The Art of Not Breathing(4)

We park and tumble out of the car like lemmings going over a cliff. The sky is a hazy white now, and the cold wind pushes the clouds out over the North Sea. As we navigate our way around the lighthouse and along the shingle beach, patches of pale blue sky appear for a few seconds at a time before disappearing again. Mum’s faded blue jacket clashes with my father’s brown woolly sweater as they walk side by side, stepping in unison, having forgiven each other for the biscuit episode. Mum leans into my father as though she couldn’t walk without him.

Dillon and I walk a few paces behind them, Dillon’s arm around my shoulders. I feel him shivering beside me and think about squeezing his hand or wrapping an arm around him, but I don’t. I have to take three steps for every two of Dillon’s and we collide awkwardly against each other, but neither of us does anything about it. His head is turned to the shore, toward the dolphins splashing about in the froth. They leap high into the air and glide back down into the water effortlessly. Watching them makes my heart expand in my chest.

Eddie loved the dolphins. He called them “fins,” and even though I could say the word properly, I used to call them fins too. I don’t mind dolphins, but I prefer otters because they’re not as common. They’re secretive creatures, and I read that even though the males and females have their own territories in the water, those territories sometimes overlap. Dillon and I are like otters. We have our own spaces—I like to think of them as sandy coves—but on the edge of mine and on the edge of his there’s a little patch where we can be together and everything is okay. It’s a place where we don’t fight or pretend not to know each other. I worry that our patch is getting smaller, though, like the tide is coming in, or maybe there are more rocks now taking over the sandy bits. I suppose otters need rocks to hide among.

We head up from the beach, onto the grassy bank. Halfway up the slope, there’s a wooden cross in the ground. My father ties a white ribbon around the wood—yanking the ends to make sure it’s secure. There should be five, one for every year that’s passed, but one must have flown off, because I only count four. My father runs his hand over the cross and brushes sand and dirt from the engraving. I read it, even though I know what it says. My nose is streaming from the bitter wind. It’s weird reading a memorial with my own birthday on it.



EDWARD MAIN

11 April 2000–11 April 2011



Today we are sixteen. Happy birthday, Eddie.





It still doesn’t feel real. To me, he’s not gone. My twin lives inside my head and is part of me. The other day when I wondered whether I should have a second helping of potatoes, he popped up and said, “You can never have too many potatoes. Finish the bowl!” Sometimes, my hands and feet get extremely cold and I know it’s not me feeling cold, it’s Eddie, so I wrap myself up in a blanket to make sure he’s okay. I give him cocoa before bed and toast with Marmite, even though I can’t stand Marmite. I suppose I eat for two.

Last week, after I’d wrapped us up together on the sofa, Mum looked worried and took my temperature.

“You’re burning up,” she said, frowning.

“He’s cold,” I said by mistake.

“What?”

“I’m cold.”

I got away with it because she was distracted by something in the kitchen.

I haven’t told anyone that Eddie is inside me.

I’m pretty good at keeping secrets.

Mum sinks slowly into the grass and hugs her knees to her chest, burying her head between them. I’m not sure if she’s shivering or crying. Dad strokes her back but looks at me, and his eyes are small and droopy. Dillon tries to light a candle, then gives up and pushes it down into the earth. I can barely feel my toes and have to jiggle to warm up. I run the ribbons through my fingers, feeling the smooth side and then the rough side, until my father tells me to stop.

“Please don’t do that, Elsie. Stop fidgeting.”

I stop and take a deep breath and look at the cross. Now for the words I practiced.

“Hey, bro!” I say, loudly. “Let’s play chase. Bet you canny catch me!” I throw my arm out ready to high-five him. But even before I feel Eddie reach out to smack my hand, I know I have made an error. Mum pulls her head out from between her knees and stares at me open-mouthed. My father’s eyebrows move up and down as though they don’t know where on his face they should be. His arm shoots out toward me, but then he snaps it back. He was about to slap me—I’m sure of it.

“What on earth are you doing?” he shouts.

Dillon takes my hand, and I try to remember the words, but my mind is blank.

“I thought he might like to play a game,” I stammer.

My father leans toward me. “Are you not taking this seriously? Are you on drugs or something?”

“I just thought we could be happy today,” I continue, even though I know I should stop now.

I look to Mum for help. Mascara runs down her cheeks, little black snakes edging toward her lips. My father turns to Dillon.

“Has she taken something?”

Dillon shakes his head. I will him to defend me. But he says nothing.

“I meant that we should celebrate his life. He doesn’t like it when we cry.”

Another slip-up. I need to be more careful. It’s difficult because Eddie’s been with me a lot more recently, and he shows up without warning. Ever since Granny died a few months ago. I think he’s worried that I’m going to disappear too.