Swimming in the Deep End Read online

  “The story of these women touched the deep places in my heart. The threads of God’s grace are evident in this story, weaving together women of strength and devotion who, above all, need the gift of grace. An exceptional read and one that will live with me long after I close the book.”

  —Jaime Jo Wright, best-selling author of The House on Foster Hill and The Reckoning at Gossamer Pond

  “Swimming in the Deep End is a heart-touching tale of four women who have each suffered the wrenching loss of a child. With a rare warmth and Christlike attitude, Nelson unfolds their personal tragedies and taps into our souls as unbridled emotions and past wounds spill out of these characters’ lives into our own. They must work together to surmount impossible challenges, and their inspiring selflessness is all for the good of an innocent child. A moving read guaranteed to evoke sad as well as happy tears, you won’t soon forget this book!”

  —Marilyn Rhoads, president of Oregon Christian Writers

  PRAISE FOR CHRISTINA SUZANN NELSON

  “If you love discovering new authors with a lyrical, literary voice, then you’re in for a treat. If you like those voices to also deliver a powerful, engaging story with true emotional depth, then you’re in for a feast. Highly recommended.”

  —James L. Rubart, best-selling author of The Five Times I Met Myself and The Long Journey to Jake Palmer

  “A tension-filled tour de force of suspense and human emotions.”

  —Library Journal, starred review

  “Nelson skillfully draws readers into character emotions in a way that sets us up for what lies ahead…. [Her] storytelling is a gift to her readers.”

  —Cynthia Ruchti, author of twenty-two books, including A Fragile Hope

  “Christina writes with an unpretentious poetry and finesse that charmed me from the first page to the last…. Beautifully raw. Elegantly real. Simply stunning.”

  —Camille Eide, award-winning author of The Memoir of Johnny Devine

  “Christina Suzann Nelson is a writer to watch!”

  —Deborah Raney, author of Christy Award finalist Home to Chicory Lane

  Swimming in the Deep End

  © 2018 by Christina Suzann Nelson

  Published by Kregel Publications, a division of Kregel Inc., 2450 Oak Industrial Dr. NE, Grand Rapids, MI 49505.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without written permission of the publisher, except for brief quotations in reviews.

  Distribution of digital editions of this book in any format via the internet or any other means without the publisher’s written permission or by license agreement is a violation of copyright law and is subject to substantial fines and penalties. Thank you for supporting the author’s rights by purchasing only authorized editions.

  The persons and events portrayed in this work are the creations of the author, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Scripture quotations are from The Holy Bible, English Standard Version® (ESV®), copyright © 2001 by Crossway, a publishing ministry of Good News Publishers. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

  ISBN 978-0-8254-4557-6

  Printed in the United States of America

  18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 / 5 4 3 2 1

  This book is dedicated to the women who chose to mother me, and to the women who chose me to be a mother.

  Chapter 1

  JILLIAN CLINE

  FRIDAY, MARCH 9

  The air in the spectator area of Brownsburg High’s swimming pool is nothing short of heavy, but there’s a safety in the thickness. An illusion in the midst of the humidity lulls me into a belief that my daughter is safe, protected from the evil in the world. Maybe that’s why I push her to compete. Maybe that’s why I can breathe in the moisture-rich environment other mothers dread.

  Izzy stands on the dive block, her toes curled over the edge, her arms wrapped around her middle as if she’s cold. The horn blows and with a fraction of hesitation, she dives.

  And the race begins.

  The first in weeks, a postseason meet, and for some reason veiled to me, she didn’t want to participate.

  Five rows of girls stretch, skimming through the water toward the wall to make their final turn. A swimmer in the lane closest to me botches her flip, a beginner’s mistake. Water splashes me, tickling through my hair and down my scalp. It’s the kind of flaw Izzy conquered in elementary school. At the flash of memory, an ache settles over my heart. Where has my little girl gone? In a little more than a year, she’ll be off to college.

