Brink
I press the towel harder against my face and my shoulders fall. It’s the first moment since I arrived at the competition where I feel unseen, my hands still.
The sounds around me are indecipherable, and with a heavy inhale, the scent of chlorinated bodies and the classic poolside snack of cold pasta seep through the towel and into my lungs. I steal one more moment before the thud of time passing washes over me with the starting beep of another heat, and I raise my head, laughing. Returning was never going to be easy. But every unfamiliar face I pass adds to the swell drawing me back towards the brink.
I slip on my sneakers, bundling my race suit, hoodie, goggles, and cap into my arms beside my towel, and head for the changing rooms. The corridor is narrow, squeezing people together as they pass.
‘Phryne?’ The voice is high-pitched but firm.
Looking over my shoulder, Mae’s green eyes meet mine, an unfamiliar face beside her. They’re less than two meters away. I don’t even think of stopping.
Mae raises a hand and beckons. ‘Wait up a minute.’
‘I can’t,’ I say, jostling the bundle in my arms as I continue, turning away from her. ‘Gotta get ready.’
‘Why did you leave?’
The corridor quietens, singling out the sound of my fast footsteps. The door to the change room is metres away.
‘Just did,’ I say, glancing back.
They’re still, and when my eyes catch Mae’s, she smiles.
‘Funny, because I thought you quit.’
Silence floods the corridor as I halt. The girl beside Mae doesn’t say anything, only stares. I am no one to her.
A wanting comes over me, my feet unable to keep up as I turn away. My shoulder grates against the wall before I can push through the door.
Some athletes look as I enter; it’s natural, I know, but my hand reaches for my throat.
I find a free cubicle. With the door locked, I drop onto the ledge tucked against the back wall. I let my body fall to one side, the cool of the wall soothing the reddened skin of my shoulder. The buzz of chatter resumes outside, and a girl is asking another for help with her straps. I rub the papery fabric of my race suit between my fingers, watching as it crinkles and juts.
I thought you quit.
My hand lifts, useless against the sharpening pain in my throat. The air seems cooler, the brink rippling in the remaining space of the cubicle. There’s a promise in it, a safety. The beep of another heat starting permeates through the brick walls and washes into my chest. The sound sparks a feeling like electricity, pooling between the brink and me.
A smile forces the corners of my lips to tilt, and I surrender to it. Returning was never going to be easy. I smooth out the race suit in my grasp, standing.
With the suit on and a hoodie on top, I move through the corridors to the marshalling room. My towel, warmup togs, cap, and goggles are bundled in my arms. I dodge piles of belongings flung against the walls. The rows of chairs have been scattered into smaller bunches, curving like half-moons. This close to the pool, the scent of chlorine is stronger and on pool deck, a speaker blasts pump-up music.
Most of the seats are occupied by male athletes but a group of females have started to gather and as each new heat is called away by the officials, the crowd changes. I don’t recognise anyone else here; they all seem younger or from clubs I don’t remember.
I make my way to the side of the room, where a wall of frosted windows separates support services from the rush of athletes passing by. Checking that the floor isn’t wet, I crouch and set down the bundle in my arms. I am unsteady, bombarded by conflicting memories, and I press a hand against the glass. Each inhale and exhale takes me to past races—thrilled, assured, worried—and I am alone in them all. Cool air ripples over my back as athletes pass. My eyes drift shut. I am younger, racing with a wildness, that relishes the cheers of the crowd and draws me back to the water. The memory surges into me, a crackling electricity moving up my arms. It burns for me to follow it behind the blocks and out into the race, but the brink remains, wrapping over my shoulders like a towel.
‘I must be seeing things.’ The voice is playful and breaks me from my daze.
I open my eyes, rising. My fingers slip from the frosted glass as I turn to find a familiar set of brown eyes in front of me. A stiffness seizes my body. I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to be asked.
‘Veronica.’ I try not to force the sound.
‘Phryne,’ she says with a smile before her embrace closes, fingers linking together behind my back.
The fabric of her hoodie is soft against the underside of my jaw, and as she pulls a little tighter, I find my arms rising to wrap around her. I can smell jasmine over the clinging odour of chlorine. The scent reminds me of the first time we met, the first time we swore we were better than each other. That we’d always see each other in the final. I feel her move, the cool skin of her cheek millimetres away from mine.
‘I’ve missed you.’
My hands tense, bunches of her hoodie slipping between my fingers. She doesn’t flinch, instead hugs me tighter.
‘I am glad you’re back,’ she continues.
I force my hands to relax and push back against her embrace until it breaks.
‘You’re the first person to say that.’
I shove my hands into the pockets of my jacket, feeling the latex and plastic of my cap and goggles.
