Secret Lucidity(15)

“What are you doing?”

“Trying to find the damn coffee mugs.” Her words come out in a garble. She’s still drunk from last night. “Did you move them?”

I walk over to the kitchen and open the cabinet where the mugs have always been and hand one to her.

“Thanks,” she mumbles and then turns to the coffee maker. “What are you doing here? I thought you had some swim thing to do.”

“Another day.” I brush off the question, knowing she’s not even listening to me anyway, and if she is, she won’t have any recollection of this conversation when she sobers up.

She dumps creamer into her mug, emptying the bottle. “You need to pick some more of this stuff up from the store.”

Typical. I literally have to run all of her errands these days because she’s too lazy, too sad, or too drunk to do anything herself.

“I need money.”

“Just take the credit card,” she says as she walks away from me and heads back upstairs.

Clenching my fists in frustration for what my mother is turning into, I take a deep breath before sending up a silent prayer for her return. But then I remind myself that I’ve changed too. The two of us, victims of grief, have found ourselves stumbling down paths we never saw coming.

I see what I’ve become. I barely socialize anymore. I’d rather be alone in the safety of my room than be out among the living. The expectations others have are too much. They say enough time has passed, and that I should start getting on with my life. But how can I? How do I put one foot in front of the other when I’m paralyzed?

It hurts to cry, so I don’t. It hurts to smile, so I don’t. It hurts to pretend, so I hide.

I’m vanishing.

There’s no other word to describe my current state. I know there’s anguish, but it’s somewhere trapped so deep inside me that I’m unable to feel it. It’s an emotion I cower from, because I’m too petrified to know what it will look like when it finally emerges.

Not wanting my thoughts to consume me, I decide to busy myself around the house for the rest of the day. I throw a load of laundry in the wash, empty the dishwasher, and dust before pulling out the vacuum. When all is done and the sun has rolled over its peak and starts descending into the afternoon, I get my laptop to see if the class schedules have been sent out. When I finally see the email from Edmond Ridge High in my inbox, I click it open to review my courses but stop halfway down when I see my teacher for English Lit. My stomach does a quick summersault when I see Coach Andrews’ name—Mr. Andrews. I linger on his name for a beat before closing the lid and getting back to reality, because if I don’t finish up my mother’s responsibilities, they’ll never get done.

On my way home from the grocery store, I pass the high school and see a scattering of cars in the lot. The second swim of the day is underway, but I have no intentions of even trying to make an attempt to be the old me. So, I turn the volume up on my car stereo and let the music drown out the guilt, the anger, and the irritation as I drive far away from dreams and commitments.




Avoidance delivers guilt over solitude, mounting in weight as the days pass by. Even in his absence, I feel like I’m disappointing my dad with each practice I skip. It’s the tug-of-war between need and want, pride and fear, life and death.

Swimming is my passion—or it was. It’s what fueled my mind, body, and soul. It’s what bound my father and I even closer together than what we already were. It was ours to share, and now that bond has been left dangling by withering threads. I know I can’t just quit. If I do, I’ll forever carry that burden of abandoning all the hopes my father had for me.

My mother has already given up, and I can’t allow myself to follow suit, even though I want to so badly.

Before I talk myself out of going up to the school, I grab my swim bag and toss in my suit, swim cap, and goggles. I go through the motions like I’ve done so many times before, but this time, I urge the numbness to take over me.

When I turn into the parking lot, I’m unable to recall the drive I just took to get here. The lot is empty, and the afternoon practice won’t start for another three hours. I pull out the keys my father gave me the day of my last swim.

The day of my last everything.

I stare at the building and allow the low burning flicker of hope to disillusion me.

What if it was a mistake? What if he survived and has been hiding out this whole time, waiting for me to find him?

Depression feeds fables into life, and for a split second, I let myself believe there’s possibility within impossibilities, the way I let myself believe it’s him calling every time the phone rings.

But when I get out of my car, approach the building, and slip my key into the lock, I come face to face with cold hard reality.

The slamming of the door behind me echoes off the walls as I take in a chlorine-infused breath. I look up to the glass of the coach’s office, and another hopeless hope sparks under my ribs.

“Dad?”

My chest pounds as I wait for deliverance to come.

I hold my breath for it.

And when truth claims victor, my bag falls from my shoulder to the ground.

Loneliness just became lonelier.

I walk over to the metal bleachers that line one of the walls and climb up a few rows before taking a seat. Looking out over the glassy blue water, I hand myself over to despair. How am I going to do this without my dad? How can I get back into the water and be a part of this team if he’s not here? The best part of being in the water was coming up for air after hitting the wall and seeing his smiling face from up above, beaming proudly as coach and father.