Breathing Under Water

by Sophie Hardcastle

  ‘Grace, I’m sorry, and you know I love you, but you can’t get upset if he flirts with someone else. You’re doing the exact same thing. It’s not fair.’

  I push shut the padlock on my locker. ‘Fair?’ I scoff. ‘Nothing’s fair.’

  Twenty-Four

  YOUNG AND TRAGIC

  Jake and I climb a gum tree behind the school oval at lunch. Cockatoos sit on branches around us, squawking, flaring their yellow feather Mohawks.

  ‘Maybe I should get a Mohawk,’ Jake says.

  My brow crinkles.

  ‘Seriously, cockatoos are killing it. They’re so boss.’ He leans across to my branch to pass me the joint. I draw on it and feel my limbs start to sway with the tree. There is a light breeze, unusually warm for the end of August. Leaning back against the trunk, the smell of eucalyptus reminds me of dry summers in the schoolyard and Christmas beetles in the bubblers.

  I pick pieces of bark. ‘This probably wasn’t the best idea.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Jake says, exhaling smoke the colour of a bushfire.

  My mouth feels as if it’s filled with cotton. ‘How are we going to get down?’

  He hoots. ‘You’re so stoned!’

  I snap off a twig and peg it at him, missing by a mile.

  We hang up here talking garbage until our stomachs churn and rumble and we climb down. A metre or so off the ground I slip and land flat on the grass. Winded, I wait for Jake to pull me back up, but he doesn’t. I roll onto my side to see him strolling off, already halfway across the oval.

  I remember the first time I left school when I wasn’t supposed to. Thirteen years old, Jake had forged a note for Ben, pretending to be Dad, giving him permission to leave early, but he said he could write a new one if I wanted to come with them. It was the last day of term and they were going to the skate park. I pictured them riding on ramps, imagined the smell of spray paint, dry bush and gravel, the sound of wheels on smooth concrete, metal trucks on metal bars. I saw myself sitting in class, a fan clicking above, my hand sore from taking notes, listening to our history teacher drone on, and I winced.

  ‘Make up your mind, Grace,’ Jake had said. ‘Are you coming or not?’

  I hesitated, torn between where I could be and where I should be, then gulped. ‘I’m coming.’

  Jake scrunched up the note he’d written for Ben and wrote one to excuse both of us, saying we were leaving early for a family holiday. He didn’t write one for himself, saying it would be too suspicious if we all handed one in. I wasn’t sure if his carefree attitude was brave or just idiotic.

  On the way to the skate park, one of the boys suggested we go into the corner shop and get some food to take with us. With the little pocket money we had, we each bought a slushy and some gummy lollies, which we put into the cup and mixed with the frozen drink to make them tough and chewy. At the park, we skated until dark, our tongues blue from the slushies. Rebellion was fizzy like a sugar high – but like any high, it was followed by a comedown.

  Walking in the front door, Ben said hi to Mum and asked her how her day was. She didn’t answer – she didn’t even look up. Ben and I glanced at each other, wide-eyed. We retreated to his room and played Nintendo until Dad got home.

  Over the sound of our characters racing on the TV, we heard Dad’s ute mount the kerb, coming to an abrupt stop in the driveway. We heard the screen door slam shut, footsteps stomping down the hall. Ben’s door flew open, and without turning the TV off, Dad tore the electrical cords from their sockets, yanked the TV set and Nintendo console off the TV stand and marched out the door with it, wires trailing behind his ankles. Putting it in the shed, he locked the door and told us we were banned from playing it for the whole school holidays.

  A friend of Mum’s had seen us in the corner store and called her. Ben argued that we had only missed one class and that it was the very last class for the year, so no one did anything anyway.

  ‘I don’t care if it’s one class or a hundred classes,’ Mum said. ‘You still skipped school.’ It was the only thing she said to us that night.

  Now, walking through the streets of Marlow with Jake in the middle of a school day, I watch the way people glance at us, turning away almost immediately. They hide behind their shopping trolleys, phones, newspapers, acting casual, pretending they’re not witness to our truancy. Nobody wants to be the one to call Mel or Ray Walker and inform them their daughter is acting out. No one wants to add to my parents’ stress.

