Breath Like Water

by Anna Jarzab

  “You’re not a mess,” I insist.

  “You don’t know what I am,” he snaps. He makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat. “Uncertainty makes me uncomfortable. I can’t live my life in a middle zone where I don’t know what’s going on day to day and I feel a million different ways about the same fucking thing all at once. I work hard to keep my life balanced and manageable and I can’t seem to do that with you.”

  “What does that mean?” I ask.

  “It means that I like you, and I think you like me—in fact I’m absolutely fucking positive you like me, but some days it’s obvious you do and other days it’s not, and you keep telling me we can’t be anything more than friends but in so many ways I feel like we’re a lot more than friends and I don’t know what to do with pretty much any of that, ever. I hate it, Susannah. I fucking hate it.”

  “Shit,” I say, more to myself than to him.

  What he’s describing is exactly how I feel, too. Being around Harry brings joy to what is, most days, an otherwise hard slog of a life. I don’t want that to go away. But I don’t want to hurt him, either.

  We’re getting closer to my house, to the end of this ride, maybe the last one we’ll ever have. I don’t want it to end. What if I get out of Harry’s car without explaining myself, without giving him, at the very least, some peace of mind? Will we lapse back into our pattern, the one that makes Harry miserable? Or will we become strangers to each other again?

  Neither option seems bearable. I can’t hide my feelings, but I’ve learned over years of relentless training to compartmentalize them, shove all the bad stuff down in some forgotten corner in the basement of my soul, so I can keep going—so I can swim. But what I feel for Harry, what’s growing between us—whatever it is—is too big to shut away.

  Harry turns down my street. He slows the car, creeping toward my house, waiting for me to reply. Finally, he pulls over a few houses down from mine and puts the car in Park.

  “Say something, Susie, please,” he begs.

  “I don’t know how to care about anything but swimming,” I whisper. “It’s my whole life.”

  Harry presses his forehead against the steering wheel. “Yeah, I know.”

  “I thought I could live that way forever,” I continue, grasping at thoughts as they streak through my brain like fireworks across an open sky, letting them tumble out of my mouth before they can explode and fizzle into nothing. “I got by for so long all by myself. Then I met you and you were so kind to me, you tried to understand me, and I liked that—I like you. And it scared me—you scare me.”

  “I would never—” he says.

  “I don’t mean it like that,” I tell him. “It scares me to think something else could matter to me like swimming does. That I could get distracted from the one thing I’ve ever wanted, the one thing I’ve spent all this time and energy fighting for. That for even one second, I could stop thinking about swimming, and in that moment, I could do something or something could happen that would rip it out of my hands forever.

  “It’s not about the glory,” I continue. “It’s not even just the Olympics. Practically every extra penny my family has goes to my swimming, and if I screw it up now, I throw all that away. I can’t pay for college without this sport. One way or another, my future depends on this sport. I’m sorry you feel jerked around, I never meant to do that. I don’t want to hurt you. But I’m very, very afraid.”

  “Okay,” he says, turning to look at me. “But I care about your swimming, too, more than I care about my own. I would never do anything that would jeopardize your career.”

  “I know. But there’s no separation between my swimming and me. Letting someone get close feels like putting it at risk and I don’t know if I’m brave enough to do that.”

  Harry swallows hard, nodding, then says, “Well, I’m not going to bully you into it. I can take rejection—”

  I open my mouth to object.

  “Let me get this out,” he says. “I can take rejection. But I can’t take not being clear on what we are. I can’t take saying we’re friends but acting like something more, tying myself into knots hoping it’ll happen but not knowing when. You know what I want. Decide what you want.”

  “How long do I have?” I ask.

  “I’m not going to give you a deadline. This isn’t a college application. It’s not a race. There’s not a mark you can come in under to qualify.”

