The Art of Not Breathing(20)
Eddie is not asleep. He is sitting in the kitchen sink, staring out the window at the stars. “There’s the bear,” he says to himself. Then he turns to me and whispers, “Ellie, we never see shooting stars anymore. How are we supposed to make wishes?”
It’s gone midnight when my father comes in. Mum is asleep with her head on the table and her arms dangling by her sides. I try to look at my father, but the kitchen tips back and forth. When I try to stand up, I slide straight to the floor and bile rides up my throat. His polished shoes catch the moonlight just before I vomit all over them.
2
THE JACKDAWS CACKLE AND SCREECH OUTSIDE, AND IN THE distance the church bells chime for Sunday mass. My head hurts too much for me to get out of bed, and the smell of cooking bacon downstairs makes me feel queasy. I wonder if Mum realized how much I drank. Perhaps she thought it was water in my glass. I reach for the notepad by my bed and make a new list.
NEW THINGS I REMEMBER ABOUT THAT DAY:
Dillon wasn’t swimming back to look for Eddie. He was looking for someone else. Find out who.
My father definitely wasn’t on the beach when Eddie disappeared. Find out where he went.
My father was holding something blue when he ran to me after I collapsed. Find out what.
I haven’t got much to go on, but I know two things for sure: Dillon and my father are hiding something, and I’m capable of remembering more—I just have to be under the water for it to happen.
My father knocks on the door, and I shove the notebook under the covers.
“Breakfast is ready,” he says, barely looking at me.
“I’m not hungry.”
“Neither is your mother,” he replies. “At least you got most of it out of your system.”
He looks at his shoes. He doesn’t tell me off, and I wonder why. Perhaps the bacon is the punishment. For me and Mum.
He wanders over to the window next to my bed.
“There’s a cold draft in here,” he murmurs. He tries to pull the window closer to the frame, and cement dust falls on his hand. “This place is falling apart.”
I slide back under the covers. As he leaves he says, “By the way, you’re grounded for a week.”
I hate him.
Another question spins around my mind. Does Tay know about Eddie? Would it be so bad if he did know? Yes, I answer myself. Because if Tay knows about Eddie, he’ll always be wondering about the bit of me that’s missing.
3
THE WEEK PASSES SLOWLY. MUM CRIES A LOT, BUT SHE DOESN’T offer me any more gin. Dillon leaves the house before I’m even up so he can walk all the way to Lara’s and walk her to school. He doesn’t even come home for dinner. I’m not allowed out, because of the gin, but my father works late and has no idea that I go to the harbor after school every day. I wait for Tay in the boathouse, but he never shows up. I know he’s been there, though, because I find a pair of goggles and diving boots and a smelly towel on top of my cupboard. I’m sure that by now Danny has told him everything and he doesn’t want anything to do with me. It’s always the same. No one wants to be friends with the girl whose brother died. What if she cries? What if she wants to talk about it? What if she’s all weird and morbid? I long to be in the water again, to remember more, to recreate that moment where nothing hurt.
On Friday Mum goes to work and I skip school to avoid a maths test. In the morning I get supplies for Mum from Superdrug and pile up the goodies on Mum’s bed when I get home. Mocha lipstick and several colors of nail varnish. A mascara, too. I’d taken the nearest one because I was in a hurry, but it turns out to be a volumizing one, which she could do with. For lunch I eat a plastic-cheese sandwich with extra pickle and butter on both sides of the bread. I find the Veet I’d taken in my jacket pocket. My legs dangle over the bath, covered in white foam, while I smoke a cigarette. When I’m done, I wash the foam and my hair down the plug hole, clean the sink, bleach the toilet, and spray the room with lemon scent.
Next, I move to Dillon’s room. Even after all these years, it feels funny to be in here. I don’t know how Dillon copes with it, with the big space by the window where Eddie’s bed used to be.
I lie on the floor and shimmy my head and shoulders under Dillon’s bed. There’s old food down here, encrusted into the carpet and smeared along the wall above the skirting board. It makes my stomach turn. There are boxes of books and magazines and moldy socks, but Dillon’s old wetsuit isn’t here. I try the wardrobe, and it smells bad too. The top shelf is empty and thick with dust, and the bottom shelf is filled with neatly lined-up shoes. I pull out the hoodie he always wears and search the pockets for money. My fingers get covered in something sticky—macaroni cheese. I heave silently as the stale cheese smell wafts into my mouth. I almost cry.
But then I see it. The wetsuit hangs right in the corner, and I sniff one of the arms. It smells damp, like old boots, but I run to the bathroom and yank it on. It’s so tight, it hurts my fingers when I try to stretch it over my hips, but as I finally pull the zipper up at the back the fabric folds around my body, holding me in place, and I feel warm and glad. I hold my breath. At thirty seconds, my arms start twitching, and at forty-nine I exhale loudly. All the times I’ve held my breath when I’ve been upset or angry—I must have only managed about twenty seconds. I take in a few deep breaths and try again, feeling my face go red as the seconds tick by. I make it to sixty. Just. I’m too exhausted to do it again.