Breath Like Water

by Anna Jarzab

  “We thought long and hard about what to get you as a memento of this moment,” Mom says. “I wanted it to be something you could carry with you, something you could wear, to be your armor or your badge of pride. A reminder of how far you’ve come, and everything you have to offer the world. But all the swimming stuff we looked at was ugly, so we had to get creative.”

  I laugh. I own a lot of swim swag and it is, for the most part, hideous.

  “Bees are a symbol of industry and commitment, determination and teamwork. I know it hasn’t always been easy, but you’ve given one hundred and fifty percent in the pursuit of excellence, day in and day out, year after year. You have fought and you have fallen and you have conquered and you have kept going, no matter what fate threw your way.”

  Until now, my tears have been relatively dignified, but I’m about to start sobbing all over the place from gratitude and embarrassment and fear of letting my parents down. I dig my fingernails into my palms in the hopes of stopping the floods. Bela notices and takes my hand, squeezing it tightly. I rest my head on her shoulder.

  “Words cannot express the feeling Dad and I get when we watch you swim,” Mom says. “It’s pride, of course, but something more, too. It’s faith. Faith in ourselves, that we were able to raise a girl who doesn’t let people tell her she can’t. Faith in you, that you will always fight for yourself, no matter how many times people try to make you think you’re not worthy of your own dreams. And faith in the world, that there is enough room in it for everyone who wants to achieve something great.”

  Mom’s getting choked up now, too. There are tears gathering in her eyes, which I can see through the tears in mine.

  “I don’t know what’s going to happen in Omaha, Susannah,” she says. “I can’t predict the future. I can only believe in you, and trust in all the wonderful things you’re made of. But I know you’re going to walk out of that pool the way you walk in—with your head held high, a heart full of pride, and the faith of your loving family draped across your strong and able shoulders.”

  She lifts her glass. “To my beautiful daughter—our beautiful dreamer—and her beautiful dream.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  US Olympic Team Trials—Day 1

  AFTER YEARS OF WAITING, Olympic Trials barrel down on me all at once, like a train that for so long appeared far off, then suddenly comes within inches of running you over. I can’t wrap my head around the fact that this is happening, that I’m here, but with every hour that passes, it becomes harder and harder to ignore reality.

  Chicago is close enough to Omaha that my family can drive, but I fly with Dave and the other GAC swimmers. It’s my first time on a plane since the flight back from Des Moines after I tore my shoulder, but it’s the one to Texas that I can’t stop thinking about, the way Harry gripped my hand, convinced we were going to crash. My mind inevitably wanders to what he might be doing now, if he’s paying attention to Trials, if he’ll watch me swim on TV. I resist the urge to text him when we land.

  I keep trying to tell myself that this is just another meet, but it’s impossible to ignore the evidence that it’s not. Usually, when I travel with GAC, the group is large and rowdy, but at Trials we’re a skeleton crew, each of us so tangled up in our own thoughts and anxieties that we’re quiet and subdued. Jessa is here, but we don’t say much to each other on the ride to the airport, or on the plane, or even as we’re waiting in the hotel lobby while Dave checks us all in.

  If this were any other meet, we would share rooms, and Jessa would probably be my roommate, but at Trials we each get our own. Jessa and I ride the elevator to the fourth floor together in silence. It’s not until we realize our rooms are right across the hall from each other that the ice thaws between us for an instant, and we both crack a smile.

  “It’s a good thing we’re not swimming in the same events or I’d be afraid you might kill me in my sleep,” Jessa jokes. “The proximity alone would make it hard to resist.”

  “That’s really more on brand for you, don’t you think?”

  She laughs. “I guess so. See you in the pool tomorrow?”

  “Probably. I don’t have much else going on,” I say with a playful shrug.

  She smiles at me, and I smile back. Our friendship might be waning, but I know that deep down Jessa wants what’s best for me—as long as it doesn’t get in the way of what’s best for her. In these final days, I hope we can get back some of the camaraderie we lost this year, and end up cheering for each other from the sidelines.

