Chapter Text
When Henry is eight, his mom tells him that he’s adopted, that she wanted a baby so badly, and because she couldn’t have one of her own, she searched and searched and searched for him, until one day she became the luckiest momma in the world. They’re lying in her bed together, after she’s read him the twelfth chapter of The Golden Compass, and he’s got his head on her chest, tapping out the rhythm of her heartbeat, like he’s done every night since he can remember. It’s always been just the two of them, and it’s never been lonely before.
[What makes that thumpthump thumpthump sound, Momma? That’s your heart, baby. Pumping your blood through your body. Sounds like the ocean in the seashells. Is your heart stuck like the sea gets stuck in there? Your heart stays there, yes. But it’s not trapped, honey. Remember when we talked about how the moon pulls on the ocean, and makes it come up on the shore, and then go back out again? Up and down? The tides. That’s right. Well, your heart’s a little bit like your own personal moon. It keeps your blood pumping and pumping through your body; it keeps you alive. And you know what else your heart does? What? It holds all the love you’ve got. See. All the love for everybody else. Your heart sounds pretty strong, Momma. So’s yours, sweetheart. Ours match up. Can you hear? Mhmm. Both strong. Both steady. Both strong. Both steady.]
[He remembers sitting on the floor in the study, looking at the Children’s Encyclopedia with its colorful cross-section of the Earth on the cover. He remembers finding Heart: H for Huh-huh-heart. And he remembers how it didn’t look anything like the Valentine cutouts Mrs. Rosier had them make the month before, and it didn’t really look anything like the moon either.]
She tells him that she loves him, and that she’s never not going to love him, and that he is her Family with a capital F and that’s the way it’s always going to be, no matter what. He hugs her tight and whispers back, love you, too, momma, when he feels tears slip down her cheeks and land in his hair. He’s never, ever seen his mom cry before.
He traces a heart on his chest that night as he’s laying in bed and wonders if ‘Adopted’ with a capital A means they don’t match up, wonders if this means he isn’t really strong or steady after all, wonders what he is instead.
//
They’d gone to the pool together the day before she told him. She let him jump off the diving board fourteen times before it was time to go home. When he took the one lap swim test to show the lifeguards he could go in the deep end, she smiled and smiled and smiled at him, because he was so big and so strong. He liked the way everything felt bigger under the water, and farther away, and kind of empty, like he was nowhere and everywhere all at once. And everything happening above the surface was a different world, and down below, with his eyes squeezed shut and his lungs burning and burning and burning, he was untouchable.
The next day, he holds his wrist up to his nose and thinks maybe he can still smell the chlorine, can still feel the way his body plunged when he cannonballed off the diving board – heavy and weightless all at once. He closes his eyes and holds his breath, hoping, if he just tries hard enough, he can get back to that secret place, to that echo-y, safe world where he could feel his heartbeat in his ears, steady and strong. But the air around him isn’t thick like the water, isn’t smooth against his skin, isn’t just a little bit scary the way the water is: waiting and waiting and waiting to fill up his lungs. Maybe if they just go back to that pool, clean and blue, and with a chemical perfume he’s never smelt anywhere else, maybe he’ll remember what it is to be strong, maybe mom won’t ever stop smiling at him, maybe their hearts will start up again, new and even and just in time, like the three different clocks on the pool deck, all counting up the seconds at the same, steady rate.
At dinner the next day, he asks if they can go back to the pool, quiet and a bit shy. Mom looks at him seriously, like he’s a real adult and not just a little kid, and she says, “You liked swimming?” He did. “Maybe we should see about signing you up for the swim team. Do you think you’d like to try that out?” He would, he thinks, if it means he gets to spend some more time in that secret world. “Alright then,” Mom says. “Alright.”
His first practice is three weeks later. He’s never felt so free.
//
When Henry is thirteen, the Storybrooke Sharks get a new assistant coach. Her name is Emma Swan and she tells them at their first practice of the summer season that she swam at UMass in Boston, that she and Coach Ariel swam together once upon a time, that she’s never lived in Maine before, that she was a breaststroker in college. Henry nods hello when she takes over their lane at practices, but he doesn’t stay after to chat with her like some of his teammates. He puts his head down and works through their sets, and only smiles when he hits the wall 3 seconds faster than his previous hundred at the end of 6000 yards.
