The Art of Not Breathing (29 page)

The person who’s suffered the most is Dillon.

“I had to keep all your secrets!” he screams one day. “Mum’s affair, Dad running off, Tay being on the beach, Elsie’s diving.”

“How did you feel about this, Dillon?” the therapist asks gently.

“Angry.”

“With everyone?”

“No.” Dillon sniffs. “I wasn’t angry with Dad.”

Dad hangs his head, and Mum asks for another tissue, which she shreds onto the beige carpet.

“Why weren’t you angry with your father?”

“Because it wasn’t his fault.”

“No, Dil,” Dad interrupts. “It was my fault. I was the one who should’ve been watching you all.”

We’re all silent for a bit. The therapist looks at his feet, and occasionally at me. I think he wants me to say something.

“I think I know why you’re not angry at Dad.”

“Yes, Elsie?” the therapist prompts.

I turn to Dillon. He looks afraid.

“I think it’s because, that day, Dad was only doing what you were planning to do—running off to confront Mum.”

“No! That’s not true,” Dillon shouts. “That’s not why. I felt sorry for him. Mum was the one having the affair. She’s the one who betrayed us all.”

The therapist runs out of tissues.

Dillon tells me later, when no one is listening, that I’m right. He also says that he failed Eddie by not swimming back earlier, by not listening to my calls for help.

The sessions go on.

6

BY SOME SMALL MIRACLE, I PASS ALL MY EXAMS. A HANDFUL OF
Cs and two As—biology and technology. I keep quiet about my A in biology to Dillon. It was just as much a shock as his No Award. Dillon is allowed to do his retakes at the hospital, as long as he follows his care plan. When I return to school at the end of August, it’s the same as ever, but this year we must all work harder. This year is even more important than last year. This year, we must focus; we must drive ourselves forward and emerge as young men and women, not girls and boys. I might be sick.

Frankie is pleased to see me. We sit and have lunch together, and he tells me how many crabs he caught over the summer. He doesn’t get why I find that so funny. I tell him that I spent most of mine at the hospital with Dillon, and that’s why I couldn’t see him.

“I came to your house to see you, but your dad said you weren’t up to visitors.”

“I know. Sorry. Thanks for coming.”

“Did you really try to kill yourself? That’s what everyone said, but I told them it wasn’t true.”

I hug him. He doesn’t even smell that bad.

“It wasn’t a suicide attempt,” I say. “It was just a stupid thing to do.”

That’s what I tell myself. In truth, when I was down there, I really thought I had nothing to come back for. That was the stupid part.

The rest of the kids are quiet around me. Lots of people ask after Dillon and ask if they can do anything to help. Even the teachers. Someone gives me a leaflet on coping with grief, which I throw in the bin but later retrieve. Inside the leaflet is another one—from the Dolphin and Seal Centre about adopting animals. I slip them both in my pocket—an idea forming.

Ailsa and some of her sidekicks still glare at me and makes snide comments about Dillon, but there are no compasses, and I make sure Ailsa’s not around when I change for PE. She can’t get to me anymore.

When I finally head out of the gate on Friday after my long first week back, there is a familiar face waiting for me. He’s got a nerve.

“Can we talk?” Danny says.

“No.”

“Please. Just for a minute.”

“You lied to me.”

“Elsie, you’re not the only one in the world who’s been affected by this, you know.”

And I do know this—it’s written all over his face. It wasn’t always pity I was seeing in his eyes, it was guilt, fear, and sadness. I need to grow up and open my eyes to what’s really around me.

“I know. I’m sorry,” I tell him. “I don’t know what to say.”

“I know; me neither, but I am very sorry for everything. It was all so surreal. I couldn’t believe that I was suddenly surrounded by reminders of what happened that day. I kept thinking of ways to persuade my dad to set up the diving club somewhere else, but he’s just so stubborn, and he loves it here.”

I shake thoughts of Mick and Mum from my head. They aren’t even bad thoughts—flashes of them running along the beach together, holding hands.

“I should have tried harder to keep you and Tay apart. Maybe you wouldn’t have got so hurt,” Danny says.

We’re apart now, and I hurt more than ever, but there’s no point saying this.

“Did he go back to Dornie to live with his mum?” I ask.

“Aye. He’s not in great shape either.”

I want to ask what he means, but the words are stuck in my throat. Instead I ask about Mick.

“My dad’s gone to Saint Lucia for a dive season. He’s running some instructor classes there.”

“Will he be back?” I ask.

“He’d better be. I’m not running this dive school on my own forever. I guess it’s good for him to get away.”

I nod. I think my mum wishes she could speak to him. I miss him too.

“We’re going to check out that wreck off Lossiemouth next week,” Danny says. “Do you want to come?”

I haven’t been in the water since my “suicide” dive.

“I’m not sure I’d be up to it,” I stammer. “I can’t go that deep.”

“You don’t have to go that deep. Sure, the bottom is at forty-three meters, but it’s a big boat. In my opinion it’s better to look at these things from slightly farther away, anyway.”

Maybe he’s right. Or maybe that’s the easy way.

“I didn’t even say thanks for saving my life.”

Danny frowns. “I didn’t really.”

“Was it Joey, then? Either way, you were both there. Tell Joey I said thanks.”

“You mostly saved yourself. We just pulled you out of the water and took you home. It’s good that you ditched the weights, but they’re expensive. You owe me.”

