Breath Like Water

by Anna Jarzab

  Harry’s eyes widen in surprise. “Really? Then they were way better at hiding it than we were.”

  “Thank you!” I relax a bit in the chair. “Jessa claims she suspected, but I knew I couldn’t be the only one who didn’t see it coming. Seems obvious in retrospect, though.”

  “Jessa didn’t know,” he says, flicking a piece of fluff off his sweatpants. “She said that because she always has to make you feel like you’re not as smart as her, or as good of a swimmer. It’s how she tries to control her fear that you’re better than she is.”

  I raise my eyebrows at him. I knew he didn’t like Jessa, but he rarely criticized her in front of me. “How long have you been holding that one in?”

  He mimics my expression. “How long have you been letting her get away with it because you’re secretly afraid she’s right?” he asks sharply.

  I exhale slowly. “You have every right to be pissed at me.”

  “No,” he says, sounding defeated. “You’re pissed at me.”

  “No,” I insist. “I’m not. Not at all.”

  “You told me I ruined your life,” he says, turning back to the window, like it’s too painful to watch the expression on my face as the accusation lands. It’s so hard to hear, and even harder to remember, because I did say it. Even if I didn’t mean it.

  I think of Mom over in the corner, pretending not to listen. She only knows that we fought. She doesn’t know what I said. Looking back on that ugliness isn’t easy, but it’s the truth. I’ve been lying to myself, and everyone else, for so long, about what I can handle without wanting to break. It’s almost a relief to look a moment I’m not proud of in the face and realize it won’t break me. I have to hope that it will only make me better.

  “I didn’t mean it,” I say softly. “If I could take it back, I would.”

  “I know,” he says, bracing himself. “But you were right.”

  “I was not right,” I tell him. “You didn’t ruin my life. You woke me up. I was in pain when I said those things, and the pain made me angry and mean. But that’s not an excuse. The pain wasn’t your fault, and I never should’ve taken it out on you. It wasn’t fair.”

  He lifts his eyes to meet mine. “I knew Dave wanted me to race against you, and I didn’t say anything. You were right to hate me.”

  “I don’t hate you,” I say. “Not for that, not for anything. You should swim in any race you want. I never wanted to be the sort of person you can’t tell things to because you’re afraid of how I would react, but I became that person anyway, because I was so caught up in myself I couldn’t see straight. Dave knew that about me. I’m pissed at myself for proving it, but that isn’t your fault, either. I should’ve known better. I did know better. I just let myself forget because forgetting was easier than figuring out how to change.”

  I keep thinking about that meet, how everything would’ve been different if I’d done what I’d promised and treated it like it didn’t matter. If I’d laughed when I found out Harry and I were going to compete against each other, if I’d taken seriously the anthem that has carried us through so much: When you win, I win. If I’d listened to Beth and decided not to swim at all. If I’d decided to show Dave he couldn’t push me around, or—better still—not given him a single thought.

  But there are no do-overs. If nothing else, swimming taught me that. All you can do is get back up on the block and try again.

  Harry closes his eyes. “I wasn’t trying to kill myself,” he says in a voice so low it’s almost a whisper. “I promise, Susie. That wasn’t what I wanted.”

  “Can you tell me what you were feeling?” I ask, choosing my words with care. It’s like I’m picking my way across a rope bridge hanging over a canyon, trying to stay upright as it sways and sways. I’m terrified of stepping through a rotted board and plunging into the yawning gap below.

  “I wanted a release. Something to distract from the pain in here.” He presses his hand to his chest. “Handle it in the only way that made sense to me at the time.”

  He speaks slowly, as if every word hurts on its way out. “I wasn’t sober, and I was having trouble with my medication, and I cut too deep.”

  My mouth goes dry. I’m scared for him, scared of how unprepared for all this I am. Outside smoke isn’t always a good thing. Bad things come out of nowhere, too.

