Page 72 of The Doctor's Truth

Jason, still half-asleep, drops the whale and rolls around to wrap me in his arms instead. “You’re ice-cold,” he mutters.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. Put your feet in my legs.”

I nudge my cold feet between his calves. Donovan takes off his clothes and gets into bed behind me and wraps his arms around me, his skin furnace hot. Slowly, I start to thaw.

Maybe this year will be okay, after all.

III

The Dinner: January, 2019

36

Jason

When I was sixteen, I won the all-stars swim meet for my high school.

I swam faster, made cleaner strokes, and controlled my breath better than all my peers. On my last lap, however, I hit the wall too hard and banged up my wrist. By that point, I already had the lead, so I was still able to book it to first.

My teammates congratulated me, and so did my coach, and they gave me a trophy the size of my arm. But even dripping wet, panting for breath, I could still feel my father’s ice-cold glare from the stands.

“What happened out there?” my father asked me when we got into the car.

“It was a mistake,” I told him.

“What do you think happens when I make mistakes in the OR?”

“People die.”

“That’s right. People die.” I remember focusing on the blinking of the turn single light, just zeroing in on it, because as long as I kept my gaze there, I didn’t have to look at him. I didn’t have to see the disappointment in his face. And if I focused hard enough, I could detach my emotions from my body, flying them high above me like a kite, and save the tears for later.

“Kings can’t afford to make mistakes,” he told me. “Do better.”

I still swim. In case you’re curious.

You might think something like that would’ve turned me off water, but I can’t help it. Swimming is in my blood. It’s one of the few places where I can completely clear my brain.

Lighthouse Medical has a long pool in the rehab wing. It’s heated and keeps the same temperature all year around. At 9:30 every morning, there’s a group exercise session for certain patients in physical rehab. So at 8:30 a.m., I steal some time vanishing into the water and do laps.

For a few minutes, the world is gone, and all I can hear is the rushing in my own ears. The raggedness of my own breath as I push myself to my own limits, just because I can.

When I’m in the water, no one needs me. Water doesn’t put demands on me. All I have to do is put one arm in front of the other and keep breathing.

I lose track of time. When I come up for air, clutching the side, I’m eye-to-toe with a familiar pair of dress shoes.

I blink water from my eyes. My father crouches on the platform above me, the edges of his white coat brushing against the damp tiles. He’s holding out a white towel.

“We need to talk,” he says.

“Coming out.” I rub my hand over my face and then sink underneath again. I push off the edge and rocket to the stairs.

I make a point not to come up for air until I reach the steps. Even then, I stay under water as long as I can, until it feels like my lungs will burst from the empty pressure.

What could we possibly need to talk about?

Word travels fast in Hannsett. Everyone knows everyone’s business. Does he know?

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