IMPROMPTU

i. “FLOWERS FOR THE WEAK.”

LEOCADIA MARINERO

The weekend prior seemed exclusive to me despite the coach’s warning that it wasn’t supposed to be taken as a break. She’d hoped I would too see the underlying benefits of an unwanted multiplication; hence whilst I endured the beautician’s tactics to hide lucid signs of insomnia on my face and waited for my nails to properly dry before I could do basic tasks on my own again, I’d begun regretting ever agreeing to meet Coach Catherine last weekend.

I could half recognize myself in the vanity: I looked like the Mary-Diana who was deeply loved by her fans, who did not dare miss a scheduled vlog to keep her media engagement intact, who was the face of her swimming team and refused to falter even a week behind once she was placed on the pedestal – I was her; I’d always been Mary-Diana, but I’d gone and lost myself in a familiar oasis of distrust and disgust. To search and embody my runaway shine again sounded bogus to me in the midst of all events, but not more than the world’s impending demand that I become their beloved athlete again, in spite of however I may be. I had nobody but Catherine to warn me about the suffixes that came with surrendering to fame: and now, the prices had only begun escalating one zero after another.

The vanity light and Sue, my beautician, always did more than they were asked to make me beautiful. Though no matter the amount of blush, or glitter, or star confetti on my nails, I felt filthy. I looked filthy in the mirror. My hair, despite being defused with all the worldly care by Sue, still looked greasy and unbelievably ugly because of my rebellion against Catherine: the contrast between my darker roots and dyed ends looked the least nice on me. She’d always wanted me to stay a blonde, even if it was against my will. Part of why Catherine insisted that I was in the best shape for a public appearance was due to my significant weight loss – she said I looked more feminine, that she was glad I could reenter the media with a defined face.

Sue gently ruffled my stiff blonde locks then moved away to admire me: “All done! You look stunning, Diana.” She smiled as rosy as her personality was. I hated to disagree with her – Sue knew my palette and style better than I ever did, but I couldn’t see what about me was moderately presentable today. “Thanks Sue, you’re always so sweet.” I smiled while she rummaged her bag for the mandatory prior-interview gum. Catherine taught us that it helped ease our facial muscles so we would look natural on camera and not hellishly media-trained.

“Do you want to take some photos?” Sue was polite in asking any questions that could potentially be uncomfortable. All of my girls were, as well as our acting PR team – and it made me look as if I’d placed them on thinned ice.

I shook my head, my eyes still fixed to the mirror as I stood to see my outfit in the mirror: a plain blue polo shirt with white pants, and a white overcoat to go with my insecurities. “I think I’m too tired for that. They’ll take pictures on set too. Think you can manage to get a candid for us later, Sue?” I asked as I slide my coat over. I looked complete. I looked moderately alright. I was dissatisfied. I had been for the longest time, only scrambling my hopes of things to act my way.

I stood next to Sue as they mounted the large neon sign reading “Morning Tea-Table with Jason Louise” behind the casual seating arrangement. The typical interview atmosphere, except Catherine made it hell for everyone present. She’d drilled the entire script for this days ago, and was now briefing my teammates on how each of them had to be on perfect cue. It was true that precise timing solidified our profession as synchronized swimmers, but Catherine always made sure we knew about the importance of wearing the façades on television. Jason Louise was our media-solicitor who took the initiative to launch us to the bandwidth of publicity after our fourth consecutive district win. It only made sense that he was only television personality who could be convinced for an intermediate episode like this without much of a prior notice.

My reminiscence about our first ever television appearance as a complete team of eight rosy girls was cut down too soon when Catherine finally stopped yapping, letting the only three present girls breathe, and Jason appeared, followed by a sharp clap by director as we all took positions. Coach Catherine, overstepping the director, insisted I sat closest to Jason – her obsession of covering my story as much as possible was the reason only half of my team was present today. She made sure there were no unnecessary distractions.

I let Sue touch up my hair a last time before everyone decided we were picture perfect. In the lengthy minutes of Jason reciting his introductory monologue to welcome us on his show, I tried not to notice the three men standing by the studio door, just a few steps behind Catherine. The studio played jazz somewhere in the back, and those particular men solidified with a solemn stance did not fit the mood criteria.

