The Insomniacs

CHAPTER ONE

FRIDAY, APRIL 1

2:48 A.M.

Maybe I could still make sleep happen.

Since the accident, where there should have been a memory, there was nothing. My whole life, I’d been able to fully recall each competitive dive; it was part of my process and I knew I couldn’t dive without it. But now there was just a blank space where a dive used to be.

I tried not to panic. I had four weeks to heal from the concussion and remember what exactly happened in the time between when my feet left the board and my body hit the water. Once I had that memory back, I’d be able to climb the ladder and know that I wouldn’t fail in front of a crowd again, I wouldn’t disappoint my coach, and I wouldn’t break my neck. The memory would be there if I could just sleep.

What I could do was imagine my favorite part of every dive before my last—slicing into the water, thousands of sparkling bubbles shooting out all around me. Then that moment underwater alone, deep and looking up at the light.

I could also imagine my surface break followed by an automatic glance to Mike, my coach I adored, on the deck. Usually, a big nod of approval meant solid execution with notes to follow. A headshake meant the opposite. He was always right there. We always connected before and after.

Something had thrown me before the last dive. My neighbor’s presence was the only thing different about that day. Van, so out of place at the pool, his hand on my teammate’s lower back. When he tilted his head to kiss Caroline, our eyes met. After that, all I remembered was Coach Mike poolside, watching, ready for me to go, then … blank, black. Then faces floating toward me through clouds of pink water.

My eyes snapped open.

Lying flat on my back, I stared at the ceiling, listening to the drip of the leaking faucet in my half-broken bathroom. Other than that, it was so quiet, just ambient noise from devices and appliances plugged into outlets. For a second, I was sure there was another presence in the house.

The clock now said 4:33 A.M. Whatever I’d been doing—actively not sleeping, growing more and more anxious as daylight neared—I’d been doing it for hours.

I was going to call it. This was night three with no sleep.

CHAPTER TWO

SATURDAY, APRIL 2

Actress and singer Brooke Carter married longtime boyfriend, hip-hop producer L. Roth, in a lavish ceremony in Lake Como, Italy, over Easter weekend. The couple’s two daughters, ages three and seven, were flower girls at the two hundred–person event. The family will continue to live in Los Angeles and New York City.

Accompanying the news item was a photo, taken at London Heathrow Airport. My dad wore sunglasses, his black hair buzzed short, the tattoo he’d gotten back in his competitive diving days snaking up his neck from his collar. Brooke was a head taller than him. She also wore large sunglasses and her black hair cascaded down her back. Their little girls looked like dolls. Dressed in fur coats, they were two puffballs. Each parent held a daughter by the hand.

In the waning spring daylight, I swiveled my ugly, plastic desk chair to face the windows as I absorbed the news and looked out at the cul-de-sac as maybe my dad used to see it. Three abandoned boys’ bikes littered the Andersons’ front lawn. Twelve-year-old Mary Seitzman practiced her ballet on the sidewalk, pirouetting in front of the Kaplans’ bay window before wiping her brow. The Loves’ new puppy attacked the arc of water shooting out from a sprinkler. The action appeared right outside my windows like my own personal movie projected on a screen. I allowed myself the barest glance to check if Van’s car was in his driveway.

Ingrid?

My mom put her shoulder to the warped bedroom door and opened it with a burst. I twisted to look at her but a bolt of pain lit through my head to my stomach. I leaned against the armrest to keep the burning light at the edges.

Babe, you okay?

My coach’s voice rang in my head: Depending on your mental strength, you can bear any pain.

I blinked hard and the world sharpened into view again. Slices of my girlish bedroom, decorated long ago in hues of yellow, became visible behind my mom. On the wall were framed illustrations of my initials I and R and a poem written in Hebrew, which I didn’t understand. I wondered if Brooke had converted for my dad like my mom had.

Hey. I tried to sound nonchalant. I focused my eyes on my beautiful Swedish mom, who had once been an actress herself. She was dressed in green scrubs, her worn-out blond hair in a high bun and her face more heavily lined with each passing month. I felt disloyal even noticing. She surveyed me from where she stood at the foot of my double bed, floral duvet half off and sheets intentionally tangled to give her the impression that I’d rested.

