Underwater Vibes

by Mickey Brent

  It’s time I tell her what’s on my mind.

  Hélène pedaled feverishly. Once she reached the familiar building, she threw her bike on the grass. As she raced up the concrete steps, four giggling teenage girls were just leaving. Hélène tried to get out of their way—but it was too late. Her momentum propelled her forward. She lurched to the right to avoid the girls and tripped on the steps.

  “Mince!” she cried, toppling backward.

  The girls stood staring at the blond woman lying unceremoniously on the steps.

  “Are you all right, Madame?” one of them asked, giggling.

  Hélène dusted off her behind. Runts, she sighed, clutching her new glasses to her chest. She felt suddenly fragile as if the girls had just sucked every last ounce of confidence from her—confidence that had taken weeks to build.

  Like a fragile bird, she stood at the top of the steps, only meters from the pool. Instead of opening the door, she hesitated. Dark clouds loomed overhead; goose bumps erupted on her forearms as a chill swept through her body. Time stopped during this moment of indecision.

  Just when she decided to enter the building, a beam of light hit her from behind. She spun around. Some mysterious force was radiating incredibly warm, soothing energy. She could feel it penetrating not only her skin, melting her goose bumps, but her entire soul.

  This is amazing. The light seemed to be emanating from the parking lot. Squinting, she searched for its source. She looked up to see a sliver between the dark clouds.

  Hélène shielded her eyes from the piercing light. Spontaneously, she spread her arms and opened her heart to the penetrating light. Whoever you are, or whatever you are, guide me. I’m ready.

  She stood immobilized like a statue on top of the steps, eyes closed and palms up, for a full minute. The warm sunlight licked her face as she basked in its vitalizing force. Breathing deeply, she offered her body, mind, and soul to this illuminating source of energy, surrendering to its touch. She realized her entire being was craving an answer, even though she hadn’t yet formulated her question.

  Hélène’s reply appeared when the clouds shifted. The penetrating light dimmed, revealing its true source: light reflected off a car door mirror, hitting her directly in the face.

  Squinting, she realized that the car was an old yellow VW bug.

  That’s when she knew the answer. Life can be so easy. But why am I always doubting myself?

  Instead of entering the pool building, she plopped on the grass beside her bike and a rusty trash can. Crossing her legs, she let her face drop into her hands, like a wilted flower, breathing steadily with her eyes shut. Her auditory and olfactory senses intensified.

  Something smells bizarre.

  Hélène sniffed her fingers. Then she chuckled.

  Trash mixed with freshly cut grass, mixed with cookies and syrupy espresso…What a bizarre day. And it’s not even noon.

  She glanced at the pool building, then at the thunderclouds looming overhead.

  I must really be a poet. Or else I’m completely bonkers.

  *****

  Hélène checked her watch again. 12:25 p.m. already. Doesn’t she ever take a break?

  Ignoring her rumbling belly, she turned her attention back to her notebook. The blue ink was splotchy in some spots, and the letters were terribly slanted, forcing her sentences downward.

  It’s the strangest day…

  She continued with her entry, gripping her pen tightly as she released the words polluting her brain. The ink spilled onto the notebook’s worn pages:

  She must get rid of this overwhelming turmoil. Without even thinking, she lays down her deepest, hidden thoughts. She nearly bores holes through the paper, she’s pressing so hard with her pen. She attacks her notebook with vengeance; she’s never felt like this before. She’s fully submerged with

  Then something warm touched Hélène’s shoulder. Jerking her head, she peered over her glasses. Although the person was out of focus, Hélène knew it was Sylvie. The warm tingle in her shoulder told her so. Adjusting her glasses, she squinted at the bright yellow raincoat looming above her.

  Sylvie sported a friendly smile. “Quelle bonne surprise.” She squeezed Hélène’s shoulder, then peered at her quizzically. “Aren’t you working this afternoon?”

  Hélène swiftly shut her notebook. “Well…”

  She got up slowly, avoiding Sylvie’s inquisitive eyes as she shook the grass off her pants. “Oui.” She licked her lips. “Non. Actually, I took the afternoon off.”

