Breath Like Water

by Anna Jarzab

  I can’t stand to be touched right now, but I don’t tell Mom, because I’m so grateful she’s here I would put up with almost anything to keep her close. I feel guilty for scaring her, for dragging her away from home. I’m almost positive she’s missing an exam for this, but she doesn’t mention it. She takes my right hand and squeezes my fingers. I fight the urge to put my head on her shoulder and cry.

  “I’m sorry,” Dr. Pfaster says when nobody responds to his diagnosis. “I was told you’re an athlete. A swimmer—do I have that right?”

  I nod. Beth is pale, her brow and mouth compressed with worry. Dave looks positively green. I think I might’ve been crying in the car on the way to the hospital. Most of it is lost in a thick fog of pain, but I have a few shards of memory from the ride here: pressing my wrist to my mouth to muffle the sounds, the city streets as they streamed past my window, a glimpse of Harry sitting in the backseat with me, afraid to come close, head between his hands, helpless as I sobbed in agony next to him.

  When I came back to myself in the bright glare of the exam room, Harry was gone, and Dave and Beth seemed completely freaked out.

  “What happens now?” Mom asks. She glances at my coaches. Dave folds his arms and stares at the doctor. Beth braces herself, like she knows what’s coming.

  Having Mom here has been enough for me until this moment, but now I want Harry, with a sudden, fierce ache. Dave sent him back to the hotel in a cab a few hours ago, while I was getting an X-ray. I was devastated when I realized he was gone, but I’m out of tears.

  “You’ll want to discuss this with a specialist when you get home, but the two options they’ll likely give you are surgery or physical therapy,” Dr. Pfaster says.

  I shake my head. “No surgery.”

  “Susannah,” Mom says. I can tell she’s trying hard not to get impatient with me. “We’re not making any decisions before we have all the information.”

  “I’ve seen what happens to swimmers who have shoulder surgery. They’ve seen it, too,” I say, jerking my chin at Beth and Dave. They exchange a glance. “It could end my career.”

  Not to mention cost a fortune my parents don’t have. Insurance doesn’t cover everything.

  “Not necessarily,” Dr. Pfaster says with a shrug. “But it could limit your range of motion in that shoulder. Do you need a full three-sixty rotation to swim?”

  “Is that a joke?” Dave snaps.

  “Yes,” Dr. Pfaster says, blinking at Dave like he’s surprised by his bark but not afraid of it. He has an arrogance about him that I’ve often noticed in doctors, more cynical than someone like Harry’s—haughtier and, if anything, less self-assured.

  I decide I don’t like Dr. Pfaster, but I do enjoy the way he mostly ignores Dave. Guess there’s only space for one blowhard in this room.

  “Then again, it could not,” he says, like his exchange with Dave never happened and he’s been talking uninterrupted the whole time. “There’s no telling beforehand how you would recover. There are fewer risks with arthroscopic surgery, and you’re young, so it’s possible you could regain full use of your shoulder. But I wouldn’t promise it.”

  “You said there are other options,” Mom says. “Physical therapy. What would that entail?”

  “And what’s the recovery time?” I ask.

  “You’ll have to work out a regimen with your physicians back home,” Dr. Pfaster says. Even though he’s got a cold, bored way of talking to me, I like that he talks to me and not Mom or my coaches. “And there’s PT in your future, surgery or no. But if you stick to your program and don’t try to do too much too fast, I don’t think there’s any reason you can’t be at close to one hundred percent in about six to eight months.”

  I take a deep breath in through my nose and let it out through my mouth, fighting off panic. Olympic Trials are in less than four months.

  “If anyone can do it, you can,” Dave says. We all turn to look at him in surprise. He clears his throat and smooths down the collar of his polo shirt the way he always does when he’s uncomfortable. “You’re the most stubborn person I know, Susannah.”

  Dave’s not my favorite person in the world, but sometimes he knows exactly what I need to hear.

