Breathing Under Water

by Sophie Hardcastle

‘No, you’re not.’ Tears pour down my cheeks.

  ‘I’m here, Gracie.’

  ‘Stop saying that!’

  ‘Trust me.’

  ‘STOP SAYING THAT!’

  I’m hysterical now, wild sobs shaking my body. A dark mountain of water looms and I paddle to meet it. Jumping to my feet, I swoop down the face, laying into a turn, sweeping around the wave’s belly, shooting up to carve around its shoulder. But again, my surfboard rail bites and I come unstuck, falling off, plunging into the sea. I am thrashed beneath the surface, my body thrown up and down, back and forth by the rush of water.

  When I surface, I climb back onto my board, feeling as if the beating has scoured my mind, my thoughts clearer now, more rational.

  Calm down, he’s not real.

  I take two deep breaths.

  Maybe I just want him here so badly, my imagination got the better of me.

  Paddling toward shore, I suddenly remember the heaviness of my feet as I walk on land, the oppressive weight of my head on my shoulders, my lungs in my chest. Out here, I’m not straining to breathe. There’s a kind of ease in the way I move.

  A wave approaches, ready to take me back to shore. At the last moment, I duck-dive under it and head back out toward the horizon.

  Back in the line-up, alone, I rest my hands on smooth silk and close my eyes. For a moment I wonder if I’ve missed my chance – the chance to be with him again – before I remind myself it wasn’t real. He wasn’t real. Ben doesn’t exist.

  ‘No offence, but that wave was shithouse.’ He laughs.

  ‘Piss off,’ I say, jaw clenched.

  ‘No.’

  ‘I want you to piss off!’ I say again, as if I can reason with my imagination.

  ‘Well, I’m here whether you like it or not. I’m here for you, Gracie.’

  ‘You’re not.’ Blood simmers and I begin to shout. ‘You’re not here! You left me! You left me all by myself!’

  He weeps, a silver stream on his cheeks. ‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, but I’m here now. I won’t leave you again.’

  ‘This is fucked,’ I mumble to myself. ‘I’ve lost it. Proper lost it.’

  He tells me he loves me.

  ‘How can you, Ben? You’re dead.’

  I swivel as the next wave forms, paddle over the shoulder and ride it all the way to the shore on my belly, washing onto the sand like a beached sea creature with no idea how to get home.

  Twenty-Seven

  FAR, FAR AWAY

  Mr Woodlow isn’t teaching anything new this week. With exams only three weeks away, we’re spending our lessons revising course-work and fine-tuning our essays. Mia takes shallow breaths and I soon understand I’ve forgotten to put deodorant on. I’m also not wearing socks. I couldn’t find any clean ones, so now my feet are sweating in my sneakers. I wonder what smells worse.

  Fans click overhead, pens scribble on paper. Mr Woodlow calls me up to his desk and I bring with me my tattered notebook. He pulls a chair over for me to sit on and clears his papers and laptop to one side of the table. Sitting down beside him, I wonder if he can smell me too.

  ‘Okay,’ he says, his voice hushed so he doesn’t disturb the rest of the class. ‘What have we got to work with?’

  I put my notebook down on the desk and flick through. The dates written at the top of each page skip days. Some skip three or four in a row. I stop on today’s page, revealing a few loose notes and a paragraph scrawled in purple texta.

  He sighs. ‘Well, it’s a start.’

  I think about how, before all this, I’d wanted to score ninety on my HSC, because my lucky number is nine and there are lots of university courses you can pick with that score. I didn’t know which course I wanted, but I figured it would be nice to at least have a choice. Mum said the HSC wasn’t the be all and end all. She said there are always other ways to get what you want.

  Mr Woodlow turns to a fresh page and begins to map out an essay plan. I watch his pen draw and write and circle but soon his words are just ink on paper.

  I’m sinking into a dark sea. Hey, Gracie. I think of Ben’s silhouette, the moon resting on his cheek.

  Mr Woodlow reaches under the sea and pulls me to the surface. ‘Grace, I’m trying to help you, but you need to concentrate.’

  He lets go and I sink straight back down. I think of Ben, how he said he was there for me, out in the water, and consider what Mum told me; how there are always other ways to get what you want.

  Perhaps this is how I get him back.

