Lost: The loss of body control during flight that ends with a bad entry, dive smack, or the sensation of not knowing where you are during a dive.
I KNOW now that the dive Mom did at the cliffs that day was a Front Dive Straight. A Swan Dive. I’ve replayed it a dozen times since the quarry flashback. The simplicity. The grace. But it was more like a black swan dive. Because after that outing, something between my parents changed.
I climb the ladder to the board, bringing myself back to that place in time before giving that Swan Dive a go. No holding back. Chest open, arms holding wide until I angle past the horizontal tipping point, then straight and purposeful to cut through the water.
I use the underwater silence to piece together every memory that’s come back to me so far: the quarry, the girl with the tattoos, the fight between my parents. There has to be more.
The fire is another story. One that got printed in the Ellis Hollow Gazette that’s currently burning a hole in my practice duffle until I figure out a way to bring it up with GP.
Thanks to Les.
Coach Porter isn’t smiling when I surface. “Try again.”
“It wasn’t good?” It felt pretty good, considering.
“I’m looking for great. Ramp it up a little. I’m counting on you for the Andover meet.”
“Yes, Coach. I was just warming up.”
I pull myself out of the pool and back to the ladder, studying the other guys on the team along the way. I imagine how easy it might be for them to go home and ask what their great-grandmothers or uncles did for a living, where they were born, or how and when they died.
Coach grabs my arm before I make it up the first rung and spins me around so fast it whirls me out of self-pity. I’ve been so tripped up by everything that’s happened since Monarch Night, I forgot about the bruise left by my smack.
“What in God’s name happened to you? I told you to play it safe out there,” he says through gritted teeth.
“I did. It wasn’t that. I tried to do Daley’s Twister dive at Chip’s yesterday.”
All lies.
I’ve never attempted that dive in my life, but I know it’s impressive enough to throw Coach off the scent. The advanced dive, a Backward 2½ Somersault, 2½ Twist in pike, has a high degree of difficulty. Leon Taylor, the inventor, is a former Olympic silver medalist. The only person my age I’ve ever seen rip it successfully was his mentee, Tom Daley, another Olympic medalist. And even he claimed the dive freaked him out.
Coach gives me a strange look, a combination of awe and disappointment. “Don’t try that one on your own again. Understand? You need to work on your dryland and lead-ups if you want to spin a dive like that into gold, Rumpelstiltskin.”
“Yes, Coach.”
An Inward 3½ Somersault has a lower degree of difficulty, but it should satisfy Coach’s thirst today.
I take a deep breath at the end of the board, turn, and then execute a nearly perfect backward press and take-off, rotating toward the board I left behind. But right before I come-out for entry, I over-rotate and blow it. I smack again. Not nearly as hard as Monarch Night, but it stings more than it would on unwounded flesh.
This time, Coach is even less impressed.
“Maybe I wasn’t clear. Show me the progress you’ve made on the dive you did last Friday.”
Shit.
My muscles are super tight today, making Mom’s 5337D a tall order. Uncle Phil said the higher dose of Adderall would help me focus, but on what? I’ve got more on my mind today than Mom’s dive, too much more. Add that to the people running around the halls outside the swim complex and it’s a mental formula for disaster. But they aren’t the reason I’ve been diving like crap. I need to get in control. Acknowledge my fear of smacking again and do it anyway.
I take three big steps and start my hurdle, counting through the process of gaining height. One: I’m in the air. I got this. Two: getting higher. I know this dive inside out. Three. The last hurdle gives me great height. I throw my arms hard, rotating backward, and a sharp pain shoots through the middle of my back. I lose sight of the board as I enter the twists and the crystalline pool fills with pointed fins, swimming in my vision. Sharks again. I’m twisting at incredible velocity with little control. The water turns bloodred. I need to come-out and line up my entry before it’s too—
Fuck!
I smack the water hard and everything behind my lids goes dark, pulsing with lightning strikes, neurons firing like an electric storm.
I scramble beneath the surface like a fish caught in a net. Each twist of my torso reminds me once again of the bruise darkening my back in grotesque shades of purple and charcoal. Bringing pain as sharp and red as the dots still swimming in my eyes. The ringing in my ears is deafening as I frog-kick to the surface and take a breath.
But the alarm is real, shrieking in long pulses, warning of my worst nightmare. Fire.
