The Swimmer at Rest by Marc Levy

An hour before dawn, Andrew Gibson, captain of his college swim team, wearing his white silicone Speedo cap, blood red jammers and blue-tinted goggles, stood erect at the tiled edge of the indoor pool. He surveyed its Olympic length and width, the half-dozen floating lane markers. With eyes half-closed, he inhaled the chlorinated water’s ambient scent. Exhaling, bending forward, head lowered, hands at his ankles, toes curled to the pool’s edge, with his powerful legs he launched himself into the air.

At impact, a shivery liquid sting traveled the length of his athletic body. Gliding forward, enveloped in the water’s soundless cocoon, undulating dolphin-like, a momentary veil of silvery bubbles engulfed him. Seconds later, his white cap poked the surface; he inhaled deeply, his sturdy legs commenced to flutter kick, churning the water, frothing it white. Simultaneously, in syncopated beats, his vigorous arms repeatedly lift skyward, slam down; thwack, thwack, thwack, with each powerful stroke his cupped palms grasping the water, thrusting it aft, advancing his stride. His body ceaselessly flexing, left–right, left–right, at three-second intervals, Andrew’s submerged head lifts to gulp air, immerses to exhale it. Lap after lap, in the natural flow of his aquatic ballet, he commands himself forward. To become state champions, it is Andrew Gibson’s job to inspire his team to ardent glory.

Lane turns are his specialty. Following years of practice, he has mastered the flowing elegance of the tuck and roll. At each turn, his powerful legs thrust him off the wall, gaining him precious seconds on his nearest competitor. Legs thrashing, arms plowing, head swiveling, all in harmonic concert, twenty laps pass without incident. Twenty-five. At lap thirty, though he is not tiring, not yet urging himself to dig deep and surge the final few meters past his imagined rival, Andrew abruptly stopped. He has never done that. Not once in all his poolside years has he failed to complete his morning routine. But at this particular moment, in this particular indoor pool, a natatorium it is called, standing waist-deep in the chemically clear water, he feels, instinctively knows—something is not right.

Off come his goggles. Off come the snug-fitting silicone cap. In a show of force, Andrew flexed his athletic arms and thighs; four times he arched his toes, lifting his body weight up and down, up and down. Purposefully, he swiveled his graceful neck clockwise, then counterclockwise. And that is when he spied the odd raised welt beneath his left pectoral muscle. Gingerly, he pressed the foreign bump with his fingertips. Had the chlorine caused it? Had he errantly scratched a mosquito bite while dreaming? Likely a blemish, he told himself. Nothing of consequence.

He turned and looked about. At 5am the grand pool lay deserted. Yet this morning he could not help noticing it was too quiet. Hands on his hips, furrowing his dripping brow, Andrew shook the remaining water from his short blonde hair. Palms pressed to both ears, he listened for the strong, healthy beat of his sturdy young heart. C’mon now. C’mon. Anxiously, he pressed slightly harder, then gasped. Was it possible? It couldn’t be true. And yet it was. The most significant muscle in his well-toned, 21-year-old collegiate swim team captain’s body—his broad chest with its twin pectoral shields, firmly rippled abdomen, sensual, flexible hips, lithe durable legs, the sum of which had won him numerous awards and innumerable female glances—was incontestably silent.

Or perhaps not. Warily, hopefully, Andrew checked his pulse. My God. He had no pulse. Controlling his panic, he pressed two fingers to his right temple, straightened himself, waited expectantly for the comforting thumpity-thump, thumpity-thump. But there was no thumpity. There was no thump. Like a storm-fed river overflowing its crumbling banks, fear overwhelmed him. The blood drained from his handsome, freckled face. He felt his skin turning ghostly pale. His breathing, ordinarily rhythmical—turned quick and shallow. Dreading the worst, hoping for signs of life, he placed his right hand over the strange reddening bruise adorning his chest. C’mon, now. C’mon. Nothing. Not a single beat or thump or cardiac quiver. Was this a bad dream? A nightmare from which he would soon thankfully awaken? Was this really happening to Andrew Gibson, outstanding athlete of 2025, captain of the 2026, thus far undefeated, Brandeis University swim team, History major and eye-catching lady’s man, behind his back known as “Swivel Hips?”