  I’m waiting for Jake on the kerb out the front of school at recess when Mia meanders along the path and sits down beside me.

  ‘Please don’t go,’ she says softly. Her skin ashen with dark marks beneath tired, sinking eyes. ‘I’ve eaten recess by myself every day this week.’

  ‘What do you mean? Where’s Toby?’

  ‘In the library, studying. The only time he comes out is to go to class.’

  A magpie eating crumbs off the road narrowly misses getting hit by a car.

  ‘So he goes to the toilet at his desk?’

  Mia crosses her arms. ‘Don’t joke. His mum was talking to Dad the other day, and she said Toby studied for eleven hours straight on the weekend. That’s not normal.’

  Jake pulls to the kerb, winds down the passenger window. ‘Ya coming?’

  I stand, dust dirt off my school skirt and sling my bag over my shoulder.

  Mia tugs on my sleeve. ‘Please.’

  ‘You can come with us,’ I suggest as I open the door and climb in.

  ‘Yeah,’ Jake laughs. ‘There’s room. Grace won’t mind sitting on the gearstick.’

  Mia rolls her eyes, her feet planted firmly on the ground. ‘Disgusting,’ she mumbles and we drive off, leaving her to choke on black exhaust, alone.

  I wake up on a bed of milk crates between a grimy wall and a garbage bin, cradling a kebab, plastic digging into my skin. Sitting up, I wipe dry, crusty drool off my chin.

  Jake is sitting with his knees tucked up, arms wrapped around them, his back to my crate bed. His head hangs down between his knees and I lift it by the hair to make sure his lips aren’t blue, to make sure he’s alive.

  My tongue is cardboard, my teeth are chalk and I’ve got a cracking headache. With Jake, Fridays dissolve into Sundays and soon I can’t remember who held me tighter, whose hands got closer to my underwear or which name belonged to which guy. I look around the dank alleyway. Where are we?

  I unzip my fly and take a peek to make sure I’ve still got underwear on.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Jake says. ‘We were together the whole night.’ He spies my kebab. ‘Can I have a bite of that?’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  He smiles, reaching across and stealing a mouthful of cold meat wrapped in stale, flaky bread.

  ‘Wow,’ I say, eyes wandering around the grimy walls. We’re surrounded by bags of trash, graffiti and broken glass. I wonder how many rats slept with us. ‘Low point.’

  He shrugs, smirks. ‘Well, what do you expect?’

  Glancing at my watch, I swear. ‘Shit. I’m meant to be in class in twenty minutes.’

  Jake laughs. ‘Good luck with that.’

  We find our way back to the car eventually and drive home, even though I tell Jake he shouldn’t.

  Monty licks dirt off our legs as we climb the three steps onto the verandah. In the shower, we stand in our clothes, slowly peeling off wet fabric, shedding skin. In my room I charge my phone. I don’t know if I’m relieved or concerned that there are no missed calls; that Mum didn’t even register I wasn’t here last night.

  We smother crackers with peanut butter and sink into the couch, neither one of us bothering to turn on the TV. Jake lights a cigarette and I don’t bother to remind him he’s not allowed to smoke in the house. I just close my eyes and doze off, barely breathing.

  A slap to the cheek – my eyelids burst open and I gasp.

  Mia stands over me, hands gripping my shoulders, shaking, jolti
ng. ‘Wake up!’

  I feel my eyes roll back in their sockets. My neck flops, my head sags. She holds me upright, slaps me again.

  ‘I’m awake, I’m awake,’ I mutter, rubbing my eyes, peanut butter stuck to the walls of my mouth. The light is pink; it’s late afternoon.

  ‘Take a look at this.’ Mia shoves her phone in my face. It’s a picture, posted last night, of Jake and me sitting in a gutter with two boys, slices of pepperoni pizza and kebabs in our hands, beer cans littering the street, vomit pooled at my feet. I vaguely recognise the face of one boy and scratch my brain trying to recall the other.

  Posted 3.27 a.m.

  ‘Is this a joke?’ Mia says as Jake reaches across me to take a look.

  ‘Legends,’ he says. ‘They shouted us pizza!’

  She slides the phone into her pocket and crouches, putting both hands on my knees.

  Her words are hushed. ‘Come home.’

  ‘I am home,’ I tell her.

