A Matter of Heart (7 page)

I
'm lying in bed looking at the ocean. It's actually just the deep blue paint on my ceiling, but it makes me think of water. The rest of my room is also painted blue, but a lighter shade. Even though it's dark, I can see the color thanks to a streetlamp that spills light into my room from dusk to dawn. I could close the blinds, but I usually don't. Other people fall asleep. Me, I dive into my dreams.

I have a queen-size bed that's too big for my room but just barely big enough for me. I'm a flailer when I sleep—my arms and legs go everywhere. When we have away meets, I get my own bed. Not even Jen will share since the last time. She kicked me to stop me from moving and sprained her toe.

I've got an end table next to the bed for my alarm clock and iPod. The dresser is inside my walk-in closet, so the only other furniture in my room is a tall white bookcase. The books are all
crammed into the bottom shelf—the rest is full of trophies. The ones that don't fit go in a case in Dad's office right alongside the only empty shelf in the house, the one waiting for an Olympic gold.

It's late. I should be sleeping, but I've had more sleep than I'm used to. Still, it was a stressful day. Connor was pissed about the interview. He said Coach just gave it to Alec for the publicity it'll bring the program and that there's no way Alec is getting a scholarship from Stanford. He said Coach just wants people to hear that athletes relocate to train with him.

I nearly told Connor about the steroid comment, but Jen talked me out of it. Alec wouldn't dare say anything without proof—which doesn't exist. If I tell Connor, he'll go ballistic. They still have to swim a relay together.

I smile, remembering the way Connor slid his arm over my shoulder as he drove me home. He parked next door so Mom couldn't see out the window and pulled me close for a kiss. Connor said my chest looked fine to him, which deserved the eye-roll I gave him. But then he was really sweet and said not to worry.

“If something was wrong with your heart,” he whispered against my earlobe, “you could never have broken a record on Saturday. You're Fins,” he added. “Fastest girl in the water.”

“And you're the fastest guy,” I whispered back.

“Darwin, baby.”

Then we kissed until the windows fogged up.

A sudden sharp but quiet
tap tap
at the door pulls me back to the present. I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. I sit up, bunching the pillows behind my shoulder. “Yeah?” I call out in a half whisper.

The knob turns, and Dad sticks his head in. “You still awake?”

“Yeah.”

He comes in and the hall light follows him in like a spotlight. He's wearing a T-shirt and sweatpants, and I can smell Crest mint toothpaste. No matter how old I get, whenever I smell mint toothpaste, it will remind me of Dad and our late-night talks.

We had our first talk when I was six years old. I'd just swum in my first meet at the local community center and won three first places. After each race, I ran to Dad with the blue ribbon and pressed it into his hand. “I'm one,” I said. I didn't even know enough to say
first
.

“One and only,” he said. Then, on the back of the ribbons, he wrote the swim event and my time. He bought me a slushie, and I chose blue raspberry. Blue meant water and winning. I wanted to fill myself with as much blue as I could hold.

I went to bed so happy that night. I was replaying it all in my head when Dad slipped into my room. He sat at the edge of my bed and went through the whole race, how I'd looked and where the other kids were and how I pulled away each time. It was like watching a movie of me.

The late-night talks became a tradition. He'd start with the meet I'd just won and then he'd tell me exactly what it would be like when I swam in the Olympics. I could see it so clearly as he spoke. I could smell the water and feel the sun on my skin and taste the need in the back of my throat.

I loved those nights when I'd hear the tap on my door. Mom didn't know, or if she did, she didn't say anything. It was our time. His visions, wrapped around mine. I didn't realize it then. But my dreams were born on those nights when I wouldn't sleep at all.

Things hadn't turned out right for Dad. He didn't talk about it very much, but I understood. His collarbone had healed, but the disappointment still ached. “I never got a chance to see what I could do,” he said the night of our first talk. “But you will. And you'll be better than I ever was.”

I didn't think anyone could be better than my dad. I still don't. And the big moments were never quite real until I heard that
tap tap
.

Tonight, there was more to talk about than my race. My visit with Laney. Easy practices. EKG.

I know Mom called him after she dropped me off at school. Dad would have insisted. I figure they fought then, on the phone. Fighting was a given. Mom overreacts and then she accuses Dad of not taking things seriously.

I could feel the tension at dinner. When I reached the kitchen, Mom was bent over a pan of lasagna, working the knife so deep it was like she was trying to kill it, not cut it. Dad was looking out the window, his hand wrapped around his neck like he does when he's worried. But no one said a word about my visit to Laney, and we ate dinner like everything was okay. At least they were both happy about my interview series with Channel 5.

Now, with Mom in bed and no one listening but the moon, I figure Dad and I can talk it all out. Make sense of it together.

He sits on the edge of my bed and rubs his hands along his thighs, his dark blue sweats the same color as my ceiling. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine. Really. I've felt perfect all day long.”

