I PULL IN THE SCHOOL’S parking lot with my swim bag sitting next to me in the passenger seat. My teammates are gathered around the entrance to the natatorium with smiles on their faces, happy to be back together after the summer break. I park the car and watch them like some kind of voyeur. Seeing their excitement replaces what little courage I have with dread.
My father was their coach—my coach, and I fear what it’s going to be like to walk through those doors and not have him there. My gut twists in a mixture of emotions, and I know I shouldn’t have come.
Coach Andrews catches my eye when I spot him walking across the parking lot. He unlocks the door and holds it open as everyone filters in for the first swim of the season. Standing there in his athletic pants and white T-shirt, he scans the parking lot after the last girl walks in. When his eyes meet mine, I freeze, but only for a second. He looks at me curiously before walking my way, but I don’t move to get out of the car. When he approaches, I roll down my window, but he ignores my gesture and pulls my door open instead.
Without stepping back, he asks, “You coming?”
The knot lodged in my throat blocks my words, so I simply shake my head. All the ache my body has been holding hostage rims at the surface from his presence alone.
He kneels between the door and me. “I’ve been worried about you,” he says softly. “I found your cell number in your file. I thought about calling.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“My guilty conscience wouldn’t let me. But that didn’t stop me from thinking about you.”
“You shouldn’t feel guilty,” I tell him. “It would’ve happened whether we were driving to your house or driving home.”
“Still . . . I can’t shake it.”
I turn away and look out the windshield. “I can’t walk in there.”
“You don’t have to,” he assures. “Whenever you’re ready.”
“Coach!”
We both turn to the building.
“Give me one minute,” he hollers back and then turns to me. “I gotta go.”
I nod.
“Are you going to be okay?”
I nod again.
He stands and shuts my door, giving me an understanding look before I drive away.
I drive because I can’t face what I know won’t be in that building. His absence would break me, and the last thing I want is to have a meltdown on center stage for everyone to see. I don’t want them to know how weak I’ve become because of my injury and to look at me with pity.
When I get home, it’s still early in the morning and Mom hasn’t woken yet. I walk through the house and up to the windows in the living room that look out to the pool. For a moment, I can hear splashing. I know it’s only a distant memory, but I don’t care. I close my eyes, pressing my hands and forehead against the glass, and hang on to the lingering sounds in my head.
“Marco.”
“Polo,” I call out before taking a gulp of air into my lungs and pushing myself off the wall to get away.
“Marco.”
“Polo.”
Dad turns when he hears my voice is now coming from the other side of the pool.
“Marco.”
He makes a mad dash my way, and I break out into a fit of laughter, knowing I’m about to be trapped. “Polo.”
His eyes crinkle when the corners of his lips lift into a grand smile as he glides across the water with his arms outstretched.
“Marco.”
“Polo!” I squeal, but it’s too late.
He captures me in his arms, and I scream with glee when he spins me around and tosses me into the sky. I hit the water with a big splash, and when I come up for air, I swim toward him, giggling, “Do it again, Daddy.”
“Again?”
“This time higher.”
With my hands on his shoulders and his around my waist, he counts, “One, two, threeeeee,” before launching me back into the air.
Clanking silverware yanks me away from my remembrance, and I turn to find my mother rummaging around the kitchen. She’s still in her robe and her hair is ratty. I have no idea what she’s looking for, but she opens cabinet after cabinet as if she’s lost.
“What are you doing?”
“Trying to find the damn coffee mugs.” Her words come out in a garble. She’s still drunk from last night. “Did you move them?”
I walk over to the kitchen and open the cabinet where the mugs have always been and hand one to her.
“Thanks,” she mumbles and then turns to the coffee maker. “What are you doing here? I thought you had some swim thing to do.”
“Another day.” I brush off the question, knowing she’s not even listening to me anyway, and if she is, she won’t have any recollection of this conversation when she sobers up.
She dumps creamer into her mug, emptying the bottle. “You need to pick some more of this stuff up from the store.”
Typical. I literally have to run all of her errands these days because she’s too lazy, too sad, or too drunk to do anything herself.
“I need money.”
“Just take the credit card,” she says as she walks away from me and heads back upstairs.
Clenching my fists in frustration for what my mother is turning into, I take a deep breath before sending up a silent prayer for her return. But then I remind myself that I’ve changed too. The two of us, victims of grief, have found ourselves stumbling down paths we never saw coming.
I see what I’ve become. I barely socialize anymore. I’d rather be alone in the safety of my room than be out among the living. The expectations others have are too much. They say enough time has passed, and that I should start getting on with my life. But how can I? How do I put one foot in front of the other when I’m paralyzed?
It hurts to cry, so I don’t. It hurts to smile, so I don’t. It hurts to pretend, so I hide.
I’m vanishing.
There’s no other word to describe my current state. I know there’s anguish, but it’s somewhere trapped so deep inside me that I’m unable to feel it. It’s an emotion I cower from, because I’m too petrified to know what it will look like when it finally emerges.
Not wanting my thoughts to consume me, I decide to busy myself around the house for the rest of the day. I throw a load of laundry in the wash, empty the dishwasher, and dust before pulling out the vacuum. When all is done and the sun has rolled over its peak and starts descending into the afternoon, I get my laptop to see if the class schedules have been sent out. When I finally see the email from Edmond Ridge High in my inbox, I click it open to review my courses but stop halfway down when I see my teacher for English Lit. My stomach does a quick summersault when I see Coach Andrews’ name—Mr. Andrews. I linger on his name for a beat before closing the lid and getting back to reality, because if I don’t finish up my mother’s responsibilities, they’ll never get done.
