The Art of Not Breathing(11)
The best thing about Granny was that she treated me and Eddie the same, even though we weren’t. I was normal. Normal height, normal(ish) weight, and about average at school. Eddie wasn’t. He was small. He walked like his legs were broken and fell over all the time. He wasn’t “clever enough” to go to my normal school. Sometimes it wasn’t always for the best that Granny treated us as twins, because she’d buy clothes that were too big for Eddie or books that were too difficult for him, but Eddie didn’t seem to mind that much.
“I’m the same as you, Ellie,” he’d say, grinning, wearing a sweater that went down to his knees. Or, “If you read the words first, I’ll read them when I’m ready.” He got that from Granny. She told him that he’d be able to do stuff when he was ready, and she never lied about how old we were either. She didn’t pretend that I was eight and he was six like Mum did.
“Ellie, what’s your joke book about?” Eddie asked when he’d finished showing me his.
I pulled my book out from under the cushion and showed it to him. My foot was tingling.
“Horsies!” he exclaimed. Then he looked at my face and reached out for my hand. “Oh. I am sorry to hear that. You can share mine.”
From across the room my father guffawed.
“Celia, come in here, quick!” he called to Mum, who was in the kitchen cooking something that smelled like gone-off cheese.
She came running through, with oil splattered across her apron. “What is it?”
“Say it again, Eddie,” my father said, clasping his hands.
Eddie looked at me, confused.
“Can you remember what you said about my book?”
“Horsies!”
“No, after that,” I say.
Eddie grinned. “Oh. I am sorry to hear that,” he said again, this time sounding even more like Mum when she’s on the phone to friends who’ve “had a terrible time.”
Mum clamped her hand across her mouth and doubled over at the waist.
“Oh, shit,” she cried. “Is that really what I sound like? Colin, why didn’t you tell me I sound so insincere? Shit.”
“Don’t swear, Mum,” said Dillon from behind his encyclopedia. “Mum, did you know that black holes can have a mass of a hundred billion suns?”
Mum didn’t respond to Dillon’s astronomy test and instead asked Eddie about the joke book.
“Jokes for Eight-Year-Olds,” she read out. “Wow, aren’t you grown-up?”
“It’s about sea creatures,” he said. “But I can’t find any fins in it.”
“Well, never mind—there are plenty of other beautiful sea creatures. Why don’t you tell me a joke?” She wiped the grease from her hands on her apron and leaned on the wall, waiting.
Eddie passed me the book.
“Why did the lobster blush?” I read out.
“I don’t know!” Eddie shouted.
“Because the seaweed.”
He didn’t get it. He started wriggling like he always did when he didn’t understand something.
“Eddie, listen again. The sea weed,” I said, splitting the word.
While Eddie bounced about and poked my knee, I saw Mum take off her apron and slide onto my father’s lap. Dillon held his encyclopedia in front of his eyes when they started kissing. I covered Eddie’s eyes, but he didn’t seem bothered by it. He just wanted to kiss me.
Eddie knew exactly what I thought about my book without me even saying anything. No one else understood me the way he did. I hadn’t told anyone I was scared of horses, but he knew.
10
THE WATER IS GRAY TODAY, THE SAME COLOR AS THE SKY, and the waves crash about inside the harbor, battering the fishing boats that line the wall. At least it’s not raining. I clear my throat before I enter the boathouse so that I’m ready to speak if Tay’s inside, and put more Ruby Red on to smooth my lips in case he wants to kiss me.
The boathouse is empty and just as I left it yesterday, except now it feels miserable and gloomy. I’m barely settled under a blanket when a clatter from outside startles me. Then I hear music. Slowly, I creep back through the panel onto the pebbles and realize it’s coming from the clubhouse above me. I crawl out from under the clubhouse and climb the rickety steps up onto the veranda. One of the boards has been taken down from the clubhouse’s windows, and I can see inside. A man wearing glasses moves chairs around. In the far corner a large flat-screen TV shows a woman floating on her back in the sea with a bright red sun behind her. She sinks down under the water, her silver wetsuit making her look like a giant fish. The camera follows her as she drops through the water, going deeper and deeper until she disappears into the abyss. I feel breathless and queasy. I’m watching my dream play out right before me, only I’m wide awake. The music is loud but sounds tinny through the glass, and I feel like I’m the wrong way up. My legs start to give way just as the man turns around.
I run before he sees me.
It’s a mile from the harbor to our house on McKellen Drive. The quickest way is straight down the high street and through the cemetery, but I never take that shortcut. I used to try—I’d stand at the cemetery gate, but my feet would never take me in.
Instead, I turn left just past the police station and take the long route around the back of all the houses. The roads weave in and out of the new subdivisions—great big houses with shiny garages and neat little bay windows. Our house is more like one of the old crumbly ones in Rosemarkie. There aren’t many like this left on our road.