  ‘Should we?’ Jake snickers, stopping outside the Marlow Hotel.

  ‘Should we what?’

  ‘Go inside, order beers and burgers or something, pretend we’re old and tragic.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I laugh. ‘Instead of young and tragic.’

  The pub is gloomy with few windows, dated wall lights, burgundy carpet and dark wood balustrading. It smells of stale beer-sodden coasters. We take a seat at the bar. I order a burger and chips, Jake orders a beer and a steak with mash. The barmaid, a friendly woman with acrylic nails and a rough Australian accent, has a daughter who goes to our school. She knows I’m not eighteen but takes the order out the back to the chef anyway.

  Our food arrives and we hoe into it. We joke about how sophisticated we are, the masters of fine dining. Beetroot juice dribbles down my chin as we giggle, staining my skin pink.

  All of a sudden, Jake goes silent. He looks down, swearing under his breath. Slowly, I peep over my shoulder.

  I drop my burger into my lap, it bounces and falls to the floor. The barmaid grabs a dustpan and brush and rushes to clean it up. I get off my stool to help her, picking up lettuce and sliced cheese. By the time I turn and look around the pub again, Dad has already left.

  ‘How long have you been with your wife?’

  ‘How do you know I have a wife?’

  ‘You’re wearing a wedding ring.’

  Mr Mitchell looks down at his hand, stretches out his fingers, playing with the wedding band. ‘I still find it funny how this little piece of jewellery says so much. Like someone knows a part of your story just by looking at you.’

  I take a bite of a white chocolate Tim Tam, thinking of the way everyone looks at me. That colour beneath my eyes, the way my bones show, the smear of grief. Just by looking at me, anyone can tell a part of my story, and it’s a part no one likes to read. I remind them that nothing lasts. I remind them no one is safe.

  ‘So how long have you been together?’

  He shifts, folds one leg over the other.

  ‘Can’t I ask questions? Why do I have to be the only one talking?’ I ask. ‘It’s not like I’m going to tell anyone. You said nothing leaves this room.’

  The kettle reaches boiling point, whistles. He swivels to turn it off and pours the water into his coffee strainer. He gives me a bashful smile. ‘Thirteen years,’ he says.

  I watch him add three sachets of sugar and full-cream milk to his coffee.

  ‘Does she complain about that?’ I ask, pointing to the mug.

  ‘What?’ He chuckles. ‘The sugar?’

  I nod, trying to hide a grin.

  ‘She loves me more than she complains.’ Joking as he leans back, ‘At least I hope she does.’

  ‘Is she the only person you’ve ever loved?’

  ‘No,’ he says, stirring his coffee. ‘I had a girlfriend before, when I was in my early twenties.’

  ‘Did you stop loving her?’

  He sips his coffee, eyes closed, pondering.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say, arms crossed, tilting back on the couch. ‘I just don’t really get it.’

  ‘Get what?’

  ‘How people can just fall out of love.’

  Twenty-Five

  A PERFORMANCE

  Knocked up or just fat?

  Scrawled beneath the question on the crumpled paper Jake has passed to me is a grotesque drawing of Ms King, her stomach blown severely out of proportion. He wears a devilish grin. I laugh, snort and our teacher whips her head around from the whiteboard.

/>   She hesitates a moment, something teachers often do now before addressing my poor conduct. She walks a fine line between her responsibility to correct bad behaviour and her fear of further upsetting a girl already wrestling with loss.

  ‘Is there something funny, Grace?’

  Seeing the note in my hand, she struts down the aisle and plucks it from between my fingers. Opening it, her brow furrows, and she breathes through her nose, nostrils flaring.

  ‘And who was the artist behind this masterpiece?’

  ‘Uh, that would be me.’ Jake smirks, raising his hand.

  Again she hesitates, taking in the smears of grey beneath his eyes. Her face flushes red as she looks back at the note.

  ‘It’s an excellent likeness, don’t you think?’ Jake says. ‘I was especially pleased with the double chin. So which is it? Knocked up or just fat?’

  Ms King just stares at him then points at the door.

  ‘Get out!’ she says, her voice harsh.

  His smile is dry. ‘You can’t fire me. I QUIT.’ Jake strolls out of the classroom, laughing.

