Chapter 11 Seventeen years old
Seventeen years old
Sam
Sometimes, I love that swimming gives me time to think. Other days, it’s the worst part about it.
Today is definitely the latter.
No matter how many laps I do, I can’t shake the conversation with my parents. It clings to me, sinking deeper with every stroke, every turn, every breath. Even the more technical drills, the ones that usually demand all my focus, aren’t enough to drown it out.
“Your mum and I need to tell you something.”
I take a deep breath and turn. But the water doesn’t get my dad’s voice out of my head. I hold my breath until my lungs start to burn. It ruins my stroke pattern but I don’t even care.
“It’s Stage Four. We only found out recently.”
I reach the end of the lane and drag in a sharp breath, my heart hammering against my ribs. What’s next? I check the board, grab a kickboard and start another set.
“There isn’t a cure at this point. I’m going to try some chemotherapy to get more time. It seemed like the best option. But I don’t know how much longer I have, love.”
The doctor’s appointments. The exhaustion. The signs. How did I not notice?
The words ‘Stage Four’ beat in my head in time with my kicks.
What does that even mean? What does any of this mean?
I think I went numb halfway through the conversation.
I still don’t understand. The only thing I managed to take away from it was that my mum has pancreatic cancer.
And that my mum is going to die. I keep kicking, but I can’t outswim this.
My dad looked shocked when I said I still wanted to go to practice. My mum just smiled and offered to drive.
Shit. How am I going to get to training now? The thought hits me out of nowhere, and the second it does, a wave of guilt crashes over me. God, I’m a selfish prick. Why am I thinking about swimming right now? Why am I making this about me?
I don’t know anything about how to handle this. You’re seventeen, a voice in my head reasons. You don’t have to know. You don’t need to have the perfect reaction.
But I do.
That’s what my life is. Technique. Control. Fine-tuning every aspect of my stroke, analysing every movement, mastering every drill. Striving for perfection.
When I swim, it’s just me, my body and the water. I control everything.
But I can’t control this.
“There isn’t a cure” rings in my head again as I exchange the kickboard for a pull buoy and start the next set.
I pull off my goggles at the end of the lap as I take a drink of water. Luckily, no one can see my tears through the water already on my face. I duck my head underneath, facing the back wall of the pool, and let out a silent scream.
It doesn’t make me feel any better.
How am I supposed to keep training? I have to keep training. It’s the only thing that keeps me sane. And when will I have time for driving lessons? I obviously need to be able to get myself to and from practice now, but I’ve got exams this summer. And the British Championships.
Fuck. I’m spiralling. I just need to stick to the training plan. I pull myself out of the water, forcing my breathing to slow, but my chest hurts and everything looks oddly bright at the edges.
“Everything OK?” my coach asks as I wring out my cap.
I frown at my hands. Why the hell are they shaking?
“What do you mean?”
“You looked a little tight out there.”
I want to snap. Of course I look tight—I’m thinking about my mum. I want to tell him everything, unload the weight pressing on my chest. But he doesn’t know about her diagnosis yet, and I don’t have the energy to explain.
Forcing a shrug, I mutter, “Sorry. Long day yesterday. I’ll be better tomorrow.”
“Don’t let outside distractions get to you,” he warns. “Swimming first, remember. You’ve got some big races coming up.”
I give him a jerky nod.
Afterwards, I stay in the showers longer than usual, letting the hot water pound against my back. In this controlled space, nothing’s changed. Maybe if I just stay here, I can pretend it still hasn’t.
Dad’s waiting in the car as I leave the sports centre.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks when I slide into the passenger seat.
I stare out the window. “Maybe later.”
I realise I’m angry. At him. At Mum. How long have they kept this from me? Have they known for weeks? Months?
Dad’s voice is calm, careful. “We’ve told Kath and Josh’s families.” He pauses at a red light. “Do you want one of them to come over tonight?”
I let out a short, humourless laugh. “Is that supposed to make me feel better? Mum’s dying, but hey—I can have as many sleepovers as I want?”
Dad’s hands turn white on the steering wheel. “Be more respectful,” he snaps. “She’s my wife as well as your mum.”
The words hit like a slap, and for a second I just sit there, stung and blinking. The anger burns for a moment longer before guilt pushes it down.
“Sorry,” I mumble. “I don’t mean to take it out on you. I just…” I trail off, struggling to put words to the feeling clawing at my chest. “I don’t know what to feel.”
“You don’t have to know.” His voice is quiet. “But, Sam—you don’t have to train if you don’t want to. Everyone will understand if you need a break.”
I shake my head. “I have to train.”
He nods once. The rest of the drive is silent.
When I get home, I go straight up to my room.
I don’t want to see my mum right now. I don’t want to have to talk about this again.
I collapse onto my bed and my gaze drifts to the photo on my nightstand.
It’s one of Kath and I at the Olympics. Mum took it right after my race.
I’m in my swimsuit, still dripping wet, and Kath is leaning across the railing, pulling me into a hug.
That photo was taken less than a year ago.
I reach over and turn it face down. I don’t want to look at the best day of my life on the worst.
Before I even realise what I’m doing, I pull out my phone and call Kath.
She answers on the first ring. “Hi,” she whispers.
The softness of her voice makes my stomach clench. I don’t want that. I don’t want to be treated like I’m breakable.
“Hi.” I try to keep my voice even. “I know your parents told you. You don’t need to treat me like I’m made of glass.”
“Sorry,” she murmurs. “I just don’t know how to be. What do you want me to be?”
I shut my eyes. “Like nothing’s changed.” It’s a lie, but I need it. “I can’t think about this yet. Can you come over? Can we just have a normal night? Watch a film?”
“Of course,” she says without hesitation. “We can do anything.”
Four hours later, we’ve just finished The Fellowship of the Ring for probably the tenth time in our friendship, and I realise how fucking lucky I am to have Kath.
She’s curled up on the sofa next to me, feet stretched over my lap with a bowl of popcorn set between us.
Her hair is piled up in a messy bun and she’s wearing her favourite blue sweatshirt.
She smells of her shampoo, of her mum’s favourite laundry detergent. Of Kath.
“I’ve booked three driving lessons,” she says casually as we load up the next film.
I blink. “Why?”
She grabs a few cushions, adjusting them on the sofa before plopping down beside me. “So I can take you to and from practice.”
I just stare.
She doesn’t meet my eyes, fiddling with the blanket instead. “Don’t look at me like that,” she scolds. “I needed to do it anyway. And you can’t get your licence until the end of summer. Also, when are you going to find time for lessons when you’re already juggling school and training?”
My throat feels tight. Don’t cry.
I swallow hard. “Thanks.” I squeeze her hand. “And thanks for coming over.”
“Don’t worry about it,” she says, squeezing back like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “Anyway, ready to watch Legolas be amazing again?”
I roll my eyes. “You’re obsessed.”
She smirks. “No more than you.”
And for the first time all day, something feels normal. At least one thing hasn’t changed.