Infinite Blue Page 9

  the elite athlete she was.

  Soon, though, her recovery slowed. She faltered more

  and more on the parallel bars. Heaving herself from

  surface to surface was hard. Occasionally she wouldn’t

  bother with transfers at all, preferring to stay in her chair.

  120

  I N F I N I T E B L U E

  She began skipping rehab sessions altogether. Her bones

  ached. Her skin was like parchment.

  She missed the water.

  Then, five months and twelve days after the accident,

  a few stiff, twitchy movements in Ash’s calves sent excitement prickling through Team Drum. Wake was on the

  comeback trail. Blythe was triumphant. The physios and

  nurses were impressed. The doctors wrote more often

  on their charts. Len talked of recovery instead of divine intervention.

  Ash didn’t bother correcting them. It was good to

  put a smile on their faces. But Ash sensed this wasn’t

  improvement.

  This was change.

  Q

  Coach Dwyer took a long, deep breath and regarded

  Clayton with a heavy-lidded gaze. He’d aged alarmingly

  in the last few months.

  “Yeah, I’m concerned for her,” he said, as though

  considering the question for the first time. “She’s in the wilderness. A lot of athletes go through this when their careers end. Maybe not as extreme. But, you know, I’m

  seeing some signs in her. Real good signs.”

  121

  D A R R E N G R O T H & S I M O N G R O T H

  Clayton squinted and twisted his mouth to one side.

  After a year and a half of Ash’s media management, he

  knew a rehearsed statement when he heard one. “Come

  on, Coach.”

  “We have to stay positive, kid. I see flashes of her old self. You do too, don’t you?”

  Clayton nodded, but he knew as well as Coach Dwyer

  that those flashes faded fast.

  Coach shrugged. “I don’t know, son. I don’t know

  what more we can do. This accident, it’s rocked her. All she’s ever been is a swimmer. Now she has to find out

  who she is all over again.”

  “She doesn’t need to find out who she is,” said

  Clayton.

  Dwyer frowned and scratched his ear. “How so?”

  “She knows who she is. She needs to get back in the pool.”

  “You don’t want to start sounding like Cyclone

  Blythe, kid.”

  “I’m not talking about competing. I’m talking about

  what she needs. She’s pale and thin. Her mouth is always dry, and she’s irritable. She’s brittle. When she did the talking circuit in the States, it was the same. She needs the water, Coach. I don’t exactly know why she needs

  it so bad”—he paused, trying to think of reasons and

  failing—“I just know she does.”

  122

  I N F I N I T E B L U E

  Clayton thought the coach might recommend he

  do a stint in hospital himself. Dwyer’s response, though, made his heart jump.

  “What would you like me to do, kid?”

  “Talk to the physios, Coach. They won’t listen to

  me, and they definitely won’t listen to Blythe. You can convince them that this would be good for her.”

  Dwyer stroked his chin. “This is what Ash wants?”

  “For sure.”

  “I’m worried she’ll be set up to fail.”

  “This isn’t pass or fail. This is destiny.”

  Dwyer smiled at him, an awkward grimace that

  suggested destiny wasn’t an expression he used much.

  “Love the passion, kid. You’re a good friend to Ash. And I tell you, after the marriages I’ve been through, never underestimate the importance of having a good friend as

  your partner. She’s lucky to have you looking out for her.”

  123

  Twenty-Two

  Ash moved off the chair and heaved her lower half to the water’s edge. Easing in, she felt nothing, nothing, nothing.

  Then the glorious, cool touch of quicksilver, at the top of her thighs and groin. She closed her eyes and sighed.

  Seconds later she was in the center of the pool, floating on her back, hands gliding along the surface, ripples let loose like doves from a cage. A group of elderly women

  at the shallow end moved awkwardly to some disco tune.

  Ash paid no attention. She stretched her arms, laid her

  head back. As the water rushed into her ears, filtered

  sunlight from the ceiling’s skylight warmed her face. The ring on her thumb winked like a tiny lighthouse.

  Floating in the water—cradled in its gentle sweep—

  Ash felt as complete as she ever had. Her spinal column

  was a footnote.

  124

  I N F I N I T E B L U E

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  She wasn’t sure exactly who she was talking to.

  Q

  Conversation seeped through the thin walls separating

  the deck from the viewing area. Clayton could visualize

  the scene without difficulty—Blythe holding the

  rolled-up brochure in her sweaty hand, its gloss faded

  from too much contact, patches of ink rubbed away

  from being carried around for days at a time and laid out every ten minutes for some willing—or unwilling—

  person to see.

  “What do you mean we can’t do it?” she cried.

  “She’s made it to the pool. Now is when we push to the

  next level.”

  She would be waving the brochure in the specialist’s

  face, causing him to blink. Perhaps she had it open, trumpeting technical specifications. The twin magical ther-

  apies: electric stimulation to the spinal cord to encourage regrowth, and a walking-machine contraption from which

  a strapped-in Ash would hang from an overhead frame,

  her feet on a treadmill. It would release her from the wheelchair that limited her belief. It was the next logical step.

