Underwater Breathing

by Parkin, Cassandra;

  Now they were in the house, and his heart was beating at a near-normal speed once more, and his most prominent feeling was a sharp pang of loss. The sister he’d lost had been small enough to carry, downy hair and peach-fuzz skin, her body straight and true like a stick of rock, her face plump and childish. The sister who had come back to him was almost a woman, older than the students in his class. Her hair had darkened a few shades, no longer cornsilk but a golden sand colour, the colour he’d once imagined the beach would be, before the day they first climbed down to the sea’s edge and found pebbles and seaweed and brown, and it was clumsily plaited into a thick braid that hung over her shoulder. Her ears were pierced and her bitten fingernails were polished a bright aqua that had begun to chip at the edges.

  If they’d been allowed to grow up together, these changes would have passed almost unnoticed, and he would have felt the shock of her transformation only when he happened across an old photograph. As it was, his heart careered around his chest as if it was trapped in a pinball machine. Joy. Sadness. Elation. Heartache. Joy. Confusion. Sadness. Confusion. Elation. Fifty thousand points ratcheted up in the space of time it took him to make a sandwich and put it on the table. His sister had come back to him, and she was a complete stranger. A stranger who he didn’t yet dare to get to know, a stranger who he was terrified might disappear again at any moment, driven away by the wrong question asked in the wrong tone of voice.

  Nonetheless, when she saw the sandwich he had made for her, cut into triangles because she always preferred it that way, and when they saw into each other’s eyes and knew they were both remembering the same moment in their shared past, the girl was unmistakeably Ella.

  (“I like it best when they’re in triangles,” she whispered, leaning against him as she wobbled on the chair she stood on, her breath hot and tickly in his ear. “Only, if I ask for triangles that makes them taste like squares. But the bread can’t hear me when I whisper, so it doesn’t matter if you make them into triangles this time even though I told you, because they won’t taste like squares.” And he’d thought about telling her not to be ridiculous, but then some softer instinct had prevailed and from then on he’d always cut her sandwiches into triangles, and each time she’d waited until their parents weren’t looking and then rewarded him with a secret smile.)

  “Is ham all right?” he asked. “You’re not a vegetarian or anything?”

  “No, it’s fine, I’m not vegetarian. Are you – um –”

  “No, I still eat meat too. Couldn’t give up bacon, I’m afraid.”

  She smiled at him shyly, as if she too was afraid that one or both of them might suddenly vanish. “Bacon’s good.”

  “I could make you a bacon one if you prefer? I just automatically made you a ham one because –” on the precipice of the past, he teetered, hesitated, pulled himself back from the edge. “I mean, it’s like, the default sandwich, isn’t it, and –”

  “Is this your dinner I’m eating? I don’t want to eat all your food.”

  “I’ve got plenty.” His heart ached. Where and how had she been living that she thought she might need to worry about eating more food than he could spare?

  “I know you weren’t expecting me.”

  “Ella, for God’s sake stop it! You’re my sister!” The words made the moment real for him at last, and he felt tears gather in a solid lump somewhere in his chest. “You’re my sister, of course you can have – look, where have you been, anyway, what happened to you?” A ridiculous question, as if Ella had simply slipped out of the house to visit a friend and been a couple of hours longer than he had expected. His voice sounded familiar in some unwelcome way, as if he had heard the same phrase before from someone else, not once but many times, and he realised with a kind of sinking horror that he’d entirely forgotten about his father.

  “Wait here,” he said, hurrying from the kitchen. How was he going to explain Ella’s presence? Could he hide her in the house somewhere, conceal her behind the door his father passed by as if it did not even exist? But then, what would happen if his father heard something and chose to finally open it? What if he was armed with the spade or the garden fork or some huge spar of wood stolen from a fence somewhere? There would be nowhere for Ella to run. He couldn’t hide a whole extra person in the house, that was ridiculous. He would have to come clean. But then, what could he tell his father?

