The Weight of Water

Sarah's hand trembled as she gripped the padel racket, her knuckles white against the graphite handle. The court at the resort stretched before her — the same court where Mark had taught her to play three years ago, his patient voice in her ear as she missed shot after shot. Now she played against a wall, the ball bouncing back with hollow thuds that echoed in the empty space.

"Your form's all wrong," a voice called from the sidelines.

She turned to find a man watching her, maybe fifty, with graying temples and eyes that had seen too much. He held a cat — a scrawny tabby with half an ear — like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"I know," she said, hitting another ball into the wall. "I'm terrible at this."

"He taught you, didn't he?" The man approached slowly, the cat draping across his shoulder like a scarf. "I've seen that look before. The grief form. You play the way you think he'd want you to."

Sarah lowered the racket. "Is it that obvious?"

"Only to someone who's been there." He sat on the bench, the cat curling in his lap. "I'm David. The cat is Bastard. Found him behind the kitchens. He's got more sense than most people here."

She laughed despite herself. "Nice name."

"He earned it." David studied her. "You swim too?"

"Every morning. Six AM. Before anyone else wakes up."

"And does it help? The swimming?"

Sarah thought about the water — how it held her weight, how she could sink beneath the surface and scream without making a sound. How, for those forty-five minutes, she wasn't a widow or a disappointment or any of the things she'd become since Mark's heart gave out in their sleep. She was just arms and legs and breath, cutting through something that couldn't be grasped.

"No," she said finally. "But it's the only place where I don't have to be okay."

David nodded, scratching Bastard behind the ears. "Funny thing about padel. You can't play it alone. Not really. The ball comes back, but it's not the same."

"No," Sarah whispered. "It's not."

"I'll play with you," he said. "Badly. I'm terrible at this game. But I'll play with you."

The cat purred, and for the first time in ten months, Sarah felt something shift inside her — something like light, breaking through water where she'd been drowning alone. She picked up another ball.

"Deal. But you have to tell me how you ended up with a cat named Bastard at a tennis resort."

David smiled, and it was the first genuine smile she'd seen in longer than she could remember. "That," he said, "is a longer story than we have time for."