Breathing Underwater

by Sarah Allen

  The pool was well-lit, and there were designs carved into the walls and the floor below. One of my favorite things was to go down to the deepest end and trace the designs on the bottom. I imagined taking pictures of the designs and tried to think of what Treasure Hunt words I would use those pictures for. I couldn’t think of very many; that wasn’t my strong suit. Having Ruth give me the words always sparked some new ideas I wouldn’t have thought of otherwise.

  The hard part of diving for me was what the teacher called a “buoyancy compensator”—the part of the gear that helped you sink lower or float higher. I wasn’t as smooth with it as I wanted to be, but soon enough I was belly down on the pool floor, crawling deeper and deeper. I loved the way the blue-green light swam in the water. If I turned my head, I could see people swimming above me; I could see Ruth’s black fins with the red stripe down the middle. What word would Ruth give for a picture like that, I wondered.

  Soon I was in the deep end, around the drain grate. Along the edge were carvings of sea turtles and stingrays. I swam up close, my goggles inches from the concrete, and wished I had an underwater camera with me.

  To this day I don’t know what happened. In a split second, one side of my goggles had filled up with water and the other was full enough I had to close my eyes. It happened so fast it shocked me, and I twisted and flinched and lost my orientation. It took all my self-control not to completely panic and lose my regulator.

  The water seemed to swamp my brain and I couldn’t think. My feet were flailing inside their flippers. What was it I was supposed to do? I tried to remember. Something about floating to the top, maybe? Inflating something? I needed someone to remind me what I was supposed to do. I was sure I was going to lose my oxygen and start gulping pool water.

  I probably would have been able to manage, would have thought of something, but before I’d had a chance to calm down, I felt a grip on the back of my arm. A firm grip, pulling me upward. I knew who it was by the feel of her hands.

  When we broke the surface, I yanked my goggles off and pulled the regulator out of my mouth. Even though I hadn’t lost my oxygen, it was still difficult to catch my breath, and I bobbed in the water, breathing hard and rubbing my eyes until I could see again.

  When I’d blinked the last of the water out of my eyes, Ruth was there floating in front of me, goggles off, hair slicked back.

  “I’m okay,” I said. “I can do this.”

  For a second she just looked at me. In that flashing moment I could see the aching, sorrowful whirlpool behind her eyes, like a reflection in the water.

  “Don’t freak out next time, okay?” she said. Then she turned and swam away, back toward the deep end, pulling on her goggles and regulator as she went.

  * * *

  Our Uber pulls up to the concert hall and I hand Ellie back the Neosporin.

  “You tripped going into the cemetery?” Ellie asks.

  “Yeah,” I say.

  When they picked us up, Ruth told Ellie we just went for a walk. I stayed quiet.

  Ellie says, “I know I already said this at dinner, but, guys, please don’t wander so far next time, especially without telling us.”

  “I know,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

  Ruth doesn’t say anything. Neither Ellie nor Eddie has seen the small bass clef that’s now behind Ruth’s right ear. I saw it at the restaurant when I went with Ruth to the bathroom and she peeled the bandage back a little to check it in the mirror. The skin is red and swollen, but she’s kept the bandage over it and kept her hood up and has so far managed to hide it from them.

  We step into the lobby and there’s a gorgeous glass chandelier sparkling above us. Eddie gets our tickets and we go into the auditorium and slide down the row to our seats. I land in the seat on Ruth’s right, her tattoo facing me instead of Ellie and Eddie, and I think she finagled that on purpose.

  Then the lights go down, and Ruth leans forward. The seats are soft velvet, and the audience around us hushes.

  A blast from a chorus of saxophones shakes us in our seats, and bright white lights flash all around us before sparkling and closing in on the musicians up onstage. The pianist starts a rhythmic trill on the keyboard, following the drums’ pulsing beat.

