The Insomniacs

by Marit Weisenberg

  “Whew!”

  “Yeah. It’s so fast but at the same time, if you’re not patient and you make the next move one tenth of a second too early or tense up, well…”

  “It sounds scary. You have to be so brave. Do you ever feel fear?”

  “You can’t think about it.”

  “How do you do that?”

  “By knowing what I’m going to do. You never know how a dive is going to go but you know how to deal with it. If I mess up, I know how to hip out. Which means I push my hips forward and that positions me away from the board and I avoid getting hurt.”

  “But you didn’t do that this last time.”

  I scanned his face for judgment but his eyes were kind, even though his words were blunt. “No.” I glanced down at a tiny hole in the knee of my jeans and recrossed my ankles, moving my gaze to my checkerboard-patterned Vans. “I must have been slightly distracted. I was so confident nothing like that would happen. That I wouldn’t tense up. I was too confident, I guess, and I got reckless.”

  “What about now? Are you having trouble trusting yourself after the accident?”

  Every part of me fought against admitting out loud that this was precisely the case.

  “Coach Mike says you just have to believe you can fix the problem,” I said lamely.

  “You told me what you love about diving. What do you like least about it? Beside hitting your head, obviously.” Dr. Garcia doodled a little on the pad of paper in front of him.

  “The pressure.”

  “Competition?”

  “The college-scholarship thing.” This was safer ground. Everyone was stressed about college scholarships. “There aren’t very many full scholarships in diving because diving programs are so small compared to swimming. You can fit, what, ten swimmers in a lane and pool time is expensive. And the colleges have to make sure they give the scholarships to the right people who can perform so their programs keep getting funded.”

  “What are your hopes and dreams when it comes to diving? Do you see yourself going to the Olympics like other members of your family?”

  “No. I mean, when I was young I dreamt about it, especially when I watched the Olympics. I want a full scholarship. It’s what I’ve been working for.”

  “What would that mean to you? Besides getting into college and having it paid for. Which is not a small thing at all.”

  “It’s been the goal since I started diving. Whether I knew it or not.”

  “That’s a lot of pressure.”

  “It’s also given my life a purpose.” I made a face. “I know that would sound insulting to my friends who have more normal lives.”

  “How have you been doing on the sidelines these past couple of weeks?”

  I settled on, “April of my junior year is just about the worst time to be out with an injury.”

  “Mike told me,” Dr. Garcia said gently. “I’m sorry.”

  Again, I tried to look anywhere but his eyes but there were zero distractions in the bare room.

  “Okay, let’s chat a little bit about what we’re going to try to do today.”

  It was a long process for Dr. Garcia to take my history and run me through how the treatment worked. Again and again, he said this was unusual, that he usually worked with clients for at least three sessions before using the therapy. But since we knew we were targeting a very specific event we could try the therapy today.

  “While you think about the accident, follow the movement of my finger from left to right, right to left with your eyes. You can think of it a little like REM sleep. In REM sleep, your eyes move back and forth and there’s a theory that that’s how you process the events of the day. In sleep, the movement is involuntary of course, but we can re-create that here.

  “I’m going to begin. You follow my finger. Your only job is to be present. You may notice other thoughts, other memories, the movement of your eyes. Just be curious about what comes up.”

  I watched his finger. I wasn’t scared because, honestly, it seemed like a very easy way for a therapist to make money. But I participated. I tried to focus on the memory of the accident.

  But, instead of the memory of my dive, a different recollection spun into my mind. I began to relive a morning from seven years before.

  I was upstairs in my bedroom, jumping up and down to get into a pair of jeans, wondering why no one had bothered to wake me. Every Saturday morning, I wanted to sleep in, but instead my dad took me with him on a long walk (which I hated). At the end, we would stop at the convenience store and he’d buy me a jumbo-size candy of my choice. He’d hold my hand on the walk and when we got home, we’d play backgammon before he got back on his computer to work.