  It takes a moment for any of us to react. Mia is the first to move, chasing him out into the hall, Ms King and me in tow. Looking over his shoulder, Jake sprints, bursting out the fire doors onto the quadrangle, and we follow.

  ‘Jake, are you serious!’ Mia screams as she catches up with him, slapping his chest. Ms King is already looking puffed and blotchy and has no idea who to yell at. She whispers something to herself.

  ‘I quit! I quit! I quit!’ Jake taunts, shoving Mia away from him.

  ‘It’s one month till exams. ONE MONTH! You’re stupid if you leave now!’

  ‘I don’t care!’ He stretches his arms wide, proclaims it to the world. ‘I DON’T CARE!’

  Mia falters. ‘Jake, please.’ She’s begging, tears spilling down her cheeks.

  ‘What does it matter? Seriously, what does anything matter?’ he says, quiet now as he steps away from everything.

  He’s waiting for me on the steps when I get home, crouched, his head hanging between his knees.

  ‘That was quite a performance,’ I say, dropping my schoolbag on the verandah. I sit down next to him, kick off my sneakers and sling my arm around his shoulder.

  He raises his head and gives me a wan smile. His eyelids are puffy and he looks tired. ‘Ben would probably tell me I was a freaking idiot.’

  ‘Ben always told you that.’

  As he buries his face in my shoulder, Jake’s body quakes, and I’m not sure if he’s laughing or crying.

  ‘It’s the way they look at me, at you,’ he mumbles. ‘Every teacher, like they’re just waiting for us to crack.’

  ‘Screw ’em.’

  Jake laughs. ‘Screw them all with their high pants, ugly blouses and fat ankles!’

  ‘We’re going to end up screwing everyone.’

  Jake’s smile finds balance on his lips. ‘I’ve always been good at that.’

  Above, the fig tree stretches its limbs, swaying in a light offshore breeze. The jasmine wrapped around the verandah’s banisters is nearing bloom. Its scent, once beautiful – redolent of spring, beach barbecues and picnics on the grass – now makes my heart ache.

  I gaze around the yard. Ben doesn’t exist and yet I see him everywhere. I see him on the grass we ran on as toddlers, naked beneath the sprinkler and a burnt summer sun. I see him hanging from the Hills Hoist we used to swing on, Dad having to fix its rusty arms each time we broke them. I see him in the flowerbed, stepping on the roses, picking hydrangeas to give to Mum with her breakfast in bed on Mother’s Day. I see him sitting on the roof of the shed, the day he discovered he was tall enough to climb up, me standing on the ground, arms crossed, cheeks puffed, still too small. I see him in the fig tree, remnants of our cubbyhouse, branches we claimed ownership of, our names carved into the trunk. I see tiny pods hanging from twigs, baby fruit starting to grow. Figs we ate in the cubbyhouse. Figs Mum poached and served with our porridge. Figs Mum made into jam and spread across our sandwiches for school.

  I pull off my socks and pad to the top of the yard, leaning against the wiry old gate, sinking my toes into the soil, wondering just how many times the soles of his feet touched this earth.

  Jake wanders up beside me. ‘Surf looks all right.’

  I shrug.

  ‘There’s hardly anyone out,’ he says. ‘Won’t have to deal with pricks asking how we are.’

  Jake, having practically lived at our place for years, finds one of his old wetsuits in the shed. I grab mine from the rack and we suit up.

  The tide’s low, rocks exposed. We carry fat boards for the tiny waves curling around the point. Seagulls flock to the sand, fighting over leftover chips someone has thrown. There are piles of seaweed on the shoreline, hauled onto the beach by an east swell. The scent of rotting seagrass makes our noses twitch, and as we wade through the thick tides, weed gathers in my leg-rope, pulling like an anchor dragging behind a boat. By the time we’re in the line-up, the water is clear and we uncoil the seaweed from our ropes. Jake throws a clump at me, scratching my face.

  He laughs and laughs and laughs until each of us realises we’ve been waiting for a voice to defend me.

  Jake turns to face the horizon; I watch him shudder in his black skin.

  Twenty-Six

  HEY, GRACIE

  I wake in the night’s darkest hour, throat dry and lips cracked.

