8 McKenna #2
“Not to overstep,” I say, “but it’d be free, if that makes a difference.”
“You’re so sweet,” she says again. “The truth is, the hour I’m here at the club each day is the only time I get for myself.
Bringing him along with me, even for a class, would sort of defeat the purpose. Elias is a lovely boy, but he’s a handful.
You understand.” She smiles regretfully at me.
She’s lying. I don’t know how I know, but I can tell. She’s not trying to get more quiet time for herself. She just doesn’t
think Elias will like it. As much as I resisted when Kathleen suggested these lessons, the way Mrs. Rollins dismisses the
idea wakes my competitive spirit. Now that I see an obstacle, I’m hell-bent on getting over it.
“You don’t even want to ask him?” I guess I’m being kind of pushy, but I’m thinking of the way my mother always grabbed every
opportunity for me as soon as it was offered. She wouldn’t dare let me miss any chances. It’s hard for me to understand a
mom who behaves differently.
“I appreciate you taking an interest,” she says, “but I don’t think this is for us.” Then she turns her attention back to
the Kindle.
As I head out to Glory’s car in the lot, a new plan starts to crystallize in my head. I slide into the front seat and take my phone from my bag.
I have two texts from Rae, one complaining that the local GNC stopped carrying her favorite protein powder and the other wanting
to know if I can meet her for a run and dryland workout when I finish at the club for the day.
I tap out a quick response agreeing to meet. There’s just one thing I have to take care of first.
When I push open the doors of the YMCA, I feel absolutely no nostalgia. Despite having spent much of my childhood inside this
building, I almost don’t recognize the place. This fresh, state-of-the-art facility feels like an entirely different universe
from the run-down community center where I learned to swim.
The building is so changed that I’m spared the visceral memories of how much I hated getting into the pool when my swim career
started. Back then, I couldn’t bear the feeling of having my head under the water, that pressure against my sinuses, the muting
of the outside world as if someone was stealing my senses away from me. But my mom had saved up all winter so I could join
the group lessons at the Y, and I didn’t want to disappoint her. Instead, I swam faster and faster at each lesson, thinking
that the sooner I finished my laps, the sooner I could get out and dry off.
But my efforts had the opposite effect. My swim teacher couldn’t get over how quickly I was progressing, what talent I was displaying, what a “little fish” I was.
He suggested I join the Y’s competitive team.
When Mom said we couldn’t afford the dues, the teacher made one quick call and then told me I was being invited to join the team for free.
I understood what it meant, even at that young age, to be invited to join an elite group, to be given things I didn’t have to pay for.
That was when I first started to realize there are times in life when passion just isn’t the point.
I approach the registration desk and ask to be pointed toward the director of the early childhood center.
“You have an appointment?” The older woman behind the desk lifts her eyeglasses from where they hang around her neck and turns
toward the computer.
“Oh.” I see now how clueless it was to show up unannounced to a place where small children go to school and camp. “I’m sorry.
I didn’t think. I used to know Karyn Rice. Years ago.”
The woman looks at me over the top of her eyeglasses, and I prepare to be dismissed. But then I hear someone call out in a
singsong voice.
“Did I just hear my name?”
Turning around, I see Karyn. She’s dressed just how I would have expected, in bright yellow overalls with a pink t-shirt beneath.
The skin on her neck is loose and papery in a way it didn’t used to be, and her red curls are now streaked with gray. Yet
her arms are still full of plastic bangle bracelets, and she’s got an air of whimsy around her that’s probably every preschooler’s
dream. It takes a beat for her to recognize me, but then her face opens with delight.
“McKenna Jamison! Oh my goodness! What are you doing here?” She comes toward me, her arms open for a hug.
I laugh into her embrace, relishing the blast-from-the-past moment.
So many other parts of my history have disappeared in the years since I last saw this woman.
I’ve been wondering if it’ll soon feel as though I have no origin story at all.
But seeing Karyn feels grounding, like the experiences I had as a kid were real after all.
“I don’t want to hold you up,” I say, noticing the full tote bag hanging on her arm. “I just had an idea to run by you, but
we can talk another time.”