  “There’s no point, Mrs. Drummond.”

  125

  D A R R E N G R O T H & S I M O N G R O T H

  “No point? This will get her walking again!”

  “We don’t have access to those machines.”

  “And I’ve told you a hundred frickin’ times already,

  we can get the sponsorship dollars. It’s not a problem.

  You organize it, I’ll get you the money.”

  “It’s not the money, Mrs. Drummond.”

  “Then what the hell is it?”

  A pause. Clayton bowed his head. They won’t work.

  “These therapies are not suited to Ash’s injury.”

  “What?”

  “They won’t get her walking again. Those machines

  are effective for people with very different injuries to Ash’s. It’s been six months now. This is her recovery.”

  “Are you telling me this is as good as it gets? Is that

  what you’re saying?”

  “I’m saying this is her recovery.”

  Blythe began to pace back and forth, each step a stake

  piercing the ground. “You’ve never worked with anyone

  like Ash before, have you?”

  “I have worked with elite athletes, yes,” countered the

  specialist. “From the time of her injury, your daughter

  has made tremendous progress, Mrs. Drummond. She’s

  regained a lot of function. But there’s only so much the body can do to heal itself, electrical stimulation or not.

  She will not walk. But she can be a champion again.

  Whether she wants that is up to her.”

  126
/>
  I N F I N I T E B L U E

  “There are places that will do this for her,” railed

  Blythe. “We can take her there.”

  “There are places that will tell you anything if your

  throw enough money at them, but all they’re peddling is

  false hope.”

  Blythe let out an exasperated shout. “She’s trained

  her whole life for greatness! And you’re giving up! You, a no-name quack, unfit to share the same space as her!”

  “Mrs. Drummond, insulting me certainly isn’t going

  to help your daughter. No one is giving up on her. But

  she needs time to take stock before moving forward. She

  needs to rest for a while. Find some peace.”

  Q

  Clayton watched Ash roll over, positioning herself to

  glide. She began to swim. Her hands carved through the

  water with practiced efficiency, relaxed but in a perfectly held shape.

  Even without assistance from her legs, she lifted her

  body out of the water with each stroke. She touched the

  wall, turned and made her way back to the middle of the

  pool before once more rolling over onto her back.

  “Hey,” he called out.

  “Hey yourself.”

  “Having fun?”

  127

  D A R R E N G R O T H & S I M O N G R O T H

  Ash took a mouthful of water and blew a fountain

  straight up. “You know it.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Come in.”

  “I haven’t got my togs.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  “Ash.”

  “Yep?”

  “Are you okay?”

  She continued floating, staring straight up. Clayton

  waited a while for an answer, then turned away from the

  pool edge.

  “Yeah,” she said after him. “I’m good.”

  The familiar tone skewered Clayton. He turned

  back and watched her closely, echoes of the twin falls

  in his ears.

  They were there moving like usual.

  You could see right through them.

  There was fear in that tone, but also acceptance, like

  she had decided on a course from which there was no

  escape.

  “Let’s see where this goes,” added Ash.

  It was like she was answering another question.

  One she had posed to herself.

  128

  Twenty-Three

  The room, lit only by a series of track lights snaking across the ceiling, was a temple of excellence. Dozens of trophies occupied a shelf spanning the full perimeter of the space.

  A variety of hooks and screws strained under the weight

  of medals, the overwhelming majority of them gold.

  Photographs hung on the walls, the older shots featuring a young woman with broad shoulders and a steely gaze.

  In the newer ones a girl clearly from the same bloodline stood with those same broad shoulders but with a face

  softened by a lopsided smile and a less forbidding stare.

  Newspaper and magazine headlines bellowed at each

  other from their frames. Teen Sensation Stuns Champ!

  Move Over Madam Butterfly! Ash Drummond—The

  Next Big Thing! Wake Leaves Field For Dead! The loudest shout was reserved for a double-page West Coast Digress spread that showed Ash propped up on a massage table

  129

  D A R R E N G R O T H & S I M O N G R O T H

  in Denver, her feet in the foreground, the block title

  booming overhead: WORLD AT HER FEET!

  Blythe checked that the door was locked. Her focus

  was not on the shrine of success, but on a small photo

  in her hand, one she’d opted a while back to keep for

  herself rather than pin up with past glories. It showed

  mother and daughter post-world-record swim, Ash

  down on one knee, the two of them touching fore-

  heads. Blythe twisted and turned the print as if it were a shifting hologram.

  A lifetime ago now.

  Time passed, and Blythe continued staring at the

  image. She always had to wait before anything happened.

  It began with a burning sensation in her chest, the sort she would usually suppress. Not now though. Not here.