  I wandered downstairs to the empty kitchen. The coffee maker hadn’t been started but the sun was bright. I knew my dad was back in town for the weekend, as usual, because I’d heard the garage door the night before, signaling his arrival from the airport. A bunny decoration I’d made sat on the table alongside a bouquet of daffodils. Other than a few pieces of my artwork, it looked like only adults lived in our house compared to neighbors’ and friends’ houses. Wilson once said my house looked like a space-age airport lounge.

  My parents’ footsteps came down the stairs. My dad was dressed up, like he had a meeting. My mom trailed after him, still in her pajamas. I’d never seen her face look the way it did—shell-shocked. I stopped moving when I saw it. Just like my mom stopped moving for a second when she saw me.

  “Ingrid, go to your room. Now.”

  “Why?”

  When he saw me, my dad said something harshly under his breath but I didn’t catch it. He walked past me, into the kitchen, and unplugged a phone charger from the wall and zipped it into his sleek black backpack.

  My heart started hammering.

  “Wait. Let’s sit down and tell her,” my mom said.

  From the kitchen doorway, I watched my dad stalk down the hall to the front door.

  “You are such an asshole,” my mom called after him. I’d never heard my mom say that before.

  My dad continued to ignore her. He swung his backpack over his shoulder.

  “Where are you going?” I called after him.

  “The airport,” my mother said after a long silence. She’d stopped barking at me to go to my room. She stood next to me and rested a hand on my shoulder.

  “You’re going back to Los Angeles?” I asked in a loud voice so he could hear me, so disappointed.

  “No. He’s leaving, honey.”

  “Elsa.” That was all he said. Like he wanted my mother to do something with me. That was when I realized he wouldn’t look at me.

  “Ingrid, he’s moving out.” My mom stated it bluntly.

  “But you live here,” I said to my dad.

  I noticed the two large suitcases sitting in front of the door. Then, my dad grabbed a small painting off the wall. It occurred to me later that it was as if he’d just had the thought that it would look great in his other home.

  “When are you coming back?” My dad’s handsome face was becoming blurry. Realizing he was almost out the door, I ran to him.

  “Go to your mother.”

  “Ingrid. Come with me, honey,” my mom said.

  “No.” I grabbed my dad’s hand. He shook it off.

  “Elsa,” he said to my mother. “Get her.”

  When he flung open the door, there was a black sedan idling in our driveway.

  My dad stepped out and managed to half close the door before I stopped it with my foot. I followed him and my mom followed me.

  Max, Wilson, and Van were already out playing in the cul-de-sac. Ingrid! Van shouted. They’d set up a small soccer goal. They kept yelling for me, gesturing at me to come over and even out the teams. My mom started to cry, maybe because she had given up trying to stop me, and she let me walk down the driveway to be as close to my dad as possible as he handed his bags to the driver. The boys stared. My mom came to stand next to me and reached out at air, as if to grab
my dad, to pull him back to yesterday when he was still a part of us. But he was done. He got in the car, closed the door, and they pulled away.

  My mom held me in a vise-like grip, tight against her side. In a voice I’d never heard, she said, “Don’t let him see you cry. I’ve got you.”

  He was there and then he was gone. And everything I thought I knew was wrong.

  The finger stopped moving. “Okay.” Dr. Garcia sat back. “What did you notice?”

  It was like Dr. Garcia had stopped too abruptly and pulled me out of the memory wrong. I felt half in and half out of that time. I had a terrible metallic taste in my mouth.

  When I refocused on Dr. Garcia, my only thought was, I am never, ever doing this shit again.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  SUNDAY, APRIL 17

  When I got home, I was still in a fog and heavy with a feeling I could only describe as dread.

  I placed my head down on my folded arms at the kitchen counter. Why would I ever want to remember what it felt like when my dad left? I was perfectly functional when I didn’t dwell on it. The only way out was through.

