Look Closer

by Stewart Lewis

  Something about omitting the g in looking doesn’t sit with me right. Like a fake attempt to appear casual. And why does his username have an exclamation point on it? Is he saying, Really! It’s true! I’m a regular guy!?

  “I think he’s a much better prospect than the creepy-crawly guy.”

  She smiles, taking her phone back. “What about you, are you on any dating sites?”

  “Me, no. I met my boyfriend IRL.”

  It feels good to say boyfriend again. Even if he is dealing with family stuff, and who knows when he’ll resurface.

  “Cool. Well, your coach is here, IRL, and he seems anxious. You should go. In the meantime, I’m going back to my crash course in scientific small talk.”

  She ruffles my hair as I walk by, and I think of all the times I’d walked by and never spoke or barely looked at her. How many times do we pass people who we could potentially connect with, but never do because neither person initiates it? I should make more of those connections and deepen my web. There is so much out there, undiscovered.

  “Bye, Sharon.”

  “Swim good!”

  Coach gives me a running hug. I had texted him about the accident, and he was freaked out.

  “What were you doing in an ambulance anyway?” he asks now.

  “A friend fell at the skate park.”

  “Can you try and stay away from skate parks and ambulances from now on?”

  I don’t tell him that I don’t think it’s over, that I don’t really have control over my destiny right now. Another name could come; anything could happen. Instead, I start stretching.

  Coach shows me his plan, all printed out and bound in a special notebook. On the front it says Road to the Big O. He smiles sheepishly when he shows it to me. Inside is my training schedule (four hours a day?), time goals for the 200 meter (two seconds faster?), and suggestions for my diet (high-protein). It’s all a bit much to consider at once so I just get in the water.

  During my first few laps I think of nothing but speed, concentrating on the rhythm. But halfway through my second lap, I have to stop. I feel like I’m inside the ambulance again, dizzy and spinning. Coach comes to the side of the pool, brow furrowed.

  “Tegan?”

  “It’s cool, I just…” I start coughing a little. They checked me out at the emergency room and said nothing was wrong, but what if they didn’t look hard enough? “I just need a break.”

  Coach brings me water, and we sit on the bench, him dry, me dripping.

  I can see Sharon in the distance, slumped at the gate over her phone. What if I end up a community pool attendant, a single mom scrolling Tinder? There’s something about that thought that makes me panic. If I actually do make the Big O and get some major endorsements, maybe I could build a foundation for kids, and buy Edge his much-needed DJ equipment. I could also take Mom and Larry on a trip.

  “You okay?” Coach asks.

  “Yes, I’m ready.”

  “You sure?”

  I nod, shaking out my legs and arms.

  Back in the water, I get into my groove again. As I thrust, pull, carve, and snake through the water, I let myself get taken by possibility. I’m so glad I’m not sitting around being sad. My father would never have wanted it that way. He would want me to swim and to help people, both of which are empowering, and both of which I’m doing. And eventually, I am going for the gold. It sounds weird to even think it. That the girl who was holed up in her room not even wanting to go outside is now thinking about competing in the Olympics. But that’s the beauty of life. Things can change when you least expect it.

  By the way Coach dances around after my 50 meter, I can tell I’m making good time. I take a break and try to catch my breath. Some old guys, who are sitting on the bench by the lifeguard, clap. I wave to them.

  It’s like everything that’s happening to me has put another battery in my heart, and I’m supercharged. It’s the same way I felt wheeling J-Rod down the sidewalk on the gurney. The water feels like a necessity, like stepping into my own skin. It’s a place I’m meant to be. It always has been, but even more so now. I start in on my second 200 meter, remembering when my father first taught me how to swim. We were on the beach in Rehoboth, and I was about five, I think. A bunch of us were all gathered on the sand near the dunes. My mother was drinking wine with the Jasons, and they were playing some adult game I didn’t get. Something about choosing a celebrity to marry or kill.

  I was staring at some birds, and my father snuck up behind me and picked me up. “Water time?”

  I had been waiting for him to ask me that. I sprang and jumped from his arms into the sand and ran to the shoreline, letting the foamy waves kiss my ankles.

  He picked me up again and took me deep enough so only his head was above water. I clung to him tighter, my legs wrapped around his torso.

  “Okay,” he said. “Now when I let you go, you’re going to move your arms and legs to stay afloat, and swim to the beach. Think of yourself as always above the water. Keep the water beneath you.”

  I resisted, saying No, Daddy, no, Daddy, and he said, “Okay, you can stay in my arms.”

  But after a minute, I got bored. Somehow, I knew I could do it.

  “Okay, I’ll try it. But will you follow me?”

  “Every inch of the way,” he said, his smile almost as bright as the sun glinting off the water in a million tiny pinpoints of flashing light.

  He let me go, and I wanted so much to prove to him that I could do it. I tried so hard. A few times I almost went under, and I swallowed some water, cried a little, but eventually I made it, doing this deranged hybrid of the doggie paddle and the breaststroke. When I got to where I could stand, the sand felt like crystals of heaven beneath my toes. I lifted my arms up to the sun in victory. I swam in the ocean by myself!

