The Art of Not Breathing(5)

“Elsie, that’s enough,” my father says, his eyebrows now settled in a frown.

Mum remains silent. All vacant and starey. She’s been like this even more since Granny died. I try not to imagine what it would be like if my mum died.

“I want to remember when he was . . .” I want to say “alive” but that’s not right, because to me, he still is. “When he was . . . Eddie.” The real Eddie. My twin brother.

“I said that’s enough. You’re upsetting your mother. This is meant to be a quiet time, so we can take a few minutes and remember him. It’s about being respectful.”

Mum rocks slowly back and forth, watching, observing, crying.

“I am being respectful,” I say. “I don’t need to take a few minutes to remember him, because I haven’t forgotten him.”

It’s out before I can stop myself. And worse than that, it might not be true. There are no pictures at home—they’re all in the loft. So there are things that I am forgetting, like which side of his head had the curl that went the wrong way, or whether he ate everything green on his plate first or everything red. The memories are slipping away. Eddie might be right—we’re sliding farther apart from each other. I’m sixteen now, nearly an adult, and Eddie will always be a small, eleven-year-old boy.

“If you can’t be sensible, go to the car,” my father says.

I fight the urge to run away, because I know that’s what they want. It would make today easier for everyone if I weren’t here. But I’m not going. Why should I make it easy for them when it’s so hard for me?

“I’m staying,” I say, and now my tears come.

We sit in silence, apart from a few loud sobs from me. Dillon watches the dolphins, and my father leans over the candle and manages to light it. The flame flickers a golden yellow for a few seconds, then dies. The smoke instantly vanishes in the wind.

The ground below us vibrates, and I turn to the beach, where a digger rearranges the pebbles, pushing them back up away from the shoreline, creating a steep slope. Suddenly the scene in front of me jolts and blurs, the ground zooms up toward me, and I grab the grass for balance. There’s a roaring in my ears, and I get fragments of images: frothing white water, a bright orange jacket in the distance, Mum draped over the shoulder of a policeman, my father running toward me, his brown shoes slipping on the stones. Then he disappears, and I’m completely alone on the beach. More fragments. Dillon’s face—red and angry; Mum’s white top; my father holding something blue—a bit of material that flaps in the wind. The roar gets louder, like a gust of wind wrapping itself around my head; I choke as I try to get air into my lungs. Everything goes hazy and blue. I taste salt, and then my body runs out of oxygen.

“Elsie.”

My father’s voice filters through the roar.

“Elsie, let’s go. It’s getting a bit gusty.”

I open my eyes, gasping. I’m back on the grass and the images have gone. No one seems to have noticed the roaring or my choking. Dillon is already on his feet, moving toward my father.

“Sleep tight, Edward,” my father says. Mum says it too, but I only hear the first word, and then her lips move silently. But Eddie is not asleep. He is stomping about on the grass, chasing after me, trying to slap my hands but missing. I let him have one for free, and he jumps into the air and squeals before tripping and falling over.

It’s not that I can see him, exactly. I just feel him.

Two dolphins glide past. I can’t see which ones they are from here, but I like to think they’re Mischief and Sundance—Eddie’s favorites because he got to stroke them once.

“The fins are out today, Eddie,” I whisper.

I try to get Dillon’s attention, but he’s looking at the water. I wonder if he’s thinking the same thing as me: if only he hadn’t left me with Eddie. If only I had looked after Eddie like I was supposed to.





Later, Mum comes into my room to wish me happy birthday.

“I’m sorry we didn’t do a big thing with presents. I tried, but I don’t even know what he’s into anymore. He’s probably outgrown Legos by now.”

“Really?” I ask. Maybe she felt him earlier too. Excitement bubbles up under my skin.

“He still loves Legos,” I whisper, “especially boats.”

Mum gasps and her arms twitch. I think she’s about to hug me, but then she stiffens and shakes her head.

She strokes my hair instead and says, “We shouldn’t do this. We shouldn’t pretend he’s still here.”

I shiver as she continues to stroke my hair. I’m not sure what she means by pretending. Just because we can’t see him doesn’t mean we shouldn’t talk about him or think about what he likes. We can’t simply forget he ever existed.

“I forget sometimes,” she says quietly. “Like, first thing in the morning, or when I’m out food shopping. Then it really hurts when I remember.”

“But do you feel him?” I ask.

“Yes, of course,” she replies. “Sometimes.”

She frowns and looks around the room, uncertain.

“Elsie, you don’t believe in ghosts, do you?”

“No.”

She doesn’t seem to get what I mean about feeling him. It must be a twin thing. Something I’m not meant to share with anyone else.