by Kobe Bryant
“We will?”
My mother nods, navigating her way through a left-turn-light cycle at the very last moment before she turns to look at me. “Absolutely. Everything will be fine. You will be fine. I promise you that. Okay?”
Well, I know enough about life and death and black swan theory to know that no one can promise me the future, but hearing her say this is enough to reassure me, which is maybe the same thing. Either way, basking in the warmth of her words and the comfort they provide, I’m finally able to lean back, draw my legs beneath me, and sleep.
94.
“How old are you?” I ask Marco when we meet in his office the following week for our first one-on-one therapy session together.
“Is that important for you to know?” He’s sitting across from me, looking flustered in the exact way I remember him looking, and I really shouldn’t give him shit about his age. Not when I’m the one who called and begged for him to see me, after he’d tried giving my mother a referral to a more experienced clinician. He agreed, finally, after speaking with his supervisor, and I’m authorized to see him twice a week. Apparently, I meet medical necessity now, so in addition to therapy, I’ve got a psychiatrist who’s keeping me dutifully sedated while the mood stabilizer and antidepressant she’s prescribed take hold. The end result has been a lot of sleeping. Too much, really. The only time I’ve left the house for anything other than medical appointments was to send an apology to Coach Marks and his wife, along with payment for their window, and I slept on the couch for six hours after walking to the mailbox.
“It’s not important,” I tell Marco. “How old you are. I was just wondering. You seem really young.”
His shoulders relax. “I am young. Sorry to be defensive about it. I get a lot of parents asking if I have kids of my own, which I don’t, and then I have to prove to them that I know anything at all about working with teens.”
“Well, that sucks,” I say.
“Just part of the job.” He looks at me. “How’re you doing?”
“Can’t be all that good if I’m sitting here.”
“I’ve heard.”
“Yeah.”
“How are you adjusting to the medication?”
“I don’t know. I kind of feel like puking a lot, but Dr. S says that’ll go away.”
“Did she give you anything for the nausea?”
“It’s not helping.”
“Have you been losing weight?”
“About ten pounds.”
Marco writes something on a piece of paper. “That’s concerning.”
“It’s not all from the meds, though. It’s just sort of hard for me to do anything these days. That includes eating.”
“Sounds like the depression’s pretty bad right now.”
I nod and close my eyes. Wish I were anywhere but here.
“I’m sorry, Gus,” he says. “I know this is hard.”
I shrug. Therapists sure do like pointing out the obvious.
“My primary concern today is with keeping you safe. It worries me that you’re not able to stay nourished. And it worries me to see you in so much pain.”
“Oh,” I say.
“I want to ensure you’re getting the care you need. In the immediate future as well as longer term. Finding a loved one who’s died by suicide has lasting effects. That was a real trauma, and it makes sense that you’re still dealing with it.”
I open my eyes again. “You think I’m going to kill myself?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“It’s what everyone thinks. But that would be selfish, wouldn’t it? Doing what Danny already did.”
Marco frowns. “Do you worry a lot about being selfish? Or being like your brother?”
“Not really. Well, maybe the brother part.”
“Do you want to kill yourself?”
“No,” I say slowly. “I don’t think so.”
“Have you ever tried to hurt yourself? In any way?”
“Not in a long time.”
“When?”
I pull my sleeves up to show him the scars.
“What’re those?” he asks.
“They’re from sixth grade. I mean, I wasn’t trying to die or anything. I was just having a hard time. My sister was using a lot at the time. She overdosed twice. It was really shitty.”
“I’m sure it was,” Marco says. “What does your coach think about those scars?”
“I don’t know. It’s not something I talk about with him. It was a long time ago.”
“Maybe we should talk about it.”
“I guess. I don’t feel very good right now, though.”
“Another time, then.”
“Sure.”
Marco leans forward. “Did you ever read that note I wrote to you? On the last day of group?”
I think back. “No.”
“Did you read any of the messages the other group members wrote to you?”
I shake my head. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”
“You don’t have to be sorry, Gus. I told you to choose when you read them. But if you don’t mind the nudge, I’d suggest you read those notes sooner rather than later.”
95.
So I do. I read them. Every last one. They say things like:
Stay in therapy, Gus! It’s good for you! I promise! Just like breakfast!
It’s going to be okay, dude
Bye, Gus! Don’t swim too much. You aren’t going anywhere anyway ha ha
Call me if you ever want to talk. It doesn’t help to keep everything inside all the time
Thank you for listening to me, Gus.
I will miss you!!!!!
I wish you were happy
Hey so you’re kind of an asshole but I know you’re just pissed at the world so I’m not mad and also you should know you’re not alone. This stuff sucks, man. It FUCKING SUCKS.