He nods, and I can see the relief on his face. “So how did Coach take it? You having to go easy for a few days?”

“Okay,” I say. “He didn't act like it's any big deal. He sent me to Admin for the interview.”

“Because you're the star of that team.”

I work my hands around a stretch of the sheet. “I just hate missing a real practice.”

“You'll be fine. But you do need to be more responsible.” His voice is sharp. “Keep hydrated and take the vitamins your mother buys for you.”

“I will.”

He squeezes my arm. “I'm proud of you, honey. You stay strong and we'll get through this.”

“Two more days.”

“That's right,” he agrees. “We'll see the cardiologist on Wednesday and get you back in the water on Thursday.”

“Are you going to come?”

“You kidding?” he says. “If I send you with your mother, you'll come home wrapped in gauze.” He smiles to soften his words. “A little extra rest is all you need.”

A
t 5:30 the next morning it's dark, and the air is cold enough that I'm wearing my swim parka over my one-piece. I've kicked off my flip-flops, and the pool deck feels so cold it burns my bare feet. I like it, though. It wakes me up and gets my muscles firing.

It's still quiet while everyone shuffles in, most of the team still half asleep. Horizon's pool is nicer than most of the community pools. The facility was donated by a local family in honor of their grandmother, who competed in the Olympics in the sixties. It's eight lanes wide, twenty-five yards long, with state-of-the-art mounting blocks. The locker rooms are inside the school gym, but there's a covered walkway leading to the pool.

Yawning, I stretch out my shoulders. The pool lights are on, so every ripple of water reflects a shade of blue. I drop my bag next to lane 1. Coach clears his throat and I look up. He points
me to lane 8. Usually I'm in lane 1, group one. We swim three or four to a lane, and the first swimmer in each of the top lanes is the fastest. That means we race against each other, even during practices. Jen is in lane 1 and usually swims behind me in group two. Not today. Plenty of eyes follow me as I grab my stuff and move down the pool. Alec is already churning out laps in lane 2, but most everyone else is wetting goggles and lining up kickboards and hand paddles. Connor is practicing at the community pool with the Aqua Athletes this morning.

“I have to take it easy,” I say as I walk. Bree is listening. Alicia. Tanner and Logan. Jen shoots me a thumbs-up, but the rest of them give me weird looks. It is weird. When have I
ever
taken anything easy?

“We've got four thousand yards this morning,” Coach says. “Abby, no more than two.”

I pretend I'm cool with it. But it's hard to maintain a swagger past seven other lanes. I'm sharing with Hannah and Jessica. They're both freshmen, and I don't know much about them other than they're slow. Then again, this is the slow lane. I wad my hair in a ball and shove it into my cap. I drop my coat behind my bag and jump in after Hannah. The cold steals my breath, but I'll be warm by the time I finish my first fifty. I fit on my goggles, then push off from the wall.

I stretch my arms in a slow glide, joining the smooth flow of the water. I was born in September, which makes me a Virgo. But I should be a Pisces, sign of the fish, because I belong in the pool.

I want to push it. I want to feel the rush of water when I'm going
fast
. I want to swim right over the top of Hannah and Jessica
just to prove I can. This feels like a punishment. As if I've been sent to swimming time-out. Two days, I remind myself. I can stand it for two days.

Connor calls just as I finish dressing. His practice with the club team usually ends a few minutes ahead of ours.

“Hey,” he says. “How's it going?”

“Crappy,” I tell him. “I had to swim slow.”

His laugh rumbles. “A couple of days won't kill you, Ab. I missed a week with pneumonia, remember? And I only had one slow meet.”

One slow meet
. Those were Alec's words. I shift the phone to the other ear, disconnecting that thought. “Yeah, you're right,” I say. “So how was practice?”

“Lame. I wasn't feeling it.”

“Yeah?”

“Legs were dead, like dragging bricks behind me. And you won't believe what happened.” His voice lowers. “That asshole Ainley tried to move up on me. Thinks he can jump to group one.”

“Seriously?” I shrug even though he can't see me. “Who cares about Ainley. He can't carry your swim bag.”

“I know, right?”

I can picture him smiling over that.

“So how was your practice?” he asks.

My breath catches in my throat, and there's a second of silence on the line. “Oh, right,” he says. “Sorry. Forgot.”

If only I could
. I'm tempted to say more so he can reassure me and tell me I'm fine. My mouth opens and closes, but the words won't come. I picture Connor on the other end of the line,
lounging against a wall in a loose tee and worn jeans, grinning his way through a perfect senior year. I close my eyes and draw in a steadying breath. “Let's talk about something else,” I say, keeping my voice light.

“Yeah. Sure,” he says. “Anything.”

And I hold my phone, knowing he's holding his, and there's silence on the line because I can't think of anything else for us to talk about. My
not
swimming is screwing up everything.

“You know what?” I say. “I'd better run. I'll see you in the halls later.”