B0160A5OPY (A) (11 page)

I sniff disparagingly at the gratuitous displays of beauty and strength – honestly, it’s like some baboon mating ritual – and swim another length, warming up while I wait for the lesson to start. Coach Quinn arrives, spots the posse of passive resisters and walks toward them, as if he intends to challenge them. But whoever he asks will tell him that she has “lady troubles” or that it’s her time of the month and he will blush furiously and stammer an apology. Then the other girls will look at him with wide, wounded eyes and berate him for his male insensitivity, before surrounding the girl and escorting her off to the locker rooms, where, I know, all of them will have a good laugh and some of them will have a smoke. Coach halts halfway to the girls, thinks a moment, then retreats to the safety of the males of the species.

The best part of swimming for me now, A.S. (I realize I haven’t thought this term for a while), is the pleasure of submerging my face in the water and feeling that my body is still strong and functional as I cut through the water. I’m not as powerful or fast as I used to be, but I could still beat most of the boys here. Even though I can feel the click in my knee and the pull in my thigh, I push myself until my muscles burn.

I have forgotten my goggles and cap, and my eyes sting from the chlorine in the water. The Shrink says forgetfulness and short-term memory impairment is a symptom of post-traumatic stress. At our last session, she also told me that I have a “sense of foreshortened future”. She says I’ll battle with thinking and planning for the long-term future because, having come so close to snuffing it, I struggle to conceive of a future in which I live to a ripe old age. All I know is, I feel old already as I hang onto the side of the pool, trying to catch my breath.

Luke is in my Gym class – the gods are without mercy – but happily, the Jaysters aren’t. Sienna usually is, but she’s off sick today with the flu. I have an in-built heat-detecting radar inside of me, and it tracks the hotness that is Luke to where he stands with the boys – who have no biological excuse to get them out of exercise. I clutch the wall, looking at his swimmer’s build: broad shoulders tapering down to a slim waist and flat stomach. His muscles are long and lean, his skin tanned and free of blemish.

I turn my back when a boy dive-bombs into a nearby lane, sending a deluge of water my way. Coach blows his whistle to get everyone’s attention and says that today we are to practice life-saving. We’ve already done the theory – today it’s time to get practical. True to his usual sexist way, he appears to believe that only girls can drown and only boys can save. It’s not like I need the practice – I have my advanced certificate in life-saving – but I still resent the assumption. There are ten boys, but only six mannequins, so the coach calls out to the girls in the pool.

“You, ladies! Act like you’re drowning.”

Two of the girls, one in a red latex cap and the other in a blue, immediately start screaming in mock panic, raising their arms in the air as if to summon the boys. Two immediately respond to the call and strike out to the flailing giggling girls. I have a premonition of dread. I cross my fingers and keep my back turned to the boys’ side of the pool.

“You, Ben, pair up with that girl over there, in the black cap,” he says.

Behind me, someone groans a complaint. Magda – the girl in the black cap – is in the lane next to me, treading water. She is overweight and unpopular and apparently no guy’s first choice for a damsel in distress.

“At least she’ll float easily,” someone whispers.

There is a tightening of Magda’s mouth, but otherwise she does a passable job of pretending she never heard the comment.

I know what is about to happen. The skin on the back of my neck prickles and it is not from the drips of cold water that fall from my hair, which is pulled into an untidy knot at the top of my head. I turn to the sound of loud splashes. Coach is shoving the life-saving mannequin torsos into the pool with kicks of his feet. They look like the bald, expressionless, androgynous remains of a shark feast, as if a great white had chomped through them, biting off both arms above the elbow and everything below the waist. Mad thoughts crowd my mind. Is this so they don’t have to make mannequins with genitals? Or do we only need to know how to save torsos? I hang onto the wall-edging as I wait for what I know is coming.

“You,” says coach, pointing at one of the figures in the water who hasn’t yet snagged a mannequin, “you can save her – the one with the … uh … no cap.”