Coach Swan is younger than their other coaches. She laughs a lot, but she doesn’t hand out praise very often, and she always has something for everybody to work on. She shows up at practice with only three minutes to spare pretty much every day, always has a cup of coffee in hand, and looks like maybe she just got out of bed, even though they practice from 4 to 6 in the evening. The first time Henry leaves the locker room, freshly showered, tired, and sore from the day’s workout to find her standing in the lifeguard office using their tiny mirror to put her hair up in a tight bun, having changed into her Deputy Sheriff uniform, he’s surprised. Until he remembers that Paige told him Coach Swan was also working at the Police Station, and that the week before, he’d overheard her telling Coach Ariel that night shifts were “absolutely killing her.”
She catches his eye in the little mirror, and calls out for him to wait. “Just a sec.” She joins Henry out in the hallway, smiles and asks him what his favorite stroke is. He scuffs his foot at the old carpeting and mumbles that he likes breaststroke and distance free, [and doesn’t say that he hates the fly, even though Coach Ariel has him do the 100 and the relay every single meet]. When he looks up, she’s got this big, big grin on her face. “Well then, kid,” she says. “Looks like you’re my new star frog kicker.”
She holds out a hand with a solemn smirk, and waits for him to reach out and shake it. “We’re going to work together this season, alright? Work hard. Get in some good distance. Work on your pull.”
He nods questioningly.
“Good,” she says as though he’s signed an invisible, unbreakable contract. And that settles it.
//
Coach Swan lets him do breaststroke during all of the choice sets after that, and she always, always, always lets him know when he’s slacking on his pull. She doesn’t tease him like she does some of his teammates, when they’re rowdy and loud during Friday practices, ready for the weekend. She doesn’t ask him why he’s being so serious like some of the other coaches used to do. And each day, after he’s finished his cool-down, she holds out her hand for him to shake on the way back to the locker room, like they’re reaffirming the pact they’ve made. Strong. And steady.
//
Henry’s favorite part of any day is practice. He loves the way the chlorine smell leaches into everything, that his favorite sweatshirt smells perpetually of the chemical, no matter how many times his mom runs it through the wash. He loves the way he can hear his pulse in his head during a rough set, the way his lungs ache after a hard practice, and the way his arms feel limp and stretched for hours after a solid 6500 yards.
He likes that he doesn’t need to talk during practice; no one expects him to answer questions or make conversation. He’s free to sing whatever song he’d like as he warms up, now and then letting out a word or two in bubbles beneath the surface.
He’s free to make plans and daydream and measure each yard as it passes. No one cares who his mother is once they’re in the pool, and it doesn’t matter that he’s adopted, or that his mom is the mayor and that his classmates at school repeat their parents’ names for her in the hallway: ‘bitch’ and ‘hardass’ and ‘total asshole.’ He doesn't think about the way his classmates at his private school, 98% of whom are white (like him, he knows, which gives them one more thing to whisper about as they pass his locker), talk about his mother, the Mayor - his mom, who makes the best desserts and loves horses and read to him every single night before bed until he was eleven. He doesn’t have to wonder why the other kids in his class always seem to be in on some joke he just doesn’t get. He doesn’t let himself think about their empty house, or what it might be like to be like his classmates with their Families of >2 and their parents – plural – and their loud dinners and full homes and the easy knowledge that all of their hearts are beating in time with one another. He thinks about how much he loves his mom, no matter what, but also about ‘birth parents’ and heart rhythms, and he tries not to think about the way she’d looked angry and then tired and then maybe a little bit sad when he asked about the terms of a ‘closed Adoption’ the month before school let out for the summer. He tries not to think about how she’s started working late practically every day, how her face is paler now than it is in the pictures they’ve got up on the mantle, how there’s a wrinkle in the center of her forehead that never seems to go away.
During practice he focuses on each stroke, every inhale, every exhale, on the rhythm of his kick and the ache in his lungs. He listens intently to Coach Swan, cups the water in his palms, holds his body tight, streamlined, counts his kicks, measures his pace against the clock on the wall, doesn’t smile when Coach Swan nods approvingly after a set. He asks for clarification on the 30-60-90 speeds drill for his breaststroke pull, leads with his chest, remembers the dreams he has where he swims through the air and calls it flying. Tries his best not to think as much as possible, and for two hours a day, he’s absolutely free.
