Breathing Under Water

by Sophie Hardcastle

  Finally, he lifts his head. Harley’s eyes rest on mine like a late afternoon sky on the sea. ‘Yes, Grace, I would care.’

  I remark, ‘Find that hard to believe.’

  ‘Look, can you get off the roof? It would be a whole lot easier to talk to you down here.’

  When I don’t budge, he wipes salt from his face with his hands. ‘Fine,’ Harley says, and dusts sand off his feet before climbing over the bull bar up onto the roof to sit beside me.

  He sighs. ‘I would care … A lot.’

  I feel lightheaded. ‘I know it wasn’t your mum making the sympathy food,’ I say, my voice breaking. ‘Who are you trying to be? An anonymous benefactor?’ I tuck my knees to my chest, squeezing my chin between my kneecaps. ‘I’m not a charity case.’

  Wave after wave laps the shore and he says nothing.

  We sit shoulder to shoulder, the skin of Harley’s upper arm, chilled by the ocean currents, cold against my flesh. Finally he cracks the sheet of silence. ‘It wasn’t my place.’

  The sun bites my skin. ‘I don’t get it.’

  ‘It wasn’t my place. I couldn’t just fix this for you.’

  I lie back on the roof, black metal scorching.

  ‘I couldn’t just sweep in and make you feel better, Grace. You needed to do that on your own.’

  I cover my eyes with my arms to conceal the tears, but then I start to sob, giving away the whole charade.

  Harley lies back to rest beside me. ‘I figured if you wandered back, I’d be here, waiting.’ He pauses. Swallows. ‘And I am here …’

  A gentle sea breeze sways pine branches, brushes my cheek.

  I take his hand, interlace my fingers with his and breathe.

  ‘My mum’s making fish curry tonight.’

  ‘What kind of fish?’ he says.

  ‘Snapper.’

  Harley’s hand squeezes mine. ‘I love fish curry.’

  He wanders up our driveway for the fourth time in three days just after noon, when Mum and I are sharing a fruit salad on the verandah. Mum invites Harley to join us. Grinning, he sits down by my side and reaches for some grapes. As I lean against his shoulder, mango juice dribbles down over my skin, onto my chest, dampening my bikini top. He laughs, tells me I’m a messy eater. Mum agrees, says I always have been. I lick my lips, giggling.

  ‘Want to go for a swim?’ he says when Mum has gone inside with the empty fruit bowl.

  I nod and he takes my sticky hand, leading me through the yard.

  At the base of the grassy hill, we dart across the beach to the rocks, blistering sand scorching the soles of our feet. Beyond the rock shelf, turquoise tides sway. The sea is calm, as if it is dozing. Mere ripples kiss the shore.

  As we step over rock pools filled with sea snails, periwinkles and limpets, a wave washes over them, and I marvel at the way they survive the flood of high tides and the drain of low tides.

  ‘Watch out for oysters,’ Harley says, helping me over a cluster of sharp shells to reach the edge of the rock platform, then counts, ‘One … Two …’

  ‘Three!’ I squeal as we leap toward a sun-kissed sea.

  Rising to the surface, Harley spits water in my face, a grin spreading his lips as I spit back.

  Treading water, seagrass tickles my feet, and I laugh from the pit of my stomach.

  We make dinner while Mum reclines on the day bed out on the verandah, Monty tucked under her arm, resting his head on her chest. I draw homemade flatbread from the oven, the heavenly scent of warm bread mixing with garlic and spices. Harley combines beef mince, garlic, fresh coriander and parsley, cinnamon and ground coriander in a bowl then rolls the mixture into balls and lays them to cook in a tomato and onion sauce, simmering in a skillet on the stove. As it bubbles away, Harley and I garnish a terracotta platter with fluffy couscous, roasted pistachios, marinated olives and sweet carrots.

  Through the window, I catch a glimpse of Mum dozing with Monty and wonder if Harley’s presence in the house is making Dad’s absence pinch her heart that little bit tighter.

  Walking back over to the stovetop, Harley takes the lid off the skillet and says, ‘Now for my favourite part.’ He takes three eggs and cracks them into depressions in the sauce. After a few minutes they have cooked to perfection and Harley beams. ‘All done.’