  “Is there somebody there?” His father’s voice, rising with the panic that often took him when he woke suddenly from afternoon slumber. “Who’s there? I’ve got a gun, so don’t try anything.”

  “It’s me, Dad.” He tried to make his voice simultaneously loud and reassuring. “Don’t worry. There’s no one else here.” He’d said it so many times the words came out automatically, but now they were a lie. There was someone else here, and soon he’d have to find a way to explain her. Would his father remember Ella? And would her presence bring back the memories of the woman who had taken her away? As if frantic movement could somehow drive away the problems, he flung open the door of the living-room.

  “Jacob!” His father stood behind the door, holding – where on earth had he found it? – a blackened iron poker over his head, ready to strike. When he saw it was Jacob, he lowered the poker but did not let go. “I heard someone moving around and you sounded like you were scared so I thought –”

  “There’s nobody.” He swallowed the lie. “There’s nothing to worry about, I promise.” He reached out a hand for the poker. “Shall I put that away?”

  His father shook his head stubbornly. “You don’t know where it goes.”

  Neither do you, thought Jacob wearily. The poker was nothing he recognised, but his father had a gift for rummaging out improvised weapons from long-neglected corners of the house.

  “You can make us both a cup of tea, though,” his dad said. “Time you learned how.”

  “Dad, I – okay, yes. I’ll go and make a cup of tea.” He tried hard not to mind these moments, knowing his dad couldn’t help it, but sometimes he felt the frustration might split him in half. He reached again for the poker, but his father moved it firmly away from him. “Why don’t you sit down?”

  “No, I’ll come with you,” his father contradicted him. “I’m not leaving you on your own with a kettle yet.”

  What was his dad seeing when he looked at him? He’d been allowed to use the kettle since he was ten years old. Surely his dad couldn’t believe he was looking at a pre-teen boy?

  “I can manage, I promise.”

  “I tell you what, if you do well this time then I’ll let you do it by yourself next time – what the hell was that?”

  “What was what?”

  “There’s someone in the kitchen.”

  “Dad, wait. Wait a minute.”

  “Keep back.” He gripped the poker with both hands. “I’ll sort it.”

  “Dad, listen to me, there is someone in the kitchen but it’s someone you know, I promise, you mustn’t –”

  His father wasn’t listening. He was completely lost in his own head now, and nothing Jacob could say would reach him. His hand was on the kitchen door. Jacob took in a deep breath, ready to yell to Ella to run and not come back.

  “Hello.” His father sounded bewildered but welcoming, unexpectedly gentle, as if he’d discovered an unexpected small animal waiting by the door. “I didn’t know we had a visitor.”

  Ella sat mouse-still at the table. She looked from Jacob to their father, then back again. Her face was white.

  “It’s all right, I won’t bite.” The poker clattered to the floor, just missing his sock-clad foot. “Are you a friend of Jacob’s? I’m his father. Nice to meet you.”

  “Dad,” said Jacob. “This is Ella. You remember Ella?”

  “Ella.” Their father frowned. “I don’t think I know an Ella. But you know what Jacob’s like. He likes to keep his cards close to his chest. Have you known each other long?”

  “Dad, it’s Ella,” Jacob repeated, wretched and miser
able. “Your – um – you remember? She used to – I mean, she – um – you know her, Dad, you do know her, I promise. She’s your –” the word clung to the end of his tongue, and it took him several tries to dislodge it – “your daughter. Remember? Your daughter.”

  “My daughter?” His father looked baffled. “Ignore my son, he says ridiculous things sometimes. It’s nice to meet you. Has Jacob been looking after you properly? He’s never brought a girl home before.”

  “Oh God,” said Jacob. “Ella, I’m so sorry –”

  “Let me make a cup of tea.” His father’s smile was terrifying in its twinkly indulgence. “Then I’ll leave you both in peace.”

  “Dad, she’s not my girlfriend, she’s my… she’s your daughter, don’t you remember? Please try and remember.”

