The Sea of Light

by Levin, Jenifer

  No good. Cold creeps down my. spine. Under white lights the pool glitters blue. Over the intercom, this blaring metallic voice announces lane assignments, names, school teams. I try not to listen.

  THIS IS THE 100-METER BREASTSTROKE. TWO LENGTHS OF THE POOL.

  Yes, sure. Two. Thank you very much. In case I forget?

  I lean, roll a little on the balls of my feet, trying too hard and I know it. No good. Screw all this for today, huh? Let’s call the whole thing off.

  The beep sounds like a mini-cannon. Dives, dives. I get off the block too late and know it. My timing’s shot from the word go and I know it. Plus, lately, my walls have begun to just suck. The first and only one’s still too far away.

  Spectator shouts roar to the high ceiling, an indistinguishable echo. In the bright-lit pool, bodies glide. This is the slowest stroke, the oldest stroke. It may appear to the observer to be a manifestation of perfect ease and grace, but from the inside when you do it all out, as perfectly and as fast as you can, when you do it to win then you look monstrous surging out of the water, a creature from some dark lagoon with foreign bug-goggle eyes. It wrenches every fiber of every muscle and it burns you all up with effort so that when you touch the wall to finish you have forgotten how to breathe, have forgotten everything but the naked agonized rasp in your empty lungs and heart. The 100 demands such complete control, so much raw strength. Yet the entire event will be finished in a little more than a minute. If you think about it, it seems unfair.

  That’s what I trained for every day since the age of six. Fifteen years. Two workouts a day including holidays, unless I was sick or tapering.

  Television cameras pan to a ceiling shot. Announcers’ voices pipe in louder than the shouts and echoes. All those experts, media talking heads, pretty faces whose agents have bartered with networks for their few minutes of air time. Their voices and comments will blare out to thousands of homes while I’m swimming—while I’m failing—voices I will hear later, cringing, because someone has thoughtfully recorded it all for me on videotape.

  “Uh-oh. It looks like Babe Delgado’s off to a slow start, John.”

  “That’s right, Bill. She’s a little late off the block with that dive. Now, she is the top-seeded swimmer in the final here of the women’s hundred-meter breaststroke—that means she came into this heat as the fastest qualifier. But if you’ve followed the career of this young lady, you know that she’s had some trouble maintaining a high level of performance this year and last—”

  “That’s right, John. Her performance has been erratic. You’re the expert! What accounts for this kind of slump?”

  “Well, Bill, it’s difficult to say. These kids train so hard for so long, you’ve almost got to expect it sooner or later. Who knows? Something’s got to give. But, believe me—and I went through this myself!—if you’re a true champion, you come back stronger than ever.”

  “Well put, John. Now they’re approaching the halfway point of the women’s hundred-meter breaststroke final, here in Indianapolis. Oh! You can see that quite a race has developed between Penny Johnson of Stanford—she’s in lane three in the middle of your television screen—and Martie Rourke of the University of Florida, in lane one. Martie is from Australia, but she goes to school and trains in the States—and if she can take this final, here in Indianapolis, what a surprise it will be!”

  “That’s right, Bill. Martie swims with the Australian national team. And it’s a testament to the toughness of this competition, to the high quality of the field here in Indianapolis today, that Australia’s national champion in this event could qualify no better than second to last. These kids are fast.”

  “It looks like Babe Delgado is back in the race now, John!”

  “Well, Bill, she’s playing catch-up right now. She can see Penny Johnson next to her in lane three, and she knows that she has to make up at least that half a length to beat her—see her looking over now! You never do that in the hundred, never! Babe Delgado has got to be a worried young lady at this moment!”

  “It looks like she’s pulling even with Penny Johnson, though! But she can’t really see what’s going on over in that first lane there—that’s at the top of your television screen—can she, John?”

  “No Bill, she can’t. And that’s going to cost her right now, as she gives it everything she’s got. We’re coming into the final ten meters of this race. Remember that these kids are dead tired now, Bill. This is the part of the race where nobody has anything left. This is what separates the men from the boys—excuse me!—these are girls down there, aren’t they? But I can tell you from my own experience, a champion digs down deep at this point and comes up with the goods.”