  When I got out of the water, they were all clapping, my mother and the Jasons. They were so happy. I was, too. I thought I would burst. Then my dad grabbed my wrists and spun me around. I felt dizzy and squealed with joy.

  “Again?” he asked.

  I nodded, and off we went.

  Now, swimming a freestyle feels like it was programmed into my limbs. The water skims by me so fast I forget where I am. There’s only the bend and curl of my arms, the slap as they cut through the surface of the water, the sharp quick breaths, the coil and swish of release.

  After training, we go to Coach’s apartment to get Julie to take her to the dog park. Julie is so vibrant and so happy, we both stare at her in awe, knowing what we know. On the way to the park, Julie sniffs and trots and shakes her cute little head. At the dog park, she immediately gets in a tug-of-war fight with a golden retriever, and we sit in our usual spot.

  I wait until Coach brings it up.

  “Thank you for telling me about Julie, even though I’m not sure what I’m thanking you for exactly…”

  “She seems to be doing great,” I say.

  “Yes. That was, well, that was either a sign beyond our comprehension, or a strange hunch.”

  “Coach, you yourself believe in stuff.”

  “Well, I’m definitely superstitious…”

  “Yeah, this is like superstition on steroids.”

  “Wait, you’re not on—”

  “No!”

  “That’s career suicide; remember that.”

  “I know.”

  “So, do you feel like you still have, you know, powers?”

  “Yes.” I’m quiet for a moment. “I feel like something else is going to happen, something big.”

  “Whatever is going on with you, it’s helping your times. You’re killing it. So be careful—like I say with the water: Let it go through you. Keep your balance.”

  Julie finally gets tired of the tug of war and gallops back to us. She jumps onto the bench and nuzzles her snout in my ear, and it makes
me giggle. But I stop when I see a man not so much walking as slithering by on the other side of the park. This time he has a blank look, but he’s watching me as he passes. I quickly look away.

  “Ghost Man.”

  “What?” Coach asks.

  “Nothing.”

  Julie jumps up on Coach’s lap, like she’s declaring ownership. I realize that she’s sitting here, right now, because of me. Coach smiles and scratches her ears. Then he gets serious.

  “So, based on some emails, I’ve got three scouts coming to the regionals, one of whom is kind of a big deal, and they can recommend you for the Big O trials.”

  I give him a look.

  “I know. It’s what I call it.”

  “But you know there’s another meaning, right?”

  “I should hope so, Tegan. I was married for twenty years.”

  We laugh, and Julie jumps down, ready to put her leash back on. She knows it means she’s going home for a treat. I check for the ghost man, but can’t see him anywhere.

  When Coach and I part ways, I call Gwen.

  “Is your arm better?”

  “It’s okay.”

  “How’s Morgan?”

  “She’s out of the hospital now. Also, we were on the news after the ambulance accident. The priest is in critical condition.”

  “I think we’re meant to be alive at this point.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m glad we are,” I say. “But I feel like it’s not over.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know, I just do.”

  “Well, I hung out with J-Rod today, and I can’t believe I never saw it all along…”

  “What?”

  “The way he sees me. He’s so real, Tegan. He’s not fronting. He doesn’t care that I have money, he likes me for me, and I feel like I’m getting closer to who that is.”

  “I know what you mean.”

  “Look, be careful, and let me know if you need anything.”

  “Will do.”

  When I get home, there’s a note on the counter.

  T—

  I’ll be on my cell.

  Remember my surgery is Friday.

  Leftovers in fridge.

  Mom

  I go up to my bed and pull down the blinds, lying there in the dark. My phone buzzes, and it lights up the with a flash. It’s Edge. Finally.

  Miss you.

  My heart expands like a balloon. Like when I’m swimming so fast that I’m hovering above the surface.

  I start texting and deleting so frantically that my hand cramps. Then another text from him comes in.

  Mom is better…winery is boring, though.

  I start to text and delete as his third text comes.

  I’ll let you know when I get back. Any more names?

  This time I can logically respond. I take a deep breath and type:

  Yes but crisis averted, barely.

  He texts back.

  Good.

  The next few minutes are brutal. The bubbles come up but then go away. We are both trying to say so much in, like, twenty characters. It’s not working. Technology fail.

  Finally, I give up and wait. A few minutes later, I hear the familiar buzz. And this time it’s like a digital drug, making me light-headed and wanting more.

  We fit

  I stare at the screen for what seems like an hour but is probably seconds. I try to think of what to type back. Roger that…no, that’s something my mother would say. I know…too passive. I decide on responding with what’s true, and type.

  like puzzle pieces

  18.

  speak your truth

  I’m standing at the edge of a pool that’s in the center of a huge stadium that’s filled with people. The sound is so loud I can’t hear what Coach is telling me. I look up at the masses of people. I can hear them, but I can’t really make out individuals—it’s a huge blur. I bend over and stare at the expanse of blue before me, still and clean as glass. The gun goes off, and I’m startled awake.

  I lie in my bed, staring at the Xs on my wall. For a while, it was a way to make sense of my dad’s death, to record the days he’s been gone. But now it seems sad, and maybe a little self-indulgent. Today I don’t write an X.

