Page 33 of Diving In
“She’s stopping chemo,” I continue. “They don’t think it’s working anymore. I know it was only ever to buy a bit more time, but it still sucks.”
Mum sighs, setting down her fork. “Poor Sam. I don’t know how he’s handling it all.”
“I don’t think he is,” I admit. “He just trains and refuses to talk about it. I’ve decided to stop pushing him and just… let him come to me when he’s ready. He even went to a race last weekend.”
My parents exchange a look before Dad forcibly changes the topic to something lighter. But as my parents continue talking I can’t shake the knot tightening in my stomach. I spent the night crying over a boy when Sam’s mum is dying. Guilt stabs at me as I stare at the tablecloth, racking my brain for anything I can do to help in a hopeless situation. I start mentally going through my list; meals, lifts, shopping. There must be more I can help with over the next few months.
Chapter 14
Seventeen years old
Kath
Sam’s dad looks drained when he answers the door. Angie’s funeral was yesterday, and as I walk into the house I can spot the overflowing shelves of cards. There are boxes of chocolates and flowers on every surface and the house feels cluttered in a way it never used to be, like it’s missing the person who knew where everything was meant to go.
I pause by a picture of Angie as a young woman, blonde hair whipping in the wind, squinting into the sun. Her smile looks so much like Sam’s.
“Does he really still want to go to training?” I ask Steve. I can’t quite wrap my head around the fact that he wants to train today of all days.
“Apparently so,” he sighs. “I’m not going to say no to him. I tried to bring it up in the counselling sessions Angie signed us up for as a family before she…” His voice cuts off. “But he said he had to swim because of the races coming up. Thanks for taking him, Kath. I would, but there’s so much to do here.”
“It’s fine.”
I give him a quick hug before taking the stairs two at a time. My heart stutters when I see Crunchie curled up outside Steve and Angie’s bedroom. He raises his head, gives me a mournful look, and lowers it again. Nowagging tail hello, no bouncy greeting. The whole house is mourning her loss.
I knock cautiously on Sam’s door and then push it open.
He’s slumped at his desk flicking through a history textbook. He looks tired. Tired in a way that makes him seem older. Like seventeen doesn’t fit him anymore. He was always more mature than the rest of us, but not in this way. His pen scratches against paper as he scribbles something down, flipping to the next page.
I lean against the doorframe. “Doing some light reading?”
His head lifts, and he snaps the book shut. “I wouldn’t exactly call the French Revolutionlightreading.” He stretches, rolling his shoulders. “Feels like it’s breaking my brain.”
“Sorry, I can’t help. History’s Tom’s thing.” I walk over to glance at his textbook.
Sam’s room is even cleaner than usual, and I know what that means. This is what he does when he’s stressed.
“Are you sure you want to go to training?” I ask, unsure of whether to move forwards to hug him or whether he’d shrug me off. “Maybe we could take Crunchie on a walk instead, get some fresh air?”
“Why does everyone keep asking that?” he frowns. “Of course I want to go to training.” He checks his watch and grabs the kitbag by the door. “Let’s go.”
I nod and trail after him.
“I like swimming,” he tells me as we get into the car. “I want to swim because swimming’s what I enjoy. Anyway, I’m going to be training in the US next year and I want to start incorporating bits of their training plan into my routine. Starting now is a good idea. It means I’ll be ahead when I get there.”
And you like the distraction of swimming.I have to stop myself from saying it aloud.
Walking this line feels impossible. The whisker-thin line between being the friend who helps and the one who pushes. I don’t want him to shut me out, but I also don’t want to pretend this is normal.
In the months since we found out about his mum, he hasn’t stopped. It’s robotic now—like he’s moving through life by muscle memory. Maybe I should admire his ability to keep training, but it doesn’t feel healthy; instead, it feels like he’s deliberately ignoring the situation.
Now, training isn’t just something he loves. It’s something he’s clinging to. No one would blame him if he skipped the European Acquatics Championships, which start in two months’ time. He’s seventeen, he has years of races ahead. But he’s convinced himself that he has to go. That he needs to prove he deserved those Olympic medals. I don’t know how he’s doing it. We still have two AS level exams left before summer break. Then, a week later, the races.
No one would expect him to swim today. But somehow he expects it of himself.
I sit in the leisure centre café as he does his session, going over my chemistry notes. It feels strange to be surrounded by people drinking coffees and chatting about the traffic when everything has changed for Sam, and nothing seems to have changed for anyone else. When Sam appears two hours later, he looks even paler than before.
He yawns as we get into the car.
