The Sea of Light

by Levin, Jenifer

  I run a hand through her hair. She was calm before, for a while, almost drowsy. Now, though, she’s begun shivering. It is arousing, a little frightening—to be here, rolled against the length of her body; I’ve done it all by instinct and, by instinct, my thigh moves between both of hers and is trapped by the flesh and by shivering muscles. I feel the dampness there, warm surge of elation cutting through me. Because I’m sure of her satisfaction; I rode it and felt it and heard it myself, with each muffled cry. But this shivering pains me.

  “Babe, Babe. What is it?”

  “Don’t know.” She grits her teeth. Laughs sharply, nervously. “Nothing.”

  “No way—it’s something.”

  “Yeah.” She sweats, mocks Brenna Allen: “Truth is in the body, and the body does not lie—”

  “Okay, ace. So tell me the truth.”

  “You want to know?”

  “I want to know.”

  “It feels like dying. It’s like, you lose yourself in this cloud, this light.” She sobs, bites her hand. “And, I mean, I told myself, in the hospital, you know, that I wouldn’t any more. Never again. Never again. No more flip turns. No more love. I mean, God, Ellie! I don’t want to die!”

  She rolls away, sobbing and shaking, and I hold her close, stroke her hair and face and back, tell her comforting things, but it doesn’t work, she isn’t listening. Pain fills me like an empty canteen. What I wished for her all along, was only joy and pleasure; what I wanted for myself, all along, was to give her more and more—weird and funny, I thought, to start out so full of needing, to wind up so full of giving—like what would really, really thrill me, I found out, was her wanting and her satisfaction. But now she’s telling me that it feels like death. Now, it is making her cry.

  “Oh, Babe, I’m really sorry.”

  I whimper it against her back. Then I start crying, too. Until, crying softly, emptied out, dismal and exhausted and drained and confused, both of us doze off, and get some rest.

  *

  When I wake up, it seems darker. She is flat on her back holding me gently against her, eyes wide open, gazing at the ceiling. She smooths hair away from my face. Not shivering any more. There’s a quiet in her body, calm in each motion. I look up at her, afraid; but she catches my eye, and smiles.

  “Your face is so pretty, Ellie. Sometimes, you know, I used to close my eyes and imagine kissing it—you.”

  “You did?”

  “Sure. What do you think?”

  She grins broadly, fully; there’s mischief in the grin, and a big, happy, relaxed joking feel to her that I’ve never known before. Suddenly, everything is changed. I mean, here I was, a while ago, dozing off filled with misery and desperation and a tangible sense of failure; but now, just because she is grinning, the weight seems lifted. So that I smile, too, and am flooded with pure delight.

  “Tell me, Ellie—do you do this often?”

  “Sure,” I lie. “But only with a chosen few.”

  She is childlike, winking, teasing. “Well, you are one of the chosen people.”

  “Mmmm. You too. I mean, if I was Castro, I would have paid your family to leave.”

  “He practically did. And at the Bay of Pigs, you know? they fought back to keep us out.”

  “Yeah. You were the Expendables of the Year, right? Like, from everyone’s point of view. Nowhere to turn but a raft.”

  “Not even that, sometimes.”

  “Havana will never be the same.”

  “Oh,” she says softly, “neither will Miami.”

  I move away a little, prop myself with my elbows.

  “Babe, I lied about this. I mean, I never have before.”

  “Just wanted to—?”

  “Right.”

  “Well, did you like it?”

  “Oh, God.” I am humbled now, and blush. “It’s beautiful. It’s amazing.”

  She trails a finger across my lips. “Yes,” she says, “I think so too.”

  I want to ask her so many things, then—like what she’d meant before, about freaking, and the feeling of dying, and the cloud and the light, and why it had made her cry, why she hadn’t been able to stop herself from shaking, why she’d said she wasn’t gay, and who had been the first for her, a man or a woman, and how many had there been since, and which of them had she loved? But there isn’t time. She has turned me flat onto my back and is full on top of me—so big and long and fleshed out and strong that, for a moment, I think I’ll faint.

  “Too heavy?”

  “God, no.”

  “Bumpy. Feel that? I hate all my scars.”