  I want so badly to be here for him in the right way, to say all the right things. I’ve been reading about how to support a loved one who is bipolar, something I should’ve done a long time ago. All the resources I’ve found say that it’s important to let the person know that an episode doesn’t affect how you see them. That you still love them as much as you ever did.

  “I’m so sorry you went through that,” I say. “It doesn’t change what I think of you, or how I feel about you, in any way.”

  “Really?” he asks, rubbing his face. He hangs his head and massages his temples with the heels of his palms.

  “Really,” I say. “How are you feeling now?”

  Harry shrugs. “Tired. Weak. Slow. Like I’m walking through mud.” His attention shifts slowly to the package of Red Vines in my hand. I’d forgotten them entirely. “Are those for me?”

  I place them in front of him. “It’s silly. But you love them so much. You’re the only person I know who does. They remind me of you.”

  He fiddles with the package for a moment, playing with the sealed plastic edge. Then he opens them and pulls one out, but he doesn’t eat it. He coils the strip of red licorice around his finger and presses his thumbnail into the soft candy.

  “You didn’t have to come,” he says. “Did my mom tell you that? I told her to tell you.”

  I put my hand on his, completely forgetting about the no-touching rule. The sudden contact shocks him into looking at me, his blue gaze pinning me down. I squeeze his fingers, trying to telegraph that I’m here with him.

  “She said you were asking for me,” I reply.

  “I had to see you, but I didn’t want you to see me, not like this,” Harry says. “I never wanted you to see me like this.”

  “I wanted to come,” I tell him. “I always want to see you. You’re my favorite—” Emotion makes my voice wobble. “My favorite person, in the entire world.”

  Harry’s eyes flicker across my face, then he stares at the floor again. There are tears in his eyes. He’s overwhelmed. His broad shoulders bow inward and he bends slightly forward, as if he’s being crushed beneath a massive weight. The bigness and strength that propel him through the water seem diminished by his circumstances. He’s exhausted. I ache for him.

  “This is so fucking awful.” He nearly chokes on the words. “I hate it here. I hate myself. I hate what I did. I hate that you saw.” His voice breaks. “I want to go back.”

  “I know,” I whisper, wiping my eyes. I have no wisdom to share, only the one thing I know to be true. “We can’t go back. But we can start over. You’ll feel better someday. And I will be by your side, with you, as much and as long as you want me there.”

  “I already fucked up once before,” he says. “Swimming, changing schools, being with you—this was supposed to be my second chance, and I ruined it.”

  “You didn’t ruin it,” I assure him. “And you don’t get just one second chance.”

  “Yeah, you do,” he says with a sigh. “It’s in the name.”

  “So we get third chances, and fourth chances, and fifth chances,” I tell him. “And on and on, as long as we don’t give up.”

  “Since when are you the optimist in this relationship?” he asks. Then his face crumples. I wish I could see into his mind. I want to help him, to bear his pain with him, but I’m here on the outside, and I don’t know if, by relentlessly peddling hope, I’m only making things worse.

  “I was so angry,” he says. “After the meet. At you, at me, at Dave, at the whole fucking situation. I was dr
iving and thinking about us and how much you must hate me, and I was spiraling down into this well of despair, hearing you say over and over again, my man, like I was something to be ashamed of, and I felt so shitty. I was driving like a hundred miles an hour down that dark road near school, thinking: She doesn’t love you, why would she love you, you’re a loser, you’re crazy.”

  “I thought the same things on the way home from that meet,” I confess. “He doesn’t love you, why would he love you, you’re a loser, you’re a failure, you’re broken. But I’m not broken, and you’re not crazy. We aren’t perfect, but we are doing our best.”

  He sighs. He looks even more tired and drawn than he did when I arrived. The effort it’s taking to talk to me about all this is draining him. I should probably leave soon, but I don’t want to go.

  “Maybe some of it is true,” he says. “Maybe I am crazy, after all. Just like my dad.”

  “You’re not,” I insist.

