Chapter 1: Journey

Departure

The empty path where Birdie had vanished still tugged at me, like the last breath before a dive. I pressed my palm against the rough bark of a birch tree, feeling the ridges dig into my skin. This is what you’re leaving behind. Not just her, but the weightless seconds between the board and the water. The way my body remembered the arc of a backflip before my mind could second-guess it.

A twig snapped behind me.

“Thomas Hardy! Get away from that little slut and into this car right now!”

My fingers curled into fists. The bark bit deeper. Don’t react. Don’t give her more ammunition. Birdie’s voice, clear as the loon’s call across the water. I unclenched my fists. The bark left crescent moons in my palms.

The fishermen in their boats turned, their expressions shifting from curiosity to judgment. I dropped my hand from the tree and shoved both into my pockets, shoulders curling inward. The plastic of my jacket crinkled against my ribs. Don’t let them see you flinch.

“We need to get on the road to Florida before traffic picks up!” Grandma’s voice carried that razor-edged Rochester twang, the one that could flay skin if she wanted. She stood by the pink Rambler, arms crossed over her floral housecoat, a cigarette dangling from her fingers. The smoke curled around her face like a halo of disapproval. She hadn’t even bothered to change for the thirty-two-hour drive ahead, just lit another Pall Mall off the one she’d finished. The ash grew longer, threatening to fall onto her housecoat. I watched it, willing it to burn her.

I trudged to the parking lot, gravel crunching under my sneakers. Each step was a betrayal of Birdie, of the chlorine-scented hours in the pool, of the way my muscles burned after Coach Craig made me repeat a dive until my form was perfect. The summers had been my real education. Not the rote memorization of prayers or the guilt-laden sermons, but the way the water held me, weightless and free.

Flashback: The first time I stuck a two-and-a-half somersault. The board had groaned under my feet, the sound familiar as a heartbeat. Coach Carlton’s voice cutting through the humid air: “Again. You’re thinking too much. Let your body remember.” And then, there it was. The perfect tuck, the world spinning around me, the water rushing up to meet my hands like an old friend. The applause from the other divers had been a surprise. I’d never been the kid who got cheered for.

The CYO had been another kind of refuge. Not home, not really, but a place where I could lose myself in the rhythm of the gym floor or the camaraderie of the retreats. I’d never quite fit in, too quiet, too watchful, but for a few hours, I wasn’t just Grandma’s burden or Uncle’s disappointment. I was just Tom.

Flashback: The CYO retreat at Camp Stella Maris. The bonfire crackling, the scent of pine and marshmallows. A group of guys from Bishop Kearney passing around a flask, their laughter loud and easy. I’d sat on the edge of the circle, poking at the fire with a stick, pretending not to notice when they started talking about girls, as if they knew everything about them. One of them, a senior with a letterman jacket, had tossed a marshmallow at my chest. “Hey, Hardy. You ever kiss a girl?” The others had laughed, but there was no malice in it. Just the kind of teasing that meant they’d noticed me. For once, I hadn’t flinched. “Yeah,” I’d said, meeting his eyes. “Once.” The lie had tasted sweet.

And then there was Coach O’Shanahan. He’d noticed the way I flinched when someone moved too fast, the way I held myself like I was bracing for impact. “You ever think about martial arts?” he had asked one afternoon after swimming practice, tossing me a towel. The chlorine stung my eyes, but I didn’t blink. “It is a good way to help with that ... tension.” It had started as simple self-defense, a little Judo, but it became something else. The mental discipline of true martial arts is a way to control the chaos inside me. To turn fear into focus, focus into confidence. When I centered, my grandmother’s words rolled off me, and I could tighten my core and evade the boom. My awareness of my surroundings sharpened and I didn’t shy away from uncomfortable situations.

We made the turn south “Father Burns said you could have gotten into one of the top high schools in Rochester if only your mind was on your studies.” I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted copper. Father Burns. The man who’d patted my head after church and told me I had “potential,” all while Grandma stood beside him, nodding like she actually gave a damn. She hated “those people”, Catholics, Jews, anyone who didn’t fit her narrow worldview. But God forbid I step out of line, then suddenly, she was the righteous one, clutching her rosary like a weapon. Very few students from St. Mary’s Elementary were accepted into a top Catholic High School. The curriculum was to focused on spitting out priests and nuns than secular education.

I believed in God the way I believed in the lake: something vast and unknowable, not the petty tyrant Grandma prayed to when she wanted me to feel small. The priest at our church had once told me I had “a good soul.” But what did that even mean? That I didn’t hit back when Uncle came home too drunk to walk straight,” and took his frustrations out on me? That I sat quietly in the pews while the other boys whispered about my “bastard” father? The God I believed in didn’t care about rosaries or Latin prayers. He cared about the way Birdie’s hand felt in mine. About the way the water held me when I dove. About the quiet moments when I didn’t have to pretend.

“All those opportunities you squandered. The private schools that would have taken you if you’d just applied yourself. The scholarships you could have earned if you’d cracked open a book instead of daydreaming your life away.” She ticked them off on her fingers, steering with her wrists like she was conducting an orchestra of her own disappointment. The cigarette ash grew longer, threatening to fall onto her housecoat. “But no. You were too busy mooning over that girl to care about your future.”

I closed my eyes, picturing Birdie’s face when she’d admitted she was scared. The way her fingers had trembled against mine. She’d spent years teaching me to wear confidence like armor, all while hiding her own cracks. And now I was leaving her behind, just like I’d left behind the Boy Scout troop at school, another place where I’d been an outsider, another group that had tolerated me but never really seen me.

I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted copper. Uncle. The man who’d patted my head after church and told me I had “potential,” all while Grandma stood beside him, nodding like she actually gave a damn. She hated “those people”, Catholics, Jews, anyone who didn’t fit her narrow worldview. But God forbid I step out of line, then suddenly, she was the righteous one, clutching her rosary like a weapon.