“Ash.”
“I want to be close to you. With you.”
“Here?” Clayton stared, slightly bewildered. Ash was
able to maintain her seductive act for a moment before
the facade cracked. She lifted her hands from Clay’s
shorts, brought them together prayerlike, then let them
drop to her sides. Her expression collapsed into pale fear and uncertainty.
“Ash? What’s up?”
She hesitated.
“What’s going on?”
She bit her lip and stared back at him, her gaze level.
“I’ve been thinking a lot about that drawing you did.”
She didn’t say which drawing. She didn’t need to. Both
of them knew.
“And it made you want to tear my boardies off?”
“Shut up. That drawing. It weirded you out, didn’t it?”
“No.”
“Come on.”
“No. It didn’t.” Clayton heard her hmm, sensed her unflinching stare. “It’s different. I’ll admit that. I don’t usually do creepy watercolors that look like wanky
art-school-dropout stuff.”
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I N F I N I T E B L U E
Ash nodded. In the distance, above the thrum of the
falls, the Albert’s lyrebird continued to cry out for a mate.
“I want to tell you something,” she said. “And I don’t
want you to think I’m completely nuts, okay?”
“I think you’re completely nuts anyway.”
“Don’t.” Her tone was grave enough to crush any
further joking around. Clayton saw that her hands were
shaking. “The day of the world record, did you—” She
paused. “See anything?”
“Like what?”
She swallowed and took hold of his wrists. “Anything
strange. While I was in the pool.”
Clayton scoured his mind. “No,” he replied. “It was
the usual scene…up until the scoreboard announcement.
Things got bent after that.”
Ash looked over Clayton’s shoulder. Their small
alcove in the cliff darkened as the sun slipped behind the only cloud in the sky. “Have you heard some athletes say they leave themselves during a race?”
“Leave themselves?”
“Yeah. They’re so into it that they get out of their
bodies.”
“Okay. Did that happen to you in the world-record
swim?”
She nodded. “It’s happened before. I sort of drift
above and look down at myself in the water. I watch my
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stroke, my rhythm. I can spot if I’m moving too stiffly
or too loosely. I can see everything.”
“All right, I give. That is strange.”
“I haven’t gotten to the strange bit yet. I was about
two-thirds into the sixth lap when I felt myself elevating.
I looked down and saw myself in the water. I was flawless.
There were no tweaks I needed to do, no adjustments I
had to make. Everything was perfect.
“I stayed like that, looking at myself for the next
two laps, almost all the way to the finish.” She squeezed Clayton’s hands. “You ready for the strange bit?”
“I guess.”
She peeked again at the falls. “My hands and feet.
They…”
“They what?”
“They weren’t there.”
“Come again?”
“I mean, they were there moving like usual. But
you could see right through them. It’s like they were the water.”
Clayton felt a chill trickle down his back. The noise
of the falls surrounded him, filling his head to the brim.
“You didn’t notice?” asked Ash. “I was sure you
would’ve. You know, because of the drawing. The way
you blended my hands and feet into the wave. I thought
you must’ve seen something too.”
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I N F I N I T E B L U E
Around them the thin mist wafted like a cold breath
exhaled. Their eyes were anchored on each other for an
“I know, I know.” She held her face in her hands. “I’m
being ridiculous. It’s just a coincidence. You did some
creepy art. I did a visualization technique amped up to
the max. That’s it. Nothing to see here—move along.”
Her hands slid away, revealing a smile. Clayton could
see its fragility.
“Let’s go back to yours,” she said, standing up. “I could do with a dose of reality.”
They ambled out of the small resting place and back
onto the worn, sun-drenched trail hugging the cliff face.
Nearing the boulders at the rock pool’s southern bank,
Ash glanced back over her shoulder. The waterfall was a
postcard of innocent, harmless splendor.
59
Nine
Over the twelve hours that followed, Ash and Clayton did not part. They discarded Ash’s eerie admission at the falls and drove back to Brisbane in a welcome comfortable
silence. He piggybacked her across the threshold when
they arrived home, only for her to coax him into turning around and coming in again, with her piggybacking
him. They snuggled on the couch for three episodes of
Summer Fall, arms wrapped around each other until they were uncomfortably warm.
“If this girl was a laulujoutsen, a swan,” said Tuula of Clayton’s iron grip, “she could not fly away. You have stolen too many of her feathers, lapsi.”
Later, while Tuula walked to the 7-Eleven for more
cigarettes, they made urgent, clumsy love on the living-
room rug. A second session of sex, set against the back-
drop of Tuula’s snores and occasional curses in Finnish
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I N F I N I T E B L U E
from the next room, was slower, less burdened with the
following day’s weight.