Everyone is scrambling to collect their things before heading to the exit. Everyone except Miles, the pimple-faced freshman from Monarch Night. He’s standing at the edge of the pool, watching me with a smile that’s hard to explain. At first, I think he’s relieved I’m not hurt. But when he doesn’t break away with everyone else, I realize he’s trying to provoke me. Like he wanted to make sure I saw him first. That’s a hefty grudge to hold for sending him home early on Monarch Night.
Chip throws me a shammy. “That was bad, but you have to shake it off. Some asswipe started a fire in one of the labs. We gotta go.”
People in the hallways are shouting and slamming lockers. Combined with the intermittent screech of the fire alarm, and the shock of screwing up my dive again, it’s sensory overload. We join the herd of students rushing the exit, and when they push through the double doors a blast of cold air assaults the artificial warmth inside the building. Heavy wafts of smoke swirl and blend with the sharp smell of chlorine, creating a nauseating stench. But that’s not the worst part.
Outside, it’s snowing.
Huge flakes whirl around me as I scuff and shimmy through the dusting on the ground in the flip-flops I keep by the pool. I wrap my arms around myself to contain my body heat, but it’s fleeing fast, rising like steam from a lake.
Given any other situation, I’d be game. Looking skyward to try and catch one of the massive flakes on my tongue the way Trey and Chip are doing. But right now I’m more interested in catching one of the blankets Coach Porter is throwing. As one of the last divers outside, I didn’t have time to grab my dive team windbreaker, but I’d give anything to have that fleece-lined jacket because I’m shivering and sweating simultaneously. When I finally do catch one of the blankets my teeth are chattering like a wind-up toy.
Siren blare, growing louder and closer. I want to cover my head and ears. Not only to stay warm but to hide from anyone whipping out a cell phone to take photos, because the last time I was shrouded in one of these scratchy fire department blankets our house was burning to the ground.
A fireman jogs past me to enter the building. The broad, neon stripes shimmering against his canvas coat rivet me until all I can do is stare and wait for these flames to take over like they did once before.
Coach Porter and the chemistry teacher start to argue within earshot, their voices mixing with the wailing sirens like a swan song.
“That’s preposterous,” Coach Porter barks. “My entire team was in the swim complex.”
“If you say so. I know what I saw.”
I flinch.
Preposterous …
That one word, spit above the blaring sirens, spins me back in time.
* * *
“What’s the matter, Sophia, cat got your tongue?” Dad said in a bitter tone.
“In retrospect, I suppose, I knew how this would play out, Mitch. Long before I met either one of you. But sometimes the things I see aren’t always absolute.”
“Thank you, Madame Balanchuk. But this outcome you think you saw coming takes the fucking prize.”
“I’m sorry,” Mom said.
“No, you’re not. But you will be, Sophia. When the time is right. You’ll see it before anyone.”
“Pun intended,” Uncle Phil said sarcastically. Joining their argument. “Nobody did this to hurt you, Mitch. But we thought it was your right to know. Blood doesn’t lie.”
“Blood.” Dad chuckled. “I thought that’s what we were, Phil. You were like a brother to me.”
“Even Cain and Abel had their differences,” Uncle Phil fired back.
“Do you really think that’s the best example, considering one of them was a jealous asshole that bludgeoned the other to death?”
“Our story doesn’t have to end so savagely.”
Dad’s fist slammed onto the dining room table. “She’s my wife, you son of a bitch.”
“Come on now, Mitch. You know my lineage can’t be confirmed or denied. We don’t even know who my mother was. She may have been a saint.”
“I doubt that, considering the devious prick you turned out to be.”
“What can I tell you; the heart wants…”
“That’s preposterous. We both know you don’t have a heart.”
“I thought you would appreciate the platitude.”
“Think again. Preferably on your way out the door.”
“Mitch,” my mom pleaded.
“Get out, both of you,” Dad yelled. “Before I do something I’ll regret.”
“Not without my son.”
* * *
THE FIRE department announces it’s safe for us to reenter the building and I shift back to the freezing parking lot. Away from the argument I was never meant to hear, because I was supposed to be sleeping over at Chip’s. But I did hear, and their voices weren’t muffled at all.
Twenty minutes later I’m in the locker room. Trying to ignore the smell of burning plastic that hangs in the air while I add the truth of my latest flashback to what I already know.
Mom and Uncle Phil were having a fucking affair. Are you kidding? How the hell am I supposed to feel about that? Being mad at her makes no sense. She’s gone. But Uncle Phil …
Jeezus-fucking-Christ.
I must be a fucking idiot for not noticing what was going on right under my nose, thinking it was my fault. Now I understand what my dad saw as all harm, all foul. Why there was no room for mercy. For all I know the argument my parents had after the quarry wasn’t about me at all.
