Excerpt from Three Figures

A story of two swimmers attempting a world record open ocean swim & my first attempt at writing a novel. This excerpt is taken from the start of Part II…the beginning of the swim…

FIGURE ONE

September 2026. California. 

I like to memorize kitchens. Sometimes I think about them as I fall asleep. I familiarize myself with new ones at a neurotically swift pace and add them to the vault. There is my childhood best friend's kitchen where I would make waffles at 5am, my grandmother’s kitchen where she and I would sit impatiently over a pot of water, my own kitchenette in my apartment that I never use because my father cooks every meal for me still. There is something about knowing which drawer has the forks and which cabinet has the snacks, that makes me feel comforted, like I am in a version of home.

The only kitchen that I torture myself trying to recall, to go through the movements of, is my childhood one. It is perhaps my most familiar kitchen of all, yet I can only picture a vague outline of rectangular pieces of wood and marble. We moved out after my mother died, and it is as though the details of this kitchen disappeared into a dimly lit background and all I can see is her silhouette moving about. She has short hair and smooth skin, but her features are blurred. Everything about her lacks color. I search hopelessly for some sort of expression or clue that will make her recognizable. She is just a figure, going through bills on the counter, gesturing her extensive limbs about as her hands shuffle through the pile. She has a hammerhead tattoo on her wrist, but is it on her right hand or left hand? What shape are her nails as they slice into those envelopes? They must be long and pointy, but I don’t think they were ever painted. The figure begins rapidly opening drawers and pulling out tools, yet which tools lay in which drawers? I try to remember what kind of knobs are on the drawers and how many drawers in is the baking drawer? Is it the second drawer on the left side or the third? It haunts me that I wouldn't know how to make a cake with ease in my childhood kitchen. I wouldn’t even know where to find the mixing bowl.

Often I can picture the basics…how the fridge and freezer were divided…what kind of facet was on the sink… but the images are fleeting and it’s impossible to process them rapidly enough to move them somewhere more permanent. Every time I picture a bowl or jar from my childhood, I can only seem to locate it in the image I have of my father's current kitchen, and their prior placements have just ceased, as if they never existed anywhere else. It’s frightening to think that something so innately ingrained in you can all of a sudden slip away, especially if you don’t devote yourself to the details. I took those details for granted.

My father’s current kitchen has the same green wallpaper as my childhood kitchen, probably adding to my confusion. It also has large wooden cabinets with glass in front, so you can see through and memorize the contents of them easily. With some kitchens I really have to move around, opening and closing everything and causing a lot of ruckus in order to properly memorize, but his I could just take in all at once. I tried to use the visual of his kitchen, with all the same content and even the same wallpaper, to spark a memory of the old kitchen, but every image I built of it in my head was just a strange replica of the kitchen that lay in front of me. And every time I tried to study that figure in the old kitchen too closely, they morphed into my father chopping or mixing or slicing in front of me. 

My mother loved examining other peoples’ homes. I decided to take notice of kitchens in particular whenever we went over to see people. The first kitchen I ever memorized was my aunt’s. She had an incredible kitchen with bright orange tiles and so many different seeds, always lined up from dark to light, chia to flax to sunflower to shredded coconut, and all in identical mason jars. My kitchen fixation was my way of mimicking my mother, but also getting to focus on a form of continuity in new places and social settings. Every house had a utensil drawer so that is where I would begin. From there I would just start opening, closing and examining. After a visit to someone’s home, my mother and I would debrief. She did the overall assessment and then turned to me, the kitchen specialist, for my more specialized critique. My diagnosis would usually consist of one liner observations, “healthy snacks only”, “no small spoons” , “drinks fridge” , “everything expired.” A kitchen reveals a lot about a family.

The first time I went over to Bel’s home, I had trouble finding an excuse for her to show me the kitchen. We had just eaten dinner at my father’s, and I agreed to drive her the traffic ridden ride home. She was quiet on the car ride there and I knew she probably wanted me to ask what was wrong. I was only slightly surprised by her Spanish style three story home. I knew she had a large family, but I didn’t know how much her home would reflect that. She was open about everything but her family.

“How many of your siblings still live at home?” I asked as we pulled up. It’s odd to me how you can spend so much time with someone and not know such basic information. Nobody else ever seems as pressed as I am for this type of small talk to be subtly inserted into conversation. Do others not desire this same sort of context about the people they are with?

“Just me and two of my younger siblings. The older ones all left California.” She said blankly. Her glance was forward, fogged, and distracted.

“How old are your two younger ones?” We sat awkwardly still in the now parked car.

“A lot younger.”

“Ah” I nodded, although I wasn’t satisfied by the lack of age specifics.

“I’m moving out soon. It was just convenient with all the training to stay.”

“Makes sense.” I waited to see if she were going to get out and enter the darkly lit home alone or ask me to join. I usually wanted desperately to go inside, but this time I felt nervous, almost admitting to myself that I just wanted to drive away.

Then I thought about the kitchen.

“Do you want to come in?” She said it in such an unusual and monotone manner, I didn’t know what she wanted.

“Yeah, of course.”

We silently ascended from my ancient BMW, that was so low it practically sat flat against the road, and headed up to the front door, which was oddly dainty and disproportional in comparison to the vast structure that fanned out behind it. It was around 10pm and not a single light was on inside. I was certain no one was home.

“Everyone is asleep by 9 usually.” She informed me. I followed her into a pitch black hole, also certain that at this rate I would never get a finely lit glimpse of the kitchen.

“Do you want water?” she asked. 

