Page 61 of Breathing Under Water

Opening my notes, I turn my attention to the pages on endocrine drugs. I’m still taking my schoolwork seriously. There’s no point living the way I have been if I’m just going to screw up my studies.

The topics we cover in the nursing program are of genuine interest to me, and two hours pass in no time. I promised my mom I was going to be one of the best nurses out there, and I meant it. Being able to lose myself in the subject matter feels like a gift, the only time I get a break from thinking about everything I’ve lost. I’m just finishing up the section on corticosteroids and Cushing’s syndrome when I hear familiar voices behind me.

Twisting around, I see that Rae, Amber, and Chloe have just entered the lobby. They’re with two other girls who must be first-years on the team. They’re all carrying backpacks and chatting loudly, laughing and talking over each other. I catch snippets as they approach the study area, and it sounds like they’re debating who ate the biggest breakfast at the Sizz. When Chloe lets out a particularly loud cackle, the librarian at the desk behind me shushes them pointedly. They all glance over, and Rae’s eyes lock on mine. I lift a hand in greeting, but she’s already looked away.

They choose a table at the opposite end of the study area. I watch for a moment, trying not to picture myself sitting in the empty seat across from Amber. Instead, I turn my eyes back to the screen in front of me, where I find myself rereading the same information over and over without absorbing any of it.

When Rae gets up a short while later and starts walkingtoward the restroom, I pop out of my chair and follow her. By the time I get there, she’s already in a stall, so I wait. There’s no one else in the bathroom, and I take the opportunity to glance at myself in the mirror. I’ve given up on makeup, but my clothes are relatively clean thanks to the Coin Laundry & Suds a couple of miles away on Nesconset Highway. I’m skinnier than I used to be, but I don’t look homeless. Maybe just a little beaten down, which I am, so that tracks.

The toilet flushes, and Rae walks out from the center stall. When she sees me, she lets out a frustrated huff.

“McKenna, come on,” she says. “You’ve got to move on.” Her expression is so flat as she looks back at me. It’s the first time I’ve ever been unable to see the dimple in her cheek.

“How can you all just write me off like this?” I ask. “It’s been months already. The NCAA isn’t doing anything, and they’re not going to because I didn’t do any of the crap I was accused of. If I had, wouldn’t there be some proof by now? But there’s literally nothing.”

“We haven’t written you off. We’re just keeping some distance.” She moves around me toward the sink and starts washing her hands.

“Distance?” My voice is rising. “You guys don’t even talk to me anymore.”

She doesn’t answer as she rinses the suds from her palms. After she turns off the water and grabs a paper towel from the dispenser, she turns back toward me.

“I don’t know how many times I have to say this, but you got yourself involved in some really sketchy stuff. The entire team was humiliated by what you were accused of. We have needs and goals too. Influxer accounts, other endorsements... Theway people see us matters. I hope you know I do wish you well, really, but the fact is, this isn’t just about you.” She tosses the paper towel into the trash and walks out of the bathroom, leaving me alone again.

After my last class of the day, I drive over to Juniper Groves.

“McKenna!” Rhonda the receptionist says with delight. “If only all granddaughters were as devoted as you, I think we’d have a much happier geriatric community.”

“Thanks, Rhonda.” I smile back at her, this woman who is the closest thing I have to a friend, and then head up the familiar grand staircase. I don’t see much point in telling Rhonda I’m only here so often because my life is a complete disaster. I should be spending my free time looking for a job. I know that. But between the effort of studying, keeping myself clean, getting in my clinic hours, and finding places to sleep each night, I just don’t think it’s humanly possible.

When I get to Glory’s room, I’m surprised to find her awake. She’s been sleeping so much lately. But she’s sitting in the big recliner chair with a tray of food on a snack table beside her. When she sees me, her eyes grow wide and she smiles. I allow myself the moment to enjoy it before she says what I know will come next.

“Heather, I didn’t know you were coming today!” I don’t correct her. “Let’s get you some food.” She starts looking around, most likely to ask one of the nurses to bring another tray.

“No, Glory, I’m fine,” I say, arranging the smaller chair opposite her.

Mauricia walks back in then, a pitcher of water in her hand.

“Mauri,” she says. “Come meet my daughter.”

Mauricia looks down at me with a gentle smile and says, “Of course, we’ve already met. It’s always so nice to see you.”

Glory and I talk for a few minutes, a chat consisting mainly of questions from her about events that may or may not have been a part of her earlier life. I do my best to answer blandly, and then I read to her from the copy ofMarjorie MorningstarI found in the nursing home’s library a few weeks earlier. On the rare occasions she’s awake for my visits, we make our way through different books, a few chapters at a time. I can’t say if she remembers the plots from one session to the next, but she seems to like listening to me read. After about twenty minutes, her eyes start closing, so I press the call button and Mauricia helps me get her back in bed. Then I pull the small chair closer to her bed, where I’ll start on my homework, like usual.

Mauricia moves across the room to pick up Glory’s tray, but I tell her to leave it.

“No reason to waste perfectly good meatloaf,” I say. “I’ll finish it.”

This isn’t the first time I’ve asked to finish the leftover food. Mauricia’s eyes rove over my face for a moment, and then she rolls the snack table across the floor, positioning the tray in front of me.

I wake with a start. It’s no surprise I dozed off in the quiet of Glory’s room, especially with the bliss of a full belly. The bedside clock says it’s 9:15 p.m., more than an hour after the end of visiting hours. A prickle of hope rises in me that Mauricia is gone for the night, and maybe I can stay until morning in thiswarm room where I won’t have to worry about strange characters emerging during the night. A blanket on the back of the large recliner chair beckons to me.

Moving quietly so I don’t wake Glory, I make my way toward the fabric-covered chair. But the door to the room pushes open, and Mauricia pokes her head inside.

“Oh, good,” she says. “I didn’t want to wake you. I know what a busy schedule you college kids keep, but we’re long past visiting hours. You go on home, and we’ll see you tomorrow.” She opens the door wider as if for emphasis.

Trying not to let the disappointment show on my face, I grab my bag and make my way back toward the wide staircase, down to the lobby, and out into the darkness of the cold, lonely night. Before driving back toward the public lot near school, I sit in the car, turning the heat to full blast and scrolling through my texts.

I’ve received an automated notification from the US Postal Service—the PO Box I rented is up for renewal. I had assumed that the three-month term I selected would be long enough, that surely I’d have things figured out by now. Yet I’m no closer to solving my housing problem than I was at the start of the term.