19. Backstroke
Backstroke
Maren walks into the hall beside the pool.
The hum of the fluorescent lights blends with the steady thrum of the pumps, creating a sound that reminds her of a cheap sleep machine.
She laughs at herself when she realizes there must be a summer school auto shop class running this year, because the smell of gasoline mixes with chlorine in a way that is almost impressive.
One of the parents has propped the doors at the far end open to help the air clear, but the rush of heat that pours in hits everyone with the force of a brick wall.
She reaches into her pocket and pulls out her keys, a stopwatch, and her watch.
She sets them on top of the stacks of registration forms and Otter’s information sheets.
The registration table is slightly tacky from the humidity, and the corners of the forms curl upward despite her trying to smooth them flat.
The last thing she wants tonight is to chase loose papers down the hallway.
She makes a mental note to double-check that she has everything before she heads home later.
Looking around at the parents who volunteered to help and the high school swimmers who lingered after practice to get signed up for the summer, Maren feels a familiar warmth settle in her chest. Every detail feels familiar in a way that settles her shoulders, like this building remembers her as much as she remembers it.
She became the head coach of the high school teams ten years ago, but she stayed on with the age group program simply because she loves working with the younger swimmers.
She always has. Her friends joke that she officially lives at the pool now. A few have even sent her mail here.
Maren turns to talk to one of the dads about possibly officiating this summer’s conference meet.
The Otters have been chosen to host, which means four full days of racing and nearly ten teams, each with close to a hundred swimmers.
People have called her an organized superhero in the past, even though she knows this event will take an entire army.
She opens her mouth to ask him about it when a loud crash explodes behind her.
She spins around just in time to see a girl, maybe nine, tear through the double doors. One of them slams shut behind her with a hollow bang. She has one flip-flop on and is carrying the other in her hand as she barrels straight toward the registration table at full speed.
She collides with the edge of the table, breathless, and the questions start firing out of her faster than any adult could keep up with.
“Is this where we sign up for swimming? What color are the team suits? Do we get to swim today? Do I have to wear a cap? If I do, will it make my head sweat?”
Before the volunteer can answer the first question, the girl has already grabbed a pen, the stopwatch, and Maren’s watch, which sends papers fluttering in the breeze again. The mom behind the table shoots Maren a silent plea for help.
Maren steps around the table and kneels so she is eye level with the girl.
“Whoa there, buddy. Let’s do one question at a time so we can make sure you get all your answers.”
The girl moves toward her, too close, too fast. Maren takes a quick beat and adjusts her stance, so they both have a little space. She notices the girl’s T-shirt is on backwards.
“Mind if I help you flip your shirt around?” Maren asks.
The girl nods and pulls her arms inside the shirt. Maren reaches out, turning the light blue fabric to face the right way. The UNC diving logo appears on the front. She glances at it, but the meaning has not clicked yet.
“Alright. First things first. I am Coach Maren,” she says with a smile. “And you are?”
The girl thrusts her hand out for a handshake.
“I am Rowan,” she declares, shaking Maren’s hand with absolute enthusiasm. “Rowan Callahan, and I am nine and a half years old.”
The name knocks the air clean out of Maren.
She looks up over Rowan’s head just as the door opens again, and there she is. Sandy brown hair swept into a messy bun. Sunglasses pushed on top of her head, juggling a purse, her keys, and a cup of coffee. Reese Callahan steps into the hallway like a quiet hit of fresh air.
All at once, the volume of the room drops from ten to one.
Everything becomes muffled around Maren, like she has gone underwater.
She can see Rowan’s mouth moving and feel the questions still spilling out of her, but none of the words reach her.
All she can see is Reese walking toward them, almost in slow motion.
Her heart rate spikes so fast it feels like she can hear it in her skull, a steady drumbeat pulsing through the quiet. She knows she needs a moment to get herself under control.
She reaches for one of the clipboards and takes her own pen from her pocket, placing both carefully into Rowan’s waiting hands.
“Well, Rowan, why don’t you go find your mom, and you two can fill out these forms together.” Maren keeps her gaze fixed on Rowan’s face, refusing to let it drift anywhere else. “Here. You can use my pen. It is a good clicky one.”
She gives it a few clicks, and Rowan lights up at the sound.
Rowan grabs the paperwork and takes off toward Reese, clicking the pen the entire way. “Mom, I met the coach, and she gave me this really cool pen,” Rowan announces.
Maren hears Rowan’s voice behind her as she turns into the pool area, already moving quickly toward her office.
She reaches for the doorknob and is grateful she left it unlocked.
She does not think she could handle walking back through that hallway right now.
She slips inside and closes the door with careful quiet.
The instant the latch clicks, she lets her back rest against the cool metal.
The temperature shock grounds her. She stays there for a moment, palms flat against the door, working through the tightness in her chest. Then her legs give a little, and she eases down until she is sitting on the floor with her knees pulled close under her chin.
Her thoughts start racing the minute she stops moving. She forces herself to breathe with purpose. In for four. Hold. Out for four. Again. Again. She tilts her head back against the door and waits for that floating, underwater feeling to settle into something she can stand upright in.
A small, humorless laugh slips out.
“Well, I guess this is what we are doing,” she says to no one.
She takes one more steady breath, plants her hands on the floor, and pushes herself back to her feet. Her body feels like her own again. Mostly. She straightens her shirt, reaches for the door, and steps back into the hall.
