The Weight of Water

Margaret stood at the edge of the community pool at 6 AM, the only time she could bear to be seen. The chemotherapy had taken her hair two months ago—now she swam in a tightly tied swim cap, certain everyone was staring at the smooth expanse of her skull. The water was her sanctuary, a place where her body didn't feel betrayed and broken.

An old man sat on the bench nearby, a calico cat curled on his lap despite the NO PETS sign. He was feeding the cat pieces of a protein bar, his hands shaking with what she recognized as Parkinson's or perhaps just the tremor of a life too long lived.

"She doesn't like swimming," he said, startling her. "My wife's cat. I bring her because she hates being alone since Martha died."

Margaret hesitated, then sat beside him. "I have a dog at home. A golden retriever. My husband's taking care of him while I'm... while I'm at the hospital."

"Cancer?"

She nodded, surprised by her own willingness to speak it aloud.

"Martha had breast cancer," he said. "Seven years ago. She was thirty-four."

The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspeakable things. Margaret looked at her reflection in the pool's still surface—her pale face, the dark swim cap, the way her collarbone pressed sharply against her skin now. She'd stopped recognizing herself months ago.

"You should get in the water," the old man said. "Martha said swimming was the only thing that made her feel like herself again. Like she wasn't just a patient."

Margaret stood up slowly. Her body felt foreign, wrong. But she walked to the edge anyway and slipped into the cool water. As she began to swim, she felt something loosen in her chest—not peace, exactly, but something close. The water held her up. She didn't have to be strong here.

When she emerged an hour later, the old man and his cat were gone. On the bench where he'd sat, he'd left a small slip of paper: Martha's favorite stroke was breaststroke. She said it reminded her that you have to keep your head above water, but you still have to keep moving forward.

Margaret touched her smooth head, then smiled. For the first time in months, she believed she might.