  * * *

  The hotel the team is staying at is booked up, so Mom gets a room at the first decent place with a vacancy she can find. I wait in the car while she fetches my bags from the room I was sharing with Amber and Jessa.

  The parking lot is quiet, and the lights are out in most of the hotel’s windows. Everyone seems to have gone to bed. I feel exhausted, wrung out like a damp towel, plus a little floaty thanks to the painkillers they gave me at the hospital. My arm is in a sling and the pain feels distant but unmistakable, a sharp shout into a deep canyon. I rest my head against the window and close my eyes.

  I doze off for what feels like hours, but it must be only a few minutes, because when the sound of fingers tapping wakes me, Mom’s still gone, and Harry’s crouched outside the rental car with his face pressed against the glass. He waves and mimes rolling down the window.

  “What’s with the charades?” I ask. “The glass isn’t soundproof.”

  “I’m trying to be stealthy,” he whispers, folding his arms on the door and resting his chin on his hands. “I’m supposed to be in my room, but Amber texted me that your mom was upstairs getting your stuff, so I figured you were waiting out here. I had to see you. How are you feeling?”

  “Shitty. I tore my labrum,” I tell him. Harry winces. He knows what that means; shoulder injuries are common in swimming. “They’re talking about surgery.”

  “Are you going to do it?”

  I hesitate. “Do you think I should?”

  “I’m not a doctor,” he says. “I don’t know what’s best.”

  “Me neither,” I admit, deflating. “But I’ve seen people go through this. Surgery could ruin everything. Physical therapy is the safer option. I just don’t know how long it will take.”

  My eyes start to sting. “Is there even a chance I could recover by Trials?”

  “If anyone can, you can.” The complete conviction in Harry’s voice makes me love him even more than I already do.

  “That’s what Dave said. Apparently, I’m the most stubborn person he knows.”

  “Not giving up is kind of your brand.” Harry frowns. “How much pain are you in?”

  “Less than before.” I muster a smile. “They gave me some good drugs.”

  He laughs and leans in closer. We always gravitate toward each other, drawn together in a process as natural as breathing. I can smell his familiar scent of Irish Spring soap and clean cotton, with a lingering hint of chlorine. I take the deepest breath I can without being completely obvious about it, but the pills must be throwing me off more than I realize, because Harry grins and asks, “Are you sniffing me, Susie?”

  “I’m smelling the night air,” I snap.

  “Okay, grouchy,” he says with affection. “Vicodin does not agree with you.”

  “I’m allowed to be grouchy. I’m in a lot of pain and I’m very—” I yawn “—tired.”

  He strokes my hair and I close my eyes. “Yeah, you are allowed,” he says softly.

  I rest my cheek on his arm and nuzzle against him. This close, his skin smells like bread warm from the oven.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t stay with you at the hospital. Dave wouldn’t let me and I knew making a thing of it wouldn’t help you. But I’ve been thinking about you all night.”

  “It’s okay,” I murmur. Then a thought hits me and my eyes fly open. “Harry!”

  He jerks back. “What’s wrong?”

  “You swam so good today,” I say. He presses his hand to his chest, choking on a laugh.

  “God, Susie, I think my heart just stopped.” His eyes glitter with pride in the lights of the parking lot. “You were watching toda
y?”

  “Of course,” I say. “I’m so proud of you.”

  “Thanks. That means a lot.”

  I grab him by the collar of his T-shirt with my good hand. His eyes widen as he braces himself against the car door.

  “Whoa,” he says. “Even injured, you’re strong. Almost knocked me over.”

  “I am so proud of you, Harry,” I tell him. I have to make him understand this. For some reason, at this moment, it feels vitally important, and I don’t think he’s listening to me. “I’m proud to be your friend, and I’m proud to be your girl. I’ve never known a sweeter, better, smarter, more wonderful, more talented person than you. And I love the way you swim. It’s like music. Like art.”

  He looks away as if embarrassed by the compliments, but I know him well enough to see the satisfaction beneath the humility.

  “You’re only saying that because you’re high,” he jokes.