Catherine shot back into my view snapping her fingers to get my attention so I would focus on the interview. Jason’s merry introductory monologue was over: “Please welcome with me some of the most talented girls of our generation today, the very beloved Meredith Representative synchronized swim team!” We smiled as he did, then prepared for the cameras to focus on us as he introduced our names one by one: “It’s sad that the entire team isn’t here today but we have the daredevil gymnasts Ayomi Ritz, Suri De Silva and Genelia Forde, and the team center who is also a soloist, Mary-Diana Griffin – girls, I am overjoyed to have you all here.” We greeted him all the same, if not more enthusiastic. After several formal and playful exchanges about only the four of us attending, if we were still rooting for the national championships and if there were chances we would contact the NOC in the nearing future, the spotlight fell to me at last.

“Well I think there is another more, certainly important thing to address which your fans have been wanting to know about, and it’s better to get a clearer view of the incident as candidly as possible, right?” Jason asked and we nodded in unison. “All we’ve really heard about it were from news reports, official statements from the Meredith and bodycam footages of, you know, the situation. I want to ask – if you girls are comfortable – Suri, Ayomi, Genelia, what was it like when you found out Diana had gone missing?”

Suri was the first to know about it, and per script, she began first: “I frankly didn’t believe it at first, I thought it was a hoax until the coach confirmed it. Because if you know Diana personally, you’d know she’s not one for pranks.”

“Right, she normally isn’t a very impulsive person which is like, a core reason we depend on her as the center performer.” Ayomi added. Genelia, who sat furthest and was given even fewer lines for the interview, chimed in on cue: “I was more torn about the news because I was the last person she spoke to before just, vanishing. All the more because we couldn’t reach Catherine until the Meredith released an official statement.” They sounded as natural as Catherine would’ve liked. It made me second-guess myself as I waited for Jason to personally ask me questions about the incident. “We all started panicking once the entire team was sure that it was real and they really couldn’t find her or contact her.” Ayomi ended, and I felt her hand graze my thigh to find my hand. This wasn’t in the script – Catherine did not tolerate splitting the spotlight from me, but I was more than fine with it.

“Do you think you can recount that for us?” Jason asked, sounding genuinely careful for once.

“I mean, I’ve had to testify and explain it numerous times already so I think I’m alright with answering relevant questions now.” I told him with a smile, trying to stay composed. The event occurred several months ago already, but I had yet to decide which was more unbearable: the remainder or the end of it. Then there was the inevitable question I’d already read in the script: “What was going through your mind when you were in that situation, when you realized you’d been abducted?”

I inhaled, unable to look at Catherine who held her breathe and stared at me eagerly. I had but a minute to gather my response. All attention had been reverted back to me, so I spoke, completely off-script: “I’m not sure how I felt in that moment.” Ayomi’s grip tightened once the words left my mouth. Nobody was looking at Catherine anymore. “I only remember feeling dread just go cold all over my body – the feeling when you think you’ve gone too far down the pool and there’s no logical way out. I was scared beyond my wits. Frankly, Jason, I didn’t think I would survive the night once the van started moving at, like, full speed.”

“But you were resilient.” Jason interrupted. “You survived 19 days in captivity and escaped hell.”

I instinctively nodded before taking a moment to breathe again. I realized sitting between the girls would’ve been the better arrangement – perhaps if they were both to my side like the supportive pillars they were, I wouldn’t have remembered the rough, tattered sack on my skin. I could remember it burn my back from laying on it too long. The studio lights were becoming unbearable with the flooding memories of utter darkness surrounding my unguarded, vulnerable and exploited body all for the moral price of one thing:

“I learned that no matter the sort of person you are, the urge to survive, the push, will come instinctively, whether it helps the situation or not. But I didn’t find strength in myself. I was ready to give up and wait for help without fighting back, and then I saw that kid in the car with me. She looked so tiny in the seat, and so scared, but she couldn’t have known the detrimental lengths men could go. I don’t know how it all transpired to myself, but, if it meant I could take away the abuse from happening to her, that little girl, I accepted being the victim. I only believe I was supposed to go through the ordeal, and it was all fate. She was supposed to be saved, she had to be. No child…” When my words end up tangled in my throat, Jason chimed in to complete my sentence, “No child deserves abuse and harm.”

I nodded, slightly proud and disturbed that I managed without breaking down. “And I’m utter proud that I was able to save her from that physical harm. Just watching her go back to living the better, deserving life simply minuses out my rage – it still doesn’t mean I’ve come to terms with the trauma.” I finished and I felt a heaving lump leave my heart as the set fell into silence, and the only visible sounds were Catherine’s heels walking away and the fading jazz in the back.