Q
The slipping away began in the morning, after breakfast.
A text from Blythe demanded Ash return home to pack.
Clayton sat in the passenger seat of the Corvette, feet up on the dash, hand under his chin. At the Drummond
house, he stayed at her heel. He wanted nothing to do
with either parent, not Len and his small talk laced with New Testament quotes or Blythe and her wordless stare.
Packing provided a brief respite. Within the familiar
space of Ash’s bedroom, Clayton felt more at ease. She
sought his opinion on clothes for tv appearances, he
suggested a fat novel for the flight, he organized phone and computer cables and an adapter plug for the North
American sockets. He sat on the suitcases as she worked
the zips around. At the end of the hour-long exercise,
Clayton theatrically wiped his hands.
“I think we’re done here.”
“Yeah. Although I bet Mum will think of something
we’ve forgotten.”
On cue, Blythe crashed the room—no knock, no
warning—and barked out commands. “Make sure
you’ve got all Australian tracksuits, not state or club ones.
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The medals from the Pan Pacs—bring those. You got
those against the Yanks. Did you read the email from Kyla about skirt length for Good Morning America? They have strict unofficial guidelines. Are the notes on interview technique packed? Keep them out. You’ll
need to go over
them on the plane.”
No stinkeye was leveled at Clayton during the scramble.
In fact, Blythe avoided any acknowledgment of his pres-
ence. He was relieved. Usually he was a target for Team
Drum’s dictator, in the crosshairs for a look or a lecture.
But here, in Ash’s space, things were different. Blythe
treated him like a ghost. Was it too much to handle, seeing this dropkick boy in her pride and joy’s inner sanctum?
The inkling that they shared everything, bed included?
Was this—the adult equivalent of holding your breath—
really the best way she knew how to deal with her daughter growing up? The answers could only come from Blythe’s
own downturned mouth. And Clayton wasn’t about to
ask. In this small corner of their overlapping worlds, he was more than happy to be invisible.
Q
When Clayton and Tuula arrived at the airport, the scene was more subdued than what Clayton had imagined.
The media wasn’t overwhelming—two camera crews
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I N F I N I T E B L U E
were on hand, forming a scrum around five or six solo
journalists. Although it had become more common for
Ash to be stopped in the street and asked for an auto-
graph, the only “fans” come to see her off were oppor-
tunistic stickybeaks already at the airport and wondering what the fuss was about.
Around midday the final boarding call for flight
520 to Sydney was announced. Ash wrapped her arms
around Clayton, and they held each other tightly. They
kissed. Ash’s eyes welled with tears, and Clayton’s ears and cheeks burned red.
“I’ll check your comic every day,” she said. “I don’t
want to see any soppiness. Make them funny.”
“I can’t be funny on command,” he said, shoving
his hands in his jeans pockets. “And I’m never soppy.
Now bugger off. Get on your flight.”
“I love you.”
“You’re losing your place in the queue.”
“You love me too.”
“Will you go already?”
“Okay!” Ash smiled. “Don’t wait up.” She blew
him a kiss as she was bundled up and folded into her
entourage. The camera lights flickered to life as the
reporters conducted brief interviews with Coach Dwyer
and Blythe, each going through the motions, before they
moved on to the star of the show. A larger crowd began
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to form, and at its center Ash stood tall, shoulders back, breezily welcoming whatever the United States had in
store for her.
“I love you too,” said Clayton.
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Ten
Clayton stuffed his hands back in his pockets and made
his way over to Tuula, who was feigning interest in the
nearby souvenir shop.
“Let’s get out of here, Mummu.”
“You do not want to see her leaving?”
Clayton shook his head. “I’ve seen it. I mean”—he
gestured at the growing circus surrounding Ash—“look
at it.”
“I am looking, lapsi. And I am seeing. But can you
wait just a little?” Tuula squeezed his shoulder. “I am so janoinen, I need to get myself some water. I will be back minuutissa.”
Clayton sat on a nearby bench and stared at the
carpet. The faint outline of some long-ago spill was
visible beneath his feet. It seemed fitting. He felt as if he were leaking, that the pressure of good thoughts and
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D A R R E N G R O T H & S I M O N G R O T H
maintaining positivity was weakening him, cracking
him. If he didn’t get out of here soon, he might dry up
completely.
“Hi, kid.”
Clayton lifted his head, unsure if the greeting was
directed at him. It was. Coach Dwyer stood before him.
“Mind if I have a quick chin-wag?”
“Um, okay.”
“You sure? You need to hit the road?”
“I do, but I can’t yet. I’m waiting for my grandmother.”