“Yes!” I said it far too enthusiastically. I found myself overcompensating for her mood.

“I’m parched! You know the pool makes me thirstier than the ocean” I continued. I followed her small phone flashlight down a dark hall, getting haunted peaks of light fixtures and photos on the wall. I think the walls were white or gray, but I suppose everything is on a grayscale without light, so who can really be sure. I think that there were rooms off to the right and left, but it felt hopeless trying to put the scene together. I prayed she would turn on a light when we reached the kitchen. Amidst my distraction looking about, Bel handed me a room temperature water bottle.

“Here” she said. “I always leave myself water at the bottom of the stairs for when I come home. And that doesn't even make sense, the salt definitely makes you more dehydrated,” she continued.  Sure enough we had come to the base of a grand winding staircase, though I couldn’t even see halfway up it.

“Why not just go to the kitchen?” I wondered innocently.

“I don’t want to wake anyone.” She said sternly.

I didn’t ask any more questions, but instead started downing my water rapidly. Maybe if I drank enough, I would have an excuse to pee, and there was probably a bathroom off of the kitchen.

“How do you entertain at this hour in your dark home?” I tried to joke.

“I don’t.” I couldn't see her face, but her whisper felt cold.

“You did invite me in.”

“Yes, you should feel special.” Her voice had softened slightly.

My eyes had not yet adjusted to the darkness, perhaps it was so pitch black they never would. It was far too strange for us to stand there in the shadows a second longer, but nobody was initiating any sort of movement. I was getting annoyed by my lack of sight and her lack of presence. I felt a pressure to leave, but I was so unsatisfied.

“I need to pee.” I said after a moment of silence. She pointed to a door right next to me. If only I could have seen that the bathroom was merely inches from me. I ignored my bladder, I did desperately need to pee all of a sudden, and decided that I didn’t care if I confused her.

“Show me the kitchen.” I hissed almost aggressively.

“Why?”

“I really like to see kitchens.” But I regretted saying it instantly. Even though it probably meant nothing to her, I was giving myself away.

“Fine.” She wasn’t even suspicious. She stood up and I followed her flashlight down the hallway again. I watched her slide through a swinging door and disappear into what must be the kitchen. I eagerly followed, now almost thankful for the darkness so she couldn’t witness the embarrassing grin I had on.

I didn’t get to absorb this kitchen like normal, there was no opening and closing of all the kitchen’s mysterious holdings, or time to let my eyes wander. Instead, I was given bits of different corners and pieces of it through Bel’s phone flashlight. I had a second with the mint colored coffee maker and a second with the matching mint toaster beside it. I think I counted two fridges, and there was a large marble island with three diner style stools that you could twirl around in. The accents were silver, the paint was light green, the linings all white. It was a tremendous kitchen. There were so many drawers with dainty green handles. I desperately wanted to see inside them. I wondered if one of the fridges were for drinks. I also wondered what in fact Bel’s parents did for a living and found myself shocked that I didn’t already know, but figured that the moment I was staring at her lavish and extravagant kitchen would be an inappropriate time to ask.

“Happy?” Bel asked. I sensed she was finally smiling, at least somewhat. I wasn’t completely satisfied by the version of the kitchen that had been revealed to me, as most of it was still a mystery, lingering in the darkness. However, it was enough for me to be able to visualize later in an episode of insomnia, and I would enjoy imagining what I had yet to see.

“You have no idea.” And I think she let out a slight laugh. Then the spotlight on the sink went black and so did the figure in front of me, I think Bel’s phone died.

“I’ll go home now.” I said lightly.

“Thanks for coming inside.” She said. I felt her grab my arm and lead me blindly with ease back out of her childhood kitchen, that she clearly had memorized quite well. 

July 2027 (day 1). Somewhere off the coast of Mallorca.

The first hour or so of the swim, I was already trying to visualize my old kitchen. I had told myself I would save resorting to these thoughts for at least hour 48 or 148, but alas they had arrived, almost intrusively. I didn’t dare look back to see how far the shore had already gotten, or look aside to confirm Bel was still there, because what if she weren’t. We agreed to check on each other and our rhythm with a slight head raise at least a few times an hour, and I had already failed. But then again maybe it had only been 15 minutes. Perhaps if I listened I could still hear the cheers from the beach behind me. I was always timely, why even dare question my perception of time now? I glimpsed at my watch as my arm flew forward. It had been 1.5 hours exactly. I felt panicked and relieved, it was rare to underestimate exercise. Instinctively, I swung my head slightly to the left to confirm my partner was still in rhythm. She was there. I had a moment of faith that if she weren’t beside me, I would be aware of it instantly. 

I hadn’t taken a moment to feel the water, I was so used to its temperature and buoyancy that it felt like nothing. The weather was clear and hot and calm. It was as smooth a start as it could be. My limbs felt strong and deep into a rotation; I would let my body run its course until my mind would have to step in, reset myself, and force me onwards. I hoped that moment wouldn’t come for a while. Why worry about growing tired or hungry or bored when I knew it were inevitable. I decided to let it loom. Right now, it was just another day that Bel and I were in sync swimming out into the middle of the Mediterranean.

I zoned deeply inward. I didn’t think about the water or my body. I didn’t think about Bel or what happened the night prior. I didn’t think about the crowds on the beach, or my father or Tedra, however far behind us they all were. I didn’t even try to recall my mother’s smile or her nail shape. Instead, I thought about those bright orange tiles and perfectly lined up mason jars that my Aunt had. I felt right at home in the middle of the ocean.