Come look, I said, nodding to the computer screen. She joined me at my desk and read, the stiff sleeve of her scrubs grazing my bare arm.

I hope it works out for him this time. She kissed the top of my head. Without my permission, she closed the laptop. The puffy Totoro sticker I’d stuck on the top laughed up at me. How’d you find out? she asked. She wasn’t surprised. I wondered how she’d heard. From his business manager or my aunt in Kansas City who tried to stay in touch as an apology for her younger brother?

Izzie. My best friend had emailed me the link, most likely understanding that I probably hadn’t heard the news.

Did you tell him? About the concussion? I asked.

No. She parted her lips as if to say more but then changed her mind and folded her arms, holding herself tight.

I nodded. What about the hospital bills?

I got it. That’s not for you to worry about. Just get better.

I thought about my father every time something broke. I’d been thinking about him today—maybe because I was broken—and then coincidentally the email came in from Izzie. I wondered if my mom was in some way legally obligated to inform him about my concussion. Even if she was, I doubted she would tell him. When it came to my father, she wouldn’t admit to any weakness.

In the imaginary game of life, she didn’t want my father to think he had completely won with his jet-setter life and young girlfriend—now wife, apparently—who he’d left us for seven years ago. On the rare occasion that he checked in on me, my mother was careful with how she presented our lives. She’d gone back to school for a nursing degree and loved it. I was a straight-A student and, most important, a nationally ranked diver like he had once been. I’d taken the slight introduction he’d given me to the sport and made it my own. Without any of his help.

To say my mom had a lot of pride was an understatement. In the divorce, she had said she didn’t want anything from him. She was given the house and child support, which mostly went right out the window to pay for diving. I sensed my mom didn’t like talking about the days when he lived here, so I was careful to avoid bringing up any memories that included him. Between barely speaking of him and years passing between visits, he’d become like a phantom in my mind. His ghost lurked in all the decrepit details of our once beautiful, modern box of a home, now breaking apart one piece at a time. My mom bled money between taxes and upkeep. I’d wait to tell her about my broken toilet so she wouldn’t stress about a plumber.

You look pale. I can find someone to cover my shift. My mom smoothed her hand over the back of my hair, so dark and different from hers. I tried not to flinch as she passed over the staples.

No, I’m feeling fine. I’ll sleep the whole time you’re gone. Please let that be true.

Good. Rest. That’s exactly what the neurologist said your brain needs. But even if you’re fast asleep, I’m sorry you’re alone at night. Especially with what’s been going on.

My phone vibrated with a text. Everyone misses you and sends their love.

Is that Mike? my mom asked. I nodded. She gave a small groan and then laughed. Oh my god, I’m already gearing up for the fight he and I are going to have over when you can dive again.

Ha! I’m sure.

Promise me you’ll go slow, okay? she said. The accident was only four days ago. You can try school tomorrow but the doctor said no diving for the rest of the month. If it were a mild concussion, that would be one thing… There was real concern in her eyes. It was nice to see since she was usually from the school of pushing through. She and Coach Mike had that in common.

Mom, I know. And Mike was at the hospital. He gets it. I was getting impatient with my mom while, at the same time, so relieved to hear from Coach Mike after a few days of silence. I was used to seeing him on an almost daily basis. To me, Mike and his wife, Laura, were like a second family. Now I was suddenly isolated and cut off from the action. It made me realize that my entire life and most of my relationships were built around diving. Overnight, my world had shrunk.

My mom’s voice turned gentle. He was amazing at the hospital. He said everything I would want a coach to say to my child. My throat thickened at the memory of Mike telling me there was nothing to be ashamed of.

But no matter what Mike says down the road, I can’t let you go back to practice before you’re ready. Like the neurologist said, it’s a problem that athletes feel pressured to play through head injuries. Mike wouldn’t be human if he wasn’t a little worried about his program. You’re the reason he’s recruiting the best junior divers. And he just got all that funding for the expansion. Her eyes were soft when they met mine, and then she returned her attention to making my bed tightly, folding the top of the duvet back and leveling it neatly with one palm.