  I was interrupted by insistent knocking on the front door. Worried the noise would wake my mom from her nap, I rushed from the kitchen to open it.

  Mike stood on my doorstep. He was wearing a ragged pink polo; light blue, worn-in jeans; and flip-flops. He hadn’t given me any warning that he was coming over.

  “Hey, I just wanted to check in, see how therapy went?”

  He appraised me intently. For a second, I had a glimmer of him standing on the deck below, the last time I was on the diving board. My head still pounded and Mike’s visit felt surreal, as if he were a mirage the way my dad had been in the memory. I didn’t feel like myself at all since the session.

  “But that’s supposed to be confidential.” It slipped out of my mouth and definitely sounded slightly snotty and I wasn’t sure where it came from. I wanted to slap myself to wake up. From the slight rear-back of his head, I could tell I’d caught Mike off guard.

  I was immediately uncomfortable. I’d never, ever spoken to an adult like that. “You know what I mean. I just didn’t think people told their coaches what went on in their therapy sessions.”

  Mike took a moment to respond, and then, as if he were carefully choosing his words, he said, “I think that might be the case if it was about your personal life, not about performance.”

  Over Mike’s shoulder, I saw Van’s 4Runner zoom into his driveway.

  “Ingrid!”

  I jumped.

  “Are you paying attention to what I’m saying?”

  Oh god. I realized Mike had been talking and I’d spaced out.

  “Sorry. I was just distracted by my neighbor.”

  Mike automatically turned to see where I had been looking. Van was slowly unloading his car and making no bones about watching us curiously from across the street. His arms were full with a large box, cords dangling over the side, and Van knocked his hip against the driver’s-side door to close it. He sauntered toward the front entrance of his house, looking at us one more time over his shoulder.

  “Isn’t that Caroline’s boyfriend?” Mike asked, still watching Van.

  “Yes. Ex-boyfriend. He lives across the street. Would you like to come in?” I took a step back.

  While I’d been over to Mike and Laura’s dozens of times over the years—to study diving video; for dinner; I’d even been a guest at Laura’s law school graduation party—Mike had only been over to my house one time before. That felt like ages ago and also like it had gone by in one second. I could still picture a younger Mike, perched on the living room sofa, hands clasped and elbows on knees, attempting to woo my mom with his enthusiasm for my potential and vision for my future. He was aggressively building his program and had seen me at the pool with my father.

  Mike turned back to face me but made no move to come in. “Anyway, you got out of there so quickly. I was afraid you didn’t want to be around at practice, that you’re dodging the water. Hey kid, if you choose to be at home, I want you doing everything we’re doing during the dryland workout but double it.”

  “Of course.” A garage door down the street shuttered loudly as it rolled up. Four small kids on scooters clamored out and began riding in our direction. They stopped in the middle of the cul-de-sac, blocking my view of Van’s.

  “If your core weakens…” Mike didn’t continue the troubling thought. “I know you don’t feel one hundred percent post-injury but, remember, pain is weakness leaving the body.”

  I didn’t want to hear his warnings because I knew how right he was. My core was undoubtedly weaker and would affect my ability to snap. I was swearing to myself that from here on out my workout regimen would be my primary focus, when Coach Mike said gently, “How about coming to practice tomorrow?”

  I was having trouble hearing Mike over the din of the kids in the street. “To watch? For dryland?” I asked.

  “No. To dive. It’s time.”

  My entire body locked up.

  I watched Van come back out of the house and walk to his car again. I started, “But the doctor—”

  “Every coach cuts that time in half.”

  My eyes darted to Mike’s. He had me backed into a corner. What was my problem? Why couldn’t I just do what he said?

  “Okay? Sound like a plan?” Mike asked, waiting for my agreement.

  I either had to dive tomorrow or tell Mike now about the mental block. But once I told him, there would be no going back to how things were between us before the accident.

  It was perfect timing when my mom came up behind me, slightly disheveled from her nap.

  “Mike!” she said, surprised. “Would you like to come in?”