“Well, I won’t hold you up for long.” He sat beside
Clayton on the bench and looked out at Ash’s impromptu
conference. “Not sure we’ve ever said much more than
hello before now.”
Clayton shrugged.
“That’s my fault. I’m sorry for that,” Coach Dwyer
said.
“Why are you sorry?”
“A coach has to know all the things that make his
athlete tick—positive and negative. I didn’t notice just how close you two were until the record swim, and I
probably should have been more proactive.” Dwyer
smiled and ran a knuckle over a shaggy eyebrow. “She
talks about you a lot. In training.”
“Right.” Clayton was still unsure why he had been
drawn into this conversation.
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The coach nodded, stared down at the ongoing
scrum slowly winding its way toward the customs
gate. “I don’t agree with any of this dog-and-pony-
show rubbish. This trip—it’s all the work of Mother
Drummond. Cyclone Blythe, I call her. She’s blowin’
hard for the States. It’s unnecessary—it’s distracting.
It’s way too bloody long.”
“Yeah, it is.”
“At least we get some quality time in Denver. I’ll
get to fix things up then.” Dwyer got to his feet. “I just wanted to let you know that you’re real important here,
kid. Ash might be the strongest competitor I’ve ever
seen, but she still needs good people around her. She
needs you to be with her 100 percent, even if you’re an
ocean apart.”
Clayton nodded. “A hundred per cent,” he echoed.
The coach had barely departed when a second person
approached. Clayton was all too familiar with this figure, the timing of the greeting a giveaway as much as the
voice. Coach, who may not have remembered his name,
called him “kid.” But only one person ever addressed him as “boy.”
“Hello, Blythe.” He liked to drag out the vowel in her
name, giving it a nasal, country twang.
“Where is your grandmother?”
“Around. Close.”
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“Of course.” Blythe scanned the thoroughfare to her
left. “Remarkable woman. Foreigner. English not great.
On her own. But here she is, raising a young orphan.”
Her attention shifted back. “I’m sorry— orphan’s not the right term these days, is it? What’s the term?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Really?”
“No.”
“Hmm…that surprises me.”
Clayton held Blythe’s stare. Seconds ticked over.
A train of baggage trolleys rattled past, towed by a
motorized cart. Laughter leaped from the tv crews
bidding farewell to Team Drum. Ash’s earnest admission
could be heard above the din: “I don’t know! Maybe it’s
a surprise!”
“She’s ready,” said Blythe, smiling again. “From the
day she was born, from the first time I dunked her head
in the pool when she was a baby, this was inevitable. And w
here she’s going—that’s inevitable too. Everything she
deserves, it’s coming. Ashley Ray Drummond is living her destiny and leaving the past in her wake.”
Clayton folded his arms. If Ash had been within
earshot, she would have been making gagging motions
behind her mother’s back. Everything out of Blythe’s
mouth sounded rehearsed, like she had a camera crew in
tow. Everything was an interview.
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“She’s sensitive, my Ashley,” continued Blythe.
“Always had a soft spot for the…well…the less fortunate.
The good old Aussie battler. As a child she would bring
home stray dogs from the local pool. No matter how
mangy, no matter how pathetic. Yes, compassion is
a real strength of hers. And sometimes a weakness.”
She prodded the surgical scars on her left shoulder.
“But the job’s done now. It’s time for Ash to focus, free of impediment. Free of any dogs she might have picked
up along the way.”
“Isn’t that up to her?”
“It is,” said Blythe.
Clayton smelled the lavender and sweat and chlorine
emanating from her pores. He noted that, despite all her hours spent in the pool, Ash never smelled of chlorine,
and he wondered why that might be.
“But it’s too late now,” Blythe added. “You know that
surely.”
“Too late for what?”
Blythe sighed and sat down beside Clayton. He
leaned away from her, the look on his face pure sucked
lemon. “I want to apologize,” she began. “I know that
since you started dating my daughter I’ve been…I think
it’s fair to say somewhat cool. I was wrong to do that.
I should’ve been more sympathetic, more understanding.
Greet all brethren with a holy kiss, my dear husband 69
D A R R E N G R O T H & S I M O N G R O T H
constantly reminds me.” She smiled. If she made even the slightest move toward kissing him, Clayton was going to
instantly lose his breakfast. “You don’t have a mother, of course,” she continued. “A real mother. That’s sad. Very sad. And I really should’ve been more understanding of
that from the get-go. Oh well, live and learn.”
Blythe paused, considering her words. Somewhere in
the terminal, a baby was crying.
“I need to help you properly understand who a
mother is, what she has to do. First and foremost, a
mother has to be the lane ropes for her child. Always