She had no idea the stress her words brought—that Mike’s reputation, the entire diving program’s reputation, hinged on mine.

From across the street, we heard Mr. Pierce snap at his wife, Renee! The bite of his tone carried through my window, cracked open two inches for air.

He’s from a family of Olympic divers, I said. He knows a different side of it than the doctor. He knows taking a break is a bad thing. My headache was worsening and the room was stuffy, the air conditioner no longer doing a great job of cooling the upstairs. It kicked on with a strained hum.

Sometimes our bodies just force us to take a break. In hindsight, you probably should have rested when you had that sinus infection instead of practicing through.

That’s not why I messed up the dive. It was just an off day. That sounded ridiculously flippant even to my own ears. My mom knew I was too hard on myself to ever be that casual about messing up on such a grand scale. I just couldn’t take her questioning me when I was already questioning everything I thought I knew about myself.

Then it was the first off day you’ve ever had. My mom watched me closely. What do you think happened? she asked.

I knew she’d been waiting for the right moment. I tried to imagine telling her what might have caused my accident. Maybe this was why Coach Mike discouraged romantic relationships. Or romantic feelings, in my case. It was a distraction. If I was distracted and got lost in a dive, that could result in breaking my neck, becoming paralyzed, or, in a few rare cases, death.

In the light of day, I was embarrassed even thinking about the crazy surge of jealousy I’d felt when I first saw Van at the dive meet, there to support his girlfriend. Still, it shouldn’t have mattered if Van was there. Diving was the one thing I could do, where I was safe and could control everything. I was always able to shut out the outside world.

Instead I said, I don’t know! Maybe it was the blueberry muffin I ate for breakfast. Maybe I slept on one side and my balance was off. I swallowed down the truth. It was time to put away my ridiculous childhood crush on Van.

It’s okay to be scared.

No, it wasn’t. Not in diving. I couldn’t continue if I was scared.

My mom looked down at her black Dansko clogs, then back up to my face. She searched my features as if adjusting to a new version of me compared to the fearless one she thought she knew.

"I swear to you, I’m fine! And I know I don’t need a full month to recover. I’ll be able to dive before that." I knew I was going to need to do my best job to convince her in the coming days. I couldn’t stay idle for a month.

No way. Of course she would put my health first, but she had to be concerned. My previously assumed full scholarship to college was now in question. Enjoy the free time. You never have any, she said more gently.

She was right. I didn’t have any free time beside the ten minutes I crawled in my bed to nap between school and practice, and then again late at night. After a bruising workout, I would finally get home from practice and finish my homework and then thoughts of Van would flood my mind. Now I had nothing but time and nothing to focus on except things I didn’t want to think about.

My mom moved to my window and gazed out on our cul-de-sac comprised of ten houses in a widened horseshoe, bordered by a dense swath of greenbelt—acres of protected city land made up of woods, sheer limestone cliffs, trails, and a creek bed that ran along its curved spine. The setting sun cast a specific glow that, to me, meant spring in Austin.

"It’s like the movie Rear Window. Wow. I forget that you can see everything on the street from your room. The Kaplans’ house, the Loves’. Did you know you can see right into Van’s bedroom?"

Oh, I knew.

There was a long pause. Then, If you’re feeling so well, can you do me a favor? Can you go across the street and thank Van?

My eyebrows shot up. No.

Stop acting like you don’t know Van.

Mom.

She sighed. Look, sometimes you remind me of your father. You have that same laser focus. That’s why you have all of this. She gestured to the trophies gathering dust on Ikea shelves. But don’t turn your back on people, okay? Like he does, I silently filled in the blank. I was surprised by her voluntary mention of my dad. You don’t want to come off as indifferent or cold, my mom chastised lightly.

My exact problem was that I was anything but indifferent and cold. Was she really going to make me face the person I’d let utterly fuck up my headspace?

As if she could read my mind, my mom said, I know you’re not cold. I just see you shut off when you start to care about something outside of diving. Like you don’t think you can have both.

That was similar to her theory about my father: that he loved me so much, he couldn’t bear to look back. He couldn’t manage the complications of an old life and proceed with a new one. Laser focus.

