Infinite Blue Read online

  “Ash.”

  “I want to be close to you. With you.”

  “Here?” Clayton stared, slightly bewildered. Ash was

  able to maintain her seductive act for a moment before

  the facade cracked. She lifted her hands from Clay’s

  shorts, brought them together prayerlike, then let them

  drop to her sides. Her expression collapsed into pale fear and uncertainty.

  “Ash? What’s up?”

  She hesitated.

  “What’s going on?”

  She bit her lip and stared back at him, her gaze level.

  “I’ve been thinking a lot about that drawing you did.”

  She didn’t say which drawing. She didn’t need to. Both

  of them knew.

  “And it made you want to tear my boardies off?”

  “Shut up. That drawing. It weirded you out, didn’t it?”

  “No.”

  “Come on.”

  “No. It didn’t.” Clayton heard her hmm, sensed her unflinching stare. “It’s different. I’ll admit that. I don’t usually do creepy watercolors that look like wanky

  art-school-dropout stuff.”

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  I N F I N I T E B L U E

  Ash nodded. In the distance, above the thrum of the

  falls, the Albert’s lyrebird continued to cry out for a mate.

  “I want to tell you something,” she said. “And I don’t

  want you to think I’m completely nuts, okay?”

  “I think you’re completely nuts anyway.”

  “Don’t.” Her tone was grave enough to crush any

  further joking around. Clayton saw that her hands were

  shaking. “The day of the world record, did you—” She

  paused. “See anything?”

  “Like what?”

  She swallowed and took hold of his wrists. “Anything

  strange. While I was in the pool.”

  Clayton scoured his mind. “No,” he replied. “It was

  the usual scene…up until the scoreboard announcement.

  Things got bent after that.”

  Ash looked over Clayton’s shoulder. Their small

  alcove in the cliff darkened as the sun slipped behind the only cloud in the sky. “Have you heard some athletes say they leave themselves during a race?”

  “Leave themselves?”

  “Yeah. They’re so into it that they get out of their

  bodies.”

  “Okay. Did that happen to you in the world-record

  swim?”

  She nodded. “It’s happened before. I sort of drift

  above and look down at myself in the water. I watch my

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  stroke, my rhythm. I can spot if I’m moving too stiffly

  or too loosely. I can see everything.”

  “All right, I give. That is strange.”

  “I haven’t gotten to the strange bit yet. I was about

  two-thirds into the sixth lap when I felt myself elevating.

  I looked down and saw myself in the water. I was flawless.

  There were no tweaks I needed to do, no adjustments I

  had to make. Everything was perfect.

  “I stayed like that, looking at myself for the next

  two laps, almost all the way to the finish.” She squeezed Clayton’s hands. “You ready for the strange bit?”

  “I guess.”

  She peeked again at the falls. “My hands and feet.

  They…”

  “They what?”

  “They weren’t there.”

  “Come again?”

  “I mean, they were there moving like usual. But

  you could see right through them. It’s like they were the water.”

  Clayton felt a chill trickle down his back. The noise

  of the falls surrounded him, filling his head to the brim.

  “You didn’t notice?” asked Ash. “I was sure you

  would’ve. You know, because of the drawing. The way

  you blended my hands and feet into the wave. I thought

  you must’ve seen something too.”

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  I N F I N I T E B L U E

  Around them the thin mist wafted like a cold breath

  exhaled. Their eyes were anchored on each other for an

  age. Then Ash’s fell away.

  “I know, I know.” She held her face in her hands. “I’m

  being ridiculous. It’s just a coincidence. You did some

  creepy art. I did a visualization technique amped up to

  the max. That’s it. Nothing to see here—move along.”

  Her hands slid away, revealing a smile. Clayton could

  see its fragility.

  “Let’s go back to yours,” she said, standing up. “I could do with a dose of reality.”

  They ambled out of the small resting place and back

  onto the worn, sun-drenched trail hugging the cliff face.

  Nearing the boulders at the rock pool’s southern bank,

  Ash glanced back over her shoulder. The waterfall was a

  postcard of innocent, harmless splendor.

  59

  Nine

  Over the twelve hours that followed, Ash and Clayton did not part. They discarded Ash’s eerie admission at the falls and drove back to Brisbane in a welcome comfortable

  silence. He piggybacked her across the threshold when

  they arrived home, only for her to coax him into turning around and coming in again, with her piggybacking

  him. They snuggled on the couch for three episodes of

  Summer Fall, arms wrapped around each other until they were uncomfortably warm.

  “If this girl was a laulujoutsen, a swan,” said Tuula of Clayton’s iron grip, “she could not fly away. You have stolen too many of her feathers, lapsi.”

  Later, while Tuula walked to the 7-Eleven for more

  cigarettes, they made urgent, clumsy love on the living-

  room rug. A second session of sex, set against the back-

  drop of Tuula’s snores and occasional curses in Finnish

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  from the next room, was slower, less burdened with the

  following day’s weight.

