The Uniter

I was no more than six years old when I stood at the edge of a swimming pool for the first time. I looked down at my toes and could not see them past the protruding belly that overhung my my swim suit. I had approached the edge of the pool, my heart thundering in my ears as I stared out over the water. The swimming instructor, who I met only moments ago, crouched beside me and reminded that all I needed to do was to get to the other side. That sounded easy enough. I'd seen people swimming before, how hard could it be?

My mother had signed me up for lessons that summer after deciding my asthma was becoming unmanageable. Studies had shown that swimming could reduce flare ups for asthmatics, and after being glued to an inhaler the past few months, I was hopeful that swimming would be my cure.

The instructor pivoted beside me, video camera in hand as he positioned himself to capture the moments to follow. He struck a deal with my mother earlier that morning, asking if he could record instructional videos for the lifeguards. My mother gleefully accepted after he offered to reduce the cost of my lessons— she always loved a bargain. She left me at the pool, promising that we'd get ice cream when she picked me up in two hours.

I could barely hear the instructor counting down from three as the first adrenaline rush of my life muffled my senses. I had heard of fight or flight before and I was very much feeling like flight was the more appealing option.

"Three. Two. One. Jump!"

I only hesitated for another second before I leapt from the pool's edge and plunged into the water. The sudden cold shocked my skin as I continued deeper. My nose felt like it caught fire as water ventured deep into my sinuses. The descent slowed as my buoyant six-year-old body reversed direction and floated upward. I peered through my goggles and could see the surface inching ever closer. I aimed toward the glow of sunlight, kicking hard to close the distance. My legs throbbed with pain by the time I broke through the water. I gulped in as much air as my little lungs could hold before I sank below the blue for a second time.

There was no way that I was making it across this pool.

Panic sank in swiftly as my limbs thrashed violently in the water. I knew I was only inches from fresh air, my arms scrambling to lift my head enough to reach it. No matter how hard I pounded my legs, I was not getting any closer. The panic turned to terror as I screamed into the water, air escaping my mouth in a steady line of bubbles. I watched those bubbles rise and I hated them for the ease of it.

My vision darkened around the edges as I sunk lower into the pool. I was so used to aching lungs that I had just started to notice the pain becoming radiant in my chest. I screamed again, this time draining the last stores of oxygen that had remained. A reflexive inhale filled my mouth and lungs with the water I so desperately wished to escape. I coughed and choked as the fluid overwhelmed my airway.

That was all I could remember.

My parents were in the room with me when I woke up in the hospital. I was connected to an array of beeping machines with large displays flashing numbers and zigzags. A scribbling sound emanated from the equipment as a long silver needle stroked across a roll of graph paper in erratic motions. My parent's faces were glued to the scroll as if the information coming through shocked them to the core.

"Mommy," I croaked. My breathing was labored as I stirred in the hospital bed. I peered down at my nose, taking note of the plastic tubing taped to my face.

My parents both turned to face me, wide-eyed and mouths gaping. They quickly strode to my side, showering me with words of affection and kisses to my forehead.

We spent a few more days in that hospital room. My parents occasionally tore off sections of the graph paper as the scribbling machine monitored my condition. They would exchange looks of surprise and whisper to the doctors who frequented the room. Mom and Dad seemed skeptical the day the machines were disconnected. Almost as if they would have preferred to stay and collect more data. The doctor insisted it was time for us to go home, assuring them my lung condition had become stable.

As they packed our things, I realized my mother looked different since the day at the pool. So did my father. It was like they both lost a part of themselves, like that spark within them had been extinguished by the guilt of almost losing me.

In the months following, I despised the way they would look at me— like I was something to protect rather than someone they loved. Their parental affection had morphed into routines and structure. They restricted my diet, my exposure to the outside world, and shielded me from friends and family. The carefree feeling of childhood floated away like the air in my lungs the day I drowned.

At first, I had been patient, understanding that my parents needed time to heal. I had watched with a mixture of concern and hope as my parents navigated the aftermath of the trauma, clinging to the belief that eventually, everything would be okay. But as that summer turned to autumn, I realized with a sinking heart that things would not be the same again. I wanted my parents back. The ones who read to me before bed, let me stir the cake batter and lick the spoon. The ones who signed me up for swimming lessons so I could get stronger. Not the ones they became after nearly losing their daughter.

When the first day of school arrived, I insisted to walk the half mile to Kinder class, alone. After weeks of saying "no" to everything, they finally said "yes" to the one thing that mattered most to the me on this specific day. I didn't wait for them to change their minds before I slung my backpack over a shoulder and eagerly strode off to school. But rather than turning right on Durango Road, I continued straight. Straight until I passed the Library and then made a left into the community swimming center.

The lifeguard who had let me drown was fumbling with a pool noodle when I dropped my backpack at the water's edge. I reached inside the bag and retrieved the goggles that I had stuffed inside that morning. The sound of my rummaging alerted the lifeguard, who was awestruck at the sight of me.

"You are not supposed to be here! Where are your parents?" he demanded. His stomping feet thundered closer as I removed my shoes. I ignored his question. He snatched my arm and leaned in, pausing momentarily before sadness crept into his eyes. "Why did you come back?"

"Why didn't you save me?" I asked.

He held my gaze and let out a hefty sigh. "By the time I realized you needed help, I panicked. I couldn't figure out where to put the camera." He let go of my arm and turned to the water, as if replaying those events in his head. "I wanted to record the rescue, but in hindsight I should have just thrown it in the pool. The footage was not worth what happened to you." His voice became gentler. "I am so sorry."