  “Maybe,” he replies. “Or maybe this is the start of a lifetime in and out of places like this one. That’s how Jeremy is. He can’t hold down a job, he’s destroyed all of his relationships... This place is just like the place they put him in, and I’m no different than him.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “You don’t know. You’ve never met him. Trust me, he and I, we’re the same.”

  “You’re not the same as anybody.”

  He growls in frustration, but I keep holding his hand. He’s using the other one to rip the Red Vines I brought into little pieces. They’re scattered like confetti all over the scuffed wooden table.

  “I’m here,” I tell him. “I’m right here with you. What can I do to help?”

  “I don’t know how long it will take for me to recover,” Harry says. “I have good days, and bad days. My doctors are still experimenting with my medication. Sometimes I can barely get up the energy to walk down the hall to group therapy, or pick up a crayon during the art sessions. I meant it when I said I wasn’t trying to kill myself, but sometimes I don’t want to be alive.”

  It takes all my bodily control not to flinch at that. Memories of the day I found him shove their way into my head, but I push them away and concentrate on what Harry is saying.

  “I know that’s the chemicals in my brain talking, Susie, but knowing that doesn’t make it feel any different,” he says. “And it’s the fucking worst. I don’t want you to have to deal with it. I can’t put you through that. It’s bad enough my mom and Bruce have to see it. We have to break up. It’s not good for either of us to be together. You’re better off without me.”

  “I’m not better off without you,” I say. My throat feels like it’s about to close up. “I was miserable when I met you. Having you in my life has made me the happiest I’ve been in years.”

  “This can’t possibly make you happy. Can’t you see how hard it is, Susie?” he asks. His face is tear-streaked and pale. “How hard all of this is?”

  “I can see it,” I tell him. “I’m still here.”

  “You told me I was a distraction.”

  “I was wrong to say that. I’m sorry. I was jealous, and stressed, and I missed you.”

  He shakes his head. “We have to break up.”

  I look him in the eyes. “That’s what you want?”

  “No,” he says wearily. “It’s just what I need. And it’s what you need, too.”

  “Don’t worry about what I need,” I whisper, thinking, What I need is not to lose you.

  “You want to help?” he asks. I nod. “Then don’t do what you do—don’t fight. I want to recover, and I know it sounds selfish, but it will be so much harder if I have to worry about someone else.”

  I let go of his hand and sit back, hugging myself as if to protect against a sudden chill. Every scrap of feeling inside me recoils against this, but I’m not the only person in this relationship. The thought of the tie that binds us breaking and falling away is so awful I can barely stand it.

  It’s a struggle to figure out how to respond. I can’t say what I want to say, which is that I don’t want to let him go. But as I play through every other thought that whirls through my head, imagining them coming out of my mouth, they sound so inadequate. I dig my nails into my palms to keep from tearing up and say: “Okay.”

  “Okay?” His shoulders slump, like he’s disappointed, and I wonder if there was a small part of him that wanted me to fight. But maybe I’m seeing what I want to see.

  “It’s not selfish, wanting to focus on your recovery,” I assure him, relieved to have gained control of my tongue. The more I say, the stronger I feel, because I just realized something completely obvious—I don’t have to be his girlfriend to love him. “I want that for you, too. I want everything for you, Harry. Whatever will make you healthy and happy, you deserve to have it.”

  “Thanks, Susie,” he says, staring at his hands on the table.

  I force some lightness into my voice. “But I’m still your best friend. And best friends visit each other in the hospital. So I’ll be here on Tuesday and you better brush your hair and wear your best shirt because you’re not fit for company looking like this, and now that I’m not your girlfriend, I don’t have to put up with that crap anymore.”

  Harry laughs. It’s a soft, breathy chuckle, nothing like his normal happy laugh, but hearing it is worth the pain of knowing that we’re breaking up.

  “You’re tough,” he says. I kiss him on the forehead, which he doesn’t so much allow as endure. “If you change your mind, that’s okay.”