  “Tell me, John, do you think Babe Delgado will come up with the goods?”

  “Hard to say, Bill.”

  “There she is in lane four, Babe Delgado of Southern University, which is one of this country’s big collegiate swimming powers, John—”

  “You can say that again.”

  “Will she make it? Oh! She’s neck and neck with Martie Rourke, over in lane one at the top of your screen, and she’s passed Penny Johnson!”

  “Yes! But Penny is coming back! It’s down to the last couple of meters here, it’s going to be one-two-three for these three talented girls, Bill. And they touch the wall!”

  “And here we have the final results, John—what a surprise this is! In first place is Martie Rourke, the plucky Australian from the University of Florida, who actually came into this final with one of the slowest qualifying times!”

  “That’s right, Bill. And it just goes to show you what sheer willpower can do. Martie Rourke was just not expected to win here today. She had the disadvantage of coming into this race with one of the slowest qualifying times—which meant she was over against the wall in lane one, and that’s a disadvantage to a swimmer. I know what that’s like.”

  “I’m sure you do, John. Can we see some more results on the board here—yes, there we go!”

  “Right, Bill. As you can see, Babe Delgado, who used to be the American record holder in this event, hung on to pass Penny Johnson for second place. But the time is not particularly impressive.”

  “No, John, that’s right. That’s not a fast winning time—in fact, they were all way off record pace. Now, Martie Rourke, the winner of the women’s hundred-meter breaststroke final here in Indianapolis, swims at the University of Florida, but she competes internationally for Australia. So that still makes Babe Delgado the top American woman in this event here today.”

  “Right, Bill. But Babe Delgado cannot be happy with her performance here today, and she cannot be happy with that time! It does look like she’s having another bad year. Now the question really is, will she qualify for the Olympic Trials next summer at all? Two years ago she was the American record holder. But it just goes to show you how quickly things change in this sport. If I was Babe Delgado right now, Bill, I’d sit myself down and do some serious thinking.”

  “And you can see that Bart Sager, the coach at Southern, isn’t very pleased.”

  “No, Bill, you’re right about that. Bart Sager expects his swimmers to win. But I’ll tell you, if I was heading for the Pan Am Games or the Olympic Trials, I’d want someone like Sager in my corner. I would say that he and Babe Delgado have some talking to do!”

  “Well, that concludes our coverage of the women’s hundred-meter breaststroke final, here in Indianapolis. As a disappointed Babe Delgado, the former American record holder in this event, gets out of the pool. Coming up we have the final of the men’s four-hundred-meter freestyle. But first let’s pause for a word from our sponsors.”

  There’s that dangerous squirm of the muscles, numb and electric, moving under the skin like sacks of worms. I can’t feel anything yet though and when I stop fighting to breathe I pull myself out somehow, walk dripping across the wet tiles to where he’s waiting. No color left on me any more. I feel how pale I’ve become, almost as pale as him.

  �
�I’m sorry.”

  “You’re sorry?”

  “Yes, I’m sorry. I blew the dive—”

  “I know you blew the dive.”

  “But it’s my walls—”

  “What do you mean, your walls? What’s wrong with your walls? There’s nothing wrong with your walls!”

  He shifts from foot to foot, helplessly furious, ringlets of icicle hair plastered against his forehead. His face is broad and handsome, glaring down.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Why is it like that, my mind stuck on two words like a record with needle grooved into one track, seems everything these days is a constant apology. And I’m sick of it all. Sick of the water. Of Kemo Sabe, Mister Pale Face here. The whole team. Sick of myself.

  “You’re sorry. I’m sorry. If you want to get to the Trials you’re going to have to qualify, you know.”

  “I know. I know.”

  “Good. Then we all know. Go on, go relax. Take a shower. We’ve got relays coming up. You are planning on doing the medley relay, aren’t you? Well, I want you to hit that dive. I want you to nail it. Go think about it.”

  “All right.”

  “Go think about it.”

  On my way out to go think about it Hedenmeyer grabs me, smiling. I pull away. His forearms are thick, naked and red where he shaved off all the hair.