  “Good night, Jess,” I say, swiping my key card and pushing open the door to my hotel room.

  “Good luck, Soos,” she replies.

  * * *

  US Olympic Swimming Trials are ten days long, and the 200 IM prelims are two days from now. That’s a lot of waiting and watching other swimmers win or lose—let’s face it, mostly lose. Part of me would rather get it over with, but I need every practice and I’m lucky to have a few of those left.

  I recognize a lot of the swimmers here from meets and camps and teams throughout the years, but there’s nobody I’m particularly close to, so I spend most of my downtime before race day with my parents and Nina. The night before the prelims, we eat dinner at an Italian restaurant filled with what seems like all the major talents from the US swimming world—former Olympians, college hotshots, even some buzzy young superstars my own age. When I look around and realize who the host seated us next to, I almost fall out of my chair.

  “What’s wrong?” Dad asks when he sees my face. “You look like you swallowed a bug.”

  “That’s Darby Phillips,” I hiss, angling my head behind me in what I hope is a subtle way. Mom, Dad and Nina exchange puzzled looks. “She’s a three-time Olympic champion! She has seven golds, three silvers and a bronze. She’s probably the greatest female US swimmer in recent history, and she’s sitting five feet away from us.”

  “Really? You should ask for her autograph,” Dad suggests.

  I snort. “Uh, no.”

  “Why not? You might never have the opportunity again.”

  Nina makes a slashing motion across her throat. Mom smacks Dad on the arm and shoots him an I can’t believe you just said that glare.

  “I don’t mean that you’ll never go to Trials again,” Dad says. “I mean, you know, how often do you sit next to your idol at dinner?”

  “She’s not my idol,” I say, flushing with embarrassment. I hope Darby Phillips is too engaged in conversation with the people at her own table to overhear any of this. “I just think she’s great.”

  “How is that different?” Nina teases.

  “Well, if you’re not going to ask her, I will,” Dad says. And then, to my horror, he turns around and taps Darby Phillips on the shoulder.

  “Dad, no!” I cry, but it’s too late. She swivels to see who’s trying to get her attention.

  “Hi, Ms. Phillips?” Dad says. “My name is Hector Ramos, and this is my daughter Susannah.”

  He gestures to me and she smiles. Darby Phillips smiles at me. I feel like I’m going to pass out, or maybe throw up. Either way, it’ll be undignified.

  “Hi!” she says brightly. She doesn’t seem unnerved at all, and it occurs to me that this must happen to her a lot. I can’t help but wonder if it will ever happen to me.

  “Susannah is competing in the 200 IM,” Mom says proudly. “This is her first time at Trials.”

  “Mom!” I squeak. Why would Darby Phillips care about some silly kid who’s only swimming in one event, and probably won’t even make it to the finals?

  No, I tell myself, squashing the thought. You’re making it to the finals.

  “Congratulations,” Darby says. She sounds genuinely pleased for me. “I’m in the 200 IM, too.”

  Of course she is! She’s won two silvers and a gold in the event at previous Olympics.

  “That’s awesome,”
I say. What is wrong with my brain? I can barely form sentences, and everything I can think of to say is totally inane.

  I wish Harry were here, I think, feeling a sudden twinge of sadness.

  “Can Susannah have your autograph?” Nina asks, getting into the spirit of things—and by that, I mean my utter humiliation. She pulls a small notebook and pen out of her purse and shoves it in Darby’s direction. “It would mean a lot to her.”

  “I’m so sorry about this,” I whisper to Darby as she scrawls her name on a blank page of Nina’s notebook and hands it back to me. My parents and Nina turn to their menus and pretend they’re no longer paying attention.

  “Why? Your family is clearly proud of you,” Darby says.

  I smile. “Yeah. They are.”

  “Well, it was great meeting you,” Darby says, and starts to turn back around.