//
On a Wednesday in July, Henry’s taken too long in the locker room, and so he’s rushing out the door of the Athletic Center and down the steps towards his mom’s waiting car, when he hears Coach Swan calling his name.
“Kid! Wait!”
He turns at the bottom of the steps, but glances back over his shoulder when he hears the slam of a car door, and finds his mom coming around onto the curb, heading towards him.
“Hey, Kid.” Coach’s face is a little red, and she’s got her police uniform on, but she’s grinning at him, and he smiles back. Practice is over; he’s not such a serious kid, really.
“Hey Coach,” he looks up when his mom puts her hand on his shoulder, swipes a hand across his forehead where his the water still dripping from his hair is already mixing with the sweat on his brow.
“Henry,” she murmurs, looking from him to Emma Swan. Her brow is furrowed and her lips are pulled into a tight line.
“Mom, this is Coach Emma Swan. Remember, I was telling you about her?” He waits for his mother to nod. “Coach, this is my mom, Regina Mills.”
“At last, the infamous Mayor Mills!” Emma’s bright smile slides slowly off her face when his mother shifts uncomfortably at his side, when she returns the Coach’s handshake less than enthusiastically.
“Deputy Swan,” his mom cuts in smoothly. “It’s nice to finally meet you,” but her voice is hard, like cut glass, and Henry knows, without looking that she’s wearing her Mayor face, the one he watches her slip on every morning on their way out the door, and the one he knows she doesn’t take off until just before he climbs into the Mercedes after practice.
“I mean,” Emma pauses, flicks her eyes from Henry to his mom, and Henry feels his cheeks flush in response. “I’ve heard a lot about you, from the guys at the station,” she clarifies. Because Henry has not said one single word to Coach Swan about his mom the Mayor, or about anything that does not have to do with the number of strokes he should take before breathing, or how to maximize his flip turn speed.
“Yes,” his mom is saying. “I didn’t realize that Henry’s new Coach was also our new Deputy. I should have made the connection. I read your bio of course, in the team newsletter last month, and Sheriff Graham had provided me with your resume before you were hired. Henry speaks very highly of you.”
His mom doesn’t lie, but she does play the perfect politician; Henry only told her that they’d gotten a new coach. They don’t talk about swimming very often; he’s not sure why, but he’s never been able to explain why he likes it so much to his mom, and so he doesn’t share much of it with her at all. He wonders, not for the first time, if this silence hurts her maybe, if it ever feels like some kind of stone sitting between the two of them, heavy and immovable.
“Right,” his coach chews her lower lip for a minute. “He’s a pretty great kid. We’ve been working on his distance technique this week.” Henry takes her easy, open smile, and offers a grateful one of his own at the praise. He feels his mom stiffen slightly beside him.
“Yes, well, Henry is a very hard worker,” his mom agrees, and he does not imagine the note of pride in her voice.
“But, hey. Kid. You forgot this,” Emma hands him the piece of paper she’s been holding. “Your permission slip for Saturdays.”
“Saturdays?” his mom questions. Her hand on his shoulder tightens momentarily before she lets him go and reaches for the paper.
“Saturday morning practices,” his coach clarifies. “Ariel’s been running them with some of the older kids for months, and I thought it might be a good idea for some of our better swimmers in the middle age group to join in. It’s longer than normal because we have the kids swim, plus do some dryland. And it’s early as all get out,” Emma grimaces good-naturedly. “But the kids seem to like it, and some of the parents bring breakfast afterwards: yogurt, bagels, fruit. The basics.”
His mother hums her understanding, reading through the proffered form.
“I thought Henry might like some extra time in the pool. It’s a much smaller crowd so there’s more time for one-on-one instruction, and he’s definitely ready to start increasing the intensity of his training if he wants to. It’s totally optional, and there’s no extra fee or anything.”
Henry wants to go to Saturday morning practices more than anything. He wants to show up on deck at 6:20 in his suit and sweats, wants to lay around and doze off waiting for the coaches to show, wants to stretch out in the water even before his brain’s fully awake, wants the long, hard practice, and the tired, blurry feeling afterward, when his whole body is simultaneously thrumming with energy and crying out for a nap.