  The row of bathroom stalls is deserted. I head for the farthest one and throw up. But what comes out is just colorless liquid, clear and pure. Later I walk past the recovery room to the far side of the lockers and sit on a bench, wrap myself in a towel, try to stop shivering.

  “Yo, Babe.”

  Her hand gently guides my head, presses it against a Lycra belly. Liz tugs each ear, strokes my hair.

  “You going to shave all this off for the Trials?”

  “What Trials?”

  “Come on, doll, they didn’t name you Mildred for nothing, right? Don’t worry about it! You crying?”

  “No.” I glance up at the laughing eyes. “I’m all right.”

  ‘‘Just don’t worry, Babe.”

  “I’ll be okay. Really. Really and truly, cross my heart.”

  “Okay. Okay. I’ve got the two-hundred coming up, gotta go.”

  “Well for Christ’s sake, go then. Don’t worry about me.”

  “Who’s worrying, Mildred, God. It’s like, I just want you on the fucking relay with me next summer, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  To please her, I laugh.

  “Don’t listen to him, Babe. He’s a jerk.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. Kemo Sabe him stupid, lotta smoke, no wampum. He’s just jerking off. Everybody else knows you. I mean, you can deal, right? Just remember.”

  “Go on. Go on for the two, then.” I squeeze her hand and push her away, half-crying, half-grinning, watch her walk out to do the thing no one beats her at. Call to her, “Hey. Good luck. Like, kick butt, part the waters, make them eat dog meat, you monster.”

  She turns to blow a kiss.

  Delgado!

  In the dark I rock back and forth, close the eyes and lose them all, spin dizzy without moving, open eyes and hear them again:

  Delgado!

  Swing the bag in one hand, red, blue, gold trim around embossed letters: SOUTHERN—THE BIG U. It’s heavy with wet towels, wrung-out racing suits, soap and shampoo and skin cream.

  Delgado!

  Look around. The empty stands have a worn, desperate feel. Shift the bag from hand to hand, pace. The pool sparkles, golden-lit, new. But the walls are as tired as the city itself. Ceiling lights bleach them of stains.

  Up near the ceiling the electronic timer displays multiple zeroes. Zero. That is you, Delgado. Bunny rabbit. Tonto. The great American hero.

  There’s a bus waiting, but Sager isn’t even in it yet and it will wait a while longer. Close eyes and turn around, move in a slow and leisurely dance. Now, no tension. Now loose and full of grace. All at the wrong time. Off today, boy were you off today, Delgado.

  But I pulled out whatever was there for the relay, didn’t I? Nailed that dive. Because, like she says, we are special. So we ought to have whatever we want. Anything. Just reach out to touch. Reach out. And take it.

  “Babe? Babe!”

  It sounds through the door. A thin whisper and faint rapping sound, tiny fist against wood.

  “Ba-abe!”

  I freeze. Dark spins. All the bleachers gone, the lights and people and splashing gone, gone the smell of chlorine, of soggy things crushed against the bottom of a bag, echo of sneakers squishing pool decks and bus gears grinding through downtown cities for the airport. Liz and Kenny gone. Kemo Sabe gone. Alone in my room in the dark, sweating terribly, out of shape, sound frozen in my throat while Teresa knocks on the door insistently whispering my name.

  “Hey, Babe!”

  It’s like my heart’s trying to get out through my chest. I fumble along the wall for the light and flick it again, remember to breathe once, twice, try to still the shaking of hands and legs, run a shirtsleeve over my face. I open the door.

  Teresa stands there looking up. Her pajamas are buttoned all wrong—one hole empty at the top, an extra button undone at the bottom. She alone can make me smile. Her hair is soft, caught between hallway shadows and the sure yellow light of the room, half of it is black, half a shimmering gold. She blinks, pouty lips trembling.

  “Babe, what’s wrong?”

  “Wrong? Nothing’s wrong.”

  “Yes it is. I heard you talking.”

  “Talking?”

  “Yes. Like you were talking to somebody—were you? But there’s nobody here.”