  “Elsa.” Mike took a step back. He held out his hand to shake my mother’s. “No, thanks. I was nearby and wanted to check on Ingrid. I was telling Ingrid, I think she’s ready to practice tomorrow.”

  My mom shook her head. “I’m going to side with the doctor.” My muscles instantly relaxed. I resisted the urge to step behind her.

  Mike smiled. “Got it. Okay, we’ll take the time. Take as much as you need.” His voice was sincere though he obviously didn’t agree with what he was saying.

  “Let’s start managing expectations, though. It’s going to be hard to come back after a month. It just will be. You can’t expect to perform as well at Nationals as you have because it’s coming up soon. But that’s okay. There’s next year, and you can even take an additional year after high school.”

  The tough-love approach had launched me into the beginnings of a full-fledged panic. But when I heard Coach Mike’s softer, more hands-off plan, it was clear that it was the far scarier one.

  “Thanks, Mike. We’ll see how she feels.” Oh my god, he’d even gotten my steely mother to waver.

  Then, in a moment I knew would stick with me for the rest of my life, Mike looked to me and said, “Ingrid, you won’t always be the girl who has endless potential.”

  Mike gave both of us a wave and headed down the concrete path.

  When he was out of earshot, I turned to my mom. “I can’t believe he said that! You won’t always be the girl who has endless potential.”

  My mom was looking after Mike as he walked to his car. “Don’t worry. That was more about him. He’s having a baby. He sees his path narrowing.”

  I watched Mike get into his beat-up gray hatchback smattered with peeling diving stickers, always somewhat surprised that someone I thought of as a god had such a crappy car.

  * * *

  Later that night, my mom called me from her shift, something she rarely did.

  “Honey.” She sounded breathy, like she was glad she’d caught me. It was 11 P.M. but she didn’t ask why I was still up. “I forgot something.”

  “Sure. What is it?”

  “Do you mind moving some money for me? My credit card gets automatically paid at midnight.”

  I wanted to explain that she could do it f
rom her phone but she probably didn’t have the time or energy to figure it out while she was working.

  “Of course. Just tell me your password.” I put down the canister of cashews I’d been working my way through for dinner and cradled the phone between my ear and shoulder while I washed my hands. I dried them on my jeans and then opened her ancient laptop that sat on the kitchen table. Folding one leg under me, I brought up the website for her bank.

  “It’s ‘Outpost2330,’” my mom said. The address of the house I knew she’d once lived in, high in a canyon in Los Angeles.

  “Okay.” I took my cell phone back in hand while I waited for the screen to display my mom’s account information. “Your computer is slow,” I said. I could feel her impatience, various sounds of the Labor and Delivery ward behind her, equipment trills and voices.

  “I know. I need to jump. Just move seventeen hundred into checking. Actually, make it seventeen hundred and fifty. Okay?”

  “Got it.”

  “Honey?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I appreciate it.”

  “Anytime,” I said but she was already off the line. I smiled into the phone. There would always be something in my mom’s voice that made me feel safe.

  When the numbers of the accounts appeared on the screen, the reassurance fell away.

  I was surprised my mom had let me see this. Or maybe she thought it was time for me to see it. I moved the seventeen hundred into the checking account that now contained more money than the savings account. I’d remembered the lone fifty dollars and moved that quickly as well.

  I leaned back in the kitchen chair and watched my thumbnail dig into the tabletop, the smallest of details coming into hyper-focus. This wasn’t a joke. We were walking on thin ice and I was becoming a person who ignored all the warning signs like a child.

  I replaced the laptop near the thin row of glossy cooking magazines from a bygone era. The one facing out was titled Outdoor Entertaining. Next to the magazines was a stack of bills, stamped and ready to be mailed. The top envelope was payment to my diving club.

  Outside the wind blew through the overgrown trees and a branch scraped at the kitchen window like a gnarled witch’s finger, pointing at me to get my shit together.