There’s one Kath took of the pool from her seat in the stands, lanes like ribbons, me standing by the block. A selfie outside the arena: me in team kit, ears still wet, her in a stupid bucket hat we bought at a street stall, freckles bright under the floodlights. Another: my lanyard crooked around her neck, her grinning widely as she points at it likelook what I stole. A few from our week of holiday, pictures of the scenery, pictures on the beach.
We look young. Like we haven’t yet learnt what it costs to keep choosing the same thing.
I wish Kath could be there at the next Olympics. When she came to watch I always felt less lonely. Each time I finished a race Kath was the first person I looked for in the stands, and she’s one of the only people who understands me as Sam—not as ‘The Olympian’. But I know Ishouldn’t message her. She has her own life now, and I don’t want to get in the way. That’s the whole reason I pushed her away in the first place.
The screen dimmer nudges itself down. I hit the lock button again, and watch it turn to black, trying to ignore the ache in my chest that has nothing to do with too many hours spent in the gym.
Chapter 42
Twenty-five years old
Kath
Isquint at the computer screen as I type up my notes, attempting and failing to stifle a yawn. It’s got to the point where I barely notice the machines around me beeping. The only thing that could break my concentration is the ring of an emergency buzzer.
“Kath, do you want to take your break now?” I look up to see Dr Desai standing by me. He’s the lead consultant in the emergency department today, in charge of when we all take our breaks.
“Is it a good time?” I ask, looking at the long list of people waiting. It’s mid-afternoon but already there’s a three-hour wait to see a doctor. I don’t feel like I can leave for lunch when people have been sitting in the waiting room for hours, their worried family members with them.
And it’s not just the waiting room. The whole department is full. Ambulances are backed up and there are people being cared for in the corridors. Nobody ever said that working during a pandemic would be easy, but I don’t think I expected it to feel this hard. To constantly be worrying about the patients. To check their notes the next day and realise that some of them haven’t made it.
“It’s never a good time.” He crinkles his eyes at me in what’s become our mask-wearing equivalent of smiling at one another. “But it’s a better time than some, and you’ll stop being productive if you don’t take a break.”
I know he’s right. But looking at the waiting list and how long people have been sitting in chairs in the department gives me a low level of constant anxiety.
“I just need to discharge this person and then I can go,” I tell him, and he nods.
He’s a great consultant, and this is a great department. It’s just hard not to feel burnt out. All the patients are stressed, everyone’s lives are hard at the moment, and constantly fluctuating each time the rules change.
When I arrive in the break room, there’s no one else there. I sigh as I walk to the fridge to find my lunch. Life is isolating enough at the moment; it would be nice to have someone to talk to. I still live alone and I really need to think about moving somewhere else. Making the rent is a monthly struggle, but it’s hard to find somewhere new in a pandemic.
As my food microwaves, I absentmindedly watch the TV in the corner whilst massaging the divots my mask has left on my cheeks. The BBC are playing clips from the last Olympics whilst some pundits talk about the upcoming Games and their predictions. I wonder what it must be like doing the Olympics now. Having it delayed by a year due to the pandemic and then going to a place where there are no crowds must be strange. I don’t know if the athletes will even get to visit Tokyo properly or just spend their whole time in a cordoned-off area.
It makes me think of Sam. It’s been more than four years since we last spoke face-to-face. As if summoned by my thoughts, his face appears on the screen and some of his old race footage starts to play. I can’t look away. Emotional masochism strikes again.
As I eat, I look up the Olympic swimming timetable, working out when I need to send my texts. If he qualifies for it, which he should, hisfirst final would be on Tuesday, the same time as my next set of night shifts, so with the time difference I could probably watch the races if I time my breaks right. At least it’d give me something to do other than worrying about my patients.
I shake myself. Why am I thinking like this? It’s probably just the loneliness. When I first moved to London, I was still going out with Theo, but he was based in Manchester. We made it work for a few months but eventually broke up. We didn’t even fight about it; the whole thing was disconcertingly amicable. We just didn’t have time for each other, and slowly realised that neither of us was trying hard enough to make any. I’d rather spend my free weekend in London catching up with my school friends or seeing my family than on another train to Manchester, and he clearly felt the same.
It was a slow realisation that we weren’t in love. We never had been. Nobody seemed that upset about it. Not me, not Theo and not any of our friends. Tom told me that he sat through a three-hour long lecture on post-war European coal trade agreements, and it was less dry than a fifteen-minute conversation with Theo, which I felt was slightly unfair.
As I walk back down the stairs to the emergency department, the jarring sound of the crash call bell blares from a cubicle, and my heart rate spikes.
Beep.
I remember the last crash call I attended, an elderly man who caught COVID at a birthday party. His wife came in two days later. She died as well.
Beep.
I remember the young asthmatic girl, gasping that she felt like she was drowning. She had the same trainers as me.
Beep.
I remember the night shift where I had to call two families to tell them their loved ones were gone.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
I run through my personal graveyard.