Van was at the meet because he was watching his girlfriend dive. It wasn’t a big deal for him to have his mom call you. He was right there. I pulled at a hair tie on my wrist.

I don’t know what happened between the two of you. You were so loyal to those boys. To all of your friends. I watched her consider the kids on the street and I knew what she was thinking. She worried that she’d somehow failed and I’d missed out on being a normal kid who went to tons of parties and had sleepovers. And when she worried, I felt like I’d failed her. All I wanted was to make her life easier.

Sure enough, the next thing she said was, It’s just that diving is a really lonely sport. She paused. But I understand why you chose it. There was a weighted silence between us at her oblique reference to this last connection I had to my dad. I guess what I’m saying is, there’s other stuff you might want to experience that won’t come around again. Isn’t prom soon?

I ignored that. "Mom, all you do is work and sleep." She worked in Labor and Delivery on a 7 P.M. to 7 A.M. shift so she could have breakfast with me, sleep while I was at school, and then spend a few hours with me, usually at diving, before going to work.

I know. It’s something we both need to get better at. Being more open. It’s like I’ve suddenly realized you’re really leaving next year. We’ve lived on this street your whole life. There are a lot of nice people who live here. Maybe we should try to make it to the block party this summer.

I joined my mom at the window. We watched two of the boys I’d grown up with, Max and Wilson, pull up to Max’s parents’ three-car garage in a beat-up silver Audi, stereo booming Post Malone. Along with Van, wherever they were, that’s where the party was. At school and on this block.

It was the beginning of daylight savings, and activity out on the street had just been reinvigorated. Every year, for a short period of maybe four weeks, spring fever arrived on the cul-de-sac before the Texas heat crept in. The neighborhood would mingle outdoors until the inevitable bugs and triple-digit temperatures drove everyone inside or to the privacy of backyard swimming pools for the rest of spring, summer, and most of fall.

Remember when we used to go out there every night? The adults would be having a drink and laughing and we’d ride our bikes, screaming our heads off? I ran my thumb down a seam of the floral print wallpaper that had loosened from the wall.

I thought my mom would change the subject but her lips curved up slightly in a half smile. Up close, I loved her faded freckles. Those were good days, she said, referring to the time before we’d retreated. That was a long time ago. I can’t believe you four are almost all grown up.

Me, Van, Wilson, and Max hadn’t been you four for years now. One more school year and I could leave and start fresh. Once our proximity to the aquatics center and Coach Mike didn’t matter, my mom could finally sell this albatross of a house and go back to a semblance of the life she’d had before my dad dropped us in this cul-de-sac. She was waiting on me. And I was so close to not being a burden.

Sorry about these, by the way, my mom said. The paper shades from Home Depot had lost their stick and fallen to the ground. Maybe next weekend we can get new ones. I liked how she used maybe since she was stretched too thin to keep up with promises. She kicked aside the paper shade that lay on the ground.

Mom, don’t. I’ll tape it up tonight.

Call the police if you hear anything, okay?

I nodded and we both leaned forward to look at the limestone ranch house next door. Two years ago, a quiet family, the Smiths, had bought the house. Just like us, they had one daughter and kept almost entirely to themselves. All I knew was the dad was some kind of doctor, yet he never seemed to leave the house. I’d only glimpsed the young girl with her two perfect French braids out on the street a handful of times, riding my old bike—really Van’s old bike—that my mom must have given to them. I’d said hello a couple of times but she never said hello back. I’d decided she wanted to be left alone. But she always watched me, looking lonely as hell.

About six months ago, the family vanished, leaving all their possessions behind. No one knew where they were or if they were coming back. The house just sat vacant.

This made the rest of the cul-de-sac anxious. My mom said it seemed like everyone was projecting all of their fears onto the house, into the void. She’d heard speculation of foul play, witness protection, involvement in a cult. Maybe it was that no one liked the feeling of not knowing, of not understanding the emptiness inside.

And then the break-ins began. Maybe that was the real reason I hadn’t slept in four days; I was anxious because I was all alone next door to a house that had been robbed as recently as two weeks ago.