  “Me? No. Oh, no.” I kneel, run a hand through my hair and steady myself until for a moment things feel almost okay, all right enough, anyway, to touch my little sister’s shoulder, touch her cheeks gently. “Listen, Toots, it’s nothing. You had a bad dream.”

  “But I heard—”

  “Forget about it, Toots. You see anyone here now?”

  The dark eyes run cautiously around the room, uncertain. When they meet mine they’re confused—makes me feel incredibly guilty.

  “No,” she says finally, puzzled. “No, I don’t.”

  “Well then, there isn’t anyone else, okay? So you don’t have to worry. Everything’s fine.”

  Sure, Delgado, it’s all just swell. Just as fine and swell as it can be.

  I pick Teresa up and stand. Both shoulders ache, pain shoots along the left rib cage, across the groin, jets through both knees.

  To what do you owe your longevity, champ?

  To drugs. And surgery.

  I kick the pain off, kick away memories, hug my sister closely so that her soft little-girl hair crushes against my cheek. It’s calming, very gentle and sweet.

  “Come on, Toots, let’s put you to bed,”

  “I don’t want to go!”

  “Shhh! What if they all wake up? Come on, I’ll read to you if you like—”

  “How come you get to stay up all the time?”

  “Because I’m afraid to sleep.”

  “That’s bullshit.”

  It’s not but I give a laugh anyway. Step into the hall carrying Teresa, nudge the bedroom door closed behind and move slowly with this burden, soles silent against the thick wall-to-wall carpet, silent under the ticking grandfather clock that’s been in my mother’s family for generations—since the time they were forced to free their slaves, or something like that.

  “You want me to read to you?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you want me to read?”

  ‘The Cat and the Rat.”

  On my shoulder the kid’s dark hair is messy, floats around her face like a halo in the dim glow of nightlight, and I tuck her in.

  “All right, Toots, I’ll read for a while. But then you have to go to sleep.”

  “It isn’t fair.”

  “What isn’t fair?”

  “It just isn’t.”

  The lampshades on h
er dresser are decorated with happy clowns and rabbits that have pink noses and these perpetually cheerful grins. I turn one lamp on and search the floor for books, find The Cat and the Rat, then read quietly for a while until I give a glance sideways sitting there on the edge of Teresa’s bed and see that she’s about to doze off, lips parting, eyelids sagging, hint of a snore in each breath, one more page will do it.

  “‘I say,’ said the Rat, ‘it’s getting almost impossible to live in this house with that mean old Cat!’”

  That’s the ticket. Turn the page but she’s already asleep, drooling a little onto the pillow. Her face is smooth and innocent. I turn out the dresser lamp when I leave.

  *

  The light in my room is still on. For a moment I’m grateful. Then I hate the light and the stark flat way it shows my face in the mirror. Fat, Delgado, you are fat. Big fat paleface, I mean totally out of shape.

  The day washes up through the hole, floods over. Closet beckons once more feebly but the plea is too weak this time, I am too tired to listen. So I do the usual: Head for bed and kick off my shoes and snap a bedside lamp on before turning the overhead off, grab a thick novel from the shelf and crack it open, slide under the covers fully dressed. Just get into that empty blank place, Delgado, that place deep inside the hole where there is nothing—no thought, no image, no feeling or memory.

  There, yes. You can do it automatically now.

  And you can deal, right?

  This thick book sits uselessly next to me on the bed. A decoy. In case my dad pokes his head in and sees me, he’ll think I fell asleep reading, too tired to turn off the light. How many mornings have I fooled him like that? Kept the eyes closed, pretending? Too many to count.

  The day swarms up and out, sick flood in my guts.

  What did I promise Brenna Allen? To try? And accepted a free ride?

  What I want now is to erase the promises and signatures as if they never were, take everything back and say, See, I can’t possibly do any of this, it has all been a terrible mistake, I am sorry. But I sat there over lunch instead, even managed to make some kind of small talk. Sat there in the office with the good calm lights and shelves stocked with books, took a black pen in my hand and signed a letter of intent. All these things I did, for real. Like, it’s going to be so easy.