  “Don’t, Babe. Please don’t. I want you so much. I think you’re so beautiful.”

  It is a fact: Bodies do not lie. Maybe Coach learned that truth just from swimming; but I doubt it.

  She is looking down at me, touching my face, eyelids, hair, falling aside to touch my body with a knowledgeable elegance that feels absolute; and—I can feel this too now and it thrills me—urgency, yearning. She pauses and swallows hard. It’s in her face, all at once, twined together—so much want, so much terror. Sweat pops out on her forehead, nose, upper lip.

  “Look, Ellie—um, this is hard.”

  “You don’t have to—”

  “Shhh,” she says, “no, never mind.”

  She closes her eyes, shakes her head and sweat flies from her skin, her hair. Then she smiles. Opens her eyes like slits and looks far away into some distance I can’t even see. Whispers softly:

  “No more pain.”

  “Okay,” I say—uncertainly, by instinct.

  “Patience, El, patience. One stroke at a time.”

  “Whatever you want, Babe.”

  “Whatever? I want?” She laughs. The sound comes out muted, choked, violent. “Just say it’s all right. Say you won’t leave—”

  “I’m here, Babe, I’m safe—it’s all right! I won’t go!”

  The eyes close again, perspiring hands reach to feel the pulse throb in my neck, my wrist, groin, breasts. She presses fingers against it, presses an ear against flesh, eyes shut, listening, measuring. “There. Mmmm. Okay.” She’s not talking to me, but to herself. “Yes, like that. Okay, okay.”

  I reach to hold her while her eyes stay closed and she’s touching me, put my lips against her ear and speak right into it, telling her things that are light years beyond me, things I didn’t even know I knew: that minds lie, not bodies; limitation and barriers, like pain, are only in the mind, but the mind can be transcended, yes, until the body itself is too, until things flow on a different level from your everyday life—automatic, unselfconscious, limitless, free; death happens to the body, but not to the mind; the mind is sheer love—which is different from and stronger than death—eternal, limitless, free. I tell her she has never seemed so strong. So powerful to me. I tell her that, to feel her hold me like this, scarred and delicate and beautiful and powerful and strong, I would endure a hundred qualifying heats, face the harsh, bright barrier of pain many times over, swim any ocean. That I am glad, so glad she survived. And proud, so very proud, to love her.

  Don’t, she says. Don’t say it if you do not mean it.

  “I mean it, Babe. I mean it, I mean it”

  “No matter what? Won’t quit? Sink or swim?”

  “Won’t quit.”

  “You have to hold on. Eyes open. Don’t let go.”

  “I promise,” I breathe, giddy and tingling wherever she touches, “yes, I promise, I won’t let go.”

  Hold on then, she says. Tight, yes, that’s right. Now, don’t quit on me. No matter what. Promise. You won’t let go. It is easy, you know. Just one more minute. What wait can’t you take for one more lousy minute? Real winners don’t quit. No pain, no pain. But first, tell me yes. I mean, Stateside. Stateside. Stateside. Stateside. Hold onto me tight. Hold onto me, love. Hold onto me, love. I am taking us home.

  *

  We miss practice. Miss all of our afternoon and evening classes. Then sleep when it’s dark, wake up in a t
imeless sort of fog, look at a clock and our watches and realize that a night has passed, it is the next day, late morning—we have missed morning practice, too. Aside from the time I spent sick, I have never even missed a warm-up, or sat out as much as a single stroke drill; now, though, I just really don’t care.

  Judging from the pleased, half shy look of peace on her face, neither does Babe.

  “How you doing, El?”

  Fine, I tell her, beyond fine.

  “So you still like it?”

  Wide-eyed, I nod.

  She staggers to the bathroom, bleary, naked, stiff-jointed and lame—I can hear her knees creak all the way across the floor. Then I hear water running, steam seeping sideways out of cracks in the door. Once, I think, I hear her hum a few bars of something foreign and lively. Caribbean, maybe. Salsa. No, not quite. Then:

  “God!” she yells. “I feel great! I feel great!”

  We miss another afternoon practice, too.