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “I believe you believe it,” he says, tensing. “Sometimes I worry you see what you want to see.”

  It’s the sort of thing where, if he’d said it on another day, I might’ve been hurt. But instead of reacting, I stare back at him and say: “I see what you show me.”

  “Whoa,” he says, swallowing hard. “Killer aim with that truth bomb.”

  “I am proud. You showed Dave.”

  “That’s why I did it,” he says. “But it felt great. To try for once. To win. I might do it again.”

  My eyelids are so heavy, like something is pressing down on them. I can feel myself beginning to drift off when I hear the sound of someone clearing their throat. I look up to see Mom standing over Harry, who stands up in a hurry.

  “Hi, Harry,” she says with a fond smile. “How are you?”

  “Hi, Mrs. Ramos,” he says. “I’m good. I was keeping Susie company while she waited.”

  “They’re doing bed checks. Might want to get up there before Dave notices you’re gone.”

  He nods. “Yeah, thanks. Good night, Susie. I’ll see you at home.”

  “Okay,” I say in a singsong. Man, these pills. I’m never taking them again after today.

  As we pull out of the parking lot, I watch Harry disappear into the distance. A sudden, terrible fear of never seeing him again rises inside me, tugging at my heart with invisible fingers, but it fades almost as quickly as it comes. I chalk it up to the painkillers.

  “I’ll call Dr. Brandywine in the morning and ask for an ortho referral,” Mom says. “We’ll get you in to see someone as soon as possible and figure out what we’re going to do.”

  I let my head fall back against the seat. “No surgery,” I remind her.

  “We’ll see what the doctor has to say.”

  “No. Surgery.”

  Mom stares at me with an inscrutable expression.

  “It may not be up to you, Susannah,” she says. Before I can reply, I stagger off the cliff of exhaustion I’ve been teetering on the edge of all night and tumble into a dark and dreamless sleep.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  72 days until US Olympic Team Trials

  “ALL RIGHT, I think that’s enough for today,” Joan says, extending her hands. “Give them here.”

  I surrender the elastic therapy bands I’m holding and wipe the sweat from my forehead. I’m sitting in the center of a mat on the floor of Joan’s studio. Exhausted, I lower myself into corpse pose and release a deep breath.

  “We still have ten minutes,” I remind her, staring at the ceiling. I’m drenched, but there’s a fan blowing on me and it feels nice. I probably stink, but I can’t smell myself over the vanilla incense wafting out of a diffuser in the corner. I’d forgotten how many unfortunate side effects of working out are masked when you do it in water.

  Weird that it’s me pointing out the time. Joan is one of the best physical therapists in Chicago; she’s treated US senators and professional sports players, even an Olympian or two. Her time is precious, and expensive. She never lets me forget that, and she never lets me waste a second of it, either.

  Not that I try. In consultation with my orthopedic surgeon, coaches and parents, Joan brought the hammer down: if I wasn’t going to have surgery, and I wanted her to treat me, I was going to have to do things her way. Once I agreed to that, she told me I wasn’t allowed to swim for a month. An entire month, with the Olympics four months away. I could attend morning practice and kick in the diving well, but my afternoons were to be spent with Joan at her downtown clinic.

  “If you want to get better, you have to trust me,” Joan said at our first meeting.

  “Can you make me better by Olympic Trials?” I asked her.

  “I don’t know,” Joan said. “But I’m sure as shit going to try.”

  And I’m sure as shit not going to drag my feet. If I’m not back in the pool by mid-April, there’s no way I’m coming out the other side of Trials a member of Team USA.

  Joan has the foulest mouth I’ve ever heard on a doctor. When I told her so, all she said was, “I’m not a fucking doctor.” At first, I thought the swearing meant that she was pissed at me for something, or that she didn’t like me, because on top of all the cursing she has this low, raspy voice that makes her sound like she’s annoyed by your very presence. Plus, she’s built like a wrestler. It’s intimidating.

