Watermarks

The chemotherapy had taken her hair first, then her appetite, then finally, last Tuesday, her life. Now Sarah sat at the edge of the community pool where they'd both taught swimming lessons for fifteen years, staring at the water that had been their shared language.

"You going in or just testing the chlorine levels?" a voice called from the bleachers.

She turned to find Matt, the baseball coach from the adjacent field, standing with his gear bag slung over one shoulder. His graying hair was cut military-short, and he looked like he hadn't slept since the season started.

"Just thinking," Sarah said, touching her own wig — auburn, styled, utterly fake.

"Mind if I sit?" He didn't wait for an answer. "My pitcher threw a no-hitter yesterday and the kid didn't even care. Said he missed his girlfriend more than he loved winning. Kids." Matt shook his head. "You know, my wife used to say baseball was three hours of boredom interrupted by moments of pure terror."

"Carolyn said the same thing about teaching kids to swim. Fear of water, fear of failure, fear of..." Sarah's voice cracked. "Anyway."

The pool lights flickered on automatically as dusk settled. The water turned from blue to gold to something deeper, more reflective.

"You still come here every day?" Matt asked.

"It's where I feel closest to her. Silly, right?" Sarah slipped off her sandals. "She drowned in her own bed, Matt. Pneumonia took her lungs before the cancer could. But I keep thinking if she'd just gotten in the water one last time — maybe it would have been different. Maybe the water would have healed her instead."

Matt was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, "You know what nobody tells you about grief? It's not like swimming through it. It's more like baseball — you can stand at the plate for innings, swing at nothing, and then suddenly one pitch comes and you connect, and you realize you haven't been playing the same game everyone else has."

Sarah looked at him, really looked at him, and saw the same hollowed-out exhaustion she felt every morning when she removed her wig.

"Carolyn left me six months ago," he continued. "Took the kids, took the dog, left a note that said she couldn't drown in my depression anymore. So now I come here sometimes, after practice, and watch the water. Think about how easy it would be to just... let it take me."

"But you don't."

"But I don't." He turned to her. "Sarah, when's the last time you went swimming?"

She couldn't remember.

"Take it off," he said gently. "The wig. And come in with me."

The pool water was colder than she remembered, shocking against her bare scalp, weightless and freeing all at once. They treaded water in silence as the stars appeared, two people learning to float in their own emptiness, beginning somewhere between the ending and whatever came next.