Page 7 of Breathing Under Water

Kathleen seems to hear the question I didn’t ask. “Okay, maybe not the planes,” she says, chuckling. “They’re not all trust-fund babies. There are plenty of folks here who work really hard and save their pennies to keep their memberships active.”

We sit in silence a moment, eating our lunches and taking in the scenery, and then I have an idea. “Do you guys ever do, like, charity stuff?” I ask.

Kathleen sits up a little taller. “Oh yeah, sure,” she says with pride in her voice. “Members use space at the club for all sorts of fundraisers. Mah-jongg tournaments to raise money for cancer charities, a hole-in-one contest at the end of the summer where members pick a new charity to support each year, things like that.”

“Who runs the hole-in-one contest?” Helping to organize a big fundraiser would surely count toward my hours, and then I wouldn’t even have to leave the club. “Do you think I could get involved?”

Kathleen cocks her head to the side. “In golf? Why?”

“I have this community service requirement for my scholarship. I was wondering if I could get my hours at the club is all.” I shrug as if it’s not a big deal.

“Nope. Won’t work. Not the hole-in-one event. It’s a pissing contest every year between some of our best golfers to see who gets to chair the event or even be on the committee. Trust me when I say you want no part in that.”

“Do you think there might be something else then?” My eyes roam over to the wrought iron fence that encircles the whole property. “Just seems like a shame to have this beautiful place, these grounds”—I motion to the perfectly groomed lawn, the flowers lining the patio, the pickleball courts beyond—“and so few people who get to enjoy it.” I think about the gate on the other side of the club, at the end of the tree-lined entryway. It’s not even a metaphor. They’re literally gatekeeping.

My mind drifts back to my mom, as it often does when I’m overwhelmed. What I wouldn’t do to have someone I could unload on, the way I used to be able to with her. I feel a familiarflicker of anger at her for being gone, and as usual, I hate myself for it.

Mom would have gone bananas at the thought of me having access to a pool like this when I was little. I did all my earliest swimming at our local YMCA, an aging building that was most notable for its leaky ceilings and the chipped paint on the maroon lockers in the women’s changing room.

We did okay, Mom and I, but it was just the two of us, and I knew from a young age that raising a kid on the North Shore of Long Island wasn’t cheap. Her job as an executive assistant at Soloway, Burns & Mittler, LLP paid enough for necessities, but extras were few and far between. That was especially true after the medical bills started. But we joined the Y before all that, when I was only four years old. The Y was where I discovered that swimming could become my ticket, paving the road to whatever life I wanted. I often wonder if I would have complained more about the demands on me if she hadn’t gotten sick. Instead, I sucked it up like a champ—the grueling schedule, the missed social events year after year, the taunts about my “thunder thighs,” all of it.

Kathleen opens her mouth to respond, but then something behind me catches her eye. I turn to see Coach Catapano walking out from the main building, his teenage daughter, Vanessa, trailing him in full tennis whites. With her dark hair and olive complexion, she looks a lot like her father. She’s tall with square shoulders and long arms that would be any swimmer’s dream, but from what the older girls on the team have told me, she’s not interested in sports.

“Coach Cat!” Kathleen waves them over.

Vanessa glances in our direction but turns pointedly toward the snack bar. Coach shakes his head as if she’s a mystery, then walks over to us.

“Sorry about her. She’s in a mood.” He pulls out a chair and sits next to Kathleen. He’s still wearing the cargo shorts and flip-flops he had on at practice earlier this morning, which I assume means he’s not joining his daughter for tennis. “How’s my star swimmer performing for you?” he asks Kathleen. “I told you she’d be great, right?” He glances at me, and the divot in his chin deepens as he smiles.

“Hey, that’s a flashy new step-counter you’re sporting,” Coach says, pointing to Kathleen’s wrist. It’s no surprise he notices the step-counter, as he barely talks about anything that doesn’t somehow relate to athletics.

“I’ve been enjoying it,” she says. Then she starts showing him all the different features, how it gives her hydration reminders and tracks her heart rate.

“As much as I love stats,” Coach says, “I think I should get back to Nessa. She’s not happy with me today.”

“What’d you do now, Dad?” Kathleen jokes.

“I thought if she practiced her tennis over the summer, maybe she’d want to go out for the high school team come fall. But so far it’s been an uphill battle.”

I glance back toward the snack bar, where Vanessa is now filling a small white cup from the big Heinz dispenser on the counter. She looks back toward our table again, and I give a little wave. I’ve never spoken with her, but I’ve seen her around with Coach now and then, and I figure I ought to be friendly.

She just raises her eyebrows at me before looking back at her dad with a deepening scowl.

“Yikes,” Kathleen says. “Good luck with that one, Coach.”

“Yeah, I think I’ll need it.” He rubs his hands down the sides of his shorts, like he’s steeling himself.

Once he’s out of earshot, Kathleen says, “Maybe your community service idea could be saving dads from teenage daughters. The hell we put our fathers through, right?” She shakes her head as her gaze goes a little foggy, as if childhood memories are flashing before her eyes.

I never knew my dad, not even his name, so I can’t commiserate with Kathleen on daddy/daughter relationships. I don’t even know what my father looked like, whether he had light hair like my own, or darker like Mom’s. I’ve always imagined I got the long wingspan that helps me win races from him, but I’ll never know. Even so, I laugh a little to be polite. Being raised by a single mom was never something I minded, but I still get uncomfortable when people assume my childhood was just like theirs. I don’t think Kathleen wants to hear about my upbringing, about how my mom was everything I needed, and then suddenly she was gone. So I change the subject back to what I really want to talk about.

“If I thought of something else for my community service, something low-key, would you be open to it?”

“Sure, but in the meantime”—she nudges her chair away from the table—“I’ve got an afternoon full of meetings with vendors and accountants. I think we might have a coup on our hands if we can’t figure out how to give the maintenance staff a bigger raise this year. I’m barely even exaggerating. It’s been a shit show.” She picks up her empty sandwich box and walks toward the trash. “See ya, kid.”

I take one last fry from my own platter before standing andheading back to the pool. I have half an hour until my next student arrives. In the meantime, it can’t hurt to be friendly to the other kids playing in the shallow end, and their parents too, to see if I can pick up a few more students for lessons. Maybe flirt with some of the dads if it will help. I’m not above it. No one ever said I wasn’t one to make the most of my opportunities.

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