Girl Underwater (25 page)

I reach for my luggage. “Can I have this back, please?”

“Minus the flares.”

“Fine.”

I grab my pathetic, discombobulated suitcase and sprint for the terminal. Again, I keep my head down. I don't want to be seen, or recognized, or bothered. I just want to
get
there.

Willpower only carries me so far. One second I'm hurrying into the bathroom, and the next I'm sitting in a stall, crying behind the plastic door. Airport restrooms are always loud and frenetic, an unending flow of foot traffic. My vision blurs as I watch high heels and sandals and clogs and sneakers pass outside the door. The toilets flush in a whirlwind of noise and urgency. Sinks click on and off again. Hand dryers whoosh in my ears. I sit there for a full ten minutes, drinking in the sound of humanity—of life—until I'm finally able to walk back out again.

Now I'm late. My flight is getting ready to board, which means I should be at the front of the line along with all the other first-class passengers. But the crowd feels so huge. Strangers jerking for space, waiting to be done with this horrid process. A baby wails. Latecomers sprint for the gate; the overprepared repack their luggage. I try to remember a time when all of this excited me, but I can't. The only thing I feel right now is panic.

So I imagine, instead, what that November night
should
have been. Colin, coffee in hand, bumps into me outside the gate. His smile is warm, his blue eyes ablaze. I see him and think,
I'm glad you're here,
which is the truth, and always has been, even though I spent months denying it.

An announcement would have sounded overhead:
Now boarding first-class passengers.
As they boarded, Colin would have offered me food, because he always notices the little things, like a missed meal or a growling stomach. And I would have accepted, because seeing him smile is always worth it, even if the snack is stale Doritos or a flat soda.

I'm in 34B,
he would have said.
Care to join me in the lap of luxury?

And I would have balked, because the last row really sucks, but I would have said yes.
Yes yes yes.

He would have offered me the window seat, and I would have taken it because I love the window seat.
Used
to love the window seat. The sky, the stars, the spectacle of earth 35,000 feet above your natural habitat. Like swimming in that it defies the usual patterns of physics, and nature, and life.

I would have noticed his book, and I would have commented on it, and he would have told me all about his hometown, and his family, and the mother he so desperately wanted to see on her favorite holiday. He would have said,
You need to get the heck out of middle distance,
because he tries hard not to cuss, even though he cusses so well.

I would have said,
You're absolutely right.

And sometime later, with a pink, familiar dawn on the horizon, we would have reached the city we both call home. Our families would have met us at the baggage claim. After the holidays, we would have been back at school, back in the pool, but things would have been different. I'd be swimming the 1500. Colin would still be the phenomenal swimmer he always was, but I'd support him, and admire him, and maybe even love him.

Instead, our plane went down. And even though these last nine months have been the most trying of my life, they've also been the truest.

And the truth, right now, is that I have to get on that plane.

•

Six hours, two minutes.

I fold myself into 6C, the aisle seat. No window, no shade. The autonomy of controlling the shade is an illusion, after all. I'm not the one dictating my fate—not here, not for the next six hours, two minutes.

I close my eyes, determined to sleep through all of it: the takeoff, the turbulence, the free drinks and stale snacks. Somehow, it happens.

And I dream.

I'm surrounded by water, but the palette is a vivid, skittering blue. The sun burns on a distant horizon, casting slants of pinks and yellows and oranges on a calm, glassy surface. The water is utterly translucent, the sand a pale, snowy white.

I am not alone on this vast, pristine shore. I'm with three little boys and a man who could be their father—tall, strong, distantly familiar. These are people I know well, though their faces are never clear, their voices just shy of identifiable. All I know is that I love them.

The wave that washes over us is warm and gentle, the water smooth as silk. The only sound is laughter; the only thing to fear is a vague sense of an ending. I don't know where this comes from—maybe the burn of the sun on the horizon, or the laughter that fades as it rolls through the silence. Or maybe it's my own mind, hearing the same good-bye as it rolls off my lips, fading into oblivion.

•

It's after nine by the time we touch down in San Francisco. My cell phone confirms eight text messages, all from Lee, his excitement increasing by the hour.
The Shinster misses you! I reserved the pool for skinny-dipping!
His unabashed enthusiasm makes me smile, but it's a sad, aching smile. I know he's standing down at baggage claim, holding up a sign that is almost certainly sexually inappropriate, though only in ways that a full-grown adult would appreciate. He knows better than to steal the innocence of children.

It takes me a few seconds longer than everyone else to appreciate the success of the flight. To everyone else, it's just another long trip. A journey that always starts with a safety video and ends with a mad dash for the overhead bins. To me, it's a gift, a breathless exhale. It's reclaiming a bit of faith in the system.

I grab my bags and make my way toward the restroom. The panic from seven hours ago has begun to fade, left behind in Boston. I try not to think about what else I left in Boston. I try not to think about anything except Lee, and my dorm, and my first day back at practice on Monday. The worst part is over. All I have to do is walk through the terminal.

I roll my luggage all the way down to baggage claim, close enough to sense Lee's presence in the midst of strangers. I can almost taste the cinnamon on his breath; can almost hear the cool, casual sound of my name as he yells it over the din of the crowd.