And finally, from Marco:
Gus, you are a man of few words. Yet there’s wisdom inside you that has been invaluable to our younger members. I don’t know if you’ve noticed that, but I have. They look up to you because you have dreams and because you have the courage to chase those dreams. Thank you for being here. —M
96.
I call Lainey on Christmas Eve. It’s not a good idea but I do it anyway, and there’s no way to spin my actions as anything less than selfishness.
So I guess I am like Danny. In some ways.
“Hey,” she says softly. “How are you?”
“I’m okay. A little, you know, stressed or something.”
“I think the holidays are always hard when you’ve lost someone.”
I lost you, I want to say. “How’s school?”
“We’re on break, but I love it up here. It’s snowing, you know. I can see it gathering on the windowsill.”
“You’re there right now?”
“Yeah. I have a job. Couldn’t make it back for Christmas this year. And . . .”
“And what?”
“It’s nice being away. In my own place. Doing my own thing. The job’s mostly an excuse to get a break from my family and all the shit that comes from being around them. They’re a lot. It’s a good feeling, you know—figuring out who the hell you are on your own. Without all that baggage.”
“That hasn’t happened for me yet.”
“It will.”
“Your sister hates me, by the way.”
Lainey laughs. “Don’t let it go to your head. You’re not the only one.”
“Hey, what did you end up studying?”
“International finance. They’ve got a great program up here and I’ve got an internship lined up in Chicago next summer. I might study in France next fall.”
“I’m really sorry,” I blurt out. “About what happened at that party last
month. I wanted to tell you that.”
“Oh,” Lainey says. “It’s okay. It really—it wasn’t a big deal. I was just worried about you.”
“It’s not okay.”
“I’m telling you it is.”
“I fucked up a lot that night. Not just with you. Other shit, too.”
“What’d you fuck up?”
“Let’s see, I threw a rock at Coach M’s house. Broke a window and yelled at him while I was drunk.”
“Oh wow, that’s classy.”
“And I almost killed my mom.”
“Literally or figuratively?”
“Literally.”
Her tone grows serious. “Shit. Is she okay?”
“She’s fine.”
“I think your mom hates me even more than my sister hates you.”
“She does?”
“You didn’t know that? I don’t think I was good enough for her Danny.”
“I don’t think anyone was.”
“That’s true. Well, what else did you fuck up?”
“Winter . . .” I say as my voice finally cracks. “She could’ve been hurt, L. Because of me.”
“Oh, Gus,” she says.
“What do I do? How can I make any of this better?”
“I don’t know. I think you just have to find a way to move forward. To make amends. And do better.”
“I miss you, Lainey,” I say helplessly. “I really, really do.”
She pauses. “You’re feeling sad tonight, aren’t you? Is that why you called?”
“Yes,” I whisper.
“I get sad sometimes, too. You want to know what helps me feel better?”
“What’s that?” I ask.
And she tells me.
97.
Lainey’s advice is to face a fear, but I don’t actually get up the nerve to do this until the Monday after New Year’s, when I haul my ass to the club for 5:30 a.m. practice. Hell, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t self-conscious. Thanks to Zoloft and my recent lack of physical activity, I’ve gained back the ten pounds I lost, but not in a good way. My body feels soft and woefully out of shape. But I’m here, so I should probably revise one of my rules of greatness. Rather than Don’t ever let anyone tell you what you can’t do, I think it should be Keep listening. Some truths are worth hearing.
When I get there, Fitz and Vince are the only other guys in the locker room. My head hurts and I can feel them staring at me, but I get down to the business of changing, the motions of my routine.
“Hey, Gus,” Vince says easily. “You doing okay, man?”
“Yeah.”
“Happy New Year.”
“Happy New Year,” I say.
“Where’ve you been?”
“Coach didn’t tell you?”
Vince shrugs. “Nah.”
“I’ve been sick.”
“Sick?”
“Yeah.”
“You missed Vancouver.”
“I know.”
Fitz frowns. “Does that mean you’re better now?”
“I don’t know.”
“You sure you should be swimming?”
“I’m sure it’s not any of your fucking business.”
Vince laughs. Loudly. “There’s our Gus. Good to have you back.”
Then it’s time for practice. My stomach’s filled with storm clouds, keeping me in the changing room longer than I intend, but it’s not like I can back out now. I stand by the sink. Catch my breath. And when I know I won’t vomit, I go for it. I grab my towel, my goggles, my swim cap, and head out toward the pool.
This may not be greatness—not even close—but it’s a start.
98.
Fitz and Vince are already in the water by the time I get out there. Even so, I know they’re watching me. Hell, I’d watch me, too.