  “See you Tuesday,” I say.

  I don’t remember deciding to stand, but suddenly I’m on my feet. Mom takes this as her cue, and in a second she’s by my side. Our goodbyes feel absurdly formal and hurried. Mom cleans up the torn Red Vines and pockets the pieces, along with the abandoned package. When we’re halfway out the door, I look back at Harry. He’s staring out the window again.

  Mom waits until we return to the nurses’ station to take my hand and pull me in for a hug.

  “I’m so proud of you, mija,” she whispers, wrapping her arms around my shoulders. I close my eyes and breathe in her familiar smell of bergamot and vanilla. “I know how hard it is to see someone you love in pain.”

  “Do you think he’s going to be okay?” I ask her, pressing my face into her shoulder.

  She hesitates. “He seems determined to get well,” she says. “All you can do is be there for him, in the way that he needs you.” She pulls back and looks at me, smoothing my curls away from my forehead. “But you have to take care of yourself, too. You can’t be strong for anyone else if you neglect your own health.”

  I nod, thinking of my shoulder. Pushing it before I’d healed was so stupid. “I’ll be better,” I promise her. “I’ll do whatever Joan and Beth tell me to do. I’m done taking chances.”

  “I’m glad to hear it, but that’s not what I mean,” Mom says.

  “If this is about surgery, it’s too close to Trials—”

  Mom shakes her head. “What Harry has been going through made me realize that it’s long past time you had someone to talk to,” she says. “Someone you can confide in without worrying about being judged or seeming weak. Dad and I have been doing some research. We’re going to find you the right person, whatever it takes.”

  I expect to feel defensive, for the words I’m fine to leap off my tongue. But I’m relieved. The weight I’ve been carrying around on my back temporarily lifts, and for the first time in a very long time, I feel like I can breathe.

  “Thanks, Mom,” I say, hugging her tighter. “I love you.”

  “I love you, too,” she whispers.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  19 days until US Olympic Team Trials

  A LOCKER ROOM before a meet feels like one of the loudest places on the planet. Everyone’s revved up and excited to race, chatting and ye
lling and laughing like nothing could possibly be wrong in the world. But I don’t have the energy for any of it today. It’s my first competition since Battle of the Sexes, my shoulder hurts and Harry isn’t here.

  I dress silently in an empty corner—struggling into my tight suit, tucking my hair under my cap, adjusting my goggles. Nobody tries to talk to me. Rumors about Harry’s prolonged absence are flying through GAC, but I’ve made it clear that I’m not taking questions. Jessa’s pissed I won’t tell her anything, but I refuse to slake her thirst for gossip. The thought crosses my mind that she must miss having Amber here as much as I do, but I can’t fix that.

  After what happened at Battle of the Sexes, I should be nervous about today’s races. It’s a small meet with some local clubs, nothing major, but there’s no telling what’s going to happen in that pool. Will my shoulder hold up, or will it give out? This is my last chance to test it in competition before Trials. If the pain is too great, that’s it—I won’t be able to recover before Omaha.

  But I can’t get my head in the game. Swimming seems so pointless. What am I even doing here?

  All through warm-up, my body is on autopilot. I let it lead me through the sets, then climb out of the pool and curl up on a bench in my parka with the hood pulled down over my head. I don’t want to see or speak to anybody. I just want to swim and go home. My mind is miles away.

  When it’s time to step up onto the block, I feel myself shaking out my shoulders, swinging my arms to test the pain level of rotation, cracking my neck from side to side—all my normal prerace rituals. But it’s as if somebody’s operating me from afar. I don’t consciously decide to do anything. I’m preprogrammed, following a protocol that was coded into my limbs and muscles a long time ago.

  After I touch the wall, I don’t look up at the scoreboard to check my time. I know I came in first. I can tell from Beth’s relieved smile that I had a good race. I warm down as instructed, then crawl back into the comforting warmth of my parka and wait in silence for the meet to end.