I lift my gaze for just a second, for no real reason other than to process the cabbies, limo drivers, and air travelers hustling past me. Just long enough to glimpse the list of departures, flashing overhead like a siren.

And there it is: the same flight that crashed almost a year ago, announcing its departure in sixty minutes. Same airline, same time. A red-eye. In the span of a second, my mind considers it, digests it, internalizes it.

The sound of my name—
Aves! Aves!
—floats through my consciousness. My face and shoulders and hips turn toward it, but my eyes won't leave the screen.

Aves!

I am hearing a different voice now. The voice in my dreams, in my memory. A voice I have always tried, so hard, to shut out completely.

Avery.

I'm glad it was you.

I close my eyes and grip the handle of my rollaway. My feet are no longer rooted to the spot; my mind, too, feels suddenly liberated. A certain calm comes over me then, something I never expected to find in an airport, of all places.

I open my eyes and start walking.

EPILOGUE

T
he boy sits in the sun with his knees pulled up to his chest, his gaze trained on the glistening surface. It's a clear, sun-kissed day, and the pool teems with the wild energy of young children. He seems not to notice them. He simply stares at the water, studying its depth. I'm in the pool, standing right in front of him, ready to catch him when he's ready.

I must admit, I didn't expect this. I've taught hundreds of kids. I taught Tim, who's swimming on his high school team now. And Liam, who took to the water like a fish in the sea, as I suspected he would. Even Aayu trusted me when I took him by the hand and coaxed him into the shallow end.

But this little boy is different. He looks at me with tears in his eyes, the tiny muscles tensing in his jaw. I've seen fear before, especially in children his age. But this isn't fear. This is frustration, a helpless anger bordering on despair. I can see it in his glass-blue eyes, in the way he grits his teeth every time he inches closer to the edge.

I wade over to him, though I know he doesn't want me to. He shakes his head and scoots backward. “I can do it . . .” He wipes his tears hard enough to leave a mark on his face. “I just . . . I'm scared.”

Most children get in eventually. Sometimes it takes an hour, sometimes days. But he's been resisting for weeks. I would have stopped taking him to the pool after the third failed lesson, but he insisted we come back. Since then, I've learned to simply stand in the water until he tells me he's done, which can be minutes or even hours. For a three-year-old, he's shockingly patient. Well, maybe not shockingly. I know exactly where he gets it from.

“It's okay to be scared,” I say. “I was, too, for a long time.”

He shakes his head defiantly. “You're not scared.”

“But I was.” I rest my hands on his knees. “More scared than you, even.”

He finally looks up. His face is devastatingly handsome, with skin that loves the sun and bright, expressive eyes. The freckles on his nose look painted on, the work of a careless, though talented artist.

Of course, I know I'm biased. He's my son.

“When?” he asks.

“Before you were born.” I rub his knees with my hands, getting them wet to acclimate him to the water. Sometimes he flinches, but today he seems to relax—just a bit, but it's a start.

“Why?”

“Well, I was on a plane from San Francisco to Boston . . .”

“With Daddy?”

I glance over at the lanes designated for lap swimming, where a small crowd has gathered. It's not every day an Olympian swims laps on a summer afternoon, but I know my husband. He loves the chaos, the clueless swimmers, the occasional kid who jumps in right alongside him and attempts a lap of butterfly like his life depends on it. He loves it because this is home to him—the crowds, the noise, the incessant shriek of lifeguards' whistles. The medals and attention and everything else pale in comparison.

We both watch him for a while, and it's strange, but I think he can sense us doing it. He glides into the wall, pulls off his goggles, and waves.

“Yes,” I say. “With your daddy. I had to swim in a very cold lake, and I was afraid.”

“And he helped you do it?”

I lean forward so our foreheads are touching, and the world is just us—no pool, no fears, no other kids splashing around. I whisper my answer so only he can hear it: “No, sweetheart. He told me
I
could do it.”

He nods, suddenly serious. As I pull away, giving him the space to stand and try again, the surface shifts with sudden movement. And then a pair of strong, loving arms are around me, and Colin murmurs my name, and it
feels
right—him, the water, our family. The transfer to Boston College and four glorious semesters swimming the 1500. Medical school and summer swim lessons and long, painful runs with Edward. Watching the boys grow up. Being there when they asked, some years later, to hear the story of our lives.

Beside us, our son suddenly gets to his feet, his shadow falling on the clear waters beneath him. He looks at Colin, then at me. “I'm ready now.”

He takes a breath.

And jumps.

Many thanks to my extraordinary agent, Stefanie Lieberman, for championing this book and its author; and to Denise Roy, my equally extraordinary editor, who elevated it far beyond my capabilities. You turned this writer's dream into reality, and for that I will always be grateful.

I would also like to acknowledge my parents, Bob and Teresa, who gave me every opportunity to thrive; Fletcher, for always supporting my creative pursuits; family and friends, especially Randee and David, who wanted to read this book long before I wrote it; and my medical school classmates and fellow residents, who supported me, believed in me, and made me a better writer, doctor, and person.

This book is for you.

Claire Kells was born and raised outside Philadelphia. She received a degree in English from Princeton University and a medical degree from the University of California. She lives and works in the Bay Area. This is her first novel.

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