  In the shower I think about Edge’s text. A month ago I could never imagine texting a boy, never mind actually having a boyfriend. As I’m drying off, I look at myself in the mirror. I’m young. I’m pretty. I have a boyfriend. Maybe not officially, but it’s kind of obvious.

  But how long can this name thing go on? Surely not forever. I’d die of exhaustion. More importantly, will I find out why I was chosen? Is there enough evidence now to tell the authorities?

  I dress and go to the kitchen for cereal. This time I eat the Cheerios with milk, and I’m hungry. I check the back of the box, but all is normal on that front. After I finish, I’m still hungry, so I whip up some eggs and spinach (part of Coach’s meal plan). I check my phone while I’m eating to see if Edge texted back. He didn’t, but there are several pictures from Jenna, holding up some frilly drink with a group of people who all look like they should be in a magazine. Before this all started, I worried about fitting into the whole LA scene, but it’s last on my list right now. Even though the trip is only two days away, I’m kind of dreading it.

  I clean my dishes and dry my hands, then stare at my father’s picture on the fridge. It’s starting to make me feel less hollow and more proud. Is this what the school counselor was talking about, time healing things? It sounded like a bunch of crap when I first heard it, but now it’s sinking in.

  I reach down to take the last sip of my orange juice as Larry comes up behind me. I startle, my knee hitting the underside of the table. Then, suddenly, I can feel it. A trembling, like it’s about to happen. I could feel something rough against my knee on the underside of the table. As Larry gets his coffee, I sneak a look underneath. There’s a name scratched into the wood: Sharon.

  My jaw unlocks and my mouth falls open. I gasp.

  Oh my God!

  Larry is oblivious, still diddling with the coffee machine. My mother appears in her terry cloth robe, sighing. She kisses Larry, and they both go about their rituals. I try my best to act normal, but my mother can see right through me. I’m breathing weird and can feel my hands start to shake. I don’t know how much more I can take of this.

  “What’s wrong, honey?”

  “Nothing,” I say, my voice cracking a little.

  “Are you training today?”

  “Yes.” I put my empty glass in the sink. “In fact, I’m late.”

  “Okay, see you at the hospital?”

  The surgery. I completely forgot.

  “Yeah, of course,” I say.

  In minutes, I’m outside, walking toward the pool. There are some joggers, and a few randoms, but mostly the sidewalk is clear. Along with my legs, my mind is racing. Sharon. She was going on a date tonight. Is it something to do with Regularguy!? But what if it’s something else? In that article I saved, it mentioned she had heart surgery when she was a kid. Is her heart going to give out on her? What am I supposed to do?

  When I get to the pool, it’s the skinny kid at the gate, not Sharon. I ask him where Sharon is, and he shrugs.

  “Well, do you have her number?”

  “No.”

  “Oh my God. Can I look around the desk?”

  He gives me a funny look. I don’t care.

  There’s a little desk to the side of the gate. It has a small drawer. I open it, and there’s a receipt from a hair salon. It’s a start.

  “Thanks for your help,” I tell the kid, even though he did nothing to help me. Kill them with kindness, my father used to say.

  With the help of the map on my phone, I get to the salon in five minutes. They’re
not open yet, so I go across the street to Starbucks. I get an iced tea to waste time and check my phone. There’s a notification about my flight Sunday. I can’t think about that now.

  A random with dirty fingernails and a baseball hat tries to talk to me, but I pretend I’m mute and stare at him. He gives up, and I text Edge.

  Saw another

  In two seconds, the bubble comes and the sight of it makes me light-headed.

  Omg wish I could help be careful

  I send him back a thumbs-up and head back to the salon. There’s a middle-aged woman opening the place. She looks like she could’ve been a groupie for some eighties rock band. She smiles at me, and I think, This is good. This can work.

  “Hi there. You have an appointment today?” she asks, wiping down the desk with a spray bottle and a rag.

  “Actually, I’m trying to find a friend. She works at the pool where I swim.”

  She stops, inadvertently pointing the spray bottle at me, like she’s about to shoot me. “Who?”

  “Sharon Moss.”

  She looks at me and says, “Oh. You’re not stalking her?”

  “No! We’re friends. She works at the pool where I train.”

  “Gotcha.” She starts spraying and wiping again.

  “Look, I know you can’t give out information, but would do me a huge favor?”

  She stops spraying and points the nozzle at me again. “I could, but then I’d have to kill you.”

  She’s joking, and I laugh, not from her joke, but because it seems like the funniest thing she could have said, considering, even though she doesn’t know why.

  “Could you call her, and ask her to call me?”

  The woman puts her cleaning products away in a cabinet and sits at the front desk. She starts scrolling on the computer.

  “Sure,” she says, and I close my eyes and take a deep breath. “You know what, I’ll give you her number.” She smiles, writing the number down on a yellow Post-it.

  “Thank you so much. You’re a lifesaver.” Literally, I don’t add.

  I leave the salon and start walking toward Dupont Circle. I find a house with an open gate and sit on the stoop. I dial the number.