  Shaking her head, she stands up. ‘You are so far from it.’

  I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to the silence, the heaviness between a wave breaking and a gust of wind, the void where his voice should be.

  Alone in the house, I crank the stereo and turn it full volume. I rummage through the fridge and pantry, pulling out food that has been here since Sasha and Kate left. Piling a bag of frozen peas, carrots and corn and half a litre of clumpy orange juice into the blender, I blitz it at the highest setting. I flick the TV on as I make some toast but it burns, setting the smoke alarm off. I’m up on the breakfast bar, flapping a tea towel at the ceiling, when I hear someone call my name.

  ‘Grace!’

  I turn to see Harley through the flyscreen. The smoke alarm stops beeping, I flick off the blender and climb down to let him in.

  ‘This is for you,’ Harley says, holding a tray of food. There is a dish of olives, some bread and a bowl of a creamy coloured soup topped with a swirl of olive oil and a sprinkling of cumin. Nestled between the dishes is a small bunch of daisies, tied together with a blue ribbon. His hands shake, and I notice the tan leather bracelet around his wrist, the one I used to think was so trendy. I see it now for what it really is, a strip of hide, dead skin.

  Harley edges forward. A stitch knots in my abdomen. I take half a step back.

  ‘Tell Nila thank you, but I think we’ve had enough.’

  His body shrinks, ever so slightly. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Are you?’ I say.

  As Harley steps away, I watch a brilliant blue flare burn out, dashing any hope of rescue.

  Twenty-Eight

  ANYTHING

  On clear nights, a stream of moonlight pours through my window, plating my body in silver. This bedroom was the one thing that truly inspired jealousy in Ben. His window overlooks the yard, out toward the street – our veggie patch, Mum’s flowerbed. Mine overlooks our fig tree, wild kangaroo paw and bottlebrush, our rickety fence and the smooth, sloping grassy hill. It faces the sea – her majestic blue body.

  Dad and two friends built a dividing wall when we were ten, splitting our room in two. We played scissors paper rock to see who would get the ocean-facing room. I won the first round and Ben said best of three. When I won the second round, I remember feeling more surprised than joyful that I was the lucky one.

  Sitting in our rooms when we were grounded, we’d play knocking games, communicating through code rhythms of knuckles on plaster. When we each received stereos for Christmas at thirteen, we’d turn our music up and up, trying to drown out the sound of the other until it was so loud the wall between us vibrated. Often, Ben hid in my cupboard, jumping out to scare me, frightening me so badly I would burst into tears and he’d feel truly sorry – until he did it again.

  And then there were the times he would come into my room and we’d sit on my bed, gazing out for hours, mesmerised by the sea. I’d open my window and we’d listen, enthralled by the conversation between the ocean and the earth.

  Now, I wake on clear nights to the cold tide of moonlight, no knuckles on plaster behind the wall, no heart beating between ribs. I lie, paralysed, in a soundless dream, one that I desperately want to wake from.

  Tonight, though, the early October air is warm enough for me to open my window before I go to sleep. When I wake in the night, I hear breakers singing, and though I shiver, I can almost hear him, too, in the rhythm of the waves knocking on the shore. I start to wonder – is something better than nothing? Is a figment of the imagination a cruel trick, or a gift?

  Climbing out of bed, goosebumps prickle my bony back. Hunched, blind, I sift through my drawers until I find a bikini and creep through the house, out into the yard. As I draw the side door of the shed open, it creaks, and I pause, checking Mum’s window. Inside, I shake sand off my wetsuit, scramble into it in the shadows, fumble, stub my toe, lower my board off the rack and emerge, draped in moonlight.

  My moon shadow, a stranger, stalks me as I tread down the hill.

  I leave footprints in the wet grass; sand burns my toes like dry ice. Arriving at the water’s edge, air slices my lungs. Lunging into the shore break, water cleanses my skin. Like last time, I’m knocked off my board. After the third wave, I remember what it is to surrender. Digging deep, I close my eyes.

  I listen to the tumble of each white wash, feel the pull of tides, the bubble of undercurrents, taste the salt and smell the foam. I imagine all the creatures alive beneath the surface. I imagine all the creatures that have lived and died in this blue body.

  The wash becomes stronger. I’m ripped and tossed in the thick turbulence. I hear waves crunching, chewing, and as I duck-dive, my board scrapes the ground, fins slicing the sandbank.