  I wander in socks over the floorboards, eyes adjusting to the shadows, and pour myself a glass of water in the kitchen. As I sip, words cascade down the stairs from Mum’s room.

  ‘Dear God, please … teach my baby girl to stand on her own.’ Faint sobs interrupt her prayers. ‘Please … teach me to live in a world without sunshine.’

  Leaving the glass on the bench, I stumble out the front door, tripping down the steps, landing in a heap on wet earth. Damp seeps through my pyjamas and I shiver, my heart heavy and swollen. I don’t want it, I don’t want any of it. Tears drizzle down my cheeks.

  And then I see it, beneath a silver moon, my surfboard left on the grass after today’s surf. Stripping naked in the yard, I yank my wetsuit off the line and wriggle into it. It is still cold and wet, but I am numb, immune to winter’s bite. I pick up my board, drag my fingernails through wax, crosshatching lines for grip. Running down the grassy hill, my moon shadow chases after me.

  Blinded by black tears, I cut my feet on clumps of dried seaweed, broken shells and sticks of sea wood, the sand like grains of ice. My feet are as heavy as my breath. At the water’s edge, whiffs of fish and seagrass lift from silver foam.

  It’s not until I take my first step, my toes sinking in wet sand, a gentle wave washing over my feet, that I become aware of where I am and what I am doing. I feel the water suck out, drain away from my skin, and know another wave is approaching. I hear it, smell it. Leaping forward as it laps the shore, I land on wax and glide through the water, stroking, arms digging deep. I hear the spill of a second white wash and push down. I’m a moment too late and am slapped in the face. Turbulence whips me from side to side, spits me through the back of the wave. Coughing and spluttering, I wipe hair from my face.

  As I paddle, I slowly discover the way the tides sway beneath me, gentle pushes and pulls so subtle the movement goes unnoticed during the day. As a third wave approaches, I lean down on my board, driving it beneath the foam, this time too early, and I pop back up in the thick of the cloud. Spun and yanked before ripping through the wave’s skin, I fight for breath.

  A fourth wave tumbles before me. This time, I stop paddling, lie still on my board and listen. The sound of this surge is as individual as my own voice is to me, the way it gasps, spits, laughs and cries. As it rolls closer, I grip my rails, and when it whispers, I push down. Swooping beneath the turbulence, I fly up and burst to the surface like a bird into the night sky.

  When I reach the line-up, stars rest on a black silk sea.

  With the horizon impossible to distinguish, I surre
nder and close my eyes. Palms on the surface, I feel ocean currents moving like blood through veins, drawn by the moon in all its silver glory. I feel the rise and fall of my board with the rise and fall of tides. Pulses of swell have the rhythm of a heartbeat. I hear the ocean breathing.

  The water pulls beneath me, and a wave climbs out of the depths. With my eyes still closed, I read the water’s surface like braille, paddling to its wide shoulder, stroking over the edge.

  I slide to my feet as it grows beneath me, the drop unexpectedly steep. Opening my eyes as I pull into a bottom turn, I ride back up to see a thousand stars, sparkling crystals on the wave’s dark face. Again, I underestimate its build; the lip curls, flips my board and I plunge into the water. I surface with a smile that splits cracked lips. Tasting blood, caught on this high, I forget momentarily just how much my bones ache.

  Returning to the line-up, skin tingling, moonlight dancing on the water, I notice a figure, a hundred metres away, sitting on a surfboard. My arms hang limp in the water.

  The figure’s silhouette is broad, strapping. His head turns and a wash of foam knocks me clean off my board. As I climb back on, stars fall from the sky. My arms shake, fingertips tingle, and after several heaved breaths I paddle toward him.

  I sit up on my board, only metres away, staring at the ray of moonlight slanted against his cheek. Even at this hour, swathed in darkness, his smile beams like the sun.

  ‘Hey, Gracie.’

  I’m sinking, my limbs swaying. There’s a wild drumming in my ears.

  ‘Cat got your tongue?’ he says.

  I can’t bear to look at him. I can’t tear my eyes away.

  ‘It’s okay,’ he says.

  Okay? I almost topple off my board again in indignation.

  His laugh lands on the water the way it always has. ‘It’s okay, I’m here.’

  ‘No. No.’ I shake my head. ‘This isn’t real.’

  ‘I’m here.’