  “Good God, Jacob, you’re allowed to bring a girl home.”

  “Dad.” Jacob knew it was useless, that there was no way he could bring back the parts of his father’s memory that had been lost for years, but he had to try. “Dad. Please listen. This is Ella. Don’t you remember? Ella.” His father frowned and Jacob knew he was on dangerous ground, but he had to keep trying, if not to make his father remember, then at least to show Ella that he was doing his best for her. “She was born when I was ten. You took me to meet her in the hospital. Remember the hospital? And when I held her, you said –”

  “Be quiet!” His father’s sudden roar of rage came out of nowhere, as did the flailing arm that struck Jacob heavily on the shoulder. “Be quiet, you stupid boy! I won’t have this, do you hear me? I won’t! Stop it, just shut the fuck up with all your stupid fucking – stupid – fucking –”

  “Dad, please, I’m sorry.”

  “So you should be. Talking rubbish like that. I won’t have it. I won’t.”

  “I know, I shouldn’t have said anything, forget I said anything. Would you like a cup of tea?”

  “Don’t think you can get round me by being nice to me. You’re in trouble, do you hear me?”

  “I know Dad, and I’m not trying to get round you. I just think I ought to make you a cup of tea. Would you like that?”

  “I’ll make one,” said Ella. Her eyes were fixed on their father. She looked as if she was thinking furiously. “If you don’t mind me going through the cupboards?”

  “Someone’s brought you up properly. Jacob, you could take a few lessons from this one.” His father looked beadily around the kitchen. “I see he made you some lunch, at least. Jacob, make sure you clear that lot up later, don’t leave it for me to do, and don’t be getting your friend here to clear up after you. I’m so sorry, love, I’ve forgotten your name.”

  Her hands fumbled in the cupboard. A mug fell out and she caught it with shaking hands. “It’s Ella.”

  “That’s pretty. Like the girl it belongs to.”

  “Let’s go into the living-room,” said Jacob. “Dad, shall I get you some biscuits as well? Would you like a biscuit?”

  Sweating with embarrassment, he shepherded his father back into the living-room, got him installed with his cup of tea and his biscuit, praying he wouldn’t hear anything strange, say anything strange, start ranting about people breaking into the house or begin another endless fruitless hunt for intruders. Please, Ella, he thought, please don’t leave while I’m not there to keep an eye on you, please stay and let me explain.

  “I’m sorry,” he said as soon as he was back in the kitchen. “I should have warned you.” He wanted to touch her, to make sure she was real, but he wasn’t sure how. How could this be the little sister who had once crawled all over him and blown raspberries down his ear? She looked as shy as he felt.

  She raised her hand to her mouth, nipped at the skin at the edge of her finger and peeled off a thin little strip. “Does he think it’s still before I was born? Does he think you’re still little?”

  “I don’t know how old he thinks I am, to be honest. Some-times he sounds almost normal, asks me how school was and what the kids are like. Only then he says something about homework or the queues in the dinner-hall or something, and I realise he’s remembering me being a student, not a teacher.”

  “So you did it? You became a teacher?”

  “Yep.”

  “That’s brilliant.”

  “How about you? I mean, do you have any plans right now or –”

  “I don’t really know. I’m not clever like you. I mean, I’m doing A-levels but I’m not doing very well. My teachers are really nice about it but I’m pretty sure I’m going to fail.”

  He’d never pictured her at school. But then he’d never pictured her growing up, either.

  “Your finger’s bleeding,” he said.

  “Oh.” She sucked at the bead of blood. “That’s what I get for biting my nails.”

  “Let me get you a plaster – oh, for God’s sake, was that Dad calling?”

  “It’s all right, I know he needs you.”

  “We’ll talk properly later, he’ll go to sleep after dinner – hi, Dad,” he called back, as his father’s voice grew louder and more anxious. “I’m here. Everything’s safe.”