  I grab some paper plates and cutlery, pick up the terracotta plate and follow him as he carries the skillet by the handle out onto the verandah.

  ‘Why don’t we eat down on the grass?’ I suggest.

  Mum nods with a tired smile, and she and Monty walk with us through the gate to sit halfway down the grassy hill. As we eat, light is fading and soon dusk colours the sky with purple chalk.

  ‘Mmm, this is delicious,’ Mum says, flavours warming her skin. ‘Well done, you two.’

  I munch on a handful of pistachios, glowing with pleasure at the way her words have coupled Harley and me together.

  The three of us eat here, on soft grass, until our bellies are full, and I feed Monty the leftovers. Mum licks her fingers and thanks us again before carrying the platter and skillet back up to the house, Monty in tow.

  Lorikeets squawk in conversation in tall pine trees, silhouettes against a fading day. In silence, Harley and I watch the last of the swimmers wander back across the sand toward Marlow’s beach park, where families pack up their picnic rugs and baskets. Harley checks the time on his phone. ‘I should probably go home soon.’

  I pause before responding, not wanting him to go. ‘Jake and I found a box of old VCR movies a few weeks ago. They’re in the shed.’ I hesitate. ‘They’re classics … If you wanted to stay for a bit …’

  ‘I’d like that.’

  Hopping up, dusting grass from his shorts, he helps me to my feet. Then he crouches in front of me. ‘Here,’ he says, taking my hand, and looping my arm over his shoulder before piggybacking me all the way up the hill.

  In the shed, he lays me down on the couch before taking a seat beside me.

  ‘Impressive,’ I grin and he laughs between laboured breaths.

  ‘So do I get to pick the movie, then?’ he asks.

  I nod and he crawls to the cardboard box of movies.

  Harley chooses Aladdin and puts the old tape in the VCR player. There’s a blanket at the end of the couch but we leave it there. Inside the shed it’s even warmer than outside. A droplet of sweat slides between my shoulderblades, another slides between my breasts.

  ‘I can’t believe how hot it is,’ he says. ‘Should I open the roller door?’

  In the yard, cicadas buzz in the shadows. I turn the volume up on the TV to compete with them as Harley lifts the roller door, then lights a citronella coil to stop mosquitoes from swarming into the shed. Sweaty in the summer air, we watch the opening credits with only our hands touching. We’re barely halfway through the movie when our eyelids start drooping, our bodies sedated by the heat, and in the moment before I fall asleep, I see Genie fly free from the lamp.

  In the early hours of the morning, the darkest before dawn, I am drifting in and out of sleep when there’s a southerly change. Cool winds sweep across the ocean, blow over rock pools, lifting sand and rustling leaves. A chill runs down my spine, rousing me as goosebumps rise on my bare skin. I’m conscious of the drop in temperature, but have not woken fully enough to reach for a blanket.

  I feel the movement of another body on the couch beside me and gravitate toward its warmth, my eyes closed.

  His skin is smooth, his breath slow, steady, deep. Arms cloak my body and the brush of soft palms soothes, a relief in the shadows. Harley combs his fingers through my hair, kisses the hollow at the base of my throat, and with my eyes still closed, I feel him moving like currents in the night sea.

  Harley’s fingertips touch my cheek, my lips. His hold is deliberate, yet tender. As I relax my hand on his chest my heartbeat calms.

  Harley’s lips touch mine and it’s not like I suddenly start to melt, or like everything becomes warm and fuzzy.

&nb
sp; It’s honest.

  And as I sink with him into a serene, dreamless sleep, there’s a softening of muscle around bones that have ached for hours.

  Mia, leaning against my doorframe, knocks.

  A tender afternoon breeze cruises in through my open window.

  I sit up in bed, wearing a singlet, undies, socks and a grin. ‘Since when do you knock?’

  She shrugs, the light catching her eyes. ‘Thought you might have been asleep.’

  ‘Nope, just dozing.’ I reach across my bedside table and sip from my water bottle, quenching a parched throat.

  ‘You’re still the only person I know who sleeps with their mouth open.’ She laughs. ‘Wonder how many spiders you’ve eaten.’

  My face twists with disgust and I whack her with my pillow.

  ‘He kissed you, didn’t he,’ she says when the giggles subside.

  ‘How can you tell?’