  Sylvie pointed to the bike sprawled on the grass. “So you went for a ride to the pool and…” Her eyes narrowed in on the notebook Hélène was clutching. “And what have we got here?”

  Hélène swiveled her head toward a distant tree. “I needed some fresh air and—”

  “Poetry, perhaps?”

  Hélène’s hands grew clammy. “It’s…such a nice day,” she stammered.

  Looking up, Sylvie sniffed at the impending rain. The purple-black clouds appeared to be throbbing, like a day-old bruise. “Such a nice day,” she scoffed. “For a soggy ride.”

  Sylvie nudged her. “I’m done for the day. Join me for lunch?”

  Hélène snuck a glimpse at Sylvie’s dark, glistening eyes. One little meal can’t hurt, non?

  “I’d love to.”

  With that response, Hélène’s stomach gurgled loudly—a fresh souvenir of her cookie orgy in the kitchen—but it was too late. She was already struggling to keep up with the Greek athlete’s long strides across the parking lot.

  For every step Sylvie took, Hélène took two.

  As she shuffled her boots on the damp asphalt, Hélène tried to figure out how to wipe the goofy smile off her face before Sylvie could see it.

  “Promise you won’t laugh?” Sylvie grinned, pulling out her keys.

  Hélène nodded. But when Sylvie stopped before an old, yellow VW bug, Hélène’s eyes bugged.

  “Is this…Is this your car?”

  “M’enfin, you said you wouldn’t laugh.”

  “I’m not laughing, I swear. It’s just that—”

  “She’s old. From the early eighties, but I don’t care. She’s family.” Sylvie caressed the battered door of her banana-colored car. “And she runs just fine. You’ll see.” She yanked on the door three times. “Guess I’m lucky it hasn’t fallen off its hinges.”

  At last, the door opened.

  “Wait a sec.” Sylvie dove inside to clear off the passenger’s seat, and tossed a variety of items—CDs, various papers, a book of poems, a coupon for take-out pizza, a squash ball, and two rolls of film—onto the backseat.

  “All’s clear,” she announced, flinging her raincoat on top of the pile and opening the passenger door.

  Hélène entered the vehicle cautiously. As she sank into the tattered checkered seat, she tried to avoid thoughts of sunbaked chewing gum and other sticky substances.

  Wonder what her house looks like? she speculated, tucking her hands safely in her lap.

  Sylvie’s eyes were twinkling. “Promise you won’t laugh?”

  “You already asked me that,” replied Hélène, stiffening.

  “Do you promise or not?”

  “Sure, I promise.”

  “D’accord. Time to go fishing,” announced Sylvie, bending over and thrusting her fingers under the driver’s seat. At last, her head popped up.

  She waved a yellow screwdriver before Hélène’s eyes. “Voilà!”

  She’s weirder than I am. The thought made Hélène chuckle.

  The swimming instructor inserted the tip of the screwdriver into the ignition.

  “Voilà!” she repeated, flicking her wrist.

  “Mon Dieu!” exclaimed Hélène as the engine revved up.

  Sylvie flashed a coy smile. “I lost the key a couple of years ago.”

  “I see.” Hélène bit her lip. Boy, her teeth are white.

  “But don’t tell anyone.”

  “They wouldn’t believe me anywa
y,” stated Hélène with a chuckle, before her face grew serious.

  *****

  As Sylvie concentrated on the road, Hélène’s thoughts flipped back to the day they first met.

  “So you really didn’t need your keys to drive home that day at the market.”

  Sylvie shook her head. “All I care about is the keychain.”

  Hélène frowned at the passing trees, which seemed to be jeering at her as they flew past the window.

  After an uncomfortably silent moment, she stole a glance at the Greek goddess, skillfully steering through the dense lunch-hour traffic. Instantly, all negative thoughts left Hélène’s mind; she was too preoccupied with Sylvie’s forearms as she firmly gripped the steering wheel. She felt a burst of pleasure as her teacher’s arm muscles popped out with each swift maneuver. She even admired the tiny veins traveling over them, like little green canals.

  Ever so discreetly, she let her eyes wander up Sylvie’s arm.

  Her biceps are so round and smooth, so well defined.

  Hélène wrapped her fingers around her own bicep and gave it a squeeze; its insignificance made her cringe.

