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Piper
Ihear my name reverberate against the walls. I’ve got lane three, my favorite lane. I know I’ve got this won. There’s not a single voice in my head. From my own to my coach’s. Honestly, I’m not even worried about what’s at stake right now. To me, I’m just getting ready to do what I’ve become known for.
Swim.
Sometimes in life, when things pile up, it’s easiest to break it all down into the simplest terms.
Right now, I’m just swimming.
I’m not battling for my name, my college. I’m not battling for the word that’s been floated around…
(Hint: it’s starts with the letter ‘O’ and happens every four years… and, no, it’s not an orgasm…)
I stay calm.
No need to think about the process of swimming. Or that most of these meets end up being won or lost by such small fractions of time that it seems impossible.
Nope.
This is just about swimming.
This is about me diving into the perfectly kept water and-
“Are you sleeping on the porch, Piper?”
I suck in a breath slowly. “No, Maryanne. I’m not sleeping on the porch. I’m resting my eyes. Enjoying a cup of coffee.”
“Well, you sure are missing a show out there today.”
I open my eyes and let out a sigh that’s very audible.
Not that it’ll matter to my neighbor.
Figures that after all the time I spent getting my life in order, buying a duplex, living in one half, renting out the other half - you know, making good decisions and all that after my dream of swimming went bye-bye - I would end up with a bird watching (more like bird obsessed) woman in her sixties, who openly admits she has not had sex or interest in a man since before the dawn of the internet age.
With that said, Maryanne Martovich means well. She pays her rent on time. She doesn’t cause any damage to the house. And every now and again when I’m in a pinch, she’s there to help me. Which means I am - at times - on the hook to listen to her ramble about what bird she saw today.
There’s a two foot tall railing separating my porch from hers.
She stands there with a pair of binoculars around her neck like the cliché look of a librarian with glasses. She’s also holding a pair of binoculars.
Before you ask and she explains how lenses work for an hour - one is for closer birds and the other is for ones really far away. That’s not technical, but that’s all you need to know.
“Talk to me, Maryanne,” I say.
For her age, she throws her leg over the railing with ease. Like a professional wrestler climbing over the top rope into the ring.
“There’s got to be a nest somewhere out back,” Maryanne says. “A cardinal nest. I’ve never seen a cardinal so bright red before. It has to mean something, right?”
“I’m sure you’ll look it up.”
“That’s my plan for today. And I want to find the nest. Not to disturb it though.”
“Of course not,” I say. I make a mental note to pull back on the sarcasm here. Maryanne Martovich is a good person. Just oddly obsessed with birds.
“Piper, if the nest crosses over the backyard…”
“Maryanne, you know it’s okay to come onto our part of the yard,” I say. “I appreciate you worrying. I promise you though, if the nest is on our side, you will have full access to it, okay? And I’ll make sure Saxon stays away.”
