EPILOGUE

The boy sits in the sun with his knees pulled up to his chest, his gaze trained on the glistening surface. It’s a clear, sun-kissed day, and the pool teems with the wild energy of young children. He seems not to notice them. He simply stares at the water, studying its depth. I’m in the pool, standing right in front of him, ready to catch him when he’s ready.

I must admit, I didn’t expect this. I’ve taught hundreds of kids. I taught Tim, who’s swimming on his high school team now. And Liam, who took to the water like a fish in the sea, as I suspected he would. Even Aayu trusted me when I took him by the hand and coaxed him into the shallow end.

But this little boy is different. He looks at me with tears in his eyes, the tiny muscles tensing in his jaw. I’ve seen fear before, especially in children his age. But this isn’t fear. This is frustration, a helpless anger bordering on despair. I can see it in his glass-blue eyes, in the way he grits his teeth every time he inches closer to the edge.

I wade over to him, though I know he doesn’t want me to. He shakes his head and scoots backward. “I can do it . . .” He wipes his tears hard enough to leave a mark on his face. “I just . . . I’m scared.”

Most children get in eventually. Sometimes it takes an hour, sometimes days. But he’s been resisting for weeks. I would have stopped taking him to the pool after the third failed lesson, but he insisted we come back. Since then, I’ve learned to simply stand in the water until he tells me he’s done, which can be minutes or even hours. For a three-year-old, he’s shockingly patient. Well, maybe not shockingly. I know exactly where he gets it from.

“It’s okay to be scared,” I say. “I was, too, for a long time.”

He shakes his head defiantly. “You’re not scared.”

“But I was.” I rest my hands on his knees. “More scared than you, even.”

He finally looks up. His face is devastatingly handsome, with skin that loves the sun and bright, expressive eyes. The freckles on his nose look painted on, the work of a careless, though talented artist.

Of course, I know I’m biased. He’s my son.

“When?” he asks.

“Before you were born.” I rub his knees with my hands, getting them wet to acclimate him to the water. Sometimes he flinches, but today he seems to relax—just a bit, but it’s a start.

“Why?”

“Well, I was on a plane from San Francisco to Boston . . .”

“With Daddy?”

I glance over at the lanes designated for lap swimming, where a small crowd has gathered. It’s not every day an Olympian swims laps on a summer afternoon, but I know my husband. He loves the chaos, the clueless swimmers, the occasional kid who jumps in right alongside him and attempts a lap of butterfly like his life depends on it. He loves it because this is home to him—the crowds, the noise, the incessant shriek of lifeguards’ whistles. The medals and attention and everything else pale in comparison.

We both watch him for a while, and it’s strange, but I think he can sense us doing it. He glides into the wall, pulls off his goggles, and waves.

“Yes,” I say. “With your daddy. I had to swim in a very cold lake, and I was afraid.”

“And he helped you do it?”

I lean forward so our foreheads are touching, and the world is just us—no pool, no fears, no other kids splashing around. I whisper my answer so only he can hear it: “No, sweetheart. He told me I could do it.”

He nods, suddenly serious. As I pull away, giving him the space to stand and try again, the surface shifts with sudden movement. And then a pair of strong, loving arms are around me, and Colin murmurs my name, and it feels right—him, the water, our family. The transfer to Boston College and four glorious semesters swimming the 1500. Medical school and summer swim lessons and long, painful runs with Edward. Watching the boys grow up. Being there when they asked, some years later, to hear the story of our lives.

Beside us, our son suddenly gets to his feet, his shadow falling on the clear waters beneath him. He looks at Colin, then at me. “I’m ready now.”

He takes a breath.

And jumps.