  I’m close to the line-up, but not close enough, as I hear a wild roar. Panting, thrashing my arms in the water, I race out to sea. Tides beneath me suck out, drawing water off the shallow bank, and I know something big is approaching. It gurgles as it stands. I throw my weight down, pushing as deep as I possibly can, but it’s not enough. Its lip cracks on my back, its hands ripping me off my board, jerking my body in all directions. Whips of sand scratch my face. Water shoots up my nose.

  Remembering, again, all those years of training, I curl into a ball, sink under the cloud of turbulence, touch the sandbank, plant my feet and jump up, shooting through the back of the wave. I pull on my leg-rope and climb onto my board, breathless, with sand in my ears, nostrils, mouth, all burning.

  I stroke into the line-up, weak with jelly limbs, sit up on my board and wipe matted hair from my skin. My feet dangle from my board, swaying with the gentle currents. Tonight a crescent moon rests on dark water.

  I sit up on my board and look around but Ben’s not here. The sky and sea blur together. I rest my palms on chilled black milk, breathe in, but my lungs don’t seem to expand. It’s as if someone has carved out my insides, and even if I were to drink the entire ocean, it would not be enough to fill me up.

  I drift in dead water, alone, warm tears on my cheeks. Maybe I missed my chance. Maybe it was my imagination.

  ‘Pretty fat out here. Some fun ones on the inside, though. They’re really jacking up.’

  Breath catches in my throat. I twist and there he is, among floating stars, perched on his board.

  ‘Told you I’d be here.’

  Moonlight paints silver leaf on his cheek, neck and shoulder. I splash water. It sprays his chest. He splashes me back. Water sprays my chest.

  ‘Impossible,’ I whisper.

  ‘I hate to say I told you so, but—’

  ‘Impossible.’

  ‘Give it up, Gracie. I’m here.’

  Words roll off his tongue, landing on the water the way they always have. Impossible, and yet they do.

  Ben reaches out his hand. ‘I’ll prove it.’

  I kick back, out of reach. If my imagination has brought him here, pulled him up from the bottom of the ocean, I won’t let my skin break the spell. Anything is better than nothing.

  ‘You�
��ve really fucked everyone over,’ I say at last.

  ‘What? By dying?’ His laugh is a clap of thunder, a crescendo in the sky.

  My body is neither hot nor cold and yet my teeth chatter. Water begins to suck as a wave climbs out of icy depths. I lie down, closing my eyes to paddle into position. The wave picks me up, carries me on its shoulder. I glide to my feet, swoop, fly, hovering for a moment before swooping once more. I open my eyes to see streaks of molten silver twisting with black liquid and ride until the wave spikes on the sharp sandbank. I catch a rail and am hurled from my board into the tide. Standing up, my knees buckle, and I tug on my leg-rope. Although I’m sure I should head toward land, I leap back onto my board, stroking the sea, pulling back to him.

  ‘You know,’ he says, as I reach him again, ‘this whole night surfing business, I don’t know whether you’re brave or just stupid.’

  Floating in a ray of moonlight, I shrug.

  ‘I don’t want you to get hurt,’ he says.

  Hurt? The very idea makes me laugh out loud.

  ‘I’m serious,’ he says, lips slanted. ‘I’m worried about you … you and Jake. You’re going to kill yourselves.’

  ‘You can’t lecture me.’ My voice cracks. ‘You’re dead.’

  ‘Gracie.’

  I sit, legs swaying, eyes fixed on his, and for the first time the silence between us is not quite as heavy.

  ‘How does it feel, being dead?’ I ask.

  He swallows hard, shifts his weight on his board.

  ‘Come on. If you’re really here, a ghost or whatever, tell me what it’s like.’

  ‘It’s everything and nothing.’ Ben’s smile is weak, his lips curling the way they used to when he didn’t want to hurt my feelings. ‘It’s like the absent moment between night and day.’

  Twenty-Nine

  HIDE AND SEEK

  Sitting in biology, I spread my books, pencils and loose study sheets out over both tables so the seat beside me doesn’t seem quite so empty. I try to concentrate on my notes but my eyes keep sliding in and out of focus and I see double. I wonder if people saw double when Ben was alive.