  It was the best evening of his life. Everything he said and did and thought felt different because Ella was here once more, recalling that magical year when their house had been a happy one. Three places laid at the kitchen table: three plates in the washing-up bowl. Such a small token of such a huge change. Outside the door to the living-room where he’d risked leaving his father alone with Ella for a few minutes, he found himself breathless, and realised this was because he was holding his breath, as if even exhaling might shatter the reality that his sister had come back to him and was here in the house, waiting for him, in the shadowy half-light of the tightly curtained living-room. But she was still there, still real, and when she turned to look at him and smiled, he thought his chest might burst with the complicated joy that bloomed behind his breastbone.

  In his chair, his mug of milk and whiskey drained, his father was already nodding where he sat. Jacob patted at his father’s shoulder (be extra sure to be gentle because Ella’s watching), helped the older man from his chair (Ella’s here now so make sure you don’t complain when he falls against you) and herded him upstairs, into the bathroom and then into his bed (please don’t ask me to lie down with you tonight I want to talk to Ella). When he came downstairs again, his face was split wide with a smile he simply couldn’t keep in check (you have someone to smile at now because Ella’s come home). The whole house felt different, lighter, warmer, fresher, more welcoming. For the first time since he was sixteen, he was glad for the holidays.

  Ella had half-opened the curtains and was standing at the window. With her back to the room and the sunlight turning her shape to shadow, she looked almost terrifyingly like their mother. This must be how the world was for his father all the time – half-remembered ghosts and memories lurching out of corners, and a home where nothing quite made sense any more. Not wanting to frighten her, he waited until she turned away from the window and saw him, then realised that discovering he’d been watching her for an unknown length of time was probably worse.

  “I didn’t mean to make you jump,” he said, wishing he dared give her a hug, the way he would have done when she was small. How much did normal brothers and sisters touch each other when they were out of childhood? How would they ever learn the rules after so long apart?

  “The sea’s so much closer.”

  He reached past her to pull the curtains shut again.

  “No, I’d rather see it. That way it can’t creep up on me while I’m not looking.”

  Even on the coldest night, she’d always slept with the curtains open. When the howl of the sea became too much for her and she crept into his bed instead, she would open his curtains first. If he got up in the night to close them, she’d wait until he was asleep once more, then open them again.

  “It’s not that,” he said. “It’s just my dad – our dad, I mean – he wanders sometimes. If he sees his reflection he thi
nks there’s someone in the house with us.”

  “Okay. I’ll remember.”

  “I wish he’d remember who you are. He might do better tomorrow but I doubt it.”

  “Was Dad – I mean, how long has he been – ?”

  “He was never right after you and – ” he still couldn’t quite bring himself to say the word. “I mean, after you – when you –” his throat was tight and full of mucus and he could hear his voice cracking in the way it did when he was thirteen.

  “Shall we not talk about this tonight?” Ella whispered.

  “Okay, good idea. Let’s not.” He cast desperately around for something normal they could talk about instead. “Um – would you like a snack or something? Or would you like to, um, see your room?” What was wrong with him? That made it sound as if she was a hotel guest rather than the daughter of the house and his beloved sister. “You are staying, aren’t you?” She hesitated. “Come on, Ella, you’ve got to stay. Where are you going at this time of night?”

  “If you’re sure you don’t mind.”

  “Don’t be daft, you live here!” The words sounded stupid as soon as he’d spoken them. “I mean, this is your home.” Better? Worse? “You know what I mean,” he finished, and led the way out of the living-room.

  He’d grown used to the half-furnished state of their house, the few rooms they lived in vastly outnumbered by those they didn’t, but with Ella by his side he was once more conscious of the strangeness of the place he called home. But of course it was Ella’s home too, and she seemed to know it as well as she ever had, avoiding the creaky floorboards and the places where the nails would snag your socks with the same instinctive movements he made himself. She knew as well as he did that her room was next to his, that the door creaked if you let it open too wide, and that the rattle of the window in its frame meant dry weather and a fine day tomorrow…

  “Oh my God,” Ella whispered.