The Swimmer
We had a local hero in our town — a swimmer who made us proud by participating in the Olympics many times, winning seven gold medals. He clinched multiple state and national championships, establishing himself as the town’s most illustrious son. Before all these accomplishments, he was a regular teen who attended a typical high school and enjoyed swimming. He practiced all the strokes and techniques, gaining recognition at the young age of 20 as someone destined for greatness. We couldn’t wait to see him go far, everyone except my mother, of course. Despite witnessing him win interschool championships five times in a row, she didn’t believe he had what it took.
“He is good, but he is not cut out for this,” she would say. When asked why, she would instruct me to look into his eyes — her infamous eye technique. While it worked on my father, it felt askew with the swimmer.
I found myself in the ICU, being treated for alcohol poisoning, watching the swimmer represent the country in the Olympics. The previous night’s excessive drinking had landed me here. Despite my predicament, I was witnessing the swimmer’s success. He won it all, showcasing the techniques I had observed him practice back in school. It was like watching a fish glide elegantly in the vast ocean. By the time he returned from his exploits, I had left the ICU. My mother called, informing me of a big party the town was throwing in his honor. I felt a prayer of thanksgiving escape my lips, grateful she didn’t call me when I was bedridden.
I asked her about the party. “Oh! You know. Everyone is in a good mood. Everyone is proud to be a part of the town. Twenty-five years old, and he is already the people’s champion. Unbelievable,” she said.
There was no changing the fact that my mother remained a pessimist when it came to the swimmer’s life. I wondered if I would receive the same level of pessimism if I had attained the fame the swimmer had rightly earned. In my battle with putting the bottle away, I had to return home as my mother was diagnosed with cervical cancer.
Returning home, I met with the doctors who informed me that the cancer was rapid and aggressive. “We are thinking about a month,” they said. “The best thing we can do now is to make sure she passes on comfortably.”
I took her from the hospital after her treatments. While driving back, I glanced at her as she looked out the window. My mother was going to leave me, and I had no say in the matter. It was settled, and all I could do was wait. Seeing her frailty unravel in unexpected ways broke my heart into pieces like wrecked porcelain. During this time, the swimmer was participating in his last competition to end what had been a remarkable career. I sat next to my mother while holding her hand because, according to her, I have always had warm hands.
We watched the swimmer like every family in town was doing. I noticed his techniques remained the same. He never changed. We watched him win all but one. Mother smirked. “I was right. Took me 15 years, but I was right. I knew he wasn’t invincible.” It was difficult to tell when the tears ran down my cheeks — when he made the first mistake or when my mother made her comment.
He came for the funeral. Mother was well known in town for her coffee shop, which I was hardly a part of. Instead of listening to the priest’s speech, I couldn’t help but wonder if he knew my mother was not his biggest fan. When the funeral was done, he took gentle steps from where I was seated to where I was standing, thanking everyone for their condolences. His turn came. He held my hand, smiling reassuringly, and asked if I was going to be fine. I looked into his eyes, embracing mother’s technique.
She was wrong. She was always wrong.