I know what he was about to say, and I know who he has just spoken to. There is a moment of silence among the boys. Apparently, while it is considered acceptable to poke fun at fatties in the water, it crosses some line to mock the facially disfigured. Or maybe it is my demeanor that gives them pause: I turn to face them and stare a challenge, and no one dares a smart comment. Still, they give Luke commiserative pats on the shoulder as he swims out to where I am.

“Bring the victim to the surface and then tow them to the far wall using the cross-chest tow I showed you last week.”

I lift my arms into the air, exhale deeply and sink down into the deep water. Luke dives down and swims into position right behind me. He wraps an arm around my waist, fingers splayed across my ribs. My skin burns with awareness where he touches me. He tightens his grip, then tugs me up to the surface. On the trip up through the blueness, we bump into each other and my body registers every point where we touch. I gasp a breath as we break the surface. He brings his left arm over my left shoulder, across the top of my chest and tucks his hand under my right armpit. It is warm against the coolness of my skin and even though my face is out of the water, I cannot breathe. He pulls me onto my back and heads backwards for the far side of the pool, kicking and sculling water with his free hand. I am, to all intents and purposes, lying on top of him. I know he must be hating this contact. I stiffen and start to freak out, not knowing how to endure the knowledge of the revulsion he must be feeling.

“Just relax,” he says into my ear. “Pretend you’re unconscious.”

I force myself to relax, muscle by muscle. How is it possible that we haven’t reached the other side yet? Part of me wishes we never will. It feels so good to rest against him; I wish he could just save me from all of my life.

We reach the wall and I clamber out quickly, so that he doesn’t have to touch me again. We sit on the paved surround, saying nothing, waiting while the others drag their partners and mannequins to the pool’s edge and out of the water.

“This is when you might need to do CPR – Cardio Pulmonary Resuscitation. Watch while I demonstrate the ABC’s and remember what I taught you. You ladies over there, come over and watch please,” says coach and he takes us through the whole process, showing us the techniques on the orange mannequin which lie limbless and inert in front of him.

“Now it’s your turn to practice on your partners.”

Oh, for the love of fudge! There is an eruption of giggling from red cap and blue cap, Magda looks like her worst nightmare has come true, and Luke curses under his breath.

Aloud, he says, “Are you kidding me?”

“You’re obviously not really going to do proper compressions or breaths on the live girls, you boys who have partners, but you can practice the movements.”

I lie down on my back, wishing I were truly unconscious. It’s cool out of the water and I am covered in goose bumps; I’m desperate to cross my arms over my chest where, I’m sure, the evidence of my chill will be obvious to Luke.

“A is for airway, so check for obstructions to breathing,” shouts coach above the excited hubbub.

I open my mouth reluctantly and Luke peers into it like a buyer inspecting a horse’s teeth before the sale. He does not stick a finger into my mouth as the other boys are doing with their mannequins, for which small mercy I am grateful.

“B is for breathing,” shouts coach. “See if you can feel the warmth of their breath against the palm of your hand, look closely to see if their chest is rising or falling.”

Red and blue cap’s partners respond to this very enthusiastically – examining their victims’ chests closely like myopic diamond-inspectors – and there is a fresh outbreak of irritating giggles and ribald comments.

“Coach!” yells one boy as he prods his lifeless mannequin. “I think I’m man-down over here. It’s not breathing.”

I’m woman-down over here. I can’t breathe either. Heat radiates from Luke’s hand as it hovers over my lips, his ear almost touches my chest as he listens for breath and my fingers itch to wrap themselves into the wet hair at the back of his head. How can my heart beat so hard, thud so violently beneath my ribs when I am not breathing?

“C – start compressions! You four with the real girls – just pretend, please. We don’t want any cracked ribs. But I need to check you’ve got the position right – heels on the sternum, two fingers off the end of the bone – and the right rhythm with your arms.”

“Woohoo,” says the boy crouched above the girl in the red cap. He rubs his hands together, then stretches them out and prepares to lay them on her chest.

My eyes are wide open – perhaps I am dead, rather than unconscious – and they are drawn irresistibly to meet Luke’s. He looks at me, his expression fathomless. I am sure mine is not. I draw a ragged breath and stare at him for an endless moment. Then his hands, so big, so warm, move so that one is above the other, fingers intertwined where I wish mine were. He places the heel of the bottom one down, gently, just touching on the skin above my sternum. His fingers are carefully pulled upward so that they don’t touch the curves which rise on either side of the bone. Still, we look at each other.