  I can’t help it. My legs lift me from the bench, and I lean toward the bar separating the fans from the racers.

  After ten laps, they’re all tired, but this is the point my daughter is famous for, the moment Izzy stands out above the other athletes. Any second she’ll burst forward with an explosion of power like a dolphin racing a school of tuna, and she’ll leave the competition in her wake.

  But Izzy doesn’t make her move.

  “Come on.” I lean farther over the rail, my words echoing around my head.

  One swimmer, then another, slip ahead of my daughter, the reigning state champion and future Olympian. A hand slaps the wall, and a second, then Izzy’s.

  Third.

  Stepping back, I extend my fingers now aching from the tense way I’ve gripped the bar. I’d been a fool to think this bug Izzy’s been fighting would run its course. I should have taken her to see Dr. Wheaton weeks ago. What if something is seriously wrong? A girl in the middle school has leukemia, and another child was recently diagnosed with diabetes. The blanket of muggy air can’t push away the cold shiver that comes with a mother’s worried heart.

  Izzy bobs in the water as the other swimmers hop out of the pool and chatter with teammates. Her pain is mine. A possession I can’t give away even if I want to.

  I collect my jacket, phone, and the romance novel I’ve been reading during every event my daughter didn’t race. The book fits perfectly into the pocket along the side of my purse. With everything collected, and the strap flung over my shoulder, I wipe at the moisture on my forehead and move toward the door alongside fifty other parents.

  “Can’t win them all, I guess.”

  I don’t have to look to recognize Jasmine Monk’s screeching voice.

  A knot tightens in my stomach, pressing up against my diaphragm. No, Izzy can’t win them all, but she didn’t have to lose against certain people’s daughters. I paste on a smile, force my shoulders into a non-defensive position, and twist to meet my rival face-to-face. “I suppose you can’t. Joanna swam well today. It’s good to see her improving.”

  “Improving?” Jasmine plants one bony hand on her hip. “She beat Izzy. That’s a first. No offense, but Izzy probably needed a loss more than a win anyhow. We wouldn’t want her thinking she’s perfect.” Her serpent’s tongue sticks on the last word.

  Why do so many people preface insults with phrases like no offense? My cheeks burn with the effort required to maintain a pleasant exterior. “No one ever said Izzy was perfect.” I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek to stop the next words from pushing their way free. There’s no sense irritating Jasmine. It’s not like she’s someone who can be ignored. Not only do we have daughters the same age, but Jasmine’s son is one of my son Zachary’s best friends. Jasmine may lack compassion and tact, but she does a wonderful job managing the women’s ministry at church.

  Reasoning my way through all the consequences of giving Jasmine the tongue-lashing I long to give her isn’t enough to settle my heart rate. “I’m afraid I’ve g
ot to run. There’s dinner to get on the table as soon as Izzy’s ready to go.” I turn, pointing my mouth safely away from her.

  “I’ll be at the church in the morning. I assume you have those flyers all printed.”

  My spine shoots ramrod straight. Without looking, I can imagine Jasmine’s right eyebrow cocking up in the way it does when she feels she has me under her thumb. I swallow another line of ill-chosen words. No way I’ll fess up to not having Jasmine’s request completed.

  Cold slams me as I swing open the door and step into the crisp wind. Winter held on for an encore this year. I duck my head and walk the ten steps to the school’s back door.

  A group of swimmers dressed in warm clothes, their hair still hanging in wet mats, come from the locker room.

  Echoing clicks accompany my heels along the blue and yellow linoleum tiles, a tacky choice even if they are the school colors. I hesitate at the display cases filled with trophies and plaques, some of which are engraved with my daughter’s name, Isabella Cline. My gaze drifts along the metallic shine of past victories and lands on a framed newspaper article. Only a junior and Izzy has won the state championship in not just one, but three events. She’s in line to be valedictorian next year, and she’s been given the opportunity to train with an Olympic-level coach for the summer. Maybe she isn’t perfect, but my daughter is close.

