The Art of Not Breathing(49)

Dillon stares at me, like he can’t believe what I’m saying.

“He’s the one who got you into all the diving.”

“So?”

“Can’t you see how dangerous it is? It’s messing with your head, making you think that you’re remembering things that aren’t true.”

“What is it you’re so afraid of, Dil? What do you think I might remember?”

“Nothing. There’s nothing to remember.”

“Yes, there is. I need to remember where Dad went, and I think you already know and you’re covering for him. I remembered that you were looking for someone that day. Not Eddie. Some girl. Who was it?”

Dillon shakes his head. “You’re crazy. You’ve turned into a fish. And I’m going to tell Dad everything. He’s asked me to keep an eye on you—one word from me and he’ll be straight down that harbor putting a stop to all this.”

It takes all my effort not to grab him by the throat. Instead I grit my teeth.

“You tell Dad anything, and I will tell him all about you starving yourself to death, about the laxatives. He’ll drive you to the nearest hospital, and they will lock you up and force-feed you.”

“That’s not allowed these days,” Dillon says. “Force-feeding is torture.”

“It is allowed. It happened to someone in my year.”

Dillon starts to cry. “Please don’t tell Dad. I’ll start eating again.”

“If you eat the sandwich I’m about to make you, and keep your mouth shut about the diving, then I’ll keep quiet.”

“Okay,” he says, defeated.

He whimpers quietly as I sit next to him watching him break up the sandwich into tiny bits and force them into his mouth as though they were pieces of poison. I think Dillon’s bluffing about Dad. The phone hasn’t rung in ages, and Mum says he doesn’t pick up when she rings. But what if he’s not?

“What did you do with my pills?” he asks. “I need them—I get all blocked up when I eat.”

“I threw them away,” I say. “They’re dangerous.”

He chucks a bit of sandwich on the floor, like a toddler having a tantrum.

“Why were you at the bar last night, Dil? I thought you were too sick to come out.”

“I’m not sick, and I don’t need to eat. I went to make sure you were okay. Lara told me where you were going, and I was worried about you. You don’t like going to the city.”

“I was fine. I was doing you a favor by keeping her away from you.”

“No more diving, Elsie. I don’t want to lose you.”

“Eat the sandwich,” I say. “Please, just eat.”

Later, after Mum and I have eaten two ice creams each, I remove Dillon’s laxatives from under my bed, along with my Superdrug stash, and hide them in my cupboard in the boathouse.





12



A WEEK AFTER TAY’S RETURN, WE SHORE DIVE FROM ROSEMARKIE BEACH. Tay follows me along the seabed as I twist and turn and run my fingers through the parsley seaweed. I put on a show for him and he laps it up. Bubbles trail from his open mouth as he laughs, and the minutes we spend under the surface feel like hours. And when our bodies collide against each other, our wetsuits feel invisible and we are just two creatures writhing around in our natural habitats. Dillon is wrong, though. I have not turned into a fish. I am turning into water, fluid and ever changing. I am not a visitor to the ocean; I am part of it.

Tay and I play Rock Paper Scissors, and the loser has to remove an item of “clothing.” Tay loses. When he has removed both fins, his booties, his mask, and the top half of his wetsuit, and secured them under a rock, I start to feel sorry for him. He keeps blinking as the salt stings his eyes, and he has goose bumps all over his arms, but he still smiles.

He arches his back and reaches over his head to grab his feet. He is almost a perfect circle. I glide through him and then back underneath him, and then he breaks and swoops down on me, engulfing me with arms, legs, body. We rise together, tangled. The sun beats down on our heads as we get our breath back.

“I need a rest,” Tay gasps. “I can’t keep up with you.”

“Liar,” I say. I know that he’s holding back.

“I’ve got to save my energy,” he says. “Mick’s got me working hard at the diving club.”

Tay thinks Danny needs a bit of time, so I haven’t been there since Tay’s been back, even though Danny still owes me a couple of lessons. Not having the lessons is okay because I’ve got Tay, but I miss hanging out at the Black Fin, and I miss Mick.

As we bask in the sun on the pink grainy sand while our wetsuits hang over a rock, I tell Tay that I want to go back to the drop-off. He turns his head away from me.

“Are you listening to me?”

“I’m not listening, because it’s a crazy idea.”

He tells me it’s impossible. That I’ll need extra weights, that it’s too deep, too technical, too cold. The tides aren’t right, the current is too strong. He says it doesn’t matter how long I can hold my breath for; it’s the coming back up that’s risky. He lists a hundred reasons why it’s a crazy idea. Then I tell him that I’m going with or without his help.