Danny grins while I try desperately to remember ditching the weights. I remember that one half of me was fighting to stay alive, and the other was giving up—saying goodbye, but I don’t remember ditching the weights. Perhaps there was a third half of me.

“So, think about Lossiemouth. The water down there is out of this world.”

“I will,” I say, suddenly longing to be back in the water—to feel the open space around me, to feel the power in my legs and the pressure in my lungs as I kick for the surface.

I think about all the people who traveled on that doomed boat—where they went, what they looked like. How they felt when it was sinking. Where they are now.

7

THE WORST FAMILY THERAPY SESSION IS THE ONE WHEN I FINALLY
tell everyone that I told Eddie to swim. By the end of that session, I’m in the room alone. Mum stays longer than everyone else, but eventually she goes off to find Dillon. I wonder if our relationship is permanently damaged.

I talk about this in my own individual therapy sessions. I’ve talked so much recently that I think my voice might wear out. My personal therapist, who is called Dr. Jones and who looks a lot like Mr. Jones my technology teacher, tells me that these things take time. He is also the only one to tell me that the rip tide might have taken us both if I hadn’t let go.

“In the past you had a difficult relationship with your father because you felt he let you down.”

“Yes.”

“And now, perhaps, with new truths that you’ve learned, you feel your mother has let you down.”

I nod. But I am not ready to agree out loud. I like Dr. Jones. He talks a bit, and then he lets me make up my own mind.

“Do you think we’ll ever be a normal family?” I ask.

“What do you think ‘normal’ means?” he replies.

I don’t answer because I don’t know. For us, normal is keeping secrets and feeling guilty about Eddie. I think this is the first time that any of us ever thought about each other.

8

ON NEW YEAR’S DAY, I TAKE THE SAILBOAT I MADE FROM THE TOP
shelf of my wardrobe. It’s covered in a soft layer of dust. With a duster I carefully wipe down the decking. The model of me has faded and come slightly unstuck. Dad finds some glue and presses it back down.

“I think that’s probably it, Dad.”

“I think it probably is.” He gives the model a wiggle to make sure. It’s nice having him back in the house again, even if he’s only visiting.

Dillon writes big swirly letters in blue ink on the side.
Eddie.
He does a couple of loops on the final
e
and also adds the outline of a dolphin. It looks brilliant.

The four of us stand around the boat. Anyone looking in through our kitchen window might think we’re performing some kind of strange ritual. In a way, we are.

“Right—now for the finale!” Dillon says, springing up. He’s been waiting for this.

The motor slips over the bow easily and makes a whirring sound when Dillon presses the remote control. He giggles to himself, pleased that it works.

Mum and Dillon don’t come on the boat that Dad’s rented—from Danny. Dillon says he’d rather swim out. Mum is too scared and won’t let Dillon swim, so they stay on the shore together.

“Someone needs to be on the shore,” she explains. “Just in case anything happens and we need to get the coast guard.”

She says it like she’s joking, but deep down I know she’s still afraid. Instead of leaving from the harbor, Dad transports the boat down to the Point by trailer, and we set off from the beach where Eddie went missing.

Dillon hands me the remote and tells me not to drop it.

And then it’s just me and Dad and the water. Dad rows us all the way out to the buoy. He huffs and puffs with every pull—he must be getting old—and I sit there thinking that I could do it without even breathing. In the ten minutes it takes us to get there, I breathe in only twice. I can do over four minutes easily now.

We sit back for a moment and look to shore. I can just about make out Mum’s blue coat. I can’t understand why she still wears it. Perhaps she’s not ready to let go yet. She and Dillon stand side by side. The lighthouse looks small from out here, with its black turret like a small black curtain across Chanonry Point. I take the small red stone from my coat pocket and place it on the model sailboat, on top of the bed of fresh pine needles Mum collected.

“What’s that?” my dad asks, pointing to the stone.

“It’s jasper quartz,” I tell him. “It’s very rare.”

I kiss the boat, and then I place it on the water. It wobbles and then steadies itself.

Dillon said the range was about two hundred meters, so I keep my finger on the button until we can no longer see it.

The clouds roll in, and the rain makes tiny wet dots on my jacket. Dad pulls out a packet of cigarettes.

“What are you doing?” I ask, a strange air of authority in my voice.

He looks at me sheepishly as he puts one in his mouth. “Don’t tell Mum,” he says.

When he’s finished smoking, he lets me row back.

Later, I take Tay’s sixth letter from under my pillow. I haven’t replied to any of his letters yet. I’ve tried, but every time I start with a blank piece of paper, it just ends up covered in doodles of ocean waves and ripples and storms. My whole body aches when I think about him. It’s an ache that’s so deep inside me, I wonder if it will ever work its way out. I open the envelope.

There’s one more thing I have to tell you. Here goes . . .

I read the letter over and over again until my eyes are so blurred that the words just quiver before me. When I fold it up again, it has my tears inside and I slip the damp piece of paper back under the pillow along with all the others.

I wipe my face and wander into Dillon’s room. He closes his biochemistry book.

“Happy New Year, Els.”

His beautiful blond hair has grown long again.

I show him the picture of the dolphin I’ve just adopted.

“Meet Mischief,” I say. The picture shows Mischief jumping high out of the water, the light reflecting from his shiny skin, and a backdrop of the North Sea. “I used my Christmas money.”