  I lean against the wall, my lower back aching for the day to be over and my mind begging for just one more chapter. Parents greet athletes with congratulatory hugs or sympathetic pats on the back. One of Izzy’s classmates, a new driver, twirls a key ring around her finger.

  The baseball team bursts through the steel doors at the end of the hall. Chunks of sloppy mud fling free from caked cleats and splatter the tiles. The pungent scent of wet earth mixed with teenage boy takes the pleasant feel from the moment and replaces it with dread.

  There in the middle of the group, strutting as though he is more than he ever could be, is Travis—star baseball player with more than just a few problems at home. He flicks his head, throwing his almost black hair away from dark eyes. For a girl with such great grades, Izzy isn’t too smart when it comes to choosing boys. While I admit he’s a great deal better than his parents, he’s still not the hero in my Izzy’s story.

  Familiar tension squeezes my muscles. When will she listen to me?

  I tug the cell phone from my pocket and check the time. Four more swimmers exit the building as the baseball team disappears into the boy’s locker room, their smell lingering behind.

  The hallway transforms in the silence, leaving my skin chilled. I run my arms into my coat sleeves and shove my cell phone into the pocket on the outside of my purse. Could Izzy have gone by while I was lost in my imagination?

  I push the locker-room door open and walk between institutional rows of stacked yellow lockers. The stench from the fusion of chlorine and industrial cleaners burns my nose, as water trickles across the cement floor toward the lowest point and a metal drain.

  Izzy sits on a bench in the center row, head in her hands, elbows pressed into her towel-covered thighs. Her shoulder blades stand out at sharp angles and her dark brown hair hangs in a clump of wet curls. She seems thinner, fragile.

  My mother’s heart melts. Sinking onto the bench, I slip my arm around my daughter.

  Izzy’s body flinches. Her chin shoots up, and she pulls the towel tight around her chest.

  “I’m sorry, Iz. I didn’t mean to startle you.” I run my fingers through her wet hair, untangling a wad of curls. “It’s one silly race. Nothing to worry about. There will be others.”

  Eyebrows pressed together, Izzy opens her mouth as if to speak, but remains silent. Her eyes are red at the rims, circles from her goggles still etched into her tender, fair skin. After a pause, she nods. “Sure. No big deal.”

  “Let’s get home and have a yummy dinner. There’s Italian chicken in the Crock-Pot, your favorite.”

  Color drains from Izzy’s face. She turns away.

  “What’s the matter?” I lean forward, arms crossed on my knees. “Are you feeling okay?”

  “Just tired.” She stands and pulls her clothes from the locker then threads her feet into sweatpants.

  “Aren’t you going to take off that wet suit?”

  Izzy shakes her head. At that moment, the towel slips from her grip and cascades to the wet floor. Izzy lunges for her sweatshirt.

  Cold, like ice water, washes through my veins and sends a chill down my arms that leaves my fingers numb. I look away. I can’t help it. Maybe it was the angle, or maybe … I can’t even finish the thought.

  No.

  I must be wrong.

  The change, so slight only a mother would notice.

  Izzy can’t be pregnant.

  The Crock-Pot insert slips from my soapy hands, the first realization that I’ve forgotten to put on the purple latex gloves I always wear when washing dishes. It thunks into the side of the porcelain sink then settles to the bottom, and a faint break of glass is muffled by water.

  Moments tick by as I procrastinate, rolling my head back and forth against the death grip my neck muscles hold on my spine. So much like what I’m doing with my daughter who picked at her dinner and now hides behind the barricade of her bedroom door. Maybe it would be better not to know what’s shattered below the surface.

  Zachary brushes past me and swings the refrigerator door open.

  “What are you searching for?”

  He doesn’t look up. “I’m starved. What do we have to eat?”

  Crumbs decorate the dining room table, evidence of a task I haven’t yet checked off my post-dinner list. “We just ate.”