Undeterred, Andrew plunged both his hands into the water. Briskly, he slapped his cheeks smartly, once, twice, three times. Smack. Smack. Smack. There now, that should do it. Yet, averting his eyes, cautiously, he re-inspected the mysterious welt. Impossibly, the dread thing had doubled in size. In the ear of his mind he heard himself scream, “Help! Somebody, help!” Standing there, waist deep in the water, up and down, side to side, he scanned the pool’s artificial horizons. In the stillness and solitude of the vast natatorium, he had never felt so utterly alone.

A sound. What was that sound?

“Hello?” he called. “Is anyone there?”

He couldn’t believe it. At the far end of Row 12, serenely floating like a buoy without a care in the world, pleased with the regularity of its muscular clockwork, its four chambers steadily dimpling in ventricular accord, lay his runaway heart. Sensing its discovery, the fist-sized thumping organ instantly dunked itself beneath the chlorinated water. Kerplunk.

”Come back!” Andrew wailed. “It’s me! Come back!”

Despairing the worst, “I can’t believe this!” he muttered. “I just can’t believe it!”

Ten meters from where it had disappeared, the cherry red heart abruptly surfaced. Formerly without limbs, it proudly flaunted a pair of sinewy arms and legs; on its right bicep, a florid pink heart tattoo, the word MOM spangled across it. Reclining on its back, crimson hands locked behind its stubby aortic neck, Andrew’s heart smiled, winked, then spit a graceful water column three feet into the air. Against his better judgment, Andrew could not help but applaud. Obliged to bow, his heart proceeded to dog paddle the length of row 9. On the turn, done with suitable aplomb, the magnificent organ shifted to a credible backstroke. My God, thought Andrew. This cannot be real. It can’t. But…what if it is? What next? What? As if in reply, his renegade heart submerged itself beneath the water, reappearing two minutes later in row 7.

Stunned by this impossibility, Andrew began to sweat and tremble. He grew faint. Snapshots from his life passed before him: a lariat-twirling cowboy galloped a wide-eyed pony inside a sweltering circus tent awash in sawdust. A tattered page from his schoolboy notebook filled with algebraic equations he’d failed to memorize. His father, seated on a John Deere tractor, its noisy diesel engine trumpeting puffs of oily blue smoke into the cool dry air. Beneath silvery moonlight, wearing her favorite white summer dress, wistful, beautiful Laura stepped from the shadows. “Andy, I love you,” she purred. “Tell me you love me, too.” Instinctively, Andrew reached for her, only to see himself falling down a long winding shaft. In his uncontrolled tumble, frenzied thoughts flooded his mind. What of their plans to marry? To attend law school together. To build their careers. What to do? What! What! What! As he often did to rally himself to swim meet victory, Andrew summoned his inner strength by inwardly repeating, “I am good. I am calm. I am strong.” Immediately, he felt himself rallying.

So as not to frighten his heart, more so to gain its unsuspecting trust, quite casually Andrew made his way to the pool’s far end, where only the water’s soft lapping against the pool’s cement edge broke the natatory silence. Ten meters from his goal, he took several breaths and focused on one thing only.

At exactly the right moment, loud and clear, and with the full authority of his voice, he commanded, “Here, kitty, kitty. Here, kitty, kitty.”

