Chapter 28 Hazel
HAZEL
I’m not religious, but the moment the scent of chlorine greets me at the entrance of the YMCA is a nearly spiritual experience.
I make my way across the tiled floor, the flipping of my sandals matching the beating of my heart.
I adjust my swimsuit strap as I approach the pool’s edge, water splashing up over my toes.
I stare down the turquoise lane. My muscles twitch in eager anticipation underneath prickling skin, already preparing itself for the cool water.
I let my eyes fall closed for just a few seconds. I catalog the symphony of noises around me: splashes from the swimmer in the next lane over, voices traveling across the surface of the pool, a high-pitched whistle from the lifeguard settling in for duty.
The water, in all its sparkling glory, moves with the other swimmers’ movements. It mirrors everything above it, including the overhead lights, the triangle flags, and the lifeguard’s tall chair.
And me.
I blink, trying to focus on my rippling reflection. For the length of a breath, the water stills, and I can see myself clearly.
“There you are,” I whisper.
I feel a smile take over my face as I jump in. The water’s cold. Shocking. Glorious. I let myself sink down, my body tingling as small air bubbles roll off my skin and rise to the surface. I push off the black strip lining the bottom, blasting up toward the light.
When I pierce the surface, my arms shoot out in front of me, pulling the water back. I breaststroke down the lane. My muscles and lungs burn. For the next thirty minutes, it’s just me and the water.
And it’s right there in the Chinatown YMCA pool that I come back to myself. That I learn how to breathe again.