  Neither Ruth nor I know much about this jazz group, but Ellie and Eddie have been excited about them for a long time. My sister’s wide eyes reflect the stage lights, and she’s smiling without thinking much about it. I think something about live music, whatever kind it is, fits inside Ruth’s heart-space the way being behind a camera does for me. She seems open and free the whole show.

  At intermission, Ruth turns to Ellie. “How did you find out about these guys? They’re awesome!”

  “Right?” Ellie says. “It was so random, actually. I was planning this 1920s-themed event for work and found them on YouTube and got totally obsessed. With New Orleans–style jazz generally and these guys in particular. I mean, the group improv skills … it’s mind-blowing.”

  They start chatting about music, how Eddie played the trombone in high school and college. That’s something I didn’t know about him, and I didn’t think Ruth would be that into jazz.

  But I’m not paying too much attention to exactly what they’re saying because there’s something I don’t get. After walking through a strange new city, after arguing on the phone with me, after getting an illegal tattoo that is going to get her in epic trouble at some point or another, Ruth’s here chatting and relaxing in these red theater seats, enjoying a concert like nothing’s happened. The tattoo—the incriminating evidence—is one wrong head-turn away from being spotted, but that doesn’t seem to bother her at all.

  After a few minutes Ruth goes back to poring over her program. On the open page is a picture of the musicians and the words New Orleans Jazz Company. I take out my camera, and as quickly as I can, take a picture of her hands holding the program, her thumbs pointing up toward the New. I try to make it seem like I’m just scrolling through old photos for a second, and she doesn’t notice I’m taking a picture. I stash my camera again just as quickly, before any of the ushers notice.

  This concert-program photo will have to technically count for my Something New picture, since tomorrow we’re leaving for a new city and a new plan. It’s a major stretch, and not at all the same kind of happy jump shot as last time. I’m not thrilled, but I did the best I could.

  Then Ruth turns to me, looking exhilarated. “These guys are so insanely talented, aren’t they?”

  The lights shut off suddenly, then a spotlight illuminates a single trumpeter in the middle of the stage. He stands there, alone in the light, brings the gleaming trumpet up to his lips, and begins a high, soaring solo that reaches to the back of the audience, up to the tall, tall roof, and out into the black night sky.

  * * *

  A full moon spotlights me through the front RV window that night. I’ve drawn back the curtains in my little loft and stare at the moon, trying to make out a pattern in the dark smudges across its glowing surface. People say it looks like a man or a rabbit, but I can’t see anything. Maybe it’s too bright.

  I hear Ruth breathing. She has this not-quite-snore that’s more like choking in air and then puffing it out all at once. Some nights it sounds desperate and makes me sad, but tonight it is comforting. I’ve never been someone who likes sleepovers or too-long school trips or staying places at night without my family. It doesn’t count as away from family if Ruth is here.

  Despite all the things I don’t understand, despite the tattoo, almost getting mashed by a truck, and not getting the picture I wanted, I don’t feel homesick when I hear her snoring. If only my plan for the Treasure Hunt would have worked out better. If only we could have walked back to that street art, gotten that perfect replica photo. I could see that perfect shot in my mind, those big letters, Ruth’s shadow behind her on the wall as she jumped. If only Ruth would have stopped, just for a second, and let me take her picture. If only she’d listened to me once. If only …
>
  The if only’s are beginning to steam like a kettle on a hot stove.

  I sit up. It’s going to be hard to fall asleep tonight.

  And I need to cool down before the bubbles boil over.

  I climb from my loft onto the arm of the couch, making as little sound as possible. Even so, Ruth coughs and shifts onto her side. I pause, waiting until she’s back to her normal breathing before I step down onto the floor. The RV door squeaks, and I flinch and pause again before I open it the rest of the way and hurry out onto the steps.

  Warm nights are like being underwater, all-encompassing and new no matter how many times you’ve been there before. I let the night wash over me, pull me in and out like a tide. This kind of heat is way better than behind-the-eyes heat.

  The door claps shut from behind me. I turn and see Eddie. He flinches from the noise.

  “Oops,” he says.

  “Did I wake you up? I’m sorry.”