He’s home, my mom said. She must have also noted Van’s 4Runner in the driveway. Go, Ingrid. I thanked them but I’d like you to say thank you, too.

You hate that the Moores helped us.

I hate that I wasn’t there when you had your accident but I am so grateful that Lisa hunted me down after Van called her. Come on, Ingrid. Go talk to him.

I could feel myself growing desperate as she backed me into a corner. Please don’t make me do this. It’s just that it’s not necessary. I don’t want to make a big deal about it or he’ll think we’re weird. He already thought that, I was sure. Single mom publicly humiliated by her renowned then-husband, daughter with an old-lady name, ugliest house on the block, big, fat accident the first time he ever showed at a diving meet—the kind that makes you want to throw up after seeing it.

We are not weird. My stoic, Nordic mother narrowed her eyes at me. I am going to watch you from this window and make sure you go. Then I have to leave.

I was already nervous to face the long night ahead, alone. It was like the accident had changed me and broken the switch I had so easily flipped when I was ready to sleep. I couldn’t remember all of what had happened on the board and it haunted me during the night. Pieces of memory seemed just out of reach.

Mom? From the slight note of whining in my voice, she knew I was about to tell her something important. For a second, I wanted to talk to her about the stage fright. How scared I’d suddenly felt up on the board and how swiftly the mental block came out of nowhere. Until that moment, I’d never thought it could happen to me; that the self-consciousness and fear were right there, lying in wait.

Yeah? She said it warily and leaned back on her heels, worried about the time this might take before her shift. The shadows were growing longer and I remembered my childhood dread of night, the thick woods of the greenbelt transforming into a palpable presence outside our locked doors.

Nothing. I’m good.

It was fine. There was no reason to be scared. Since I knew what had caused my mental block, I could banish it on my own. I’d face Van and then make myself forget him. I’d get through this forced break and then I’d climb the ladder again. Everything would go back to normal. And, tonight, I was so tired, I was sure I would sleep like a baby.

CHAPTER THREE

SATURDAY, APRIL 2

It wasn’t that I’d wanted to stop going over to Van’s house. It was that I’d imploded inside when I saw the boys the morning my dad left. They were waiting for me on the street as usual and witnessed the end of it all.

I remembered them in a row, stunned as my dad stalked to the waiting black Town Car, blatantly ignoring my cries. When the car pulled out, it ran over the tire of my bike that I’d left in the driveway the night before. The sedan kept going, my mangled tire popping out from under it like a demented jack-in-the-box.

Max looked at me, then at my mom and, in a moment I would never forget, he cracked up.

It was the reaction of a kid. I knew that now. But it still haunted me. The humiliation of my strong mother, crying. The sound of my friend’s laughter at her tears.

The world of a nine-year-old is free and open—or at least I’d felt that way on our cul-de-sac—and then, bam, I saw everything as a landscape of divisions like tiles in a mosaic. It actually wasn’t so different from that moment on the diving board. Everything went still for a second; I felt naked, and then there was a fracture.

Later that day, I discovered Van’s old bike on my doorstep. A note written in Van’s handwriting was taped to the handlebars and read, You can have this.

As soon as I saw the present, I quietly wheeled it to a dark corner of my garage and never touched it. For some reason, I couldn’t. For years, whenever I glimpsed Van’s bike in the corner, I thought of it as the pity bike. Eventually, I forgot about it until, one day, I saw the little girl from next door on it, flying past.

Now I was embarrassed that I never thanked Van, or gave the bike back, or played with the boys again. At first they’d avoided me—probably out of awkwardness—but then they’d knocked on my door a few times to see if I could play. I didn’t answer and they finally quit trying. They seamlessly tightened without me and no one beside my mom questioned why I was no longer a part of things.

Now, seven years later, I stood on the sidewalk in front of Van Tagawa’s beautiful home. I heard the distinctive rattle of my mom’s aged, kelly-green BMW station wagon behind me as she pulled out of our garage, headed to work, her eyes surely on me as she drove past. I spun to catch a glimpse of her but I was too late. Instead I saw our house across the street, painted white though the color had taken on a dingy, gray cast. The thatch of weeds in front made it stand out from every other house on the block, except for the now-vacant one next