  Mia takes hold of my hand, a gentle squeeze. ‘You’ve never looked like this before.’

  Another breath of sea air drifts through the window, lifting my hair ever so slightly. Mia’s gaze drops and I notice her sparkly turquoise nails. ‘I like that polish …’ I say. ‘Looks like mermaid scales.’

  She looks up at me, tears like tiny birds in her sky blue eyes.

  After a long, silent pause, Mia says, ‘It’s a good feeling, isn’t it?’

  ‘Kissing?’

  ‘Falling in love.’

  I stare, my mouth gaping.

  ‘It’s okay,’ she says. ‘For so long I’ve been fixated on that woman. What she took away from me, from us … everything she took away from Ben.’ Mia wipes her eyes on the back of her hand. ‘I didn’t really stop to think about what he had given me.’

  I offer her a sip from my water bottle.

  She sloshes water around her mouth, swallows, and clears her throat. ‘He loved me for all that I am and I’ll never settle for anything less.’

  Nodding, I bite my tongue, tears running freely over my cheeks.

  ‘Ben gave me that feeling, and I know I gave it to him.’ Mia pauses, shaking a little. ‘She’ll never take that … It’s ours.’

  I think about the times he shared with me, kept promises, played tricks, defended me. I think about the times he teased me, argued with me, waited for me, held me up, competed with me, scared me, protected me. I think about the times he cooked for me, the times he gave me the wave of the day – and all the nights he checked under my bed for monsters.

  I think about the times he made me cry until I laughed. The times he made me laugh until I cried.

  And then I think about the times he found me when no one else could.

  Mia is right. No one will ever take that from us. It’s ours.

  Thirty-Eight

  PINA COLADAS

  This day is falling asleep when her mobile rings. Mum puts her spatula down on the bench, licks fingers, wipes her hands on her jeans and reaches for the handset. Her first breath escapes her. She doesn’t take a second.

  Sitting on my stool at the breakfast bar, this is the second time in my life that I have seen someone wear this face.

  They’ve taken Dad to Port Lawnam and as we make our way down the highway, darkness saturates green paddocks.

  Beneath a bruised moon, I wonder how someone can be so selfish … How when it all turns to shit, he can call the very woman he destroyed, asking for her help.

  Mum pulls into the car lot, parking between two bays. ‘Come on,’ she says. ‘Hurry up.’

  I meander along behind her toward sliding glass doors. Mum ignores me when I suggest we take it slow … make him wait. Arriving at the nurses’ station in the emergency wing, I cringe as a gurney is wheeled behind me. I catch a glimpse of an old man in the passing bed. He’s so frail, a hospital gown on a coathanger.

  ‘Please sit down,’ the nurse says. ‘A doctor will be out in just a minute.’

  I notice Mum’s legs shaking and steer her to a chair. In the waiting room, there are magazines from three years ago, a vending machine, people with wet cheeks and a kid with a scarlet rash from head to toe. I catch myself staring and he burrows his face into his mum’s armpit.

  ‘Do you have any coins?’ I ask Mum.

  She stares, her expression blank.

  ‘For the vending machine – I want to buy a packet of chips.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘I’m hungry. Can I please have two dollars?’

  ‘Whatever,’ she says, and leans back in her plastic chair, sliding her bag across the floor to me with her foot. I fish out gold coins and buy a bag of cheesy rings, wearing them on my fingers then biting them off one by one. The kid with the rash watches me eat, tugs on his mum’s shirt. She shakes her head and he burrows his face back into her side.

  A doctor approaches us with a clipboard. ‘Mrs Walker?’

  Mum nods, looking flushed and sweaty.

  ‘We’re running some extra tests, just to be sure, but at this stage all seems fine. He didn’t go into cardiac arrest.’ The doctor pauses. ‘He had all the symptoms, but it looks like he’s in the clear. Quite a scare, I’m sure. You can see him now.’ Noticing the junk food in my hand she says, ‘You can’t bring that in with you. Sorry.’

  ‘But I haven’t finished them yet.’

  Mum snatches the packet off me, throws it in the bin.

  ‘Mr Walker,’ the doctor says.

  Grey skin. Grey stubble. Grey eyes. I’m not sure I even recognise this man.

  He can’t look at us, turning his face away.

