Swimmer in the Secret Sea Read Free Page A

progress now.'
    'You can see the baby,' said the nurse.
    Laski looked down, and in the shaved and sweating crack he saw something pink and strange, a little patch of flesh he could not comprehend. All he knew were the waves that took them out again, where they were alone in love and sadness that none else could share, alone and clinging to each other in the reality they had long prepared for, for which no preparation was ever enough.
    'I've seen you before,' he said, stopping her on Broadway.
    'Have you?' she said, the slightest touch of flirtation in her voice, just enough to keep him coming toward her, out of his deep embarrassed nature.
    Back they drifted, to the green room in the sleeping hospital.
    Hardly had they rested when the waves carried them out again, like a nightmare that repeats itself over and over through the night, and over and over again through the years. Back and forth they went and he feared that her strength could not hold. He had no confidence, not in himself, nor in her. He felt like a helpless child, and Diane seemed helpless too, their long struggle getting them nowhere, only repeating itself—contraction, release, con-traction again. But the nurse and the intern seemed unconcerned by it all, were cheerful and confident. And the doctor is down the hall, sleeping. He's not worried. If there were anything wrong he'd be here.
    She dressed by the window of his tiny room, slipping slowly into tight knit slacks and sweater. Her short hair needed no combing or fixing, and she was the most natural thing he'd ever seen unlike his previous loves, who'd always thrown him out of the room while they dressed and primped or put curlers in their hair.
    Her gown was wringing wet, her hair plastered down, as if the sea had broken over her. She closed her eyes and crows-feet came there, linen he'd never seen before, lines of age, and he knew that ages had passed. 'Again,' she said, her voice almost a sob now, but not a sob, too tired for tears. And he lifted her up as the tide carried them out again, into the wild uncharted waters.
    He held her, his love for her expanding with every tremor of her body. It seemed he'd never loved her before, that all of their past was just rehearsal for this moment in which he felt resounding inside him all the days of her life, days before he'd known her, days from the frightened child's face he saw before him, and days from the wise woman's ancient life that came calling now to give her unknown strength. All the frustration of Diane's thirty years was present, and she seemed to be making a wish in the well of time, that everything should finally come out all right, that finally something she was doing would be just as it should be.
    'I can't have a baby,' she said, 'because of the shape of my womb.'
    'Bullshit.'
    'He's a Park Avenue gynecologist.'
    Well, thought Laski, it took us ten years but we finally made one. He lowered her back to the bed, wiping her brow with the washcloth. She smiled, but it again was a mask, formed by momentary release from her anguish. In it was none of the flirtation, none of the peace, none of the things he usually saw in her smiles. But he knew she'd made this smile for him, to ease his worry. She's seeing into me too; maybe she sees all the care of my days, as I am seeing her. He felt them together, then, on a new level, older, wiser, with pain as the binder in their union. We came more than fifty miles tonight; we've crossed the ocean.
    Her smile suddenly drew itself up beyond the limits of smiling, became a grimace, and he lifted her up. We're not across the ocean yet.
    'Gee-yup, Bob!' The great horse pulled, his hooves scraping on the forest floor, sending moss and sticks flying. The tree creaked and swayed and fell and Bob-horse ran with it, dragging branches and all.
    'I guess we can get Doctor Barker now,' said the intern.
    The nurse went out of the room. Laski wiped Diane's brow and the intern stood at the foot of the bed, watching. 'You've been