  Q

  The slipping away began in the morning, after breakfast.

  A text from Blythe demanded Ash return home to pack.

  Clayton sat in the passenger seat of the Corvette, feet up on the dash, hand under his chin. At the Drummond

  house, he stayed at her heel. He wanted nothing to do

  with either parent, not Len and his small talk laced with New Testament quotes or Blythe and her wordless stare.

  Packing provided a brief respite. Within the familiar

  space of Ash’s bedroom, Clayton felt more at ease. She

  sought his opinion on clothes for tv appearances, he

  suggested a fat novel for the flight, he organized phone and computer cables and an adapter plug for the North

  American sockets. He sat on the suitcases as she worked

  the zips around. At the end of the hour-long exercise,

  Clayton theatrically wiped his hands.

  “I think we’re done here.”

  “Yeah. Although I bet Mum will think of something

  we’ve forgotten.”

  On cue, Blythe crashed the room—no knock, no

  warning—and barked out commands. “Make sure

  you’ve got all Australian tracksuits, not state or club ones.

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  The medals from the Pan Pacs—bring those. You got

  those against the Yanks. Did you read the email from Kyla about skirt length for Good Morning America? They have strict unofficial guidelines. Are the notes on interview technique packed? Keep them out. You’ll
need to go over

  them on the plane.”

  No stinkeye was leveled at Clayton during the scramble.

  In fact, Blythe avoided any acknowledgment of his pres-

  ence. He was relieved. Usually he was a target for Team

  Drum’s dictator, in the crosshairs for a look or a lecture.

  But here, in Ash’s space, things were different. Blythe

  treated him like a ghost. Was it too much to handle, seeing this dropkick boy in her pride and joy’s inner sanctum?

  The inkling that they shared everything, bed included?

  Was this—the adult equivalent of holding your breath—

  really the best way she knew how to deal with her daughter growing up? The answers could only come from Blythe’s

  own downturned mouth. And Clayton wasn’t about to

  ask. In this small corner of their overlapping worlds, he was more than happy to be invisible.

  Q

  When Clayton and Tuula arrived at the airport, the scene was more subdued than what Clayton had imagined.

  The media wasn’t overwhelming—two camera crews

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  were on hand, forming a scrum around five or six solo

  journalists. Although it had become more common for

  Ash to be stopped in the street and asked for an auto-

  graph, the only “fans” come to see her off were oppor-

  tunistic stickybeaks already at the airport and wondering what the fuss was about.

  Around midday the final boarding call for flight

  520 to Sydney was announced. Ash wrapped her arms

  around Clayton, and they held each other tightly. They

  kissed. Ash’s eyes welled with tears, and Clayton’s ears and cheeks burned red.

  “I’ll check your comic every day,” she said. “I don’t

  want to see any soppiness. Make them funny.”

  “I can’t be funny on command,” he said, shoving

  his hands in his jeans pockets. “And I’m never soppy.

  Now bugger off. Get on your flight.”

  “I love you.”

  “You’re losing your place in the queue.”

  “You love me too.”

  “Will you go already?”

  “Okay!” Ash smiled. “Don’t wait up.” She blew

  him a kiss as she was bundled up and folded into her

  entourage. The camera lights flickered to life as the

  reporters conducted brief interviews with Coach Dwyer

  and Blythe, each going through the motions, before they

  moved on to the star of the show. A larger crowd began

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  to form, and at its center Ash stood tall, shoulders back, breezily welcoming whatever the United States had in

  store for her.

  “I love you too,” said Clayton.

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  Ten

  Clayton stuffed his hands back in his pockets and made

  his way over to Tuula, who was feigning interest in the

  nearby souvenir shop.

  “Let’s get out of here, Mummu.”

  “You do not want to see her leaving?”

  Clayton shook his head. “I’ve seen it. I mean”—he

  gestured at the growing circus surrounding Ash—“look

  at it.”

  “I am looking, lapsi. And I am seeing. But can you

  wait just a little?” Tuula squeezed his shoulder. “I am so janoinen, I need to get myself some water. I will be back minuutissa.”

  Clayton sat on a nearby bench and stared at the

  carpet. The faint outline of some long-ago spill was

  visible beneath his feet. It seemed fitting. He felt as if he were leaking, that the pressure of good thoughts and

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  maintaining positivity was weakening him, cracking

  him. If he didn’t get out of here soon, he might dry up

  completely.

  “Hi, kid.”

  Clayton lifted his head, unsure if the greeting was

  directed at him. It was. Coach Dwyer stood before him.

  “Mind if I have a quick chin-wag?”

  “Um, okay.”

  “You sure? You need to hit the road?”

  “I do, but I can’t yet. I’m waiting for my grandmother.”