  “Naw, couldn’t sleep either.” He comes and sits next to me on the concrete ledge around the lot. He lets out a sigh and for a moment we sit in silence and watch wispy clouds pass across the moon.

  “Your dad was texting me today, asking about you guys,” Eddie says. “He’s very proud of you, in case you weren’t aware. He’s always telling me about how well you’re doing in school, all the travel books you’re reading.”

  “And getting in trouble because I get caught reading during choir.”

  He laughs. “He didn’t tell me about that one.”

  “He didn’t? Yeah, I almost got sent to the principal.”

  “We’re all human,” he says, and winks.

  An ambulance passes by, somewhere far behind us.

  “Thanks for taking us on this trip,” I say. “I think seeing pirate ships will be the most exciting thing I’ve ever done.”

  “Besides marrying Ellie and being a dad,” he says, “me too.”

  Ellie and Eddie’s daughter, Darcy, is our next stop. She’s going to show her parents around the University of Houston campus, and I know how much they’ve been looking forward to seeing her again. I’m excited to see her too. She once came and stayed with Ruth and me when all our parents were out of town for a couple of nights, and gave us both manicures and pedicures. It’s been a while since we’ve seen her.

  Houston is also where I’ve planned the Something Old portion of our trip. I did my research, and Houston has a great dinosaur museum.

  “It’ll be fun to see Darcy again,” I say.

  “Oh man, yes,” Eddie says. “Seeing her and Ellie together … I could be content just watching that for the rest of my life.”

  I’m not used to being talked to this way, without any hint of condescension or aloofness, the way most adults talk to kids my age. But Eddie is easy to talk to. He never makes me feel my own awkwardness.

  “It’s really great when they’re happy,” I say softly. I glance back at the RV. I think he knows what I mean.

  “The best,” he says.

  “That concert was really cool tonight,” I say. “I think everyone really liked it.”

  “Those guys are something, aren’t they?”

  A light breeze blows past, and frogs are performing a symphony out there in the trees. The music really was amazing, and Ruth soaked it all in. For a little while, she was enthusiastic and everything was okay. I want so badly to hear what’s going on in Ruth’s head. It’s like there’s some song in there I just can’t hear.

  I wish it was possible to take a picture of somebody else’s thoughts.

  “Eddie?” I say.

  “Hmm?” His eyes are closed, his voice tired.

  “Remember that thing you said about, like, one person’s Vincent van Gogh and all that?”

  “Sure.”

  “So … why? How come it’s like that? Why aren’t we all seeing the same thing? And if we’re all seeing things differently, how do you know what people think or … or feel, when you can’t see what each other is seeing? When you don’t think you can understand at all even when you try?”

  He opens his eyes and turns to me.

  “Explain what you mean,” he says.

  Maybe I shouldn’t have asked. “Well,” I say, choosing my words carefully. “I mean, we’re all different, right? We’re all … seeing things differently even when we’re seeing the same thing.” I inhale the wet air. “So … how do you? How do you see the same thing?”

  “Let me think,” he says. He takes his time, like he’s really considering my question. I wish all questions could be asked at two in the morning under a full moon where there was all the time in the world.

  “It’s hard to understand someone when they don’t understand you. But trying, whether or not they understand you … well, to me, I think that’s love. And I think that’s what matters.”

  “Doesn’t loving them mean you understand them?”

  Eddie laughs and his shoulders shake. “Oh, I wish. Sometimes I look at Ellie and I think, what in the world is going on in that head? But I can’t—don’t want to change her. And she couldn’t change me even when she wants to! The point is to love all of each other, all the different parts just as they are, even the things we don’t get.”

  I twirl a finger in the hem of my pajama pants. “So how do you do that?”

  He turns to me, the craning of his neck forming a double chin, and he winks. “That’s the kind of question you’ll ask yourself over and over again for the rest of your life, and how wonderful is that?”

  * * *

  I think about Eddie’s words for a long time, before we head inside. I’ll be thinking about them for a while longer too.

