Formerly Shark Girl (28 page)

my body, and all my terror exposed.

I can do nothing

but listen to myself breathe.

It’s no different this time.

The sight of so much water,

flickering under the lights —

undulating, rocking, in the area around Max,

the smell of chlorine and the sound

of lapping, quiet lapping,

against the edges of the pool,

the small whoosh of water as Max

moves effortlessly

to the edge of the pool —

all of it combines to induce paralysis.

I tremble, even though I’m not cold.

I am aware of Max, climbing the ladder,

walking over to me, dripping a trail of wet

across the floor.

I pull my gaze from the pool,

and there in Max’s magnetic eyes,

so dark and patient,

I find something. Comfort.

Courage.

Max takes my hand and

leads me to the edge.

Sitting down, he puts his feet in the water.

He pats the ground next to him.

Shivering, I sit next to him.

I sit on his right side, so that my half-arm

is away from him, and hug my knees with my left arm.

I remember when I used to swim,

when I would float or dive under,

how the pressure of water in my ears

would create a profound silence.

I used to like that.

Shutting off the world that way.

And I remember the sound from that day.

Or at least, I think I remember,

though doctors tell me I can’t —

I remember the roar of water rushing,

gushing, into my ears, into my mouth,

down my throat. I remember shouts and cries.

I shiver harder; my stomach clenches.

“Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.”

Max waits, then nods his wet head.

“Maybe I’m not ready,” I go on.

“Maybe I should leave.”

He squeezes my hand. “Okay.”

We sit there a minute longer,

the water lapping, lapping, against its constraints.

“So . . .” I say, to fill the silence.

“Is this . . . therapy?

Psychology stuff from your classes?

What would you call this, exactly?”

He gazes down at his feet in the water.

“Hmm. Tell you what.

Let’s call it . . . immersion therapy.”

We look at each other, at the space

between our faces where smiles should be.

I run a finger along the pebbly, rough concrete.

Max’s legs are stuck out over the side,

strong legs, tapering into nothingness in the water,

his feet melted from view. He puts his hand over mine.

He waits for me to decide if I’m going to do this or not.

All I have to do is get up

and go back to the locker room

and change. Change myself

into clothes,

instead of someone who’s brave

and can face her fears.

That’s all I need to do.

But I don’t want to be that person.

I don’t want to be the girl —

Shark Girl —

who can’t face a swimming pool.

I close my eyes

and focus all my being

on the touch, the weight, of Max’s hand.

It’s an anchor.

It’s a rock.

Then, before I can back out,

I shift

and thrust my feet

into the water

one

by

one.

The water is cold;

my skin tingles in tiny pops.

I let out my breath,

shaky and quick.

Then I look at Max,

so steady and calm.

He watches,

waiting for the next cue.

I hear myself say,

“I’m ready.”

And in one motion, one fluid motion,

at the exact same moment,

as though we had rehearsed this,

as though we both knew exactly what came next,

we slide our bodies off the edge

and   into   the   water.

Cool water engulfs me.

My legs kick too hard, and for a minute

I’m all splash and flounder and choke and flail.

The horrible, empty chasm

beneath my body — it’s frightening.

Plenty of room in the water

for a huge fish

with a gaping mouth

to swim up beneath me,

to bite,

to pull down and sever.

“Max,” I gasp, kicking helplessly.

“It’s all right.” Directly in my ear,

softly, so softly that I have to pause to hear him.

In that pause, he threads his hands

beneath my underarms.

Below us,

his legs tread, tread water,

supporting us both.

“I’ve got you.”

I take a slow breath,

the first rule in any panicky situation.

I take another. And another.

Something in my chest unknots a little.

Max tilts, then glides backward,

towing me along on top of him,

his chin in my hair, his hands on my shoulders.

I gaze up at the ceiling.

Slowly we move through the water.

“Rest your legs,” he murmurs in my ear.

I have to close my eyes and concentrate

to still my panicked legs.

My head comes to rest on his collarbone.

Our wet bodies, soaking hair, merge.

“Jane,” he says again. “Relax. Trust me.”

There is no danger here, Jane. None.

I focus on softening every inch of my body,

shutting down all defenses,

all tense places, all images

and worries, one by one.

“Good,” Max breathes into my ear,

his chin scraping the side of my face.

His breath is warm on my neck.

A wave of heat washes over me.

“Just go along for the ride,” he murmurs.

The water parts for us

with barely a ripple.

As we move about the pool,

side to side, and side to side,

I melt into Max’s body

a little more, then a little more,

until Max and I are a single mermaid,

a soft rope, twined around and around,

a scrap of a jellyfish, moving weightlessly

on a current.

I relax my neck the last little bit,

and my ears slide under the water.

Whoosh.

The silence I remember

fills my ears.

Shutting off the world.

I come up for air, soft and safe in Max’s arms.

The truth of this moment?

This moment, that I dreaded so?

I don’t want it to end.

Justin calls me that night.

“I found it!” he crows.

“Found what?” I ask, feigning confusion.

Triumph rings from his voice.

“I found the thing you hid in the mural.

It’s us, isn’t it? It’s you and me,

and we’re walking together.”

I let out a dramatic sigh.

“You win. That’s it.”

He laughs. “We’re so tiny,”

he says, and I can tell he’s looking

at the painting right now.

“I barely found us, walking in the middle

of all the other people.”

I picture the miniature people we painted,

strolling up and down that path.

Moms pushing strollers. Kids walking dogs.

Dads holding hands with their daughters.

And me and Justin, two friends side by side,

fingertips touching.

“I’m holding a LEGO monster in one hand,”

Justin says, giggling.

“I know how much you like LEGOs,”

I tell him, thinking back to the many sessions

of LEGO building we’ve done together.

“I like it,” Justin says. “I like it that we’re in it.”

“Me, too,” I tell him. And I do.

Inside that mural that we worked so long over,

in one frozen moment,

Justin and I,

we will forever be next to each other.

No matter where I go, no matter where
he
goes,

no matter what happens,

in that single patch of painting,

Justin and I will always be in the same place,

at the same time.

Two friends.

Two kids.

Holding on.

After saying good night to Justin,

I put on my pajamas and find a book to read.

But as I climb into bed,

my arm begins to throb painfully.

I hold it awhile, wishing the pain away.

If only life were as easy as making a painting.

Where you could control

the outcome, dictate the weather, erase

your mistakes, and paint over the big questions.

If only we could paint big sunflowers

over our pain. Over our heart’s turmoil.

But then again, maybe not.

Turmoil is what brought Justin

into my life in the first place.

Besides, some things are meant to last forever.

Like friendship. And good feelings.

And some things are meant to be dealt with,

head-on.

No matter how hard it is.