  Instead, she let the feeling fester. And it grew. It branched out through her chest and engulfed her heart. It speared her abdomen and clawed its way up her neck, sending a

  red rash across her face.

  A single sob skewered her, enough to tip her over

  the edge of despair. For several minutes she bent over,

  huddled with a great squall of pent-up tears that just

  wouldn’t come.

  “It’s not fair. This is not bloody fair.”

  Still bent over, she curled her free hand into a fist

  and waved it around, lashing out at phantom enemies,

  130

  I N F I N I T E B L U E

  the evil forces that had torn her down, her and her child.

  They would not get away with it.

  “No,” she murmured. She said it again. And again.

  Each time she spoke, the intensity and volume lifted. The final refute—the tenth—was a scream frightful enough

  to curdle blood. She shifted her attention back to the

  photo, to her husband’s presence in the background, his

  eyes skyward, hands together in joyful prayer.

  “Where was your God? Huh? When she was caught

  in the storm? When she was lying on the road?”

  She tore the photo in half, crumpled the piece

  containing Len and threw it across the room. A gasp

  escaped her mouth as her shoulder recoiled from the

  sudden thrust. She gritted her teeth as the pain bloomed, withered and died. A prod of the surgical scar and several shrugs brought muscles and ligaments back into align-ment. Blythe wiped the perspiration from her upper lip

  and perched on a stool, facing the shrine. She folded the photo, placed it in her pocket.

  “We’re not done,” she hissed. “We’re never done.”

  Blythe stood, took a deep breath, wiped the tears

  from her eyes and unlocked the door. As she crossed

  the threshold, she flipped a switch at the wall. The lights went out in the temple.

  131

  Twenty-Four

  Ash wedged her wheelchair into the open driver-side

  door of the car, ensuring she was parallel to the seat. With a combination of effort and caution, she lifted herself

  out of the chair and eased in behind the steering wheel.

  She considered leaving her legs dangling, then relented, hoisting them over the threshold and depositing them

  under the foot pedals. Inside the cab, the smell of leather interior mingled with the odors of the closed garage—

  grease and dust and insect spray and old upholstery.

  An aged fluorescent tube buzzed and flickered above

  the Corvette.

  Everything was different, down to the last detail. Red

  luminous dials on the dashboard. Suede steering-wheel

  cover. Gold knob on the gearstick. The starkest difference between then and now was the body paint. The previous

  car had been gray—the same hue as the storm clouds

  132

  I N F I N I T E B L U E

  that had overseen her near-fatal crash. The vehicle she sat in today? It was blue. She’d requested it.

  Ash pretended to shift through the gears, then leaned

  back, arms folded. The silence was deafening. Nobody

  ever ventured this far back on the Drummond property.

  The garage was an outpost, a distant colony for
junk and stale air. And the vintage muscle car. Blythe had banished it here. I do not want to see it. Ever, she’d said. She couldn’t understand why Ash had wanted the car rebuilt. Ash didn’t bother to explain. It was a visceral thing. The car ought to rise from the accident, ought to be elevated to a new glory.

  She looked to the adjacent seat. She conjured a vision

  of Clayton in his passenger traveling pose, chin cradled, feet up on the dash, elbow resting on the open window. So relaxed. So carefree. She hadn’t seen him like that since…

  since forever. He was care ful these days. Full of care. So full of care there was no room for anything else. It gutted her seeing him like that, taking on additional weight. He didn’t have to do that. He didn’t need to do that. If only he could share her sense of what was happening, what she was becoming.

  Ash plucked the key from her pocket and held it in

  her closed fist. She squeezed tight, feeling the teeth bite into her palm. It felt good, real. She drew the stem of the key out of her fist, then ran the point down along her

  exposed thigh. The skin was soft, pliable. Veins glowed in 133

  D A R R E N G R O T H & S I M O N G R O T H

  the dim light, like trails of phosphorescence on the night ocean. A ghostly line of tiny half circles started at her knee, wound around her calf and cradled her heel.

  She felt nothing.

  Ash tapped the key on her chin, inserted it into the

  ignition and turned it partway. The dashboard dials lit

  up, chasing the dark into the backseat. The stereo came

  to life. Paramore’s “Misery Business.”

  Water, she thought. It embraced you, filling all your

  senses.

  “Ash? Are you in here?”

  She sighed and pressed the button to open the

  sunroof.

  “I’m here, Dad.”

  Len Drummond’s face appeared at the passenger-side

  window. “Been looking all over the place. Thought we’d

  lost you.”

  “No. Just having some time to myself.”

  “I’m sorry. I interrupted. Do you want me to come

  back later?”

  “No, it’s fine. I’m done.”

  The elder Drummond held up a hand, then coughed

  into a handkerchief. “Love, would you mind if we

  moved outside to the yard? I’d like to talk to you about something.”

  134

  I N F I N I T E B L U E

  Q

  It was a swim. A long swim. The infamous 180-kilometer

  stretch between Cuba and the United States. No competi-