  The best part was when Sylvie shifted gears. This is intense.

  Hélène’s eyes lingered over her instructor’s strong fingers, and their power, as they gripped the stick propped between their bodies; the smooth control they offered excited Hélène.

  She drives just like she swims, skillful and fast.

  When they passed a bus, Hélène barely caught the blur of passengers’ faces before the VW banana bug left it in the dust. Her eyes sparkled as they drifted back to Sylvie’s muscular forearms.

  Wonder if she’s as skillful and fast at everything she does?

  The thought made her hair rise at the nape of her neck; she rolled down her window for a burst of air to douse the curious tingle spreading over her body.

  *****

  After maneuvering past a police car, Sylvie hollered into the wind. “Sorry my car’s such a mess.” She wrinkled her nose. “I meant to throw out that banana peel. I really did, but…”

  She switched on the radio. Crackling Greek music blared out of the speakers.

  “It’s old, but it still works.” Winking at Hélène, she fiddled with the dial until the crackling stopped.

  The upbeat foreign music swept into Hélène’s ears, transporting her to places she had never imagined, until Sylvie stopped at a red light.

  “Hope you don’t mind Greek food.”

  “Greek food?” Hélène gulped. What in the heck does Greek food taste like? She forced a smile. “Lovely. Great idea.”

  “Glad you like it.” Sylvie swept a strand of hair behind her ear. “Cause that’s all I ever eat.” She gazed at her passenger, who was staring straight ahead. “What about you? Where do you usually go?”

  “Go?”

  “To eat.”

  “I don’t know.” Hélène pondered her options. “Actually, I don’t.”

  Sylvie stared at her with disbelief. “You’ve got to be kidding. You don’t go out?”

  Hélène lowered her chin. “Not really. Not to eat, anyway.”

  “But that’s insane!”

  “Really?” Hélène began tracing circles on the side mirror. “Guess I never thought about it.”

  Sylvie turned down the Greek music. “I can’t believe it.” She whistled under her breath.

  Like an anxious child, Hélène pulled on her seat belt until it extended a full foot in front of her. “You see, Marc…”

  Then the light turned green. When Sylvie gunned the engine, the car lurched forward. The belt slipped out of Hélène’s fingers, snapping at her chest like a rubber band.

  “Aaaiiee!” she yelped, rubbing her smarting nipple. “He prefers eating at home.”

  *****

  What a bizarre bird she is, thought Sylvie. Her student’s clumsiness was so endearing.

  Then her face turned serious as another thought entered her mind. But anyone would be bizarre, living with that beast of a man.

  What concerned her most was Hélène’s lack of adventure. As if something—or someone—had dampened her sense of curiosity. Maybe that’s why she’s a closeted poet.

  “Don’t you ever go out alone, or with friends?” she inquired nonchalantly.

  Hélène shook her head.

  “We’re like complete opposites. I go out for basically every meal.” Sylvie pushed harder on the accelerator. “I don’t have tons of vices, but eating out sure is one of them.”

  Speaking of eating, I’m starved. She flattened the accelerator to the floor. “Maybe it’s because I can’t cook worth beans.”

  Hélène’s eyebrows shot up. “So you’re a woman of few vices?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Sylvie, hitting the brakes. Crap. Why did I say that? Red flag. The tires screeched to a halt.

  “It’s just that—” began Hélène, gripping her seat.

  “Appearances can be deceiving.” Sylvie hit the accelerator, and the car lurched forward. “I can count mine on one hand.” She lifted her hand from the wheel. “Let’s see…” She uncurled each finger. “Tasty restaurants; pretty flowers; soft, romantic music; the beach; and—”

  “Wait a sec. You call those vices?” Hélène chuckled. “If those are vices, then I’m full of them too, ’cause—”

  “I’m not done yet. What about this one?” asked Sylvie, uncurling her last finger.

  *****

  Hélène’s heart beat faster as she observed Sylvie’s pinkie unfold. “What is it?”

  “Well…” Sylvie winked at her student.

  “Watch out!” yelled Hélène, pointing at a truck heading straight at them.

