The Art of Not Breathing (22 page)

Later, Lara calls the house phone. I sit on the step by the back door so the reception on the phone goes fuzzy. She wants to know how Dillon is. She says she’s sorry.

“Ailsa made me say those things.”

She still wants to be friends, but only in private. She says she loves Dillon and she wants to help him.

“Sorry, the line’s gone a bit bad.” I yell, as though I’m trying hard to make out her words. “I’ll have to call you back.”

I listen to the fuzz for a while, and then I make out the odd squeak of a cross-wire conversation. I end the call and pluck up the courage to dial another number. My father answers his mobile immediately, but I stay silent. “Dillon, is that you?” he whispers down the line. “Is it Elsie? What’s she been up to? Hello? Look, now’s not a good time, pal. I’ll call you back tomorrow, eh?”

16

THE BABY OTTER IS NOT MOVING. ITS PAWS LIE ON THE DRY ROCKS,
and its fur has dried in clumps. There are flies hovering around its head. I’m at Rosemarkie beach with Frankie because Tay has to help out at the Black Fin, and I can’t bear to sit in the house all day with Dillon, especially now I know he’s been talking to Dad.

Frankie reaches out with his foot and nudges it gently. The otter’s body indents where his foot makes contact and then springs back again.

“It’s still warm,” Frankie says. “Not much we can do.” He pushes his glasses up his nose and squints at me. “Come on.”

I’m on a slant and feel my shoes slipping down the rock I’m on.

“What will happen to it?” I ask.

“Not a l’otter,” says Frankie, sniffing.

“Frankie!” I cry.

He looks at me, confused. “Well, what do you want to do? Take it home?”

The storm clouds are rolling over the water toward us. Frankie looks in his bucket and starts counting his collection. A wave of deep sadness passes over me as I look at the small animal lying helplessly half in and half out of the water. I wonder where its mother is, and then I see a small splash a few meters out in the smooth, clear water.

“We have to do something,” I say. “We can’t just leave it here.”

“We could roll it back in,” Frankie suggests.

I suggest that we bury it, but Frankie says he doesn’t want to touch it and then points out that the only place to bury it would be in one of the rock pools.

“How can you be into science and not want to touch a dead animal?”

“I’m more of a numbers scientist than a biologist,” he says.

I don’t bring up that he plays with dead crabs and other shellfish all the time.

“Do you think it drowned?” I ask.

“Unlikely,” Frankie says. “It’s not even in the water.”

I think that it is possible, but I can’t reason with Frankie today.

In the end we walk back to town and tell the police, who phone the wildlife center, who say that they’ll send someone down to collect it.

“Collect it?” I ask.

“So it can be incinerated,” the policeman says.

Outside the police station, Frankie puts his arm around me, which is really awkward because I’m a head taller than him. I get a waft of his weird smell, and then his lips are suddenly on mine, and as I pull away, his teeth catch my lip.

“What are you doing?” I yell, moving my hand to my lip to see if I’m bleeding.

Frankie steps back. The crabs rotate in his bucket.

“I thought you liked me,” he says sulkily. “I thought maybe you asked Lara not to come because you wanted to be alone with me.”

“Why would you think that?” I cry. Instead of trying to make him feel better about it, I just keep yelling at him.

“Lara is not my friend anymore, and neither are you, so leave me alone.”

“But I love you,” he says.

I want to cry. I don’t want him to love me.

He trundles off with his bucket. I should go after him, but all I can think about is the dead baby otter. It feels as though everything around me is decaying.

17

THE NEXT DAY I WAKE IN THE EARLY HOURS, THANKS TO A
dream that the dead baby otter was in my bed. After double checking it’s not there, I watch the sun roll up at four thirty from the living room window. Its glare coats the underside of the clouds in a magnificent orange. When Mum has gone to work to run the emergency clinic at the surgery, Dillon appears next to me with his duvet wrapped around his shoulders.

“Let’s have a duvet day and watch DVDs,” he suggests.

“But it’s really sunny,” I say. “I want to be outside.”

I want to be with Tay on his day off.

“Just watch one with me,” Dillon pleads. He is already on his stomach on the floor, pushing a DVD into the player. I agree because I want him on my side and because I miss him. I feel bad that I’ve neglected him. We sit on the sofa together, and Dillon arranges the duvet over us, but I kick it off because it’s so warm. When I touch Dillon’s arm, it is icy cold and makes me shiver. I sit with my hands holding my breasts, trying to make the pain go away. Luckily Dillon doesn’t notice I’m in pain. How could I tell him what happened? I make a promise to myself that I won’t be involved in any more fights.

Halfway through
Die Hard 2,
Dillon falls asleep and I turn the TV off. He stirs when I move.

“Stay a bit longer,” he murmurs. “Don’t leave.”

I leave him on the sofa and go to the kitchen. The fridge and the cupboards are almost empty. I boil the kettle and slice up the last lemon.

“Please, just drink it,” I plead when I’ve woken him up again. “It’ll do you good.”

He stares at the cup and asks what it is.

“Hot water with lemon. Lemon is good for your digestion.”

I read this in one of Mum’s health magazines.

He sits up and takes the cup. I sit with him while he drinks it. It takes ages for him to bring the cup to his mouth each time.

“You don’t have to feel guilty, because I’m making you drink it,” I say, quoting a piece of advice on a forum for anorexics. It doesn’t make sense to me, but Dillon takes a sip.

When he’s finished the drink, he starts to cry and I’m shocked. I try to imagine feeling so guilty about having a few drops of lemon juice that it would make me cry, and then before I know it, I’m choked up too and fighting the tears.

