “Yes, well, I imagine that’s why he called me.”
“And you’re an expert?”
“I work with a lot of patients with the disorder. I’ve devoted my entire career to it—conducted clinical studies, taught hundreds of residents, met with experts all over the world. I’ve spoken at a number of conferences.” Her voice lacks the haughtiness I’ve come to expect from some doctors. “Does that make me an expert? I don’t know. But I like to think I’m qualified.”
“So how do you, uh, make the diagnosis?”
“I ask you about your symptoms. Psychiatry is unlike other fields of medicine in that I have to rely on your insights and experiences to make a clinical diagnosis. I can’t really do that if you don’t talk to me.”
“What kinds of symptoms?”
“Well, there are a number of them, and no one experiences them in the exact same way. Nightmares. Flashbacks. Avoidance of triggers that stimulate memories or feelings associated with the traumatic event.” She lingers on that word: event.
“Is that all?” I ask.
“No. Some patients experience hypervigilance—they scare easily, have difficulty sleeping. It’s really a spectrum. PTSD requires individualized treatment because individuals are different. That’s what makes it challenging for me as a provider. For you, the challenge is internal.”
I look at the clock. So much time left—an eternity, really. Dr. Shin leans forward, her wrists on her knees. “So,” she says. “Second chance.”
“For what?”
“For you to tell me why you’re really here.” She nudges the clock in my direction. “You could have walked out ten minutes ago.”
The noise machine continues to whir, but it feels quieter now, the static in my head less intrusive. “I want to swim again.”
It’s hard to imagine this tiny Asian lady hurling me into the pool, but maybe she has other ideas. I don’t want to experience them in all their psychoanalytic glory, but I’m desperate.
“All right,” she says.
Her answer startles me. “Seriously?”
“Yes. We can work on that.”
“Okay, great.” I reach for my coat. No matter the hourly fee, I’ve had enough for one day. Dad will just have to understand.
“So,” she says. “Let’s plan on the same time next week.”
“Wait a second.”
She stops, her neutral expression replaced by a knitted brow that suggests real concern. “Absolutely,” she says. “What’s on your mind?”
“I don’t want you talking to my dad after these appointments.”
Her brow relaxes a bit, but her eyes maintain that fierce intensity. “Our conversations are confidential. Your father is paying for these sessions, so he’ll receive the bill, but that’s it.”
Something about my father getting billed for a completely confidential service makes me smile—almost. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Okay meaning ‘we’ll see.’”
“Fair enough,” she says as the clock chimes with the passing of the hour. “See you next week.”
•
Six weeks later, after a rare evening appointment, Lee intercepts me outside Dr. Shin’s office. My usual routine is rushing in, running out, trying hard not to be seen—so this is a surprise.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey.”
“It’s March first.”
“Okay . . .”
“National Pool Day.”
“Is that a real thing?”
“No, but it should be.” He kisses my cheek. We’ve talked about National Pool Day, or at least some version of it. Dr. Shin encouraged it, thought it would be good to set goals. For me, National Pool Day is the first step toward swimming again.
It’s after nine by the time we reach the steps of Naudler Natatorium. The layout of the facility never ceases to amaze me: a sprawling, glass-enclosed feat of architecture, with polished brick steps leading to a light-infused atrium. It’s like stepping onto an indoor beach, with sand-colored floors and sky-blue walls. The ceilings are lofty and sloped, a transparent cathedral.
But the central focus, the grand finale, is the pool. A crisp, transparent blue filling the space like a shimmering sea. A strange blend of awe and terror grips me as we stand before it.
“We don’t have to go down there,” he says. “But we can if you want to.”
“But you already spend so much time here—”
He turns toward me, never letting go of my hand. “Then I’ll spend more.”
“But it’s so . . .” I trail off, unsure how to complete the thought.
“Hard?” He gives my knuckles a squeeze. “I know. It’s gonna be really, really hard. But you want to swim again, right?”
“More than anything.”
He watches me process the sight of the pool, devoid of swimmers for the first time in recent memory. Moonlight streams through the glass, scattering as it hits the water. I have to admit the pool looks hopelessly romantic at this time of night. There are no screaming coaches. No whirring kicks or thrashing arms. No exhausted co-eds stumbling out of the locker rooms and into the deep end. This is just a pool. A safe, sweeping, glorious pool, three times the size of the one I learned to swim in but otherwise just the same.
