Geese Are Never Swans

by Kobe Bryant

  “Honestly?”

  “Yes, honestly.”

  “I’m thinking about how much you suck at what you get paid to do,” I say.

  But Marco just laughs. “See, there’s that wisdom of yours.”

  101.

  “Wake up, Bennett,” Coach M barks at me the next morning. The sky’s overcast, swiped with a gloomy coat of gray, and I’m the first one in the water. A blissful emergence: steam sweeps across the surface like dragon’s breath.

  “I am awake,” I call back.

  “Doesn’t look like it.”

  “Just warming up.”

  “Well, warm faster,” he snipes before walking off in a huff.

  I flutter-kick forward in response. I don’t know what’s up his ass today. Okay, actually, I do know what’s up his ass because I saw him drop hot coffee all over the ground and his shoes while he was walking from the parking lot. Sucks for him, but whatever. I got here early for a reason.

  Breathing deep, I dip beneath the surface to touch the bottom of the pool. My ears pop, and the world around me closes in fast, but rather than focus on the fact that I’m slowly drowning, I simply let myself be. It’s strange what I notice when I’m not in motion, when I’m not trying to get to the other side. The water’s squeezing me, but my body holds strong, and this is a natural truth, I guess; everything comes down to displacement and occupation.

  Give and take.

  Grief bubbles inside me, a low rumbling of pain. Of remorse. Being this deep reminds me of the night I fell into the diving pool and had to find my way out. It also reminds me of Danny, who didn’t.

  It’s an odd sensation: these sharp moments of sadness that I have for Danny. They’re new and growing more frequent, and Marco says I should just let these moments be. That I should acknowledge their presence and accept them for what they are and that allowing myself to have any kind of emotion other than anger is progress.

  Eventually my lungs protest and I begin to float upward and kick. Not hard. Not fast. Once my head emerges, I ease into my stroke and pull my body through the smooth water with nothing but weightlessness in my mind.

  Soon the others join me in the water and when everyone’s warmed up and loose, we get out again and shiver on the deck while Coach Marks outlines the workout.

  “It’s going to be intervals today, boys,” he says. “Progressive. I hope you’re ready.”

  “Fucking hell,” mutters Vince, because progressive workouts are legendary for how shitty they are.

  Coach M glares in response. “Let’s make it doubles, then.”

  “Nice going, Vince,” Fitz grumbles.

  The coach starts clapping. “Let’s go. Let’s go. Let’s go.”

  We step up to our lanes.

  “Well, he’s kind of a major asshole today, isn’t he?” Vince whispers at the exact moment Coach M blows his whistle.

  I laugh in spite of myself, which means my start is late. I hit the water a good half second behind the rest of the guys, but I don’t let it get to me. I shake it off and go for it. But rather than my normal drumbeat push of “faster, motherfucker,” I keep my muscles loose and easy, and focus on maintaining an image of my body as less of a bulldozing force than pure grace. I’m not fighting the pool.

  I’m part of it.

  * * *

  It’s the end of practice and Coach Marks is walking toward me. I’m wary. He’s still got that gloomy rain cloud look hanging over his head, but I swear to myself that I’m not going to get into anything with him. It’s not productive. It’s not going to help me.

  “Hey, Coach,” I say.

  “How’d that feel?” he asks.

  “Pretty good, I guess.”

  “It was better than good.”

  “Really?” I stare up at him. Bite my tongue. He’s the one with the stopwatch. The knowledge.

  He nods tersely, but there’s a gleam in his eye. Spilled coffee and all. He’s excited, I realize.

  About me.

  “How good?” I ask carefully.

  “Good enough that I think you should be racing again. If your mom agrees.”

  My heart pounds. “She will. I know she will.”

  He grunts. “There’s a meet in Kansas City. Second week of March. You qualify there, you make the Trials in Omaha with ten weeks to spare. It’s . . . it’ll be close. But it’s what you want, am I right?”

  Is this happening? “Yes. Absolutely.”

  “Good.”

  “Do you think I have a shot?”

  “I wouldn’t send you if I didn’t.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  Coach Marks is silent for a moment, no doubt sparing my feelings, but what I want is for him to be honest. To tell me what he thinks of me and if he has faith in my character as well as my ability. What he says instead is: “Epic, huh?”

  “What?”

  “That was the word you used that night you came to my house. It’s what you said you wanted to be.”

  My cheeks warm. “It’s something Danny used to say.”

  “Well, it’s my word. Not Danny’s. He learned it from me.”

  “Okay.”

  Coach M shakes his head. Scratches his chin. “I just thought you should know that.”

  102.

  In early March, Fitz is offered spots at USC, UC Berkeley, and the University of Texas at Austin.

  “Stanford didn’t want you?” I tease.

  He grins. “Maybe I didn’t want them.”

  “What’s your top choice?”

  “Berkeley would be easy,” he says with a sigh. “That’s where my folks want me to go. Keep me close and everything.”

  “Would you still swim here?”

  “I don’t know.” He looks at me. “Why did Danny leave the club? He could’ve stayed on. I was sure he would.”