  He shrugs wearily. “Just be a person. And remember that I’m a person, too.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  207 days until US Olympic Team Trials

  I MAY BE a person, but I have more practice at being a machine. I need a deadline. So, I set one for myself: Nationals. By then, I’ll have figured out what I want and how much I’m willing to risk.

  What I try to ignore, but keeps creeping up on me in weak moments, is the sad fact that if I flame out at Nationals, it’s probably the end of my Olympic dream, anyway, for this cycle if not forever. Maybe, after this meet, I won’t even have to choose.

  I don’t tell Harry any of this, but he must sense it, because he keeps his distance in the weeks leading up to the big competition. He has his own races to focus on; he qualified earlier in the fall, but he hasn’t been taking it seriously—something Jessa comments on every chance she gets.

  “God, they’re losers,” she says one day near the end of practice as she watches Harry and Avik trying to shove each other underwater. “Don’t they care about this at all? Susannah?”

  I defog my goggles, pretending not to hear her. I’m trying not to think or talk about Harry right now, but my friends are making it difficult. They’re full of questions after what happened at Deer Park, and the fact that I refuse to answer them just makes them more curious.

  “The fact that he’s even going to Nationals is a fluke,” Jessa continues. “He got lucky with that height and that wingspan and those big feet. He’s not a real swimmer.”

  “He’s a real swimmer,” I snap. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  I feel guilty for jumping down her throat, because in some ways she’s kind of right. Harry swims the 100-and 200-meter back, the 100-meter fly and occasionally the 200-meter individual medley, which is the only event we have in common. And he’s fast, naturally so in a way that would consume me with envy if we had to compete against each other, and still does a bit even though we never will.

  But he’s lazy in the water, undisciplined and often disinterested, like swimming is one big goof to him. Most of the time in competition he just gives up and lets whatever’s going to happen, happen. Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn’t, but it never seems to affect him one way or the other. It makes me wonder about what he said when we first met, how he picked GAC because Dave coaches champions. If he doesn’t care about winning, why would that matter to him?

  Part of me envies his indifference, and part of me is annoyed by it. Either way, it makes me want to work harder. It’s been a hard, lonely road back to where I used to be, but sometimes I still believe I’m capable of great things. I want to show everyone what I’m made of, but especially—embarrassingly—I want to prove myself to Harry. Maybe even inspire him a bit.

  And I’m not going to just stand here while Jessa insults him.

  “I don’t know why you even care,” I say to her. “You don’t know him.”

  “Oh, and you do?” Jessa raises an eyebrow at me. Amber floats over from the next lane, her attention drawn by Jessa’s raised voice. “You’re some kind of Harry Matthews expert, huh? His girlfriend might be interested to learn that.”

  “She’s not his girlfriend,” I say, surprised and wounded by her obvious desire to hurt me. Jessa’s always been flinty—there’s a fine line between sarcastic and mean, and she was born on it—but she’s not usually vindictive.

  I tell myself it’s the pressure. It’s getting t
o all of us. Once Nationals is over...but that’s not really true. If we make it through with the marks we need, this meet is only the beginning.

  “I’m sure that’s what he told you.” Jessa adjusts her cap and pulls her goggles down over her eyes. “But Tucker says they’ve been hanging out a lot, Harry and that girl. He thinks they’re getting back together.”

  “Who cares what Tucker thinks?”

  “He’s Harry’s best and oldest friend. He knows things about Harry, things he’d never tell you.”

  “What things?” I ask, suddenly worried. I’ve always sensed that Harry keeps secrets, but never found the nerve to press him on it.

  Jessa shrugs in a bored sort of way, but does not elaborate. It’s infuriating.

  “Are you kidding me?” I say, but she’s already pushed off the wall for her next set.

  “Do not listen to her,” Amber says. “She’s making stuff up. Jessa told me Tucker’s a vault when it comes to Harry.”

  “Why is she even asking about him in the first place?”

  “Because she knows he’s important to you, and she’s looking for a way to get into your head.”

  “I can’t believe that. We’re supposed to be friends.”

