The Names They Gave Us(59)

“Don’t you want to get in the water?” I prompt cheerfully. My shadow casts across the foundation of her castle.

“I’m not allowed.”

“Of course you’re allowed!”

“I can’t.” She flaps her arms, apparently miming “swim.”

“You can’t swim? Well, you can wear a life jacket! Or I can teach you.”

She looks out at the other campers in the water and slowly shakes her head. “Everyone else already knows how.”

I crouch down so that we’re at eye level. “Only because someone taught them at some point.”

Still she focuses on the castle.

“Did you know that I swim every morning? I get up earlier than you guys so I can practice. I’m on the swim team at my school.”

Thuy squints at me, considering. “That’s where you come from when we’re getting ready in the morning?”

I usually get back as everyone is brushing teeth and getting dressed. “Yep. And if you want, I can wake you up early too and teach you in the morning. Just us.”

She dumps a scoop of sand onto the castle base. “No, thank you.”

But when my alarm goes off Tuesday morning, Thuy is already sitting at the end of her bed in a swimsuit, ready to go.

She doesn’t speak as we walk down to the lake, and I don’t try to force it. This is the part where I remind myself how many club team kids I’ve helped with their stroke form, with their dives. If there’s one thing I truly know, it’s this.

After I wade in, I turn back to her. “What do you think about getting in to your tummy? You can touch the bottom here.”

By way of response, she strides in until the water’s at her waist—a burst of bravery. “No farther.”

“Deal. How do you feel about putting your head under the water?”

“Well, I can do this kind. Like in the bath.” She dips her head back—hair wet but face dry.

“Good!” So, maybe some fear about her nose and eyes in water. Normally, I’d practice breathing, then submersion—getting used to being underwater. In Thuy’s case, though, my gut tells me that she needs incentive. She needs to know how great it can be and feel motivated to learn. “Can you try leaning back into my hands? I’ll hold you up.”

She presses a balled fist against her mouth. “You won’t let me go?”

“Nope. Promise.”

“Will my eyes get wet? I don’t want that.”

“They won’t.”

“Okay.” She turns her back to me. “Now what?”

I brace beneath her arms. “Lean back. Your hair will go into the water more, but I’ll keep you up.”

She leans back a little, still rooted in the lake’s muddy floor.

“Okay,” I say. “Now let your feet drift up a little.”

“No, I can’t.”

“Okay,” I repeat. “That’s okay. Can you try to relax and just let me move you, then?”

“Maybe.”

I lift up a little, her body easily buoyant in the huge lake.

“Eee!” I take that to mean her feet have left the ground. “I’m not standing! I’m not on my legs!”

“I know. Do you want to kick your feet a little?”

By the time I put her down, my biceps ache. “That was great. Do you want to try floating?”

“No, I don’t want water in my eyes.”

“I know. We’ll be careful,” I promise.

She lets me move her toward deeper water. I support beneath her back with one hand, beneath her legs with the other.

“Am I doing it?” she whispers, eyes squinted shut.

“See for yourself.”

Thuy peeks one eye open, then both as she takes in the broad blue sky above. It’s full of a hundred small puffy clouds today, the ones that look like popcorn. I used to imagine God like a Renaissance painter, rounding each curve of cloud with His brush.

“Oh!” she says. “It’s like lying in bed, only it’s water. And outside.”

And that—the marveling in her voice, it’s been just out of my reach. I’ve been turning over every good thing in my life, searching for cracks in the foundation. But some things—the lake after sunrise, a kid who trusts you to help, the slow rock of cool water—you don’t have to doubt.

By week’s end, Thuy and I have practiced kicking and arm strokes while sitting on the sand. We’ve timed holding our breath, complete with noses plugged, to prove how long we’d be safe. We’ve tried on goggles. No eyes underwater yet, but I’m assembling all the pieces we need to get there.

On Friday, I ditch out of rest time to get my head on straight. Lukas will be at Holyoke on Sunday, so I have to figure out what I’ll say. My walk is nearly a stomp, cutting the path from our bunk to behind the lodge. I need quiet and solitude, room for my thoughts.

“Hey!” There’s a camper on the porch, watching me hurry past.

“Hey. Tara, right?”

“Yep. The pregnant one.” She says it lightheartedly, but I can hear the hurt behind it. I get it: it’s easier to own the crap people say about you. “Are you going for a walk?”

“Yeah. Kind of. I was going to walk to the dreaming tree. I’ve never seen it.”