Chip closes the locker beside mine with a clang that makes me jump out of my skin. “What’s up with you, man? You look like you saw a ghost.”
That’s not too far off base. I press my head against my locker and take a deep breath that reminds me how sore I am. Mentally and physically.
He doesn’t press me again until I rotate my head and give him a look that’s as agonized as I feel.
“What? The dive smack?” he asks. “The fire alarm rang. That would have happened to anyone.”
“That’s only part of it.”
My eyes dart around the crowded locker room. Les-freaking-Carter is watching us again. I clench my fists, ready to ask if he got a good look at me smacking. But I don’t. I’m supposed to stay in control and set the example, whether I’m losing my shit in and out of the pool or not. Ace already noticed. Everyone at the quarry noticed too. So I do the only thing I can to avoid creating another spectacle. I grab my duffle and split.
“Wait. You’re leaving?” Chip grabs his stuff and chases me into the hallway, grabbing my arm before I round the corner. “Whoa. What gives?”
I pace in front of him, rubbing a hand over the spiky ends of my wet hair. I should have filled him in sooner.
“Stop moving, man. You’re freakin’ me out.”
“I think there’s something wrong with me,” I blurt.
“You just figured that out?” Chip raises his eyebrows, trying to keep it light.
“I mean more than normal. I’ve been regaining all these memories, flashbacks from around the fire. That’s why I keep smacking. It happened today, at Monarch Night, at your house while we were racing in the pool. That’s why I hit my head.”
“Rocco said you were on the lower cliffs hitting on Iris.”
“I was. After she saved me from almost drowning. I asked him not to tell you guys about me smacking. But before that, I honestly thought I saw him facedown in the water. I’ve seen my mom a couple of times, too, like she’s actually there.”
“Like hallucinations?” Chip looks worried. “I was wondering what was up when you said you heard my dog barking on Monarch Night.”
“Uncle Phil called them dream states and flashbacks. All I know is they’re intense enough to make me think I’m losing my mind.” I rub a hand over my head and almost laugh. “Consider the irony there, Chip. The shrink’s kid goes loony.”
“Everybody has freak-outs,” Chip says. “That doesn’t mean you’ve flown the cuckoo’s nest. You didn’t hit your head hard enough to see dead people, either, so slow down. My mind goes to some strange places when I’m swimming. We have to gauge it on a scale. Like if Amy’s freak-out when I scared her at the quarry was, let’s say a four, then yours would be…?”
“A fifty.” No contest. “And freak-out is the perfect name for it.”
“Didn’t I say your memories were locked in your mind castle?”
“Palace. You were right. Which is why I need to go talk to Uncle Phil again.”
“You want me to go with? Me casa es you casa.”
I get what he means, but there’s plenty of other stuff I haven’t told him yet. Stuff I’m not ready to get into right now.
“I can handle going to see him alone. But I could use a wingman at Andover Prep. The clerk said they might have my mom’s school records.”
“Whatever you need. A bet’s a bet, right? I got you.”
Yeah. A bet’s a bet.
“It’s probably too late for Andover now. I was thinking Wednesday. We don’t have practice because of the district-wide coaches meeting.”
“Good idea. What about Iris?”
“What about her?”
“You gonna ask her to come along? She is your project partner.”
So is Les.
“I figured I’d give her a break from watching me run into Mackey brick walls. But maybe I’m being dumb. Avoiding things like you always say.”
“You got her number, you asked her to come to Monarch Night. Lead-ups, bro. One step at a time. You gonna go see Dr. Maddox’s now?”
“That’s my plan.”
My only problem is where to start. How the hell am I going to tell Uncle Phil about the incriminating flashback I had of him today without sounding completely paranoid and nuts? It’s not as simple as walking into his house and saying, Hey, Uncle Phil. Were you by any chance boning my mom behind Dad’s back? Oh, you were? How long was that going on—since that day we went to the quarry? Is that the real reason you and Dad had a falling-out? You said you had that picture of the three of us on your desk at work. Old habits die hard, huh? Yeah, that’s cool. Do you think I could get some more Adderall from you while I’m here?
Jeezus.
I don’t know that much about hypnosis other than my own experience, but I do know I can’t trust my own returning memories. Not with such big chunks missing.
Are you seeing something now, Theo?
That’s what Uncle Phil asked me, like he was probing for the nascent insanity, which I’m betting must feel something like my own maladaptive uncertainty.