  When we do step back inside the RV, Eddie whispers good night and heads to the room where Ellie is sleeping. Ruth didn’t move when we came in and both Eddie and I thought she was asleep, but after Eddie closes the back-room door, I glance over and her eyes are open. She’s watching me. Feeling the colors of the city and the sound of frogs and the whispering breeze inside me, I sit on the edge of her bed. She untucks an arm and lays it across the top of her blanket.

  A big part of me wants to tell her everything, tell her about this Treasure Hunt I’m trying to do. Ask her if she remembers all the details of last time, the way I do. Ask her if all those times, all those songs and pictures and words, meant the same thing to her as they did to me.

  Instead I whisper, “Do you remember any of the pictures we put in the box?”

  She nods, her eyes blinking with sleep. “Mm-hmm, some of them. Especially that one, I think you’re in the bathroom, and I stole Mom’s eyeliner to draw a goatee on you.”

  I try to keep my laughter quiet. “I remember that.”

  “Oh man, I remember we accidentally spilled eye shadow all over the sink.” Ruth looks over at the couch and snorts. “Mom grounded us for a week.”

  “Yeah, she did. And then bought us face paint.”

  “Who were you trying to be again?” she says.

  “Calico Jack.”

  “That’s right. We went back to Anne Bonny and Mary Read after that.”

  “I’m excited to find that picture,” I say, trying to gauge her facial expression in the dark. “I remember there’s also one of you in your pirate blouse.”

  “There is?” she says, and yawns.

  The tiniest, faintest voice has occasionally whispered in my mind that there’s some chance our box might not be there after all these years, but I refuse to believe the universe would do that to me—to us. And most important, Ruth’s never said it. So I won’t either, even to myself.

  The program from the concert is now on Ruth’s shelf, along with the crow’s feather I gave her when we got back, and the tattoo sheet still poking out from under her notebook. I smile at the irony, thinking that giving her a tattoo, even a fake one, maybe wasn’t the best idea.

  “Better sleep now,” I say.

  She turns on her phone, and in its glow I climb up into my loft. I make sure my magazines are stacked neatly in the cor
ner, find Murphy, and snuggle in. I check my phone one last time before setting it at my feet.

  In the last forty-five seconds, Ruth has liked every one of my Instagram pictures.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The next morning I’m already thinking about the Something Old part of my plan when I wake up. I glance at my phone, and Ruth’s likes are still there. I smile and hop down from my loft, not even caring that my hair must look like I got dragged through a wheat field. “Morning!”

  Ellie turns and smiles at me, a book in her lap. “Morning,” she says.

  I open the tiny cupboard above the sink and pull out one of those doll-size boxes of Trix you can get from a gas station. I set myself up at the table with a paper bowl and plastic spoon and pour my cereal. I’m thinking about how life in an RV with a bowl of cereal in your hands and a shipwreck ahead of you is just about perfect.

  And then I look up and see Ruth.

  She’s leaning back with her hood up, eyes closed, and earbuds in. Her face is gray and I have to ponder for a moment, because she looks more virus-sick than anything else. Part of me hopes that’s what it is, because if she’s got something viral like a cold or a stomachache, that’s something I can actually help her with.

  If it’s not that? If she’s losing her appetite and having trouble sleeping because of The Pit? Well, that just doesn’t seem fair. Maybe that’s petty, but it’s true. Aren’t we on an epic trip to pirate ships? Wasn’t talking with Ruth in the middle of the night the best time with her in a long time?

  Her phone buzzes with what looks like a Twitter notification. When she opens her eyes and moves, a hint of color comes back into her cheeks and she doesn’t look quite as nauseated. That is a relief, but then my own stomach starts churning with not knowing what to do.

  “Hey, Ruth,” I say, before she closes back up again. She looks at me, taking out her earbuds. “Are you excited or sad to leave New Orleans?”

  Maybe there’s a spark in there I can ignite.

  Her eyes narrow. There’s no spark.