Maren steps back into the hallway, smoothing her expression into something that feels neutral. The noise has returned to normal levels. Parents are chatting. Someone’s toddler is tapping the edge of the bleachers with a plastic water bottle. The world has righted itself, even if she has not.
Rowan spots her immediately.
“Coach Maren! We finished the forms!” She shouts, already sprinting across the lobby with the clipboard held high above her head like a trophy.
Maren braces herself. Rowan reaches her in half a second, nearly skidding on the tile, and shoves the packet into her hands with absolute pride.
“We did all of it. Even the emergency contact part. And Mom said I can swim every event if I want to.”
Maren smiles softly. “That is impressive work.”
The packet is a little wrinkled, like it rode around in someone’s lap or was folded in half at some point. She smooths the top page with her thumb. The check slips out from the stack and flutters toward the floor. Rowan dives for it, snatches it midair, and hands it back to her.
Maren takes it carefully.
Her eyes land on the handwriting.
It is unmistakable.
Looping. Slanted just slightly right. Careful in a way that always betrayed nerves and perfectionism. The handwriting Maren once saw on the corner of her locker door. On pool schedules. On sticky notes she kept pressed between the pages of notebooks like they were something precious.
The sight of it hits her harder than the name did.
She swallows and tucks the check under the packet, so Rowan cannot see her reaction. “Looks like everything is in order,” she says, hoping her voice sounds steady.
Rowan beams. “Good. Because I want to know when I get to swim backstroke.”
“Soon,” Maren answers. “Very soon.”
Rowan nods, satisfied, and darts back toward the seating area, already distracted by a poster of last year’s team captains.
Maren watches her go, the packet clutched tighter than she means to hold it.
She tells herself she is fine.
She tells herself that this is just paperwork.
But the handwriting is still burned into her mind, clear as the day they first wrote their names on the whiteboard.
Rowan does not go far.
The moment she drops the packet off, she flits right back into motion, pulled toward the bleachers like a magnet.
Maren watches her hop onto the first row and begin to work her way down the aisle.
Every few steps, she stops trying something new.
First, she stomps her left foot hard. The boom echoes down the bleachers, sending vibrations up her legs and through the woman sitting next to her.
They look at each other and giggle. Next, she drags her finger along the cool metal rail.
The hollow ringing that follows seems to delight her.
She taps it again. Tap. Tap tap. Testing patterns. Testing sounds.
Other parents in the stands take note, amused, but Rowan is fully in her own world, taking in every new sensory detail like it is the first time she has ever stepped inside a pool.
Maren catches a smile crossing her own face as she watches.
Rowan pauses halfway down and presses her palms flat to the warm tile under the lowest row of seats. Then she pops back up and keeps going, sliding her hand along the railing again, tapping out a new rhythm.
Finally, she reaches the diving well.
Reese is there.
Standing a little back from the edge, watching Rowan with that soft, careful attention, Maren remembers.
Her sunglasses are still perched on top of her head, and her coffee cup is empty now, held loosely by the lid.
She is talking quietly to another parent, nodding along as they point toward an old Otters team photo hanging near the stairs.
Rowan bursts toward her.
“Mom, listen to this echo,” she says, clapping so the sound snaps through the deeper space of the diving well.
Reese laughs, startled in the gentlest way. The parent she was talking to smiles and mentions how some kids love the acoustics here. Reese responds, but her eyes drift over Rowan’s head for a moment, scanning the deck.
Looking for Maren.
Or making sure she is not looking back.
Hard to tell.
From across the pool, through the bleachers and the noise, Maren watches them. Not hiding, but not ready to be seen either.
Rowan starts to climb up on one of the diving boards, bouncing on the balls of her feet as she goes a step higher. Reese reaches for her automatically, steadying her with one hand, then says something Maren cannot hear. Rowan steps back down onto the deck.
The scene settles in Maren’s chest, the weight returning once again, a weight she cannot name.
She turns and heads back out to the registration table, pretending to straighten up a stack of forms while keeping Rowan and Reese just on the edge of her vision.
The pool lights flicker over the water, casting a soft blue shimmer across the far wall, and everything feels suspended, like water between sets.
With the last few parents drifting out and the crowd settling into a calm hum, Maren gathers the scattered clipboards and carries them back to the table. The stack is uneven, the corners bent from the breeze earlier, but organizing them gives her hands something to do, something steady.
When she straightens and brushes a stray sheet back into place, she feels it before she sees it.
That pull.
That awareness.
She lifts her head.
Reese is standing near the diving well entrance, Rowan at her side, both half-lit by the shimmer off the water. Rowan is talking, her hands moving in quick circles, but Reese is not listening. Not fully. Her eyes are on Maren.
It is not surprising exactly.
Not shock.
More like a slow recognition settling across her face, piece by piece, as if she is seeing something she did not expect but somehow remembers.
Maren holds still.
She cannot look away, even though every part of her wants to.
Reese’s expression shifts. Softer. Clearer.
And for a moment, it feels like the whole pool pauses, like even the water has stopped moving.
Then a parent calls Maren’s name, snapping the moment in half. She looks down, just for a moment, and when she glances back up, Reese has turned toward Rowan again.
But the look lingers in Maren’s chest, warm and heavy, refusing to fade.