  “Haven’t you noticed? She’s jealous of all the progress you’ve made with Beth and she’s feeling threatened. You know if she doesn’t do well at Nationals, her dad will, like, disown her.”

  She’s exaggerating, but Jessa’s parents put a lot of pressure on her. My family is so different, sometimes I forget what it must be like for her, but Jessa’s experience is not uncommon. The sport is full of swimmers chasing after more than their own dream.

  I lean back against the pool wall. “I don’t know what to do with that.”

  Amber shakes her head. “Don’t think about it. Eyes on the prize.”

  * * *

  “You don’t know Ramos like I know her,” Dave says to Beth. They don’t know that I’m listening. “She’s a good kid, but ever since that win at Worlds she cracks under pressure. You watch—she’ll blow it at Nationals, and there goes what’s left of her confidence. She’s already a mess as it is.”

  I’m standing in the coaches’ office, outside the half-open door to the tiny interior room where Beth and I meet every few days to discuss my progress and strategize for upcoming races. We’re supposed to be having one of those meetings now; looks like Dave beat me to her.

  I didn’t come here intending to eavesdrop, but Dave’s so loud I’d be surprised if everyone on the pool deck couldn’t hear him.

  It’s not like I don’t agree with Dave. I am a mess—disassembled, then put together wrong. Or, at least, I was before. I don’t know what I am now. Not as good as I once was, better than I have been...whatever it is, for the first time in a long time, there’s hope singing in my veins.

  But with only a few words from Dave, I can feel it bleeding out of me. No matter how much Beth encourages me, no matter how hard I work, his voice is still the one I hear in my weakest, most vulnerable moments, saying over and over again: You’re not good enough.

  “You gave up on her too easily,” Beth tells Dave. “There’s a lot of talent there. She’s proving that right now! You’ve seen her times.”

  “Her chance to distinguish herself in this sport has passed,” Dave insists. “At this point, she’s just another fast swimmer.”

  The door swings open, and suddenly I’m face-to-face with Dave. If he’s afraid I might’ve overheard him, it doesn’t register on his face.

  “Hey, kid,” he says, giving my bad shoulder a hard pat as he pushes past me. I wince, glaring at his retreating back in disgust. Beth appears at the door. She sighs.

  “I assume you heard that?” she asks. I nod. “I’m sorry. Come on in, let’s chat.”

  “It’s fine,” I tell Beth as we sit down. “Honestly, he’s said way worse things to my face.”

  “That’s awful. You shouldn’t listen to him. You’re doing great. With more time and effort, you can do better.”

  “But...” I hate to ask this, but I have to. “What if he’s right?”

  Beth doesn’t rush to reassure me. She considers the question thoughtfully before saying, “I’ll admit you got sidetracked for a while, Susannah, but that doesn’t have to mean your career is over. Not everybody can come back from that, but I really think you can. Look how well you’re doing already. Can’t you feel how different things are now, even compared to a few months ago?”

  I can’t deny that I do.

  “I’m excited about Nationals,” I tell her. “It feels like a turning point, an opportunity to show people I’m still in the game.”

  To show Dave that, with some elbow grease, messes can be cleaned up.

  “You should be excited,” Beth says. “I want you to take it easy on the butterfly at Nationals—that shoulder’s not doing you any favors right now, and I don’t want you running down your engine on that first fifty. By the time you come out of the breaststroke turn, you’ll start flagging.

  “Instead, I want you to coast through the fly and start ramping when you hit the backstroke. It’s improved so much, you can get a lot of speed off it. Head back, arms close to your ears. Make your breaststroke powerful, but precise. And when it’s time for the freestyle, that’s when you take it to your highest gear.”

  “I’m nervous about pacing,” I admit. It’s one of the IM’s biggest challenges. When you’re only doing one stroke in an event, it’s easier to sink into a groove. You can read the race better. When you’re alternating, like in the IM, you need a different strategy for each fifty.