“You’re killing yourself, Dil,” I say, my voice wavering.

“I don’t want to feel like this anymore.” His voice is thick with phlegm. “What do I do?”

“I don’t know,” I whisper. “But I’ll help you.”

I cry properly then, relieved that he wants my help but not sure how to give it, and still angry that he’s been hiding something from me all these years. I hug his fragile body.

“I’ll bring some of those nutritional shakes home later. The ones that some kids at school have instead of lunch.”

Dillon continues to cry. “Are you sure you can’t stay?” he splutters as I get up to go. “You’re not going in the water, are you?”

“I just have to meet a friend.”

“Don’t go in the water. Just stay here.”

Part of me wants to. I want to play hangman and watch movies and pretend that we’re a normal family. But Tay is waiting for me and so is Eddie, and so is my four-minute goal.

“Rest up. I won’t be long. Maybe we can watch another film together later?”

He nods, but I know he thinks I’m deserting him. Just hang on a few more days, Dilbil, I think to myself as I leave him. I’m sure that getting to the bottom of the drop-off is going to give me all the answers: to remember what happened, to get closure. It just has to. And then I’ll be able to focus on Dillon.

Inside the boathouse after our dive, I feel elated. Three minutes, forty-five seconds—my longest dive. And now I’m confident I can do this. Tay passes me a towel, and I stand and watch him for a moment as he peels his wetsuit down to his waist and rubs his hair. He seems happy, relaxed. I hope it’s because of me. I think of Dillon and get a sudden pang of guilt for leaving him. I pray that he’s eaten something.

“I should go back and see if Dillon is okay,” I say to Tay as I dry my hair, trying not to look at his bare chest. And then he comes over to where I’m standing and kisses me on the lips. It goes on forever, and he holds me tighter and tighter as I lean closer. And then his fingers are on the zip at the back of my wetsuit.

“Wait,” I say. We are both breathless.

“What’s wrong?” he whispers. “Please don’t make me stop. I can’t bear to let go of you.”

“I need to get home,” I say again. “I can’t leave Dillon any longer.” It’s a strain to say it because I don’t want to go. The boathouse is my home, not McKellen Drive with my crazy family.

“He’ll be okay for a bit,” Tay says. He gently brushes my neck, making me shiver. I really shouldn’t leave Dillon too long.

“Trust me—he’ll be okay.”

It’s five o’clock. I’ve already been gone for hours. Perhaps if I make sure I’m back by six, it’ll be okay. And Mum should be home by now anyway.

“Okay, I’ll stay just a bit longer.”

He kisses me again and it’s like being underwater. Clear but distorted at the same time. Everything is bigger underwater. I trail my fingers down his spine and he murmurs.

“Are you sure you want to do this? I mean, are you sure you like me?” I lean back so I can see his face. It’s not that I don’t trust him. It’s just that I want to be certain.

“Can’t you tell?” He nods downward, but I can’t bring myself to look at his crotch.

“I . . . you’re not going to leave again, are you?”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

He moves his hand back to my zip. I feel fuzzy all over, and a bit faint.

A thought. I’m pretty sure that Tay will agree to anything right now, so it’s my chance to get what I want. “Will you come with me? Tomorrow, will you come with me to say goodbye to Eddie?” I say it quickly before I change my mind. I press my face into his clavicle. I hear him breathe in deeply through his nose.

“Please come with me,” I say again. “I need you there.”

“Okay, I’ll come with you,” he murmurs into my ear, and then kisses my neck. “Why does it have to be tomorrow?”

“Because . . . Because I’m ready.” It’s the only answer I have, even if I’m not a hundred percent sure it’s the truth.

As he pulls the zip down, I feel as though I’m being opened up after years spent inside a dark, suffocating box. I shiver as the air hits my exposed skin and he lays out the towels on the floor. My heart thumps erratically as he peels my wetsuit down from my shoulders, down to my waist, and then I help him with the legs. Even though I’m wearing a swimming costume and Tay has seen me in it many times before, I feel almost naked. All the time Tay is quiet, looking at me. He passes me a blanket, and I wrap it around myself as I lie down on the floor. I watch him remove his suit. His foot gets caught in the leghole and he stumbles, almost falling on top of me. I laugh and he smiles.

“Are you nervous?” he asks when he has recovered and is standing in only his shorts.

I shake my head and focus on trying to not breathe so heavily. Tay reaches into my cupboard and produces a bottle of vodka.

Under the blanket together, we sip from the bottle. I only have two sips before I feel the heat in my stomach. Tay slides the straps of my swimming costume down my arms. When he puts his mouth on my breasts, I groan, but his cold lips soothe the pain.

I reach around him and place my hands on his waist at the top of his shorts. I slip my hands under the elastic for a moment and then bring them back. When I do this, he moans, so I keep doing it until he reaches for my hand and moves it down farther. I’m not sure what to do, but I move my hand up and down and I feel him grow into my palm.

“Am I doing it right?” I ask, terrified. I raise myself slightly to work at a better angle.

He doesn’t say anything at first, and when I look at him, I see his eyes rolled back in his head.

“Yes,” he eventually mumbles. “Very right.”

After a minute, he stops me and motions for me to lie back. I pull my swimming costume right down and have to wriggle to get it over my feet, but Tay is too busy pulling his shorts down to notice my struggle. He lies next to me on his side and draws the blanket back over us. I run my fingers over his smooth chest, and he runs his hands up and down my leg.