  * * *

  When we finally do show up the next day, we are late. Warm-up’s already started. I feel fractured, frazzled, out of touch, ecstatic. The locker room’s empty, except for us. Babe pulls off Ace bandages, pulls on her suit, grabs my head once to rub her cheek against it and heads for the pool without even stretching, half-running, half-limping. I take my time. No one really needs or expects me to swim for them, now. They are all fine without me. As I am without them.

  Halfway between shower and pool I run into Etta, who glances at me over the rim of her clipboard, raises both eyebrows.

  “Pushing your luck, white girl.”

  “How pissed is she?”

  “Hell hath no fury. But cold, like ice.”

  Definitely bad news.

  Everyone else is pulling and drilling and kicking their way through the end of warm-up. The air’s damp, hot. Babe has already hit the water in four and is swimming like shit. I grab a pull buoy, head for lane eight. Brenna Allen notices me briefly out of the corner of an eye, but doesn’t change expression. When she speaks it is quietly, her voice impassive.

  “In my office after workout.”

  Silently, I nod. Then I pretend to adjust my goggles, while doom shoots through me.

  I follow the program, do what I can. Work as hard as possible—to show her, maybe, that I am still more or less old faithful—and, when I just can’t breathe any more, sit out a set. From the side of the pool I watch them all. I shiver a little, wrap my towel around. Smudge soothing cream on the indentations under my eyes. Ceiling lights glint off lane four. Babe is bagging it today. Slack timing, dolphining off her walls, touching in with too much left over, joking around between reps. The whistle blows.

  “Swim down,” calls Brenna Allen. “Everyone take it easy. Except, of course, for Ms. Delgado, who has already done so, and who will therefore get out of the water and have a chat with me right now.”

  Etta tosses her clipboard on a bench beside me.

  “Mind your manners. She’s out there on the warpath.”

  She starts to gather up kickboards and other equipment, stack it neatly along the opposite wall, and, from across the pool, I can see her shoulders shake with silent laughter. Everyone in the water starts a swim-down except for Babe, who pushes up and out so that light drips from her back muscles, crouches there a minute before standing, stretching, walking to the corner where Brenna Allen is waiting. When I head for the locker room I pass them and briefly catch Babe’s eye. Her expression is fierce, intent. I can’t see Coach’s face. But she is talking in low tones, firmly, quietly; Babe is dripping and listening, once in a while talking too; and they are facing each other squarely, standing tall, hands on hips.

  They talk a long time—at least, I think they do. I’m showered, shampooed, dry-haired, clean-clothed, baby-powdered and bright-eyed and hungry for breakfast by the time the first of the team starts spilling in from swim-down, Babe nowhere in sight. I want to wait for her, but don’t. Instead I evade the first rush, climb stairs and turn corners, pass racquetball courts and weight rooms, tap bravely on the door to Brenna Allen’s office.

  “Come on in, Ellie.”

  I do, and sit down, expecting the worst. But she doesn’t sound angry. She pushes the edge of the desk and her chair rolls back, quietly. I wonder if I should apologize first, fend everything off and nip it in the bud; then realize that just keeping my mouth shut will be the best policy. Still, I am nervous. Her eyes search the bookshelves. They find me, and smile.

  “How are you feeling these days?”

  “Better. A lot better.”

  “That’s good. I’m glad. I know that this year has been far from what we planned for you, hasn’t it?”

  “I guess.”

  “You must be tired of all the work. I would be, if I were you—all the responsibility, no immediate payback—I’d be ready for some fun, and for a nice long vacation.”

  “Sure,” I say uneasily. “I mean, you know, maybe.”

  “Well, I can’t blame you. The problem is, we don’t always get a break when we need one.” The chair swivels slightly. Her elbows land silently on the desk blotter, fingers meet. She has nice hands, long and slender. Not thick, the way I’d always thought—my own are just as large. They are smaller hands than Babe’s. She leans forward; we lock eyes.

  “Tell me something, Ellie—hypothetically, if you want. But for the sake of this team, I really need to know.”

  I nod. Hold my breath.

  “When you—I mean you personally now, not some abstract you—say you love somebody. You care for them. Do you also want what is good for them? I mean, not just fun and pleasure—but for them to succeed, say, at doing something very difficult? Something that you know, in your heart, will mean a lot to them?”