“Uh-uh-uh-uh-staying-alive, staying-alive,” the old Bee Gees hit blasts out from the music system, beating out the speed and rhythm we’re supposed to use for compressions.

“Faster, you lot. Do it in time to the music,” shouts coach. “Thirty compressions, then two breaths into the mouth. Don’t forget to pinch the nostrils closed.”

There is a lot of laughing, cheering and singing around us, but it is somehow distant, apart from the immediate reality that is us. My world has narrowed to this moment, to Luke and me.

Luke pulses out the compressions, absorbing each push in his bent elbows, rather than pushing down on my chest. I count the pulses. My heart has never beat so vitally, so quickly, as when he approaches thirty. Then he lifts his hands and brings his face over mine. He can’t mean to … 

I stop breathing again. There are flecks of gold and shards of emerald in the green of his eyes as they come closer. Drops of water cling to the tips of his black eyelashes. His lips hover over mine, almost, but not quite, touching and I can’t help what happens next. My lips part and they rise up to close the minute distance, and then they are touching his. His lips are dry, warm and surprisingly soft for a mouth usually set in such a hard, grim line. My heart kicks somewhere in the pit of my belly as his lips begin to return the pressure.

“Enough! Enough! You kids!” says coach disgustedly.

We pull apart immediately, not looking at each other, but coach is staring down at the girl with the red cap and her partner who have abandoned any pretense of pulmonary resuscitation. Their lips are locked together and they are kissing each other passionately, while all around, classmates hoot and cheer. The girl is still wearing her goggles and I notice that they are steamed up. I steal a glance at Luke, but he leaps to his feet and walks to the concrete steps where towels are scattered in colored heaps, snatching up one and wrapping it around his waist, rubbing another over his face and chest.

My heart still races as I sit up and try to calm my breathing. I look for a towel in which to hide my flushed face. My lips tingle, my breath is ragged. I feel more alive than I have in months – in over a year, if I am honest. I have been numb, going through the motions of my life. Today’s CPR was effective. I might not have been dead, but I realize that for the longest time, I have not been truly alive.

22

Luke

The last twenty-four hours have been craptastic, and I figure things are about to get worse. Might as well get it over with.

Mom or dad?

Mom is in the living room, gazing with unseeing eyes at the TV where a documentary on Antarctic wildlife is showing. Dad is on his computer in the study. I know he hates to be disturbed when he’s working and don’t think I could handle another lecture about the importance of his job given the strained finances of our family. So Mom, then.

I’m about to hand her the letter when I see that her eyes are brimming with tears. I’m guessing it’s not the whales on the screen who have set her off. She’s lost inside herself again.

I give her shoulder a soft squeeze and head to the study instead.

“Hey, dad?” He looks up when I place the envelope on the desk beside his keyboard. “You need to read this and sign it.”

“What’s this?” he says, extracting the letter. Even before he begins reading, he’s frowning.

Banjo runs in and leaps up against my legs, demanding to be picked up. Dad’s scowl deepens at her yelps.

“Can’t you keep her in the kitchen?”

“No.”

Neither of my parents is happy about the new addition to our family. Dad says dogs are expensive and where will we find the money for her food and vet bills. Mom hasn’t said anything directly, but she flinches at the noise and motion, and steers clear of engaging with my puppy. I don’t understand how this is even possible, because Banjo is the cutest, sweetest, softest creature there ever was. She melted my heart the first time I saw her. But maybe mom’s is more frozen, like one of those icebergs she’s watching.

I’m ignoring their negative reaction to Banjo. Saving her is the best thing I’ve done all year. I’m beyond bummed out that I can’t save them all. Last night I wanted to adopt all the doomed animals from the shelter, but no way would my parents have allowed me to bring home two dogs and three cats. So all I could do was go with each animal into the procedures room and hold them while they got sent into the sleep that they would never wake from.