  I shrug. I’d been sure of it, too. It’s what my mom had wanted for him and it led to the biggest fight I ever saw between them. He’d made her cry, telling her she was lucky he was bothering to stick around in California in the first place. That he’d leave for good if she didn’t stop bitching about what she wanted and start caring about his needs. I don’t know. I understood what he was saying—that guilt wasn’t the reason he wanted to choose a school—but he was so mean about it. Maybe, if I’d been a good son, I would’ve stood up for my mother in that moment. Or maybe I should’ve taken Danny’s side. In the end, I didn’t take either. Instead I watched them tear into each other with the same glee with which I’d watched the new Godzilla flick. Let them fight.

  But now I say: “Danny must’ve thought he’d do better in LA. Or maybe he felt he owed them his loyalty for picking him.”

  “Loyalty,” Fitz echoes.

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s a complicated idea.”

  “Is it?”

  “Definitely. I mean, Coach M probably told him it was okay to go. That he should follow his heart or something.”

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  Fitz looks at me. “See, I really hate these kinds of choices. When the answer isn’t obvious and all this subtext is floating beneath the waterline. On the one hand, do I want him to beg me to stay and feel needed? Like I’m someone worth fighting for? Or do I want him to tell me to go so that it doesn’t hurt when I actually leave?”

  “Well, what do you want?”

  “Everything.”

  I smile. “Good luck with that.”

  “What about you?” Fitz asks. “What would you do?”

  “No fucking clue,” I say, but I don’t imagine it would be difficult for me to leave. Not when I already feel unwanted. But when I think about my father and what it must’ve meant to Danny to lose him at such a young age, I can also imagine that Coach M telling him to go might’ve felt less like independence and more like abandonment.
To Danny, it was probably a betrayal, even if it was what he wanted to do anyway, which is the really screwed-up part. But that’s the thing about tragedy. By definition, there’s no winning.

  Only loss.

  103.

  “You nervous?” Coach M asks me on the plane ride out to Kansas City. We both know this meet represents both hope and failure. It’s my first and last shot to do what I should’ve done last year in Vancouver.

  “Not at all,” I say coolly.

  “Good.”

  Silence hangs between us—this is a strange trip, just me and him. Fitz is off to Austin soon and Vince isn’t on the national circuit level yet. He’s still developing. Still taking his time, which is a good thing. He’ll get there. But I don’t know. I thought I would feel proud in this moment, the victor gilded with spoils, but it’s not like that at all. There’s something apocalyptic about being the last one standing. About continuing to chase a dream that’s already tried to take me down. Am I more or less prepared than I was back in November?

  Am I a better or worse person?

  The plane shakes, a sharp rattling that prompts the fasten your seat belts announcement. I set my jaw, grind my teeth. Try not to lose my shit until the ride smooths out.

  “Therapy going okay?” Coach M asks.

  My heart’s still racing. I peek out at blue sky and tell myself nothing bad happens when the sun’s shining. “You asking if I’m keeping up with it? I am. Every week. Taking my meds, too.”

  “Your guy any good?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, although this answer is both a truth and a lie. I like Marco but I’m not sure he really gets me.

  “Should find a new one if he’s not.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I mean it. It’s like finding the right coach. Took me a while.”

  “To find a coach?”

  “A therapist.”

  “You see a therapist?”

  “Yeah. Less so now than when I was younger. But I went back after Danny for a while. It helped.”

  “Huh,” I say.

  “Does that surprise you?”

  “I guess it does. Although my mom’s seeing someone, too. And taking meds.”

  “Is that good?”

  “So far.”

  “It’s worth finding the right person. It’s worth knowing what you want from the process, too.” He pauses. “Actually, I made an appointment for next week. With the anniversary coming up and everything . . . well, it seemed like a good idea.”

  “Oh.” The anniversary isn’t a topic I’m willing to engage in, but now Coach Marks has got me wondering. Not about him and why he might need someone to talk to. But if he means more than he’s saying. Should I be second-guessing my therapist?

  Or should I be second-guessing him?

  “Hey, can I ask you a question?” I say.

  “Sure.”

  “Does anybody else . . . do they know what happened to me? Why I didn’t swim in Vancouver and all?”

  “I haven’t told anybody anything. It’s not my place.”

  “So what do they think?”

  “Don’t know,” he says.

  104.

  Well, I don’t know, either, and it’s a question that gnaws at me, won’t let me sleep at night. And the next morning, as I walk into the meet on weary bones, I know something’s wrong. I recognize a lot of the other swimmers, the other coaches, but it’s as if no one wants to make eye contact with me. They have to know something, or at least they think they do.

  Like the fact that I’m a fraud.

  And unstable.

  And hell-bent on exploiting my brother’s death for my own selfish means.

  All three are true, but in my newfound state of trying to move toward healing, I didn’t anticipate how this would affect me. It’s like a knife’s edge stabbing at my pride. I’m a fraud, aren’t I? Less Ali than Danny, even, since everything I offered up about myself was a lie. But I’m here and I refuse to let anyone see my frailty, and besides, there’s always bitterness to draw from.

