Chapter 3 - What She Said Without Speaking
The echo didn't let go of Ivy's words right away. It held them up under the high ceiling and bounced them off the water.
You only come when I swim.
Nobody moved to answer her. That was the part I kept coming back to later. My daughter was standing there wet and cold ten feet from her mother, and none of us grown people reached for her.
Tamsin's face had gone white under the pool lights. I had seen that look once before, years ago, when a state trooper knocked on our apartment door in the middle of the night about her brother. Eyes wide, mouth a little open, breath caught somewhere high in her chest. She stared at Ivy like she didn't recognize her. Like Ivy was the impossible thing in the room, not her with her sweater pulled half off her shoulder and Rourke's hand still on her waist.
She didn't blink. The chlorine was sharp in my nose. The scoreboard buzzed faintly behind the lanes. A drop of water fell from the starting block and hit the deck with a sound too loud for what it was.
Then her eyes cut sideways.
It was quick. Just a flick toward Rourke. Checking him. Checking what he was going to do. I felt it more than I saw it, that little transfer of weight between them. That was what told me this wasn't a mistake I had walked in on. That glance had practice in it.
I didn't move. I could hear myself breathing, slow through my nose, the way I breathe when I'm trying to keep my hands steady on a job. In and out. The air tasted like chlorine and rubber. My jaw ached from clamping it shut. My hands were at my sides and I could feel my fingers curling in, nails pressing into my palms inside my jacket pockets. I had Ivy's swim bag over my shoulder and the strap was digging in, and I was glad for it. Something to hold onto.
Rourke stepped back half a step from Tamsin, but he didn't let go all the way. His palm slid off her and hung in the air for a second before he dropped it. He was breathing faster than any of us. I could see his chest moving under that dark polo. The whistle on the lanyard around his neck swayed a little when he shifted his weight from one bare foot to the other. Squeak of skin on wet tile. He glanced down at Ivy, then at me, then at the water like he was measuring distance to it.
Ivy stood between us and them, closer to me. She had her arms wrapped tight around herself. Somebody — maybe Rourke after practice — had given her a white pool towel and she had it bunched in both fists against her stomach, wringing it. Water was still dripping off her hair onto her shoulders. Her goggles hung around her neck, the strap twisted once. She looked at her mother, then at me. Then back at her mother.
That eye movement was small, but it landed hard. She wasn't crying. Her eyes were watery from the pool, but she kept blinking to keep them clear. She was waiting for one of us to act like her parents. I could see her trying to decide if she should step toward Tamsin or step back toward me. Her feet didn't move. She just gripped that towel harder until her knuckles went white.
The natatorium felt too big all of a sudden. Empty bleachers rising up on both sides, dark. The lane lines stretching out blue and still behind them. The American flag hanging limp off the far wall. Everything smelled clean and cold and wrong.
Tamsin finally breathed. A short intake, almost a gasp, and her hand came up to her sweater, tugging it straight over her shoulder. A useless gesture. Fixing her clothes while our daughter watched. Her eyes came back to me, and for a second I saw something cross her face that wasn't shock. It was calculation. What to say first. Which version would work.
I didn't give her the chance to find it.
I felt my breathing slow another notch. I let the bag slide off my shoulder and set it down quiet by my foot. My hands came out of my pockets. They were shaking a little, so I curled them once, then let them hang loose. I looked down at Ivy.
She was still watching Tamsin. I put my hand lightly on the back of her neck — just for a second, just to let her feel I was there — and guided her half a step back toward the lane edge, away from the water, away from them. Her skin was cold and damp under my palm.
"Stay here," I mouthed. No sound came out, and I didn't mean for any to. She gave me the smallest nod and clutched the towel to her chest.
When I straightened up, I didn't look at Tamsin. I looked at him.
May you like
Rourke saw it. His shoulders came up. The whistle swung again and settled against his shirt. He opened his stance a little, like he was getting ready to explain or to hold his ground. Tamsin's hand reached toward his arm, whether to stop him or to hold him there I couldn't tell.
I took one step forward onto the wet deck. My shoes made a flat sound that echoed.