  But Joan is a friendly, easygoing person, with one exception: she hates Dave. She doesn’t take any crap from him, so obviously I love her. He and Beth came to the consultation where I first met Joan, and when Dave said—for like the hundredth time—that I should swim through the pain, Joan told him that she was the expert, and if he didn’t like her advice he could go right on ahead and fuck himself. Beth comes to PT with me about once a week, but Dave hasn’t been here since.

  Joan stretches out beside me on the mat. “You’re pushing yourself too hard,” she says, drumming her fingertips on her stomach. “What did I tell you when we started this?”

  I don’t say anything, so she presses me. “What did I tell you, Susannah?”

  “No shortcuts,” I mutter.

  “Damn right. You think I don’t notice you doing extra reps when you think my back is turned? I’m sick of having to tell you to take it easy and not overdo every fucking exercise. If I wanted you to work harder I would fucking tell you.”

  She sits up and stares at me. “As far as I’m concerned, the human body’s ability to heal itself is a miracle, and you can’t rush a fucking miracle.”

  I keep my gaze trained on the ceiling. A couple of tears drip down the sides of my face and into my hair. Joan pats my good shoulder and sings, “Oh, Susannah, now don’t you fucking cry,” to the tune of “Oh! Susanna” like she thinks she’s funny or something. Never heard that one before.

  “I’m not crying,” I tell her, wiping my face. “My eyes water when I’m tired.”

  “Sure, let’s go with that,” Joan says. “You miss the pool?”

  I nod. “When can I go back for a full practice?”

  “End of next week, I’m thinking.”

  A flare of happiness goes off inside me. This is great news.

  “You’re doing well. But I need to make sure you’re not straining that shoulder when I’m not there to help you. And I want you to take it easy.”

  Joan jumps up and hauls me to my feet by my good arm. The sleeve of her T-shirt rides up a few inches and I catch a glimpse of the tattoo that circles the upper part of her bicep. It’s in almost the same exact location as Dave’s, but instead of the Olympic rings, it’s a quote, I think. It’s in Latin.

  “What does your tattoo say?” I ask. She tosses me a towel.

  “Quod me nutrit me destruit,” Joan says. “Do you know what it means?”

  “No. Do you know what it means?” I joke.

  “Yes,” she says, swatting me with a towel. “I took fou
r years of Latin in high school, thank you very much. It means ‘what nourishes me destroys me.’”

  “Cheerful.”

  Joan shrugs. “It’s a reminder, for me personally, that I have to pursue all things in moderation. If I love something too much, or give too much of myself going after it, that same thing can hurt me.”

  “Like what?” I ask.

  “Oh, any damn thing. An addiction. A relationship. A job.” She pauses. “You could say it about swimming, right? The Olympics? You want it so fucking badly that you injured yourself chasing it.”

  “I wouldn’t put it like that,” I say. “Sports injuries are super common.”

  Joan smiles. “Of course, you’re right. Maybe instead you should see it as a suggestion: your PT exercises are making you stronger, but don’t fucking overdo it or you could reinjure yourself.”

  “Noted. Your tattoo is very wise.”

  “It’s Friday night,” Joan points out. “Got plans?”

  “Probably go home, eat dinner, do my homework.”

  Joan throws up her hands. “Those aren’t plans, that’s a fucking routine. What about your boy? You don’t have a date tonight?”

  I don’t mind when Joan teases me, because I know it comes from a place of affection, but I’m feeling sensitive about Harry. Technically, Joan’s not supposed to know about him—we’re still pretending to be broken up—but he picked me up from physical therapy once in a pinch and she wouldn’t stop asking until I told her who he was. I had to swear her to secrecy. Luckily, she’s about the last person in the world who would sell me out to Dave.

  “We don’t usually call them ‘dates,’ Joan. We hang out.”

  “So, are you hanging out with him tonight or what?”

  “I texted after school to ask if he wanted to meet up, but he never responded.”

  “Maybe he did while you were here,” Joan suggests. When I first met her, I never would’ve pegged her for a hopeless romantic, but that goes to show you how wrong first impressions can be.