  “Wait—Ms. Phillips? Can I ask you a question?” I feel so stupid, but there’s something I want to know, and Dad’s right: if I don’t ask now, I’ll probably never get another opportunity.

  “Come on, call me Darby,” she says.

  “Okay. Darby.” I dig my nails into my palm. No fear, I tell myself. She’s just one of the best swimmers in the world. It’s no big deal. “How did you, like, do this? For so long? I mean, these are your fourth Olympic Trials—”

  “Fifth,” she says. “I didn’t make the team the first time.”

  “Your fifth Olympic Trials. And you had that back injury a while ago, and that bad case of mono...” I know everything about Darby Phillips’s swimming history. I’ve probably read every blog post and article that has been written about her. “Did you ever think about giving up?”

  Darby shrugs. “Of course. We all seriously consider quitting, like, once a week, don’t we?”

  I love the way she says we, like she and I are the same, even though she’s so far out of my league she might as well live on the moon.

  “If you want to do this for as long as I have, you’ve got to know the answer to two important questions. One: How hard are you willing to work? And two: Who’s got your back? Do you know the answers to those questions, Susannah?” Darby asks. She frowns. “It is Susannah, right?”

  “It is,” I say. I glance at my family, still hiding behind their menus. “And I think I do.”

  “Then you already have everything you need to get where you want to be,” Darby tells me. “The rest is just luck.”

  * * *

  Tuesday is my first competition day, with 200 IM prelims starting at ten a.m. and semifinals starting at six-forty-five p.m. If I don’t make it into the finals, which will be held on Wednesday night, Tuesday will also be my last competition day.

  So it’s no wonder I can’t sleep on Monday night, even though my body is exhausted. I can’t stop thinking about what Darby Phillips said. I know who’s got my back, but have I worked as hard as I possibly could? I could’ve practiced more. I could’ve taken better care of my shoulder. I could’ve trusted Beth earlier, started training with her as soon as she started at GAC. I could’ve followed my first instinct and never fallen in love with Harry.

  But I didn’t let myself fall in love with Harry—that would’ve happened no matter what. All I did was allow myself to act on my feelings, and I’m not sorry I did. Our relationship was one of the most important things in my life, not in a way that hurt my swimming but in a way that enhanced it. It feels so strange to be at this moment in my career alone, considering how much more difficult it would have been to get here without him.

  As we said our final goodbyes the night of Nash’s party, he pulled something out of his back pocket and handed it to me—my swimming notebook, the one he gave me for Christmas. There were several pages ripped out, but all the ones he’d faithfully recorded my times on were still there. When I’m feeling lost, I flip through it, watching the numbers diminish as my times got better, remembering where I started and how far I have come. But for Harry and Beth, I don’t know that I would be here—not only because they helped me, but because they believed.

  On the nightstand, my phone begins to vibrate—not with a text, but with an actual call. I get so few of those, especially at this hour, that it startles me. I grab the phone. As if by thinking about Harry I managed to summon him, it’s his name on the caller ID.

  I hold the phone for a second, not sure if I should answer it. I want so badly to talk to him about all the things I’m feeling right now, on this night before the biggest day of my career, but I’m also afraid it will throw me off balance. I’ve just started getting used to his absence. Will his momentary presence shake me in a way I can’t come back from by morning?

  But what if something bad has happened? What if he needs me?

  I answer. “Harry? Is everything okay?”

  At first, there’s no response, and my imagination immediately leaps to the worst-case scenario, remembering another day, another call, and everything that followed. But then I hear a voice—not Harry’s, but familiar nonetheless. Freddie Mercury’s voice croons through the speaker.

  I shut my eyes and let “We Are the Champions” wash over me. Halfway through the second verse, I hop out of bed, suddenly energized, and mouth the words into the phone like it’s a microphone. By the end of the song, my tangled curls are hanging in my face and I’m out of breath. I look at the phone and see that the call has finished.

  For a second, I’m disappointed, but Harry called to play me a pump-up jam tonight for a reason—he knows my races start tomorrow. Which means he’s paying attention to Trials.