‘Everyone thinks it’s their business, eh?’ Veronica says with a laugh, stepping and turning until she looks back out over the marshalling room beside me.
‘Mmmh, you could say that,’ I reply, as the edges of my mouth tip up.
‘So…’ she teases. ‘What prompted your disappearance?’
I glance at her, her eyes glinting, and shake my head. But the brink surfaces, and all I see is myself crying at the kitchen table, a fraction of a second away from quitting, and it stings like the first breath after a turn. I remove the cap from my pocket and stretch it between my hands, turning it over and over.
‘I can’t tell you.’
There’s a seriousness in her eyes when I catch them again that I find comforting.
‘I don’t know if I’ll ever want to talk about it.’
Veronica nods, then shrugs a shoulder. ‘Sounds fair.’
She starts walking backwards, gesturing until I follow her. Another heat moves out of the room, and we shift in its wake. The blue timing board flickers between heats. We’ve only got three left before our turn, before I step onto the block and commit to returning, to coming back from the brink. An unease stirs inside my chest and all I want is to take it out and place it on an empty seat among the masses of strangers adorning the stands.
Veronica raises an arm beside me, waving towards the green-chaired section of the stand close to lane nine. I follow her line of sight, and soon enough, a brunette woman waves back at her. A young man sits beside the woman, and peers across the pool at us.
‘Is that…?’ I start.
Veronica nods without looking at me, and I realise how much they look alike.
‘He got the weekend off. It’s not every day he can see his sister race.’
Veronica looks at me, throws an arm over my shoulder to pull me closer, and uses her free hand to gesture to me. The woman stops waving, her hands coming up to cup around her eyes. The moment seems to slow, and I wonder if everyone else can sense it too. I hear the beep of another heat starting, the woosh of bodies breaking the water’s surface. But the brunette woman raises her hand again, and says something to the man beside her, and they wave in short, sharp movements.
‘How good that your family’s here.’
‘They asked about you.’
I look at Veronica. There’s a softness around her eyes, visible under the red goggle marks left from warmup.
‘Tell ‘em I said hi.’ I look back out at her family, now watching the heat come in for the finish. ‘And that everything’s been alright.’
Veronica nods and lets me go. She puts on her goggles first, cap second, as I do the same in reverse, stretching the silicone with our hands to place over our hair.
The official reenters the room. ‘Heat one, women’s one-hundred-meter freestyle.’
I take off my hoodie, hesitating, and Veronica’s brows knit together. I know we’re not in the same heat anymore.
‘Aren’t you going to say it?’ I ask.
The rest of my heat has already left, and I know my time is running out.
Veronica’s head dips, a half-nod. ‘I better see you in the final.’
I join the end of the of the heat in the corridor as the official calls my name. The final heat of the men’s event steps up onto the blocks. There are a few seconds of shaking arms and the thwack of hands against thighs before quiet settles over the stadium.
As the men’s race gets underway, the official leads my heat onto the pool deck. I take my place behind block two, checking the position of the kicker.
The crowd becomes louder as the men begin their final lap, and the sound alights the electric feeling inside me.
‘Phryne.’
I tear my eyes away from the race. Veronica waves from the cover of the marshalling room. She cups her hands around her mouth. ‘You’ve got this!’
It jolts through me again, a current that crackles against the front of my ribs and brushes hot against my heart. Another competitor steps beside her and yells.
‘Take the win, Phryne!’
I can’t fight the smile spreading across my face.
The crowd is going crazy, and I can hear the water breaking under each new stroke. I throw my hoodie over the chair behind my lane. I hesitate, staring, my arm still outstretched. My shoulders feel light, untouched. The logo on the back of my hoodie imprints on my eyes, and I straighten.
I can feel the warmth slipping from my skin as I step up beside the blocks. The crowd settles, making the heavy breaths of the finished heat audible. I let my eyes dance across the crowd, double taking on two hands waving in short sharp motions.
Waving at me.
The official blows the whistle, and I take the block. The electric sensation closes its circuit, coursing hot, and reaches from my fingertips to toes as I bend down. I wrap my fingers over the edge of the block.
‘Take your marks.’
It’s always the longest second, the closest I’ll ever be to slow motion, but my smile is quick. It tugs childishly at my cheeks. Everything is quiet, but I am hot, I am wholly consumed. I feel so far from the brink.
Beep.
Orange flashes in the corner of my eyes.
I breathe in and race.
Rebecca Jacobson is a Brisbane-based writer interested in experimenting with styles and genres. She’s been published in ScratchThat and Frocket Zine. ‘Brink’ is Rebecca’s latest short story. It is a work of fiction and any resemblance is coincidental.
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