Chapter 15 - When I Swim
The natatorium looked different in daylight. I had only ever seen it at night, blue and hollow, the bleachers empty and the scoreboard humming. Saturday morning it was loud and bright, sunlight coming through the high windows in white bars and mixing with the overheads. The water was the same blue, lane ropes out, kids everywhere with towels and bags. The air smelled like chlorine and coffee from the concession table by the doors.
My name is not important for this part. I was early, like I'd promised. I took a seat halfway up on the home side where Ivy could see me without having to search.
Ivy came out with her age group ten minutes later. Black one-piece, hair pulled back tight under her cap, the blue NICEACK goggles sitting proper up on her forehead before warm-up. She'd cleaned them herself the night before at the kitchen table, rinsed the strap in the sink. When she stepped onto the deck she scanned the bleachers.
I saw Tamsin come in from the far entrance at almost the same second. Cream sweater again, different one, darker pants. She sat two sections over to my left, not next to me. That was the agreement from counseling. Separate seats. Both visible.
Ivy found me first, then her mother. She lifted her hand and waved, once to me, once to Tamsin. I waved back. Tamsin waved back. The new coach, a woman in her forties named Ellis with a clipboard and a gray T-shirt, pointed to lane three and Ivy slipped her goggles down over her eyes and lowered herself in.
I stayed in that seat. I didn't check my phone. I didn't get up for coffee. I watched her push off the wall, the kick steady, the arms a little high on the recovery like Ellis had been working on. The water chopped white around her. My hands rested on my knees. I breathed and let the noise wash over me, whistles and splashes and some dad behind me calling splits too loud.
The first hour moved slow. Eight-and-under freestyle, then Ivy's heat sheet for ten-and-under fifty free. Tamsin didn't leave. I kept track without meaning to. In the old days she would slip out to take a call, or go move the car, and miss the start. This time she stayed planted, arms crossed, leaning forward when the kids stepped up. I caught her eye once between events and looked away, then back. No smile. Just there.
Ellis knelt by lane four before Ivy's race, talking low. I couldn't hear it, but I saw Ivy nod, adjust her goggles, press them twice to seal. She stepped up on the block. My chest tightened the way it always did. The starter called the swimmers down. Beep.
She was third off the block, clean entry, head down. For twenty-five yards I didn't breathe right. She turned at the wall a half-stroke behind the girl in lane five, then came back harder. She touched second in her heat. The board flashed her time. A personal best by almost two seconds.
She ripped her goggles up, looked straight into the bleachers, mouth open in that surprised grin. She looked at Tamsin, then at me. I stood up and clapped, both hands loud. Tamsin stood too, clapping, both of us on our feet in different sections. Ivy laughed and waved again with a wet hand.
After the cool-down Ellis gathered the girls near the bleacher stairs. Parents were allowed down for two minutes between sessions. I went down the concrete steps, Tamsin coming from the other side. We met at the rail, three feet apart.
Ivy stood below us dripping, goggles now around her neck again, old habit. "Did you see?" she said.
"I saw," I said. "Whole swim. You finished your walls."
"You stayed," she said. It wasn't accusing. Just checking.
"I stayed," I said.
She turned. "Mom?"
"I watched the whole thing," Tamsin said. "Start to touch. I didn't miss it."
Ellis touched Ivy's shoulder. "Back to the team area, hon. Hydrate."
Ivy hesitated, looking between us. Then she climbed out, grabbed her towel, and jogged back to her bag. She glanced back once to make sure we were still there.
Tamsin and I were left at the rail. The next heat was lining up. The echo made it hard to talk quiet, so we didn't try for much.
"Counseling Tuesday?" she asked.
"Tuesday," I said. "I'll drive myself."
She nodded. "That's fine."
No reaching out. No fixing it with a hand on an arm. The counselor had told us to stop performing repair in front of Ivy and just do the work. So we gave each other a short nod, the kind people give when they agree to keep showing up without promising where it lands.
May you like
I went back to my seat for the relay. Tamsin went back to hers. Ivy swam the second leg, goggles tight, no slip. When she climbed out she looked up again and we were both still there. That's all she'd asked for the night before, sitting on the edge of her bed while I sat on the floor. Not for us to sit together. Not for everything to be normal. Just stay when I swim.
I stayed.
