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When Beckett went up to the attic to wake him that morning, Troy sat up and cuddled Bacon, then said, “Except, Dad, it’s swimming today.”
“It is,” Beckett said. “Last one before January.”
“What if I forget how to put my head under, because it’s been too long?” Troy asked. “Or if I get scared to float again? I’m scared every week, and Quinn makes me not as scared, because she counts and things. But what if it’s a long time, and I gettooscared?”
Beckett sat beside Troy on the bed and wished once again that he was better at this single-dad thing. “I don’t know,” he finally said. “But I can tell you what I do.”
“Except you’re never scared,” Troy said.
“Aw, mate,” Beckett said, and gave Troy’s hair a ruffle. “I’m scared heaps.”
“You are?” Troy looked more than doubtful. “You neverlookscared.”
“That’s because of my secret technique,” Beckett said. It should probably be like one of those songs. Like he whistled a happy tune or something. Unfortunately, all he had was the truth.
“What’s your secret technique?” Troy asked. “Can I learn it, too?”
“Course you can. My secret technique is, I do it anyway.”
“Oh.” Troy considered that. “That doesn’t seem like a very good tech— tech—”
“Technique. I reckon I also think, ‘What’s my choice?’ What will I do if I stay scared anddon’tgo ahead and do this?’ So what is it? What’s your other choice?”
“To not swim, I guess,” Troy said.
“How would that feel, you reckon? If you never swam?”
Some more considering. “It may feel kind of bad, I guess. But not as scary.”
“Or,” Beckett said, “scary every time you think about doing it, because you still won’t have done it.”
“Oh,” Troy said. “I didn’t think about that.”
“Yeah. That’s why I usually go ahead. I don’t want to stay scared. It’s down to you, though. Nobody can make you swim. Nobody can choose for you. You get to choose for yourself. But you know what I know?”
“What?”
“I know that you’ve done heaps of things that felt scary. Like going to kindergarten the first day, and going to Claire’s house the first time and jumping on the trampoline.”
“Because I didn’t know if she’d want to be my friend,” Troy said.
“That’s right. But you went anyway, and shedidwant to be your friend. Turned out OK, I guess.” Beckett stood up. “But if we don’t get our skates on, Janey and Quinn will eat all the pancakes, and then you’ll be too weak to swim at all.”
He didn’t know if it would work, because Troy was even quieter than usual during breakfast and housecleaning, emptying the wastebaskets and doing his dusting with that closed-down look on his face. Beckett thought,Pity, but maybe he’s just not ready yet,and tried to think what to say to him after the lesson to make it all right.
He didn’t want to think of the alternative. He couldn’t help it, because there the memory was, rearing its ugly head. The father he tried not to be.
A rugby game when Beckett had been eight or nine, playing in the backline. The other team had had a monster of a kid playing at wing who’d looked at least twelve. Not a particularly athletic kid, but he’d broken the line at least five times already, and on one of those times, he’d scored a try.
Now, the kid was headed straight toward Beckett. Beckett thought,Go for his shoelaces.That was how you tackled somebody bigger than you. You got him low, and you tripped him.
Almost there now. It wasn’t like the kid had a tricky sidestep. Beckett would just … he would just …
“Aaaarrrrggggghhhh!”It was a roar. The kid’s face was contorted with rage, and his arm was out for the fend.
Beckett flinched. He was still thinking,Go for his shoelaces,and still standing there like a paralyzed fool, too, when the kid’s palm planted square into the center of his chest and sent him flying backward so hard that he hit the back of his head on the grass and lay there, stunned.
Also because the kid had stepped on his arm on the way over him.
