The Art of Not Breathing(70)

I shake thoughts of Mick and Mum from my head. They aren’t even bad thoughts—flashes of them running along the beach together, holding hands.

“I should have tried harder to keep you and Tay apart. Maybe you wouldn’t have got so hurt,” Danny says.

We’re apart now, and I hurt more than ever, but there’s no point saying this.

“Did he go back to Dornie to live with his mum?” I ask.

“Aye. He’s not in great shape either.”

I want to ask what he means, but the words are stuck in my throat. Instead I ask about Mick.

“My dad’s gone to Saint Lucia for a dive season. He’s running some instructor classes there.”

“Will he be back?” I ask.

“He’d better be. I’m not running this dive school on my own forever. I guess it’s good for him to get away.”

I nod. I think my mum wishes she could speak to him. I miss him too.

“We’re going to check out that wreck off Lossiemouth next week,” Danny says. “Do you want to come?”

I haven’t been in the water since my “suicide” dive.

“I’m not sure I’d be up to it,” I stammer. “I can’t go that deep.”

“You don’t have to go that deep. Sure, the bottom is at forty-three meters, but it’s a big boat. In my opinion it’s better to look at these things from slightly farther away, anyway.”

Maybe he’s right. Or maybe that’s the easy way.

“I didn’t even say thanks for saving my life.”

Danny frowns. “I didn’t really.”

“Was it Joey, then? Either way, you were both there. Tell Joey I said thanks.”

“You mostly saved yourself. We just pulled you out of the water and took you home. It’s good that you ditched the weights, but they’re expensive. You owe me.”

Danny grins while I try desperately to remember ditching the weights. I remember that one half of me was fighting to stay alive, and the other was giving up—saying goodbye, but I don’t remember ditching the weights. Perhaps there was a third half of me.

“So, think about Lossiemouth. The water down there is out of this world.”

“I will,” I say, suddenly longing to be back in the water—to feel the open space around me, to feel the power in my legs and the pressure in my lungs as I kick for the surface.

I think about all the people who traveled on that doomed boat—where they went, what they looked like. How they felt when it was sinking. Where they are now.





7



THE WORST FAMILY THERAPY SESSION IS THE ONE WHEN I FINALLY tell everyone that I told Eddie to swim. By the end of that session, I’m in the room alone. Mum stays longer than everyone else, but eventually she goes off to find Dillon. I wonder if our relationship is permanently damaged.

I talk about this in my own individual therapy sessions. I’ve talked so much recently that I think my voice might wear out. My personal therapist, who is called Dr. Jones and who looks a lot like Mr. Jones my technology teacher, tells me that these things take time. He is also the only one to tell me that the rip tide might have taken us both if I hadn’t let go.

“In the past you had a difficult relationship with your father because you felt he let you down.”

“Yes.”

“And now, perhaps, with new truths that you’ve learned, you feel your mother has let you down.”

I nod. But I am not ready to agree out loud. I like Dr. Jones. He talks a bit, and then he lets me make up my own mind.

“Do you think we’ll ever be a normal family?” I ask.

“What do you think ‘normal’ means?” he replies.

I don’t answer because I don’t know. For us, normal is keeping secrets and feeling guilty about Eddie. I think this is the first time that any of us ever thought about each other.





8



ON NEW YEAR’S DAY, I TAKE THE SAILBOAT I MADE FROM THE TOP shelf of my wardrobe. It’s covered in a soft layer of dust. With a duster I carefully wipe down the decking. The model of me has faded and come slightly unstuck. Dad finds some glue and presses it back down.

“I think that’s probably it, Dad.”

“I think it probably is.” He gives the model a wiggle to make sure. It’s nice having him back in the house again, even if he’s only visiting.

Dillon writes big swirly letters in blue ink on the side. Eddie. He does a couple of loops on the final e and also adds the outline of a dolphin. It looks brilliant.

The four of us stand around the boat. Anyone looking in through our kitchen window might think we’re performing some kind of strange ritual. In a way, we are.

“Right—now for the finale!” Dillon says, springing up. He’s been waiting for this.

The motor slips over the bow easily and makes a whirring sound when Dillon presses the remote control. He giggles to himself, pleased that it works.





Mum and Dillon don’t come on the boat that Dad’s rented—from Danny. Dillon says he’d rather swim out. Mum is too scared and won’t let Dillon swim, so they stay on the shore together.

“Someone needs to be on the shore,” she explains. “Just in case anything happens and we need to get the coast guard.”