  So this is how I do it. Chin up. Shoulders back. I walk onto the pool deck and no one gives me a second look, but I’m as arrogant as always. A pure thoroughbred among a field of nags. The darkest horse.

  I know what I came here to do.

  And I do it.

  Just barely.

  The crowd cheers when my time goes up for the 400 m. They love a winner and I did well for them, which means they’re back on my side, willing to overlook my flaws. I glance over at Coach M, eager to see that gleam of pleasure in his eye.

  But it’s not there.

  105.

  No turbulence this time, but our flight home is equally awkward. This should be a festive moment, a touchpoint of shared celebration—and it is. But it also isn’t.

  It’s not until we’re in the car that I’m able to put words to my thoughts.

  “You pissed that I qualified or that I didn’t do better?”

  “What?” he says.

  “I’m better than my brother. My time proved it and that kills you, doesn’t it? You didn’t really want me to do it.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Then why are you so pissy with me?”

  “Well, for starters, you could’ve done better.”

  “That’s why you’re mad?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Then why?”

  “I’m worried about you,” he says quietly. “Watching you today really scared me.”

  “Because of Danny?”

  “Of course because of Danny. You’ve been swimming so beautifully these past few months. You stopped fighting me and yourself and you were working with the water, not against it. But today that wasn’t there at all. You went all the way back to October. You fought the whole way.”

  “I just qualified for the Olympic Trials and you’re critiquing my style?”

  “I’m your coach.”

  “So what’re you saying? That I’m not good enough? That you think I’m going to choke the way he did? That’s really what I want to hear right now. Thanks a lot.”

  “No!” He hits the dash with the palm of his hand. “Gus, I’m not worried about you choking! That’s the last fucking thing I’m thinking about.”

  “Then what?”

  He stares at me, his jaw hanging open. “Jesus, kid. Are you seriously this dense?”

  “I guess I am.” I slide my earbuds in, turn my music on, and tune his bullshit out.

  106.

  “Holy shit,” a voice says. “Would you look who it is.”

  This is a surprise. My sister, Darien, is standing in the front doorway when I arrive home. Coach M just dropped me off, and I’m running on no sleep, ready to crawl into bed, when I spot her. My first thought is that she’s a mirage. A vision from the past. But her form doesn’t waver and when she sees me, she waves and smiles like it’s no big deal before stepping all the way outside to bask in the early-spring warmth with Winter perched on her hip.

  I stop short. Any remaining glow of positivity from the meet rushes out of me. This is bad. I know for a fact this isn’t the start of a redemption arc. Darien, who leaves and returns, again and again, is—and always will be—the prodigal child. Also, she looks like shit.

  “What’re you doing here?” I ask, although I fear it’s obvious. At my urging and the advice of our family’s social worker, my mom’s been working with a lawyer to get legal custody of Winter. The importance of this grew clear after what happened in November with CFS, who asked a lot of questions about why Winter was living with us and not her legal guardian. As far as I know, Darien hasn’t responded to any of the phone calls or messages the lawyer’s left for her, but that’s no surprise. She also hasn’t asked about her daughter or been in touch with us at all for nearly two years.

&
nbsp; “Hey, Gus.” My heart sinks. Darien’s voice is exactly as I remember it. Low. Gravelly. Too fucking intense. My legs shiver as she settles herself on the porch swing, letting Winter slip to the dusty floorboards. I force my feet to carry me up the steps, where I sit, too. Not all the way at the top, but close enough. My instinct is to grab my niece. Pull her to me. But my sister is nothing if not a paradox. Daring to want what she gave up will only draw her closer.

  Instead I force myself to look at her. Darien radiates danger in a way Danny didn’t. Her shoulder-length hair’s been bleached, dyed, faded. I catch a hint of pink, green, but it’s mostly a brassy blond. She’s taken her piercings out and isn’t wearing any makeup, and the result is that she’s more startling than ever. It’s her eyes. They’re big and blue and also sunken so deep into her skull that they imply wisdom. Or knowledge. At twenty-eight, my sister has neither.

  “You clean?” I ask.

  “What does it look like?”

  “You don’t want me to answer that.”

  She laughs, a rich baritone roll that reminds me why people can love her. Why I loved her. Darien’s the perfect blend of cynicism and indulgence, a bitter alchemy that can command attention from the most unlikely sources. I know this because I used to look up to her. She was everything to me, once, and I ache to have her near. I ache for her to love herself.

  “You look like you want something,” I say.

  My sister rolls her eyes. “I hear you’re the hotshot swimmer now. Danny’s gone and now you’re the one using all your daddy’s money trying to make it in the record books. It’s not worth it, if you ask me. You should be able to live your life without needing everyone to watch you do it.”

  “You should leave.”

  “I’m playing with my daughter. You got a problem with that?”

  “Where’s Mom?”

  “Inside.”

  “I should get her.”

  “No, don’t!” Darien rises from the swing and comes to me. She slides her way down the stairs and wraps an arm around my shoulder. “I’m sorry. It’s just . . . she said we could have a few minutes. Just Winnie and I.”