The Art of Not Breathing(24)
5
WE DIDN’T KNOW WHAT WAS WRONG WITH EDDIE FOR A LONG TIME—in fact, no one really knew for sure. He was clumsy, and I was nearly a head taller than him. He didn’t understand things and was always getting confused and upset.
“Boys always develop slower than girls,” everyone said—my parents, busybodies in the village whenever we popped out for a walk or to the shops, the local doctors, the doctors at the hospital in Inverness.
I pretended that I wasn’t very good at running and I pretended to fall over. I used to break glasses and get my words mixed up on purpose so they didn’t think Eddie was different. But I couldn’t keep it up forever. And I didn’t understand why things were so difficult for him. I continued to pretend at home, but I didn’t want other people to think that I was stupid or clumsy, so at school I started to show people I could do stuff. When I won the fifty-meter race one year, I hid the gold ribbon from my parents.
It was the P2 teacher at school who finally did something about Eddie’s behavior. She called in an occupational therapist. Eddie and I did lots of tests. I didn’t have to do them, but I wanted to. We had to pick up balls and wooden blocks and put them in boxes or in holes. We had to repeat phrases and do things like jumping and skipping. I can’t really remember what else, but when all the tests were done, my mum had a long meeting without us. Dad sat with us in the car. Eddie wanted to listen to nursery rhymes, but Dad wouldn’t put the CD on. He sat very quietly in the front seat while Eddie ran trucks up and down my arm. Eventually, Dad got bored and took us inside. We waited outside the door and could hear everything.
“These things just happen, Mrs. Main. It’s not your fault.”
“We can give him some medication to calm him down.”
“Your son will always have difficulty doing everyday things, Mrs. Main.”
“The best you can do is try to make life a bit easier. Get him some Velcro shoes. Let him use plastic cutlery.”
There was a whole list of things Mum had to do.
Eddie never had Velcro shoes or plastic cutlery. I found the list of these suggestions in the bin the day after the appointment, torn into pieces.
That evening, after seeing the therapist, Mum gave us spaghetti hoops with mini sausages, and then she went upstairs and cried. I gave Eddie all my mini sausages. I told him to sit up straight and hold his head up. Then I got him to lie on the floor and hold on to the underside of the sofa while I tried to stretch his legs. I stretched until he said, “You’re hurting me, Ellie.”
I didn’t like being bigger and stronger than him. I felt like a giant. I used to say, eat your greens, Eddie, and then you’ll be as tall as me, and he always did what I said. I used to say, give me your sweets, lie on the grass, let’s play a game, Eddie. And he always listened to me. He shouldn’t have. He should have learned not to listen to me, and then I wouldn’t have to feel so guilty.
6
ON WEDNESDAYS MR. JONES OPENS THE TECHNOLOGY ROOM at lunchtime so pupils can work on their projects. There’s usually a few of us who show up every week. We’re the ones who pretend it’s our choice to sit alone with our sandwiches. The ones who are a bit different, whether on the surface or inside. I think I fit into both categories: different on the surface because I’m not thin and I wear boys’ clothes; different inside because of my Laryngitis Year and because half of me is missing.
Technology is my favorite subject because Mr. Jones lets us get on with our projects and I don’t have to speak to anyone. This term, we have to make something out of wood. I’ve chosen a boat because it reminds me of happy times. Dad used to take us on summer boat trips around the Black Isle to see the dolphins. Eddie loved it—he loved the spray and getting to sit on Dad’s shoulders to be the chief fin spotter. “Look, there’s Mischief! And there’s Sundance!” he’d shout, remembering all the names the guide had mentioned but not really knowing which dolphin was which. And he especially loved being allowed to drive the boat. I liked to sit at the back and watch the water get churned up by the motor, the noise of the engine drowning out any bad thoughts I had about Eddie being different.
Today, there’s only one other person in the technology lab, a boy called Frankie who smells like sour fruit and has dandruff. He looks pretty normal, apart from the dandruff, but he’s different on the inside. He talks like he’s about twenty-five, and he knows stuff, weird stuff about physics and engineering and books. I actually don’t mind him—he’s quite funny sometimes—only, I don’t let anyone see me talk to him. It’s better to have no friends than for people to think that Frankie is my friend.
When I pull my drawer open, I find that the mast for my boat has been snapped in half and the cotton sails have been torn into tiny pieces. I turn the boat over, and on the bottom, written in Tipp-Ex, it says, “As if you could ever get a boyfriend.” I fight the tears: I don’t cry at school. Instead, I hold the two halves of the mast in my hands and clench my fists, letting the splintered pieces puncture my skin. I swing around to look at Frankie, and he stutters and shakes his head.
“I couldn’t stop them,” he mutters, letting his wood spin out of the lathe and onto the floor. “I tried, but they just mocked me.” He bends down to pick up the block of wood and his goggles fall from his face, and then I hear a crunch as he steps on them.