But the heart was not fooled by this clever ruse to weaken its will by cajolery. This paltry attempt to show that undefeated swim team captain Andrew Gibson had somehow overcome his unique and irreparable loss. Indeed, the heart appeared to glare at Andrew. To snarl and scowl, while its slender right hand wagged a venous index finger at its former boss. A moment later, the heart leaped from the pool to its periphery, knelt in a runner’s starting pose, emitted three loud heart beats, then bolted forward, sprinting twice round the entire pool. Mounting the diving board, it took three deliberate steps, bounded upward into the air, executed a perfect double twisting reverse, then swam toward Andrew by way of flawless freestyle. Smiling, treading water, the heart waved its proud crimson aorta side to side, as if to say, “Who’s the champ now, buddy boy? Come on, who’s the champ now?”

“Please!” begged Andrew. “Please come back! What have I done to hurt you? To upset you? Haven’t I always treated you well? Haven’t I?”

The heart, pretending its feelings were harmed, shrugging its carmine shoulders, turned its back to him.

“Listen to me!” pleaded Andrew. “Do I smoke? No! Do I drink? No! I exercise every day. Maybe too hard but…I’m a goddamn vegetarian for Christ’s sake! No salami! No steak! No cheeseburgers! What is it? What the hell do you want?”

The merciless organ once more plunged beneath the water, only to re-emerge with a single long-lashed eye adorning its left ventricle. There came a popping sound; a second eye appeared. Further quaint pops begat an aquiline nose, two fine flat ears, a pair of succulent red lips. Was that light blue mascara rounding its feminine eyes? Was that powdery pink blush adorning its quartetted cheeks?

The full-faced heart blinked its long lashes seductively. “He loves me,” it crooned, “he loves me not. He loves me…”

“I do love you!” Andrew implored. “I’ve always loved you. You know that. C’mon now. Please. I need you. Please. Don’t leave me….”

He hadn’t finished speaking when a pair of unseen hands deftly slapped his buttocks stingingly. On the fifth and final thwack, he was lifted from the water, momentarily held hostage above it, then plunged down to the cold, lifeless bottom, only to be lifted up, back into the chlorine-scented air, until, with a dainty feminine touch, he was delivered poolside, where he conveniently passed out.

Hours, or was it years later, Andrew awoke. “Huh?” he uttered. “What the…” Regaining his senses, he took stock of himself. Pressing here, pushing there, stretching, flexing his limbs, he found nothing broken. Nothing bleeding or contused.

Perplexed, “Should I or shouldn’t I?” he wondered, and ever so gently he palpitated his left pec, which, he noticed, was no longer blemished, and delightfully thumpity-thumping. The blessed sound filled Andrew with indescribable joy.

“Thank God!” he said. And again, a bit louder, “Thank God!”

He wanted to sing. He wanted to dance. He wanted to greet any passerby with the wonderful news that he’d overcome his aquatic hell. But soon enough Andrew asked himself who or what had set this fiend, this he or she-devil upon him. Or was it a vitamin or mineral deficiency which caused him to hallucinate? Or perhaps it really was just a bad dream. What, for God’s sake, was it?

Back and forth, Andrew paced and pondered. Finally, three simple words propelled his mind to solve the demon puzzle. He’d been born with a ventricular septal defect. “A hole in the heart,” the surgeon informed his parents. But not to worry. And the surgery succeeded. At his last annual checkup, the doctor had remarked, “You’re good to go, son. Just remember not to push yourself too hard. You might feel weak. Lightheaded. Dreamy. My advice? Love your heart, and your heart will love you.”

How could he have forgotten? From now on, he would train to win, but a bit easier. He would do that, and he clapped his hands one loud clap to mark the occasion, then checked his waterproof watch. 6:36am. Eyes closed, Andrew imagined the morning sun ascending a cloudless sky. He envisioned the rhythmic tones of mourning doves waking among the leafy branches of sheltering trees. In the ear of his mind he heard the joyful chirrups of common sparrows greeting the rising sun. As if for the first time, he listened to this cheerful winged chorus heralding the new day.

“I love you!” Andrew shouted.

His triumphant words echoed throughout the vast empty natatorium, soon to resonate with the splashing sounds, the ardent voices of his youthful teammates.

“I really love you!”