  Sylvie swerved to the right. “Mon Dieu, that was close.” She let out a sigh. Then, with a coquettish smile, she wiggled her pinkie. “Take a guess.”

  Hélène squirmed. The skin behind her neck was tingling again. I don’t like this game. Even though downtown Brussels was a maze of narrow one-way streets, she could tell Sylvie knew all the shortcuts. Obviously, the Greek athlete relished her power behind the wheel, gunning the engine, whizzing her VW bug over the cobblestones like an insect on speed.

  She reminds me of Marc, Hélène realized, digging her nails into her seat as the goddess carved tight turns around impending obstacles—cars, bikes, motorcycles, and pedestrians—like an Olympic skier.

  But she’s in control. Unlike Marc. She exhaled at last. I actually feel safe with her.

  “Come on, what is it?” Sylvie’s voice broke her thoughts.

  “What?” Hélène looked at Sylvie’s pinkie again. “I have no idea.”

  “What happens when you put ’em all together? Tasty restaurants, nice flowers, soft music, the beach—”

  “Ah! I get it…” Giggling nervously, Hélène stuck her face out the window. That’s a vice I don’t seem to have. The breeze cooled her flushing cheeks. Sex doesn’t seem to be my forte…But maybe it’s not too late. She ran her fingers through her hair, hoping the steady stream of fresh air would give it a younger, wilder look—like Sylvie’s.

  *****

  “We’re here!” exclaimed Sylvie as she wedged her VW bug between two parked cars.

  “Bisou…” She bumped the car in front. “Bisou…” She nudged the car behind.

  “Voilà!” she exclaimed after her bug kissed the cars. With a twist of her screwdriver, she cut the engine. “Hope you’re hungry, kopela.”

  Hélène had to skip to stay abreast of Sylvie, whose long legs propelled her athletic silhouette as quickly as toothpaste oozing from a tube.

  She must be starving, mused Hélène, quickening her pace…until she saw two bare feet looming ahead. Ah non, it’s him. The homeless man was wearing the same ragged clothes he wore the day Marc had insulted him, near the market.

  Hélène lowered her eyes to elude his gaze. But as soon as they approached, the man thrust a dirty hand in their direction.

  “Happen to have a coin or two
to spare, Mesdames?”

  “Eh bien,” began Hélène, averting the man’s glossy eyes. They seemed wet, like a steamy mirror after a shower. But he hasn’t had any showers for a while, she decided, mentally blocking the stench.

  Then she saw Sylvie bend down before the man and take his filthy hand in hers.

  What in the heck is she doing? Hélène stiffened as the younger woman pumped his hand with a friendly smile. “Bonjour, Frank. How’s it going?”

  Hélène held her breath. She knows him?

  The man searched Sylvie’s face, then shook his head.

  But Sylvie kept smiling until his jaw opened, loosening his sunbaked lips. They parted to reveal a toothless grin. “Now I recognize you, ma fille,” he said gruffly. His eyes grew even soggier as they lit up.

  I can’t believe this. Hélène felt imaginary fingers closing in on her throat, squeezing it into a knot. I have to get out of here. Gasping for air, she began to run…

  After Sylvie and the homeless man had exchanged pleasantries, Sylvie released his hand and turned around. Hélène was gone.

  She spotted her at the far end of the block, cowering under an olive tree.

  “You know that guy?” asked Hélène when Sylvie finally caught up to her.

  “Qui? Frank? Of course. He’s here most days.”

  “And you don’t mind shaking his hand?”

  “Mais non. Why should I?”

  “Because he’s dirty, and he’s probably—”

  Sylvie crossed her arms. “I bet nobody shakes his hand. In fact, I bet nobody ever touches him.”

  Hélène chuckled. “You’re right about that. I certainly wouldn’t. You should be careful who you touch, Sylvie. Never know what kind of—”

  “It’s the least I can do. Show him someone cares.” Sylvie’s dark eyes intensified. “The poor guy’s homeless. He’s lost his family. It’s not much, but I like to think it means something to him that I care.”

  As soon as Hélène heard those last two words, with that sensuous Greek accent, she aimed her eyes on the lines in the sidewalk. It was all she could do to keep herself from grabbing the goddess and hugging her with all her might.