“Not at all.” She squeezes my upper arm encouragingly. “Come tell me in my office.” She waves an arm in invitation and turns
back the way she came.
I follow her down a wide staircase and then through a hallway filled with pictures of children. In each hanging photo, kids
are engaged in some classic childhood activity, like climbing across monkey bars or showing off hands dipped in fingerpaint.
“Sit,” she says once we reach her small office.
“I hope it’s okay I came,” I say tentatively.
“Don’t be ridiculous. What’s better for an educator than when one of her old students shows up to see her?”
“I was never actually your student,” I remind her as I settle into the vinyl armchair across from her. We didn’t have the
money for preschool. I came to the Y for swimming only.
“Nonsense. Every child I meet along their journey to adulthood is a student of mine. Just as I’m a student of theirs.”
I nearly laugh aloud at her fanciful words, so consistent with how I remember her, but I delve into the reason for my visit
instead.
“So I’m on the swim team at Meadowbrook now,” I begin.
“Oh, I’m so glad to hear it! I always wondered if your talent would lead you to start enjoying the sport more. I’m delighted
to know you learned to love it. I remember what a little torpedo you used to be.”
Karyn was one of very few people who knew how I really felt about swimming as a kid.
She once found me crying and pounding my fists against my thighs in the locker room after practice.
I must have been seven years old. I begged her not to tell anyone.
My mom had been in remission for about a year at that point, and I just wanted to enjoy the peace in our house, for everyone to be happy.
I still remember how Karyn told me then that when I felt those big feelings, I should pretend I was trying to smell cookies, that pulling the scent into my lungs would help the anger go away.
It took me years to realize she’d just been trying to get me to take a few deep breaths.
When I hesitate to respond, she prods, “You do love it now?”
“Oh, yeah, of course.” I repeat the lie I’ve told so many times over the years, that swimming is how I find peace or joy or
some other amorphous piece of wonderful crap. “That’s kind of why I’m here. I’m working over at Hollyhock Country Club for
the summer.”
Karyn gives a low whistle. “Look at you, Miss Fancy-Pants.”
“Hardly,” I laugh. “I’m just pool staff. I’ve been working at their mini-camp, and a possible project has opened up that I
thought you might be able to help me with.”
Karen runs the STELLAR program for elementary-aged kids at the Y. The acronym stands for something about socialization, teaching,
and recreation for kids with autism. “I was thinking I could start something at the club for some of the kids in your program.
Group swim lessons. The pool is so beautiful, and no disrespect to the swanky new facilities here, but how nice would it be
for the kids to be in an outdoor pool during the summer?”
“Oh, McKenna, that’s lovely, but I don’t think most of our kids could afford what you’re suggesting.”
“No, no, for free.”
“Oh! Well, that’s a horse of a different color.” She sits up straighter. “And you have someone there with specialized training
to run the lessons?”
“Well, no, it’d just be me. And the lifeguard, obviously. But this is why I need your guidance.”
She looks back at me for a long moment. “I love the idea of it, but these things can get complicated. Even with a lifeguard
keeping the kids physically safe, we have to think about their emotional well-being. There’s no one with special education
training who might be able to help out?”
“No, and I get it, I really do.” I bite my lip. I need to convince her somehow. It’s the only way I can think of to make Kathleen’s
plan work, to show Coach I can do what he told me to, and to satisfy my scholarship requirements without having to quit my
job at Hollyhock. That same old cocktail of fear, shame, and fury starts bubbling inside of me as I begin to panic.
Maybe she sees something in my face, because her eyes soften. “No need to give up yet. Let’s put on our thinking caps . . .”
I try to quiet my thoughts and just nod encouragingly.
“If we only sent kids who are very high-functioning, and we kept the group small . . .” Her gaze drifts upward as she tries
to puzzle something out, and then she says, “Oh!” She slaps the desk in triumph. “I have an idea about someone who could help
you.”
“Amazing,” I say, getting excited.
“Would you be comfortable taking on a teenager too? A sixteen-year-old?”
I tilt my head, surprised by the question.
Her smile grows bigger as she says, “Trust me, you’re gonna love him.”