  “Well, I won’t hold you up for long.” He sat beside

  Clayton on the bench and looked out at Ash’s impromptu

  conference. “Not sure we’ve ever said much more than

  hello before now.”

  Clayton shrugged.

  “That’s my fault. I’m sorry for that,” Coach Dwyer

  said.

  “Why are you sorry?”

  “A coach has to know all the things that make his

  athlete tick—positive and negative. I didn’t notice just how close you two were until the record swim, and I

  probably should have been more proactive.” Dwyer

  smiled and ran a knuckle over a shaggy eyebrow. “She

  talks about you a lot. In training.”

  “Right.” Clayton was still unsure why he had been

  drawn into this conversation.

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  I N F I N I T E B L U E

  The coach nodded, stared down at the ongoing

  scrum slowly winding its way toward the customs

  gate. “I don’t agree with any of this dog-and-pony-

  show rubbish. This trip—it’s all the work of Mother

  Drummond. Cyclone Blythe, I call her. She’s blowin’

  hard for the States. It’s unnecessary—it’s distracting.

  It’s way too bloody long.”

  “Yeah, it is.”

  “At least we get some quality time in Denver. I’ll

  get to fix things up then.” Dwyer got to his feet. “I just wanted to let you know that you’re real important here,

  kid. Ash might be the strongest competitor I’ve ever

  seen, but she still needs good people around her. She

  needs you to be with her 100 percent, even if you’re an

  ocean apart.”

  Clayton nodded. “A hundred per cent,” he echoed.

  The coach had barely departed when a second person

  approached. Clayton was all too familiar with this figure, the timing of the greeting a giveaway as much as the

  voice. Coach, who may not have remembered his name,

  called him “kid.” But only one person ever addressed him as “boy.”

  “Hello, Blythe.” He liked to drag out the vowel in her

  name, giving it a nasal, country twang.

  “Where is your grandmother?”

  “Around. Close.”

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  “Of course.” Blythe scanned the thoroughfare to her

  left. “Remarkable woman. Foreigner. English not great.

  On her own. But here she is, raising a young orphan.”

  Her attention shifted back. “I’m sorry— orphan’s not the right term these days, is it? What’s the term?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Really?”

  “No.”

  “Hmm…that surprises me.”

  Clayton held Blythe’s stare. Seconds ticked over.

  A train of baggage trolleys rattled past, towed by a

  motorized cart. Laughter leaped from the tv crews

  bidding farewell to Team Drum. Ash’s earnest admission

  could be heard above the din: “I don’t know! Maybe it’s

  a surprise!”

  “She’s ready,” said Blythe, smiling again. “From the

  day she was born, from the first time I dunked her head

  in the pool when she was a baby, this was inevitable. And w
here she’s going—that’s inevitable too. Everything she

  deserves, it’s coming. Ashley Ray Drummond is living her destiny and leaving the past in her wake.”

  Clayton folded his arms. If Ash had been within

  earshot, she would have been making gagging motions

  behind her mother’s back. Everything out of Blythe’s

  mouth sounded rehearsed, like she had a camera crew in

  tow. Everything was an interview.

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  I N F I N I T E B L U E

  “She’s sensitive, my Ashley,” continued Blythe.

  “Always had a soft spot for the…well…the less fortunate.

  The good old Aussie battler. As a child she would bring

  home stray dogs from the local pool. No matter how

  mangy, no matter how pathetic. Yes, compassion is

  a real strength of hers. And sometimes a weakness.”

  She prodded the surgical scars on her left shoulder.

  “But the job’s done now. It’s time for Ash to focus, free of impediment. Free of any dogs she might have picked

  up along the way.”

  “Isn’t that up to her?”

  “It is,” said Blythe.

  Clayton smelled the lavender and sweat and chlorine

  emanating from her pores. He noted that, despite all her hours spent in the pool, Ash never smelled of chlorine,

  and he wondered why that might be.

  “But it’s too late now,” Blythe added. “You know that

  surely.”

  “Too late for what?”

  Blythe sighed and sat down beside Clayton. He

  leaned away from her, the look on his face pure sucked

  lemon. “I want to apologize,” she began. “I know that

  since you started dating my daughter I’ve been…I think

  it’s fair to say somewhat cool. I was wrong to do that.

  I should’ve been more sympathetic, more understanding.

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  constantly reminds me.” She smiled. If she made even the slightest move toward kissing him, Clayton was going to

  instantly lose his breakfast. “You don’t have a mother, of course,” she continued. “A real mother. That’s sad. Very sad. And I really should’ve been more understanding of

  that from the get-go. Oh well, live and learn.”

  Blythe paused, considering her words. Somewhere in

  the terminal, a baby was crying.

  “I need to help you properly understand who a

  mother is, what she has to do. First and foremost, a

  mother has to be the lane ropes for her child. Always