“What kind of glitches?”
“Lapses in memory? Forgetfulness?”
“No, not that I can recall.”
“I’m serious, Quinn. It would be normal, under the circumstances. The stress of a new job, a new living situation.”
“My memory’s fine. I haven’t had those problems in a long time.”
“Good, good, good.” Now I hear him typing on his computer, keying in adjustments to my workout spreadsheet. “And the Maxwells have a swimming pool, right? You’re allowed to use it?”
“Of course.”
“Do you know the length? Ballpark?”
“Maybe thirty feet?”
“I’m emailing you some YouTube videos. They’re swimming exercises. Easy low-impact cross-training. Two or three times a week, all right?”
“Sure.”
There’s still something in my voice he doesn’t quite like. “And call me if you need anything, okay? I’m not in Canada. I’m forty minutes away.”
“Don’t worry, coach. I’m fine.”
6
I’m a pretty lousy swimmer. Growing up, we had a public pool in our neighborhood, but during the summer it was always a zoo, hundreds of shrieking screaming kids standing body-to-body in three feet of greasy water. You couldn’t do any laps; there was barely room to float on your back. My mother warned me and my sister not to put our heads underwater because she was afraid we would get pinkeye.
So I’m not looking forward to Russell’s new exercises. It’s after ten o’clock the following night when I finally head out to the pool. The Maxwells’ backyard is a strange place after dark. We’re just a stone’s throw from Philadelphia, but at this time of night it feels like we’re miles deep into the rural countryside. The only light comes from the moon and the stars and the glowing halogen lamps at the bottom of the pool. The water is an eerie neon blue, like radioactive plasma, casting strange shadows on the rear of the house.
It’s a warm evening and it feels good to plunge into the deep end. But when I surface for air and open my eyes, I could swear the forest has moved forward, like somehow all the trees have crept closer. Even the chorus of crickets seems louder. I know it’s just an illusion, that the new angle has flattened my depth perception, erasing the twenty feet of grass between the pool fence and the tree line. But it weirds me out, anyway.
I grab the edge of the pool and warm up with five minutes of leg kicks. Over at the big house, all the downstairs lights are on and I can see into the kitchen, but there’s no trace of Ted or Caroline. They’re probably sitting in the den, drinking wine and reading books, which is how they spend most evenings.
After I’m warmed up, I kick off the wall and start with a sloppy freestyle stroke. I’m aiming for ten laps, out and back, across the length of the pool. But by the middle of the third, I know I’m not going to finish. My deltoids and triceps are burning; my entire upper body is woefully out of shape. Even my calves are tightening up. I dig deep to finish the fourth lap, and halfway through my fifth I have to stop. I cling to the side of the pool, struggling to catch my breath.
And then—from the forest—I hear a soft crack.
It’s the sound of a person putting all their weight on a dry branch, pressing down hard until the wood splits. I turn toward the trees and squint into the shadows and I can’t see anything. But I hear something, or someone—soft footsteps padding across dry leaves, walking in the direction of my cottage.…
“How’s the water?”
I turn around and it’s Ted, opening the gate to the pool, shirtless and dressed in swim trunks with a towel slung over his shoulder. He exercises in the pool several nights a week but I’ve never seen him out this late. I paddle over to the ladder and say, “I was just getting out.”
“No need. There’s plenty of room. You start down there and I’ll start here.”
He throws his towel on a chair and then steps off the edge of the pool—dropping into the water without flinching. And then on his signal we start swimming in parallel lines from opposite ends of the pool. In theory we should only pass each other once, in the center of the lanes, but Ted is crazy-fast and after a minute he laps me. His form is excellent. He keeps his face submerged for nearly the entire length of the pool, so I’m not even sure how he’s breathing. He moves like a shark, barely making a sound, while I thrash and flail like a drunk cruise ship passenger who’s fallen overboard. I eke out another three laps before quitting. Ted keeps going, another six laps, and finishes beside me.
“You’re really good,” I tell him.
“I was better in high school. We had a terrific coach.”
“I’m jealous. I’m learning on YouTube.”
“Then can I offer some unsolicited advice? You’re breathing too much. You want to breathe every other stroke. Always on the left or right, whatever feels more natural.”
He encourages me to try it, so I kick off the edge and cross the pool using his suggestions. The results are instantaneous. I’m breathing half as much and moving twice as fast.
“Better, right?”
“Much better. Any other tips?”
“No, I just gave you my best advice. Swimming is the only sport where coaches yell at you for breathing. But if you practice, you’ll get better.”
“Thanks.”
I grab the pool ladder and climb out, ready to call it a night. My swimsuit is riding up and I reach down to tug it back into place, but apparently I’m not fast enough.
“Hey, go Flyers,” he says.
He’s referring to the small tattoo at the base of my hip. It’s the wild-eyed face of Gritty, the furry orange mascot of Philadelphia’s NHL team. I’ve been careful to keep it concealed from the Maxwells, and I’m angry at myself for slipping up.
“It’s a mistake,” I tell him. “As soon as I save the money, I’m getting it lasered off.”
“But you like hockey?”
I shake my head. I’ve never played. I’ve never even watched a game. But two years ago I became friendly with an older man who had an abiding love of the sport and ready access to prescription pharmaceuticals. Isaac was thirty-eight years old, and his father played for the Flyers back in the 1970s. He’d earned a lot of money and died young and Isaac was slowly squandering his fortune. There were a couple of us living in Isaac’s condo and crashing on his floor and occasionally sharing his bed and basically I got the tattoo to impress him, with the hope that he’d think I was cool and he’d let me keep hanging around. But the plan was a bust. I had to wait five days to remove the bandage, and in that time Isaac was arrested for possession, and his landlord chased all of us back into the streets.
Ted’s still waiting for me to explain.
“It was stupid,” I tell him. “I wasn’t thinking clearly.”