The Art of Not Breathing(59)

“It matters,” I hiss. “It matters for Eddie.”

“I saw Eddie,” he croaks. “I saw him in the water.”

“I see him all the time. In the street, in my bed, in the sky.”

“In the water.”

He splutters and his breathing gets heavy. I watch him for a couple of minutes, wondering what to say.

“Dillon,” I say softly, “Dr. Shaw says you’re unmanageable. What happened to you, Dillon? What made you break?”

But he’s no longer awake. In his sleep, he smiles.





3



AS JUNE TURNS INTO JULY, THE WEATHER REMAINS HOT AND STICKY, and the only respite is the cool water around Sandwich Cove. I see Tay as much as possible, but he’s being difficult. But then he gets mopey when I leave him to visit Dillon, and says he misses me. I don’t mention the drop-off to Tay, but I still think about it every day. As soon as Dillon is well again, I’m going down—I just hope Eddie waits for me. He’s been quiet since Dillon’s been in hospital, and he’s started ignoring me when I call for him. Deep down, I suspect his silence has more to do with what I did with Tay than with Dillon being ill. Eddie will never get to have sex, or even have a girlfriend. I’ve never felt so far apart from him as I do now.





The tube is working. Dillon has gained some weight, but it’s put him in a foul mood.

“How can you do this to me?” he yells. “You’re just trying to make my life difficult.”

“We’re trying to help you,” I say. I can’t keep the annoyance from my voice. It’s not really fair that I’m spending my summer holiday visiting him in hospital, trying to cheer him up, and he’s so ungrateful. How dare he blame me for all of this when he’s the one keeping secrets all the time?

I’m sent home to pick up some more of his clothes, under instruction from Dr. Shaw to bring loose-fitting ones—nothing that Dillon wore when he was at his lowest weight. She says it like that—“lowest weight” rather than “skinny as f*ck” or “at death’s door.” I’m used to all the hospital-speak now. I can read between the lines of everything they say and everything they mean.

Dillon’s bedroom still smells vomity, even though I squirted air freshener all over it. I peer down into the garden and look at the spot where I found him. The orange cones are still there, rolling gently on their sides in the breeze.

I grab a bag and start shoving old T-shirts into it. Trousers are harder to select. I can’t choose the baggiest ones, because they won’t stay up and the hospital doesn’t allow belts. In the end I put in tracksuit bottoms that have an elastic waist and some shorts that might fit. The sock drawer sticks, and when I yank it, the whole chest of drawers wobbles, sending Dillon’s collection of swimming trophies and science awards crashing to the floor.

Exasperated, I kick one of them and it breaks. I don’t even care. I flick the socks out of the drawer and into the bag. A small piece of folded-up paper flies out. It’s probably a love letter from Lara. I put it in my pocket to read later. Then I’ll tear it into tiny pieces and post them to her letterbox.





Dillon is in an even worse mood when I get back with his clothes. I guess that my parents have been winding him up about something, Dad going on about his impending exam results, Mum fussing with his tubes and pillows.

“Go away,” he growls as we crowd around his bed.

“I think you could be a bit nicer to us,” I say.

“Don’t be rude, Elsie. He’s sick,” my mother responds.

Yet again, one of my brothers is being a nuisance and I’m the one who gets pushed aside.

“Well, thanks but no, thanks. No visitors today, please,” Dillon says, and rolls away from us.

I’m suddenly fed up with his disgusting smell, his arrogance, and the fact that he keeps saying weird things and then denying them. I’m totally fed up with him.

“Why are you such a knob? Don’t you care that you’re killing yourself?”

Mum gasps and starts crying. Dillon’s face bunches up and I think he’s going to cry, but then he bursts out laughing, spitting as he does. We watch him uneasily.

“Calm down, Dillon. Let’s all start again,” Dad says. My throat itches.

My father seems to think that the past can be erased.

Dillon straightens his face, and then he looks at me and cocks his head to the side.

“Elsie can stay. Everyone else, leave.”

My parents start arguing, but Dillon presses the alarm by his bed and a nurse comes and escorts them away.

“You’ve got ten minutes,” the nurse says to Dillon and me.

When the door is shut, Dillon pulls my head toward his. I try to keep my nose away from his mouth, which smells of vile vanilla meal replacement.

“I need your help,” he whispers. “I need you to do something for me, but you can’t tell anyone.”

“I am trying to help,” I hiss.

“No, I need you to do something for me.”

His eyes dart about as though he’s worried someone’s watching.

“You need to ask that boyfriend of yours about Eddie’s T-shirt.”

I sigh. This sounds like more delirious nonsense. I tell him to rest and that I’ll be back tomorrow, but his grip around my neck is firm.