  He straightens, one hand on the open door, and shrugs. “I’m hungry.”

  “Here.” I break a banana from its bunch and place it in his hand.

  Lines furrow his forehead. He’s disappointed in his bounty.

  He complains that he’s shorter than his friends, but I can see the growth spurt has begun. Soon he’ll be tall and broad like his father. Too soon. Already Zachary’s boyish face is transforming with the sharper features of a man.

  A cold shiver freezes my blood and stops my breathing. What have I done to my children? Are they about to come face-to-face with the consequence of my sin? Why had I ever pretended I could outrun my past?

  “What?” He’s caught me staring.

  “Have you finished your homework?”

  The corner of his lip lifts into a snarl. “Math is killing my creative spirit.” He sighs with a depth that reminds me of a Shakespearean play, then walks away toward the family room.

  I nod and turn back to the sink. It’s time to face whatever is fractured under the cloud of bubbles.

  Sliding my hand through the water, I pull the plug and the soapy surface slides down the sink wall, revealing the shattered edge of my favorite teacup. I don’t even remember putting this prized possession into the suds.

  A tear slips down my cheek, and I swallow back sobs. An overreaction, but emotion knows no rationale. I pile the broken shards on my palm. Their ragged edges mirror the condition of my heart.

  Behind me, her breathing gives her away. It’s the kind of slow, purposeful breaths that tell me she doesn’t want me to know she’s there. As if traveling a moment behind her, the coconut scent of her shampoo floats over me, but I still don’t turn. Now isn’t the time to face my daughter. Not with the tears cascading over my cheeks and the brokenness of my past so raw and in the open.

  Her soft steps round the corner and the door to her room swishes over the carpet.

  I breathe again.

  Taking one last look at the hand-painted rose and gold-lined rim, I tip my palm and let the pieces drop away like dreams into the trash.

  The last connection to my mother is gone. The only beautiful reminder of life before our ugly ending, destroyed. If I had it to do over again, what would I change?

  Probably nothing.

  Light reflects off the wet blades of grass s
parkling in the glow of the streetlamp. Swaying forward and back, the hem of my purple, ankle-length robe, the one Izzy bought for me with her own money a couple Christmases ago, rubs across the tops of my feet like the edges of grabbing ocean waves. My gaze drifts away from the place where the porch light brings the night into focus and out into the darkness.

  I’ve seen him out there before, a figure masked by darkness, sneaking to my daughter’s window. And I didn’t stop him because I was afraid of how our different feelings about Travis were tearing our relationship apart. I was afraid I would be alone again, without a mother or a daughter.

  Instead of dealing with the issue directly, I gave them a few minutes, then made noises in the hall. He always disappeared.

  Anger licks my cheeks and lights a bonfire in my chest.

  I should have slashed his tires, smashed his precious windows.

  I choke on a sob and my regret.

  Can’t Izzy’s situation be just another one of my nightmares?

  These memories have been packed away and hidden in the basement of my mind. It’s where I put them to rest, and where they were supposed to stay. But, like it was yesterday, the moment from twenty-three years earlier crawls out of its box and attacks.

  My pain is true and real, but now, through the heart of a mother, it burns deeper, spreads wider, takes over every cell in my body. It’s too late. The carefully covered wound is torn open, and my shredded heart is vulnerable to the flames.

  There’s no way out.

  No escape.

  My mother told me I had a choice, but it was a choice she made for me. It wasn’t a moment of empowerment but of handing over my independence. She did this to me, and I can never forgive her.

  I can tell myself lies all night, but they won’t blur the pictures that scald my mind every time my eyes close. Izzy’s thin figure didn’t cover the telltale rounding in her abdomen, the slight curve over the tips of her hip bones. How have I missed the signs?

  We taught her better than this, but what can we expect from a boy like Travis Owens, son of a drunken father, brother of a crook. And a mighty fine actor.