  Sure, I say, yes.

  “Even if they are afraid?”

  “Yes.”

  “Or unsure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Or, for instance, looking for some excuse to stop doing the difficult thing, looking for a way out, maybe without even knowing it? Say you love this person, Ellie—would you help them do the difficult thing anyway? I mean, encourage them to stay on track, stay focused, concentrate, be disciplined, eat right, get enough rest, you know, all the details. Even if, at first glance, there seemed to be nothing in it for you?”

  Yes, I tell her, maybe.

  “Yes? Or just maybe?”

  “Yes,” I whisper, bitterly. “Yes. Yes. Yes.”

  “Good,” she says. “It’s good to hear that.”

  I stand. Asking, Anything else? But there is one thing more, she says, waving me back down.

  I rock miserably on the edge of a chair, can feel myself blush, wish I was far away and had never swum for this woman, not ever. But she doesn’t seem to notice, doesn’t seem angry or perturbed at all. She ignores me, in fact, and rummages through a full drawer, paper rustling, objects clanking.

  Ah, she says, yes, here. And pulls out a worn little square maroon leather case with metal latch and hinges, rattles it around and holds it to her ear, smiles. Then hands it across the desk to me.

  “Go on, open it up, take a look.”

  I unlatch it and it folds up into a pyramid, old clock face with gold-green numbers standing still, until I turn a side-knob, winding it, and it comes to life, starts to tick.

  “That’s my old traveling alarm clock, Ellie. When I was a kid they didn’t have them on wristwatches. I remember, weekend mornings—well, it got me out of bed. Hang on to it, will you? At least through Divisionals.”

  She comes around to my side of the desk and sits on its edge, facing me, and shows me how to set it. I test it through two alarms. The ring is almost pleasant—nothing high-tech or shattering.

  “Use it, will you?”

  “Okay.”

  “People on this team depend on you. It is all time, anyway. If you don’t make practice, that sets a bad example.”

  “Yes, Bren. I’m sorry.”

  Then I freeze. I have never called her by her fi
rst name before; at least, not to her face.

  But she doesn’t seem to notice, or even mind. She smiles broadly, cocks her head—a rare treat, because it is Coach at her best: bright, knowing, WASPily handsome, engaging.

  “And one more thing.”

  Whenever she says that, my ass will be grass, for sure. My belly sinks. But I snap the clock case shut and rest it in both palms; can hear it, behind worn leather, gently ticking. I try not to let my gaze waver.

  “Yes, Coach?”

  “I would consider it a favor, a personal favor, if you’d make it your business to see that Babe Delgado shows up for all workouts on time, no matter what. She’s carrying a lot—the one and two, and the medleys, and medley relay—well, you know all that, there are plenty of points at stake right there. Just make her work. I mean every day, Ellie. Even if you have to drag her in kicking and screaming. Do it for her. Or for yourself. Or, if you like, you can do it for me. But if you see that through, I’ll owe you.”

  Never, I think. I will never do it for you. Although I might for her. Or even for myself.

  Anyway, Bren, you already owe me.

  “Fine,” I say, “okay, I will.”

  I stand again, slip the alarm clock into a pocket of my coat. She stands too, tells me thanks, and then we shake hands.

  Wandering down the hall, dodging notebooks and sweat, it occurs to me that days have gone by. I haven’t called home. Nan and Jean probably think I’m some ax-murder victim. For all I know, there’s a three-state police alert on. I haven’t read, or done any papers, or studied, or exercised much—never mind made workouts—and I couldn’t care less.

  All I want, now, is her. Her hands. Her taste. Her pleasure. All I want is to see her. I wonder where she is. I just don’t want to wait.

  And maybe, if I’m lucky, what she wants is the same.

  Take that! I yell, silently. Take that, Bren! You fucked-up WASP bitch. You dumb frigid closet case. I mean, who are you, lady? Who the hell? What do you know about suffering? Or passion? Or love?

  Partway down the hall is a wastebasket. I caress the old maroon-cased alarm clock in my pocket, consider throwing it in. But I feel the worn tick, and think about time, and I don’t.