But Saturdays have always been for him and his mom. Even now, when she’s busy and he’s busy and they seem to have less and less to talk about over dinner each night, even still: Saturdays are their days. She makes pancakes or French toast or mushroom omelets and they eat while watching Saturday morning cartoons. He gets to leave his homework until Sunday, and she never goes into the office or checks her email or turns on her laptop. They do something outside if it’s nice, or go to the movies or over to Augusta to check out any new exhibits at the Natural History Museum. Sometimes, they’ll even get up extra early and drive south to Boston for the day. It’s their day.
Lately though, even Saturdays have been tense and stilted and he’s escaped to his room as soon as possible, claiming too much homework to wait until Sunday. Henry does not say any of this out loud, but his heart feels heavy in his chest when he thinks about Saturdays with his mom, when he thinks about Saturday mornings in the clear, cool 25-yard pool.
“Well,” his mom tells Coach Swan. “Henry and I will have to discuss it.”
“Of course,” Coach Swan nods as his mom folds the paper, and slips it into her purse. “I’ve gotta run to work,” she says, glancing at the watch on her left wrist. “Henry, great job today.” She reaches out for a handshake, like they do every day, but it’s not for him this time. “Mayor Mills. It was a pleasure meeting you.”
“You as well, Deputy Swan.” They shake once, twice.
But Coach Swan doesn’t let go when she says, “Please, call me Emma, Madame Mayor.” She’s holding eye contact with his mom, and Henry wonders if maybe Coach Swan isn’t just a little bit braver than any other adult he’s ever met. Most of the parents of his teammates and the parents of his classmates and the adults he and his mom run into on the street won’t hardly meet her gaze, let alone shake her hand and look at her so openly, with such honest friendliness.
[Henry’s mom’s eyes are dark brown and smart; she sees pretty much everything, he knows.]
[When he was little, he remembers putting his hands on her cheeks and looking at her very seriously. He remembers how her mouth would curve up under his fierce stare and her eyes would be warm and glowing. You’ve got amber in your eyes, Momma. He’d tell her. Like on those old trees where all the bugs get stuck. You’ve got real pretty eyes, Momma. She’d smile so big his hands would rise on top of her cheeks, and she’d say, Thank you, darling boy. Thank you thank you thank you, before leaning forward to give him butterfly kisses all around his face until he was screaming with laughter and the seriousness had been giggled right out of his tiny body.]
“Thank you, Coach Swan,” his mom replies, emphasis on the title. “I’ll have Henry let you know about Saturdays at practice tomorrow.” They let go of one another’s hands, and Henry watches as his mom twists the bracelet on her wrist five times before folding her hands together in front of her.
Emma’s grin comes out slowly. “Alright then. Henry,” she nods to him. “See you tomorrow, kid. Bring your serious face alright?”
He laughs a little at that, and her grin widens, as though she’s just gotten a surprise present.
“See you, Coach,” he tells her.
“Mayor Mills,” her hand hovers between the three of them, like she’s about to grab his mom’s elbow in goodbye. His mom leans forward. Henry thinks of the moths out on the porch in the summer evenings, drawn to the warmth of the lights glowing out into the descending night. “It was great to meet you.” She sounds as though she really means it.
“You as well,” his mom agrees. And her voice is approximately twenty degrees warmer than when they’d started the conversation. Henry feels like he missed something.
Coach Swan heads left, while the two of them turn to the car, and Henry throws his bag in the backseat before sliding into the passenger side. The car is cool after the evening heat lingering outside, and it smells of leather and his mom's perfume - cinnamon and apples. After he buckles his seatbelt, and looks over, he’s surprised to find that his mom is tapping the gearshift idly, her gaze on the rearview mirror where Coach Swan is still in sight, walking towards her car.
“So… Saturdays?” He breaks the stillness and can’t quite believe it when his mom jumps slightly.
“Right,” she murmurs. “Saturdays.” Her voice cracks part way through the word.
He thinks of Saturday morning cartoons and shared blankets on the couch, of tides, of the clear blue of the pool, of its stillness before practice, of the way his blood pulses through him loudly and far away when he puts his head beneath the surface. When she glances over at him, his face is smooth and steady.
“Saturdays,” she repeats. “6:30? That’s awfully early,” and he nods as she puts the car in gear and pulls away from the curb.