We arrived late. He swam to the edge of the pool, and waved to us. I lifted my daughter's tiny hand to wave back, as she wiggled excitedly like a puppy, utterly thrilled to see her Daddy.
He smiled gently, ducked into the water, and glided away. A suspicious worry tugged at my stomach. I pulled a toy from the diaper bag, and settled us onto a damp, plastic bench to wait. He finally paused between sets.
"You ok?" I tried to sound casual.
"Yeah." He was trying to sound normal. I could hear the effort.
I paused, unsure how to interpret his tone. "Everything alright?" I rephrased my question.
"Well... I need to talk to you." He pulled his goggles off wearily.
"Ok. Now?"
"... Maybe?"
I walked to his lane, set our daughter on my knee, squatted at the edge of the pool, resisted the urge to interrogate him. She bounced enthusiastically, trying to grab his face.
He swallowed. "I got orders. I just found out."
"You... did." My brain spun into processing mode. "Um, ok. For... when?"
"Pretty fast." His eyes glistened sadly. "I was going to wait to tell you tonight..."
"It's ok." The words were instinctive. I immediately didn't want him to worry.
"I don't have details yet, but I'll try to get some soon..." He glanced down, a reliable tell of suppressed emotions.
"Ok." I suddenly realized how often I was saying that.
But, what else am I supposed to say?
I walked back to our bench, and sat, as the implications occurred to me. Four laps later, he was still underwater and I was choking on tears. Trying so hard not to sob. There were only a few other people in the humid pool building during lunch hour. The lifeguards, a few mothers and kids, one other swimmer. Wonder what they heard, or saw, or can tell...
I tried to act normal, force smiles, keep waving my baby's hand whenever Daddy popped above water for a moment.
She's so little. She'll be so different when he comes back. She loves him so much. They're so close.
Oh Lord, how will we do this?!
For several seconds, I wished we hadn't come to watch him swim today. Then, I felt overwhelmed with gratitude for all the times we had come. So glad for all those 5 a.m. mornings, and crazy lunch hours, and late night practices. Anything to be together, even watching from the sidelines.
Oh no, he'll miss all his races! My heart broke, realizing that his entire season was gone. All that practice. All that training. Now, he wouldn't even get to compete.
Darting into sudden escapism, I instinctively began planning dinner.
And he won't be here for the potato harvest! All our precious potatoes, we've cultivated and nurtured! He won't ever taste them!
The tears began squeezing out. I dug in the diaper bag for nothing in particular - just anything to grab, anything to do, any way to hide my face. He resurfaced and saw me bent over. I faked a brave grin, but ineffectively. His shoulders heaved up, then down, suppressing the sadness; he dove back into the water.
Swimming. I wish I were swimming. Pounding, kicking, pushing, reaching...
I sipped from a water bottle. Swallowing helped the ache.
We'll be ok. We love each other. We'll learn how to do this. We'll stay close, somehow. We've been very lucky to dodge two deployments before this. He was here for your pregnancy, and her birth, and first months. Just think how many people don't get that.
He shoved himself up and out of the pool. Time to hurry back to work. But, he stopped to hug me and our little daughter for an extra long moment. His skin was warm behind the cold water droplets. It was so emotional, so vivid. I chided myself for being so melodramatic. After all, this is what all military families do.
The chlorine smell followed me as I walked to our car. Must be in my hair... on my face... I unloaded the stroller, the diaper bag, the baby. This is what it's going to be like. I slid into my seat. I'll always be driving alone. I shifted into reverse.
Maybe I should take up swimming again while he's gone. Yes. That'd be good for me.
I felt comforted for a moment, making plans, regaining a bit of control. I turned onto the main street...
... but, who will take care of my daughter while I swim?
It was too much to try to visualize. Too much loss, too much sorrow. I retreated instead to writing mental lists. Vitamins to order, phone calls to make. At home, I put Baby down for a nap, watered the garden, gathered laundry, started dinner.
And then, I finally cried.
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