The Art of Not Breathing(68)

“Who, then?”

But I realize I already know.

“Mick? You saw them together, didn’t you? On the Point that day.”

My father’s eyes widen.

“I’ve worked it all out,” I say. “You saw her with someone and you went after her, but she drove off. And then you found her coat on the beach when you were looking for Eddie.”

He nods gravely. “Mick was your Mum’s boyfriend before I came along. She dumped him for me, but then somewhere along the line, I think she realized her mistake. Something happened again between them when you and Eddie were about nine or ten—she nearly left me, but I begged her to stay. She promised she’d never see him again. I guess she could never keep that promise, and I punished her for it. I should have let her go.”

“I’m sorry, Dad,” I say.

“Don’t be sorry. I walked away from you kids. And I have to live with that.” He hangs his head, and his whole body slumps. We are united in our guilt. It was never me he hated—it was himself.





4



I’M ALLOWED TO SEE DILLON FOR A FEW MINUTES ON MY OWN FIRST, at his request. He’s propped up in bed doing a crossword puzzle. There are no tubes attached to him. No vanilla. He’s still scrawny as a rake, though.

He sits upright when he sees me and thrusts his arms out.

“I hear you went for a swim,” he says, hugging me tight. I feel like we connect, and for the first time since my “swim” I’m glad to be alive. All the anger I felt toward him a few days ago has dissipated. Seeing him here, I already know that the secrets have ruined him, too.

“Diving, actually,” I tell him.

“Jesus, Elsie. I didn’t know it could be so dangerous.”

He shuffles up so I can sit next to him.

“Are you eating, Dilbil? No more tubes?”

“A bit. I’m on half portions. They said they’d keep me in this locked wing of the hospital if I didn’t eat. I don’t want to be here.”

His blues eyes seem too large for his face. I can’t help but stare into them, like I’m still looking for answers.

“Are you okay, though?” he asks.

“Bit of an infection. I had a blackout and swallowed some water, but I’m okay.”

Dillon leans in suddenly and lowers his voice.

“Look, we’ve only got a few minutes before Mum and Dad come in for ‘family’ therapy. Did you find the T-shirt?”

I nod. I haven’t got the energy to explain everything that’s happened over the last few days.

“I found it. Danny had hidden it. God, you don’t even know who Danny is, do you?”

He shakes his head.

“He’s Tay’s cousin. He was down on the Point that night too. He saw everything. Listen, Tay told me what happened. Everyone knows now, and it wasn’t your fault.”

Dillon starts to cry. I feel myself float up again, and then I float down and take control.

“Why didn’t you go and get help? Why didn’t you tell anyone what happened?” I whisper. I still don’t understand how three people could keep quiet for so long.

Dillon wipes tears from his eyes.

“For ages, I thought I imagined the whole thing or that it was a dream. Then I started to have really vivid nightmares, and when I finally realized that it might have been real, I thought it was too late. I knew he was gone, and I didn’t want Mum or Dad to know that I found him but didn’t pull him out. I was so ashamed. I thought it would destroy our family. And my blood was on Eddie’s T-shirt.”

“What? Why?”

“I hit my head on a rock when I was looking for Eddie. Tay tried to help by pressing Eddie’s T-shirt on it. It’s a bit hazy—I think I might have had a concussion.”

I picture Tay trying to help Dillon. It doesn’t fit with the image of Tay letting Eddie go back into the water, and the relief that he felt after.

I tell Dillon again that none of this was his fault.

“Why did you let me fall for Tay?” I say. “You knew all along.”

“You falling for him had nothing to do with me. Even when I nearly broke his nose, you still went back to him.”

I nod, defeated. “I should have worked it out,” I say.

“It doesn’t matter,” Dillon replies, taking my hand. “The truth is out. Now we deal with it.”

I don’t yet tell him that Eddie would never have gone if it wasn’t for me.

“I gave Eddie his T-shirt back,” I say softly.

We hear footsteps coming down the corridor.

“Everything will be okay, Dil. Make me one promise?”

“What?”

“Just eat.”

Dillon places a scrawny hand on his stomach. “I’ll try. And you promise me that you’ll breathe.”

“I’ll try,” I say.





5



FAMILY THERAPY DOESN’T HAVE TO INVOLVE THE WHOLE FAMILY. It doesn’t even have to involve Dillon. He has sessions with different people once a week. I have therapy with my parents. Sometimes with Dillon, sometimes without.

We talk about blame and secrets, and we talk about truth. Sometimes my laryngitis comes back and I say nothing at all, and other times I scream or walk out. Eventually, everyone tells their story.