He squeezes my hand and pulls me into him. He smells good, like soap and spice, a blend that reminds me of earlymorning practices.
The squeeze turns into a caress; the caress becomes a kiss. My hands find the scruff of his neck as he works his way through my hair, sweeping the wisps from my eyes. I have always liked the way Lee kisses me: freely and fiercely, like he’s going on instinct. It’s a little rough, a little wet, and then it’s a frenzy. We don’t stop until we’re gasping.
“You know,” he says, trailing kisses across my collarbone, “we can tweak the plan a little bit. Add skinny-dipping to the mix if you prefer.”
“Uh-huh,” I say, smirking. “Let’s start slow, shall we?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He takes me by the hand and tugs me toward the pool. A low hum betrays the presence of the overhead lights and filtration system. Lee breathes it in with the gusto of a springtime frolicker.
“Nothing like it,” he says.
“Come on. You hate it sometimes.”
“Damn right. I hate it at five A.M.”
“But now’s okay?”
“Yes.” He leans in, whispering against my lips, “Because now I’m with you.”
The words flood through me, warming me, bringing me to a place that feels altogether different, and wrong, and unexpected.
Colin.
I think of him then, those storm-blue eyes that seemed to reflect all the world. The team doesn’t talk about him, which makes it easier. Forgetting about Colin and our five days on that mountain makes everything easier. And so, when his memory surges through me at the very moment I should be thinking of someone else, I push it away.
“Aves?” The wetness of Lee’s lips on my skin tingles as he pulls away. “What is it?”
“Nothing.” I try to smile. “I’m just happy to be here with you.”
We step onto the pool deck, which, for the first time in months, doesn’t fill me with instant dread. Instead, it’s calming, almost restorative. I step out of my shoes, peel off my socks, and savor the cool dampness of the tiles underfoot.
“Still okay?” Lee asks.
“Great.” And it’s the truth. Being here feels natural, like an unexpected homecoming.
Together, we take our time circling the perimeter of the pool. It’s a first for both of us. My recruiting visit was rushed and pressured. Practices are always an exercise in efficiency and time management. Meets are crowded, chaotic affairs, with packed decks and swimmers scurrying from place to place. I never thought about how purely functional a pool could become, almost like a workplace. It’s no wonder so many of us burn out after college.
“It looks different at night,” I say as we round the third corner. Above and beyond us, the moon and stars and California sky loom over the bay.
“I know.” He stops and looks up. “I feel like I’m on a lake.” He flinches. “I mean, not like . . .”
“It’s okay.” I lean into him, finding sanctuary in the crook of his arm.
“Aves,” he says, turning toward me. “The sessions with Dr. Shin . . .”
“Are helping.”
Which is true. They are helping. The flashbacks are less frequent, the triggers less random. Some nights, I don’t dream at all.
“It was her idea to try the conditioning therapy, and I thought maybe I could help . . .” He rushes on, “Was that out of line? I swear I didn’t ask about—”
“No, no. It’s okay.”
“You sure?”
“Totally okay.”
“I know I don’t have much training—”
“Much training?”
“Okay, any training. But I told her you trust me.” His smile falters. “You do trust me, right, Aves?”
“Of course.” I loop my arm through his and sit down on the deck. We dangle our bare feet in the seventy-nine-degree water, a temperature that feels just right when you’re swimming hard. Even now, it’s a luxury—brisk but refreshing. Designed for human comfort, tuned to the finest degree.
I lift my feet, watching the water stream between my toes and return to the pool. A ripple of unease courses through me, as unwelcome as it is fleeting. It’s gone before Lee can see the tension in my jaw, the smile struggling to stay there.
“Aves?” he asks. “You okay?”
I drop my head on his shoulder and close my eyes. When I open them again, the world isn’t spinning anymore. The pool glistens and hums, and the humidity warms me everywhere. It all feels so safe, and natural, and right.
So right, in fact, I almost forget about the dangers lurking beneath the surface.