On my way home from the grocery store, I pass the high school and see a scattering of cars in the lot. The second swim of the day is underway, but I have no intentions of even trying to make an attempt to be the old me. So, I turn the volume up on my car stereo and let the music drown out the guilt, the anger, and the irritation as I drive far away from dreams and commitments.
Avoidance delivers guilt over solitude, mounting in weight as the days pass by. Even in his absence, I feel like I’m disappointing my dad with each practice I skip. It’s the tug-of-war between need and want, pride and fear, life and death.
Swimming is my passion—or it was. It’s what fueled my mind, body, and soul. It’s what bound my father and I even closer together than what we already were. It was ours to share, and now that bond has been left dangling by withering threads. I know I can’t just quit. If I do, I’ll forever carry that burden of abandoning all the hopes my father had for me.
My mother has already given up, and I can’t allow myself to follow suit, even though I want to so badly.
Before I talk myself out of going up to the school, I grab my swim bag and toss in my suit, swim cap, and goggles. I go through the motions like I’ve done so many times before, but this time, I urge the numbness to take over me.
When I turn into the parking lot, I’m unable to recall the drive I just took to get here. The lot is empty, and the afternoon practice won’t start for another three hours. I pull out the keys my father gave me the day of my last swim.
The day of my last everything.
I stare at the building and allow the low burning flicker of hope to disillusion me.
What if it was a mistake? What if he survived and has been hiding out this whole time, waiting for me to find him?
Depression feeds fables into life, and for a split second, I let myself believe there’s possibility within impossibilities, the way I let myself believe it’s him calling every time the phone rings.
But when I get out of my car, approach the building, and slip my key into the lock, I come face to face with cold hard reality.
The slamming of the door behind me echoes off the walls as I take in a chlorine-infused breath. I look up to the glass of the coach’s office, and another hopeless hope sparks under my ribs.
“Dad?”
My chest pounds as I wait for deliverance to come.
I hold my breath for it.
And when truth claims victor, my bag falls from my shoulder to the ground.
Loneliness just became lonelier.
I walk over to the metal bleachers that line one of the walls and climb up a few rows before taking a seat. Looking out over the glassy blue water, I hand myself over to despair. How am I going to do this without my dad? How can I get back into the water and be a part of this team if he’s not here? The best part of being in the water was coming up for air after hitting the wall and seeing his smiling face from up above, beaming proudly as coach and father.
I wrap my arms around my legs and drop my head to my knees. Too scared to feel the pain of all this, I take in a controlled breath and fight against the ache building inside me, weighing down on my gut like a ton of bricks. My eyes close, and I will myself to drift to a place that holds no memory of my father. A place that’s safe for me to be. A place that can’t haunt me.
It’s useless.
He’s everywhere but nowhere. There’s no peace in escapism, because he’s imprisoned within my soul. My heart beats, and it’s his DNA that pumps through my veins. It’s keeping me alive, even when I don’t want to be, giving me no say.
Metal slams, and I startle, popping my head up to find Coach Andrews staring at me from across the natatorium.
He sets his bag down on the ground next to mine before walking over to me. I should get up and leave, but I’m cemented where I am. As he closes the distance between us, I turn my head and cast my eyes down to the pool.
I don’t want to connect to anyone when despondency is where I wish to dwell in my sorrows.
He sits next to me and releases a deep breath. Silence draws out for a while as we both stare down into the water, and within the muteness lies a splinter. It punctures ever so slightly, but it’s enough to make me notice. There’s a connection with Coach Andrews.
“It’s hard not having him here, isn’t it?” His voice is low, but in the open air of the building, it sounds bigger than it should, and I know he’s watching me. “How’d you get in here anyway?”
“His keys,” I whisper.
“Have you gotten in yet?”
I shake my head and take a painful swallow.
He props his feet up next to mine and rests his arms on his knees. “Tell me how I can help.”
I don’t respond.
“Do you even want to be helped?”
Glancing over at him, I give him the only piece of honesty I can—a shrug.
“It’s okay if you don’t.” His words wrap around me like a blanket, cloaking me in comfort. Finally, someone who isn’t rushing me to move on.
“Are they talking about me?” I ask even though I already know they are.
“They’re concerned,” he says. “Me included.”
“Are they talking about him?” My voice cracks.
He shifts his body toward me, but I keep myself from looking at him when he answers. “It’s been a hard week for them to come back here without their coach. Some are affected more than others.”
I glance up to the office once more, fighting back against the pricking heat behind my eyes.
Heartache expands within.
My skin tightens.
I can’t do this.
I push off the bleachers and rush over to grab my bag.
“Cam.” His voice bounces off the walls, but I ignore him.
If I stop moving, I’ll lose all my strength and crumble. I’m too close to the cliff’s edge right now.
“Cam, wait!”
And this time, for some reason . . . a reason deep within that I’m reluctant to admit even exists, I stop.
“Why are you running?” he says when he steps in front of me, and without allowing another thought to waver my conscience, I hand over another truth.
“Because I’m scared.”
He reaches his hand out and cups it over my good shoulder, hesitating before slowly taking a step toward me. It isn’t until I drop my head that he slips his hand past my shoulder and pulls me into his arms.
Touch.
I wrap my arms around him and slack into his warm hug.
A hug laced in tainted innocence
A hug I don’t want to hide away from.
His body is firm around me, lending its strength to my frailty, which I hold guarded against others, and I wonder why it’s him that I find myself connecting with.
Because he was there.
The words whisper through my fractured heart, and I close my eyes against their reality. He was the one who held me as I cried harder than I ever had that night in the hospital. He’s the only one who saw the cracks in me before I hid them away, and I admit there is a tiny sliver of comfort in that.
So here I stand, in the arms of my coach (my soon-to-be English teacher) and wonder if he feels the same panging I do.
The panging of wrong over right—or is it right over wrong?