throwing himself, thrashing furiously underwater, and surfacing: Gail tried to look as if she were looking on approvingly, but really she was staring at the well-fleshed woman swimming backstroke in the roped-off lane. This woman was so powerful and steady, completing length after length, from the deep end to the shallow and back to the deep, a serious swimmer, her breasts sticking up out of the water. She was another species, as different from Gail as a seal or a porpoise. Gail laid one hand across her own breast. Her tube top had almost nothing inside it; her wrist rested against bone. Heroin had wasted her. The first time the social workers had taken Ant away from her, they had given her a milk expresser, but there had been nothing to express.
On impulse she started swimming, in her own way. All she could do was lie face-down in the water until her body started to float up to the top, and then with slow, sweeping strokes she moved forward. Once again, for the first time since learning to swim in that backyard pool, she tried the breathing part, but as soon as she lifted her head out of the water the rest of her started to sink. She was disappointed; she had hoped that somehow during the long and horrible lifetime she’d lived since first trying, she might have gained the knack sort of automatically.
She lay face down in the water again, waiting to be buoyed up, and then she swam and swam, back and forth across the shallow end of the pool. At first she swam with her eyes closed, anticipating the touch of her fingers against the pool’s side or the floating rope, but after she’d hit her head on the tiles twice, and been kicked by one of the serious swimmers, she swam with her eyes open, surprised to find it didn’t hurt. She couldn’t see much except luminous chlorine blue, disturbed every now and then by a psychedelic glimpse of an approaching body. Sometimes it was Anthony’s body trying to swim beside her, a blur of flailing little arms and legs distorted by motion and diffusion.
Eventually she worked up the courage to touch him, to signal him up.
‘It’s better if you float first,’ she said. ‘Watch me.’
She demonstrated, and he watched, and then, when she’d surfaced and was waiting for him to imitate her, he said,
‘I’ve been watching you. I’ve been doing the same as you for ages.’
‘You don’t wait long enough. You start trying to move around before you’re floating.’
His answer to that was to throw himself forward in the water next to her, to demonstrate that no matter how many long, long microseconds he could bear to wait, his body wasn’t borne up the way hers was. Gail thought of telling him to keep still longer, but suddenly she was sickened by an image, rammed into her mind like a slide into a slide-viewer, of Ant floating on top of the water, dead.
‘How about you hold on to me while I swim?’ she suggested, so shaken by the dead son still floating in her head that she forgot to be afraid of rejection.
Anthony looked away from her, ignoring her suggestion it seemed, towards a part of the pool where a burly Italian man was playing a game with his daughter. Over and over the man would lift the child out of the water, arrange her weight carefully in his arms, and toss her as far and as high as he could. The girl shrieked with delight every time she made her splash.
‘Can you do that to me?’ Anthony asked.
No , Gail thought automatically, the way she’d always done when asked to attempt anything not related to heroin. Everything else was too hard.
‘I’m only little,’ she tried to explain.
Anthony looked at her as if she was crazy: couldn’t she see the difference between them? To make him happy was so easy: a simple physical act. He was a child, she was a grown-up, therefore she could do it: the pleasure was hers to give or withhold.
Gail looked down at him, trying to assess how big or small he really was. Excitement shone on his face, like a sheen of chemical
On impulse she started swimming, in her own way. All she could do was lie face-down in the water until her body started to float up to the top, and then with slow, sweeping strokes she moved forward. Once again, for the first time since learning to swim in that backyard pool, she tried the breathing part, but as soon as she lifted her head out of the water the rest of her started to sink. She was disappointed; she had hoped that somehow during the long and horrible lifetime she’d lived since first trying, she might have gained the knack sort of automatically.
She lay face down in the water again, waiting to be buoyed up, and then she swam and swam, back and forth across the shallow end of the pool. At first she swam with her eyes closed, anticipating the touch of her fingers against the pool’s side or the floating rope, but after she’d hit her head on the tiles twice, and been kicked by one of the serious swimmers, she swam with her eyes open, surprised to find it didn’t hurt. She couldn’t see much except luminous chlorine blue, disturbed every now and then by a psychedelic glimpse of an approaching body. Sometimes it was Anthony’s body trying to swim beside her, a blur of flailing little arms and legs distorted by motion and diffusion.
Eventually she worked up the courage to touch him, to signal him up.
‘It’s better if you float first,’ she said. ‘Watch me.’
She demonstrated, and he watched, and then, when she’d surfaced and was waiting for him to imitate her, he said,
‘I’ve been watching you. I’ve been doing the same as you for ages.’
‘You don’t wait long enough. You start trying to move around before you’re floating.’
His answer to that was to throw himself forward in the water next to her, to demonstrate that no matter how many long, long microseconds he could bear to wait, his body wasn’t borne up the way hers was. Gail thought of telling him to keep still longer, but suddenly she was sickened by an image, rammed into her mind like a slide into a slide-viewer, of Ant floating on top of the water, dead.
‘How about you hold on to me while I swim?’ she suggested, so shaken by the dead son still floating in her head that she forgot to be afraid of rejection.
Anthony looked away from her, ignoring her suggestion it seemed, towards a part of the pool where a burly Italian man was playing a game with his daughter. Over and over the man would lift the child out of the water, arrange her weight carefully in his arms, and toss her as far and as high as he could. The girl shrieked with delight every time she made her splash.
‘Can you do that to me?’ Anthony asked.
No , Gail thought automatically, the way she’d always done when asked to attempt anything not related to heroin. Everything else was too hard.
‘I’m only little,’ she tried to explain.
Anthony looked at her as if she was crazy: couldn’t she see the difference between them? To make him happy was so easy: a simple physical act. He was a child, she was a grown-up, therefore she could do it: the pleasure was hers to give or withhold.
Gail looked down at him, trying to assess how big or small he really was. Excitement shone on his face, like a sheen of chemical
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