  Mum’s hand grips the bedrail as the doctor says he’ll be able to go home after a few hours of observation, but his drinking, his smoking … next time he might not be so lucky. Tears gather in his eyes.

  Mum’s knuckles are white as the doctor says he needs time off, he needs time to rest. ‘I assume he’s going home with you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Mum says, her voice cracking. She takes a seat in the chair beside his bed, her spine awkwardly straight against the plastic back.

  ‘I’m going back to the waiting room,’ I say, and walk out.

  She catches me in the hall, grabbing my arm, yanking me to a standstill.

  ‘He’s still my husband,’ Mum hisses.

  Clasping my fingers around her wrist, I lift her hand, jerking it toward her face, waving her naked ring finger before her eyes. ‘Is he?’

  Mum slumps against the wall and starts to cry.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mum.’ I step forward, embracing her, and she buries her face in my shoulder. ‘I didn’t mean to … I love you,’ I say.

  Her words are muffled. ‘We’re all he has, Grace.’

  I’m yawning in the car as we drive home in silence. Dad doesn’t make a sound, just sitting there in the passenger seat, gazing out into the darkness, and I wonder for a moment if he’s even breathing.

  Gravel crunches, I’ve been dozing. Mum pulls the handbrake, unbuckles her seatbelt and walks around to open his door. Monty walks out onto the verandah and the sensor light turns on, flickering in the night. Tiny flying bugs buzz around it, hypnotised.

  Mum helps Dad out of the car, but as they tread across the yard, Monty stands his ground at the top of the steps, chin up, and hairs raised. He guards his house, his family. He growls.

  Suddenly, Dad loses it. His limbs fail him and he falls onto dirt and grass in a crumpled heap. A mess. Bursting into tears, he cries, ‘I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!’

  I call for Monty. He hobbles down the stairs, and I pat him, reassure him this is not a stranger. Monty sniffs Dad, circles him twice, before licking the nape of his neck. Finally, Monty wags his tail.

  I help Mum lift Dad to his feet, supporting him as he staggers toward the house. Sitting him on the couch, Mum makes him a cup of tea while I bring blankets and a pillow out from the hall cupboard, laying them beside him.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ he says again as Mum crosses the living room with the mug, passing it to him.

  ‘It’s late, save it for
the morning,’ she says and turns off the kitchen light.

  I wake with the sun cracking on the horizon and an egg cracking in a pan.

  I smell onion and garlic browning – nearly burning – as the kettle sings and sunshine dances on my windowsill.

  Sitting up, I stretch my limbs and yawn as I notice the footsteps I hear are too heavy to be Mum’s. I step into my uggs, pull a singlet over my head and tiptoe down the hall, unsure who I’m about to find.

  Creeping into the living room unnoticed, I see Dad pull the kettle off the stove, pouring boiling water into the teapot Ben and I painted for Mum when we were in kindy. Sweet chamomile steam rises from the spout.

  Piled beside the juicer are fruit scraps and three glasses filled to the brim with bright orange liquid. He’s even rummaged through the drawers to find the twisty party straws and stuck a sliced strawberry to the rim of each glass. Two pans spit on the stove, bacon, eggs and hash browns in one and veggies in the other. The spinach is quickly shrinking, the mushrooms are near black and the halved tomatoes are saggy, but it’s the closest he’s ever come to serving a cooked breakfast. Dad stands shirtless in wet board shorts, water dripping from his hair and running down between his shoulderblades. He smells of the sea and I wonder how long he’s been awake. When he turns, my presence takes him by surprise. ‘Whoa!’ he jokes. ‘Do you want to give me a real heart attack?’

  I shrug and refrain from saying maybe.

  My silence wipes Dad’s smirk from his face and he turns back to the stove. ‘Oh shit!’ He takes the bacon off the heat. I’m not sure whether you’d classify it as crisp or charred, but I have to admit he has done well with the hash browns, sizzling, crunchy and golden.

  ‘You should probably turn the other one off too,’ I suggest and he does, smiling at me from across the kitchen.

  From the cupboard, Dad pulls out three plates, ceramic with blue and white swirl glazes. He lays them down on the bench and scrapes the contents of both pans onto the plates. Then, with his fingers, he arranges the food, trying to make it look at least semi-presentable.