I peeled off my shirt, the fabric clinging to my swimsuit. "Teach me how to swim."

He opened his mouth and closed it. Twice. A full length argument was taking place in his mind. Another moment passed before he finally spoke. "We are closing for the season this Wednesday. I'd have to teach you today."

I gave a curt nod and removed the rest of my clothes. Drowning was traumatic, but as I stood out over the water, I was not afraid. I had learned what the worst possible outcome was. And I wanted to get back in that pool and learn how to never let it happen to me again.

By the end of that day, I had swam all the way to the other side. And I was absolutely hooked.

An indoor swimming pool was built at the community center a year after I drowned. No longer limited by the cold season, they began to host leagues and swim teams and even the occasional competition. It wasn't until my third grade year though, when Dad finally caved and let me join the beginner's club. My parents thought I would fear the water, but they were terribly mistaken. The water drew me in and it quickly became my second home.

There was a part of me that hoped my aptitude at swimming would help my parents find themselves again. But despite advancing from beginner to intermediate to advanced at a rate faster than my peers, I realized that no amount of skill was going to fix my family. The summer that I turned 18 was when I decided to swim for me.

I clung to the pool wall and clenched my core tightly. My stomach pressed against the concrete before I launched backward, arms sailing up and back before connecting with the water. Backstroke had been my personal nightmare until recently. I could never get that flip turn quite right. As I closed in on the end of the lane, I watched for the hanging flags and held out a moment longer before sucking in a breath and tucking my body into a roll. My feet made firm contact with the wall and I hurled my body forward, stretching my arms out into a streamline. Kick one, two, three. My head emerged from the water and I continued the backstroke, pushing myself to the limit.

I felt excitement rising within me at the prospect of beating my own personal record. There was always something I could do to improve my laps— flip faster, twist harder, be better. But this time I executed near to perfection. That is, until I knocked into the side of the pool with my hand. I didn't linger on it for more than a split-second before realigning myself in the lane and continuing backward. I couldn't let myself lose focus. Push, push, push. There were those flags again. Three, two, one. My hand slapped the wall and I was finished.

"Time!" Coach Reid yelled. She palmed a stopwatch and held a clipboard in the other. "You were so close on that one, Amelia. Over by less than a second."

I cursed under my breath and looked down at my knuckles. Blood fell away with the water that coated them. "Can I go again?" I asked.

"Yep," she said as she jotted times down on the paper. "Let's go for freestyle this time."

I pivoted in the water and began to line up against the wall. My chest still heaved from the exertion of the last set, but it was easier to steady my breath these days. All the years of swimming had really helped with my asthma. It had been so long since I used an inhaler that I wasn't even sure where it was anymore.

A swimmer up ahead caught my attention. "Hey Amelia," she shouted. "How does it feel knowing they play a video of you drowning every summer?" She waded even closer, letting out a laugh. "The lifeguards say it's for training, but I think it's pretty fucking funny."

This was not the first time I had been teased about that video. I didn't get embarrassed easily, but my god did they really have to keep showing that to people? They even managed to record the CPR. I had seen it a few times at this point and it never got easier to watch. The only good thing about that recording was the reminder of my six-year-old belly before it had vanished. I thought my tummy was pretty cute, but once I started swimming it was replaced with a flat, toned stomach and my adult body began to fill in shortly after.

The swimmer sank to her neck, giving a cruel smile before going fully underwater. She thrashed her arms around in an obvious attempt to taunt me. She gargled and spat, her limbs flailing.

"Stop it, Rory" Coach Reid chided, her arms folding tightly across her chest.

Rory did not let up. She jerked and spun, slapping the water with every movement. The act was childish, yet I found myself held captive by her performance. I could not ignore the anger rising within me and suddenly I felt so hot. My fingernails bit into my palms as I curled my hands into tight fists. Fists I very much wanted to slam into her stupid face. I held my position, knowing if I got any closer I may very well hold her under. I had never wanted someone to drown before— this was a first.

A spectator at the pool's edge had seen enough. "Okay, Rory. We get it. Knock it off."

Rory whipped around violently, her motions becoming even more intense. Screams escaped the water in choppy bursts. An eerie feeling came over me. Was she actually drowning?

The spectator dove into the water, reaching Rory quickly. She wrestled Rory's arms and struggled to pull her from the water. "Something is sucking her under," she shrieked, panic lacing her words.

Coach Reid and others sprung into action, surrounding Rory and working together to pull her from beneath the water. A wave of nausea washed over me while I reflected on the anger that had felt overpowering just moments ago. I didn't really want her to drown, I wouldn't wish that on my worst enemy. I just wanted her to stop making fun of me. Suddenly, as if some tether had broken, Rory was yanked from the water by her rescuers. She coughed up copious amounts of water and took deep, ragged breaths, gasping for air as she replenished her oxygen-deprived lungs. Her muscles tensed as she surged forward and vomited into the pool. The group backed away in disgust, though Coach remained, rubbing idle circles between Rory's shoulders.

I exited the swimming pool and slung my gear into my backpack before speedily clearing out of the facility. I practically ran the whole way home. My mind was flooded with a medley of emotions— a convoluted mess of rage and confusion and worry. The logic seemed to be failing as I replayed what just happened. A grown woman, who also happened to be a proficient swimmer, nearly drowned in the shallow end of the swimming pool. It just didn't make any sense. There was no reasonable explanation for the events that just unfolded.

And though it felt absolutely absurd, I couldn't shake the feeling that it had something to do with me.