  When I lie back down, sleep comes easy, because I know that no matter what happens, Harry will be watching.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  US Olympic Team Trials—Day 3

  DESPITE YEARS OF getting up at five a.m. for practice, I’m not much of a morning person. But on the day of a big competition my eyes always open before the sun is up and I’m unable to sleep after that. Today is no exception. I climb out of bed within seconds of waking and head to the bathroom to begin my race-day ritual with a shower, humming “We Are the Champions” as I go.

  I shave every last millimeter of hair off the parts of my body that will be exposed by my racing suit. When I’m finished, I stand in front of the mirror, wrapped in a towel, and braid my thick, curly hair into a tight plait to keep it from springing out all over the place and bunching up under my cap. At least, I try to braid my hair, but even though I don’t feel anxious or uneasy, my fingers are trembling too hard for me to do it right, so I leave it for now.

  I fasten the honeycomb necklace my parents gave me around my neck. I won’t be wearing it in the pool—no jewelry allowed, and anyway, I’d be worried about losing it—but I’ve gotten in the habit of touching it when I need reassurance, and I want to draw as much strength as possible from the reminder of my family’s love before I have to surrender it to swim.

  The hotel restaurant opens at six, so I head down for breakfast alone. My family won’t be up for hours yet, and I probably won’t see them until after finals tonight. As I leave my room, I notice a hotel employee heading toward Jessa’s room with a breakfast tray and curse myself for not thinking of that. But I don’t want to be cooped up in my room this morning. My muscles feel jittery with the need to move and breathe new air.

  I recognize a few swimmers in the restaurant, including—awkwardly—Darby Phillips, but I don’t speak to anyone. We smile and nod at each other in understanding and sit at separate tables. I order a large breakfast that’s protein-rich enough to get me through the morning, but not so heavy that it will weigh me down in the pool or make me nauseous.

  Back up in my room, I remember what’s convenient about having a roommate at away meets: there’s always someone to help you wriggle into your suit. Women’s racing suits are jammers that end a few inches above the knee, and they’re tight, to make the body more hydrodynamic. I’m standing in a bathrobe
and plotting how best to put it on without suffocating when someone knocks on my door.

  “Oh my God!” I cry when I see Beth. “What are you doing here?”

  “We had to apply for our coach badges months ago,” Beth tells me, stepping into my room and closing the door. “I did a lot of the admin stuff for Dave, so I thought it might not have occurred to him to cancel mine. Sure enough...” She holds up the badge around her neck for me to see.

  “Guess it serves him right,” I say, hugging her. “It’s so good to see you. Can you please help me get into this suit?”

  Once I’m dressed and have tamed my hands enough to braid my hair, Beth leaves, wishing me good luck and promising I’ll see her in the coaching area.

  “If Dave doesn’t like it, that’s his problem,” she says. “I’m going to watch my swimmer swim.”

  “Yeah, you are,” I say, feeling buoyant with excitement where before there was only a strange sort of weary dread. I’m ready for this race. Even more than that—I’m looking forward to it.

  * * *

  There are one hundred and thirty women competing in the 200 IM at Trials, split into twelve heats for the prelims. According to the official Trials psych sheet, my qualifying time means I’m seeded fifteenth. This may be my first time at Trials, but I’m not unaware that even this relatively high rank means I’m not guaranteed to make it to the finals. The eighth-place finisher in the women’s 200 IM finals four years ago came into Trials seeded eleventh, and she had the lowest seed in that group.

  That reality sank in long ago. Today, I’m going to defy it.

  I’ve been assigned to the second to last heat, so I spend most of the morning at the warm-up pool, loosening up my muscles and testing out my shoulder. Thanks to Joan, it’s in pretty good working order. I don’t know if it’ll ever stop hurting entirely, but I feel strong and capable, which is all I can ask for after so grievous an injury so late in the game. Dave is remarkably calm as he puts me through my paces, and when I climb out of the pool, he pats me on the back and smiles.