Steam rises off the water to mingle with the mist, as I walk toward where Coach Marks is standing on the pool deck. He’s wrapped in a thick coat, a hint of stubble dots his chin, but he’s the same person he’s always been. The one who watched my brother fall.
The one who tried to catch me.
“Hey,” I say.
Coach M turns to look at me.
“I’m here to swim. I mean, if that’s okay?”
He doesn’t say anything, just continues to look at my face, and I don’t know what he’s seeing. The kid he hates or the one he loved.
“I’ve got a shrink now,” I tell him. “I go every week. And I’m taking medication. Antidepressants. A mood stabilizer. It’s all helping. But I . . .”
“But what?”
“I need to be here. Please. Nothing’s changed about that.”
He nods.
“So this is okay?”
“You said you needed to be here. I guess it’ll have to be, right?”
“You aren’t mad at me?”
“Does that matter?”
“I don’t know,” I say.
He sighs heavily. “Me either. But get in. We’ll figure it out together.”
99.
I turn and dive.
The cold hits me first. It’s a shock, a full-body assault that jolts me to my core and claws for every nerve ending. The pressure hits next, all weight and constriction, squeezing down on my lungs, my throat.
The space between my bones.
It hurts, but my muscles know what to do, how to push me forward, and as I begin to move beneath the surface in a sleek undulating rhythm, I quickly find the pleasure in the pain. This is what I’ve wanted. What I’ve craved. It was never the drowning or the danger or the darkness pooling in the fathoms beneath me. Like the shark that needs oxygen running through its gills, I’ve always needed this fluid quickening, this aquatic shock and awe. To swim is to fly—an earthly scrap of magic.
It’s a miracle, really.
I work the practice diligently. Coach Marks won’t tell me my times or anything, but I’m winded quickly, which is all the data I need. My goals may not have changed but the challenge has.
“It’ll be like coming back from any illness or injury,” Coach Marks assures me when we’re done. “It takes more discipline and mental strength to know when to hold back than it does to push, but all that means is that the future is yours if you want it. It’s in your control.”
“Wasn’t it always in my control?”
He furrows his brow. “I don’t know. Not everything is.”
“Well, I guess I’ll see you tonight, then.”
“I’ll be here,” he says.
“Are you surprised I’m back?”
“A little.”
“Do you think we’ll be okay?” I ask.
“Who?”
“You and me, I guess. I want to make up for everything I did. I’m talking to the club director later about making up for breaking into the pool. Doing community service or working to pay off any damage. But with you—”
“We’ll work on it,” he says.
“You still think I can make the Trials?”
“You still think I have answers?”
“I guess not.”
“That’s still what you want, though?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
I bite my lip and shake my head. It’s not that I don’t know the answer. I just don’t know how to say it.
He sighs. “When you figure it out, let me know, okay?”
“Sure.”
“In your control means exactly that. I won’t stop you, whatever it is you want to do. Not unless . . .”
“Unless what?”
The look he gives me is a pointed one. “I think you know.”
I nod.
“Now go home, Gus,” he says.
So I do.
100.
&nbs
p; Healing is an active verb. This is what Marco tells me over the next few weeks, whenever we meet. Most of the time I think he’s full of shit, but he’s probably right about this. Forgiveness isn’t a light switch or a magic wand. It’s work.
This is also what it feels like being under Coach M’s guidance again, and I don’t even mean the swimming part. Getting him to believe in me again is also an active process, although to me it seems as if he’s determined to be passive when it comes to my training. We’re not fighting, but we’re also not doing anything, not as partners, and that feels wrong.
“It feels wrong not to fight?” Marco asks.
“No. It feels wrong that he doesn’t care enough to fight.”
“You have an interesting way of interpreting care.”
I flop back on the chair. “Yeah, I get that. But he pushes all his top swimmers. It’s what he does and what he’s supposed to do and he’s not doing it with me.”
“Then it sounds like he needs more time.”
“It’s been six weeks! I’ve been doing everything he asks of me. Training just how he wants me to and not being an asshole like I used to be.”
“And?”
“And it’s working. Somewhat. My times are going down. I feel strong when I’m in the water. Stronger than ever, really.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“He’s the problem! It’s how he looks at me. How he treats me. He’s still pissed about what I did at his house that night and I understand that. But why’s he working with me if he hates me? Why would he do that?”
Marco appears nonplussed. “Maybe he doesn’t hate you?”
“It sure feels like he does.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“I know that. Why don’t you just tell me how to fix it.”
“I don’t know how to fix your relationship with your coach. Your guess is as good as mine. Better even, if you think about it.”
I throw my hands up. I mean, this is the problem with talking about your feelings, isn’t it? Nothing ever changes. Insight isn’t an answer. It’s just bullshit masquerading as more.
“What’re you thinking about, Gus?” Marco asks.