  Ever since I slowed down, I’ve struggled with that. Beth made it one of her priorities, but that kind of body consciousness takes time, and I’m not used to mine yet.

  “Let’s break down Santa Clara tonight,” she suggests. “There’s something I want you to see.”

  Every Thursday, Beth and I go over my recent swims, flipping through the challenges and triumphs of that week’s practices like a well-thumbed scrapbook. Tonight, we watch the video of my 200 IM at the Santa Clara meet, the race where I qualified for Nationals.

  At first, I have no idea what Beth thinks is special or reassuring about that race. It was a high point, sure, but my swimming looks the same as always.

  On the second butterfly turn, though, I notice something: there are no jagged edges or slight hesitations in my transition to backstroke. Every movement shows a grace and fluidity I know wasn’t there six months ago...or even two years ago, when I was at my best.

  It looks natural. Organic. Not practiced or staged. For the first time, I see it, the animal in me Beth always promised was there.

  Watching myself swim through the objective lens of a camera makes me think about how many versions of ourselves we each contain. I feel like I’m one person in the water, and another on dry land. Me on land is still hesitant and uncertain; having faith is hard for her, and so is letting go.

  But me in the water, the girl Beth found beneath the rubble? She’s elegant and powerful and fast.

  She’s also not an accident. I’ve never worked so hard in my life. Beth pushes me past my limits. She has me in the Pilates studio on weekends and the weight room every other day. There are painful, stinging ice baths and excruciating deep tissue massages, yoga twice a week. My body has morphed, shedding fat, gaining muscle, breaking down and building up again. I run my hands over it every night in the shower, mapping its new contours. The curves are still there, but the way I feel about them has changed—it’s like my body is no longer a suit I have to wear but, finally, a skin that belongs to me.

  “Your pacing will be fine,” Beth tells me. “I want you to feel your way through this next race. Your body knows the rhythms—trust it to find them, and don’t let your head interfere. Got it?”

  I assure her I do, but I can’t help wondering where—between my
body that’s an animal and my head that gets in the way—my unruly heart fits in.

  * * *

  The 200 IM is my only event at Nationals, and in the prelims my nerves almost bury me. I ignore Beth’s race plan and blitz through the butterfly way too fast, then start to crumble when I turn into the breaststroke.

  I can sense rather than see the swimmers on my left and right closing in, so I dig into my stroke, ignore the lactic acid eating away at my muscles and claw my way to the finish. I feel like crap, but I clock in with a time fast enough to get seeded last in the finals heat—barely.

  Beth catches up with me after my warm-down. She sees the agony on my face and says, “I know that race was hard. But it was gutsy. If it was hard, then it had to be hard. I want you to remember that you’re a world champion in this event, Susannah.”

  “That was a long time ago,” I remind her.

  I bend over at the waist, hands on my knees, chest heaving as I suck in air. My racing suit is so tight I can barely breathe. The straps dig angry red lines into my flesh; my bad left shoulder aches. Why does everything in this sport have to be so painful?

  “It wasn’t that long ago.” Beth rests a gentle hand on the center of my back and squats to speak into my ear. “You’re a champion, so swim like a champion. I don’t care if you win. There will be other opportunities for you to win. I just want you to have a race you can be proud of.”

  * * *

  As I step up to the block before the finals heat the next day, my stomach turns over like a motor. I’m in major trouble over in lane eight. The way races are structured makes it difficult for someone from the exterior lanes to surge in the lead. You’re coming in with a slower time, plus you’ve got to deal with wake from the swimmers on the inside lanes, which pours over you with each stroke. And nothing creates more waves than the butterfly.

  My family is somewhere in the upper deck, and so is Harry—in the sea of onlookers, I pick him out easily. His swims are done for this meet, and his performance was adequate at best. Dave is almost certainly pissed at him for once again squandering his physical talents, but knowing Harry, it was on purpose. Whatever he’s here for, it’s not a first-place finish.