Page 2 of Breathing Under Water

“No.” She waves a hand in the air dismissively. “You know how it goes with the board. They’ll have an official search—a long, slow process with a replacement committee and all that. But I’ve already recommended that they slot you in, right there at the top of their list of candidates.”

“Me?” My heart jumps. Six years ago I was promoted to assistant principal from my position as a fifth-grade teacher. Moving to the new role was a wake-up call. All that time, I’d been coasting in my job as a classroom teacher, but as vice principal, I discovered that my place in the school could be fluid, that I could continue to change and grow outside my role as a mother. I saw myself making a whole new kind of difference at work, and I was hooked on the thought. Succeeding Opal has long been mynot-so-secret dream. But my excitement lasts only a flash before I have the same stinking thought that always comes next.

Leo.

“Your son’s getting older now,” Opal says, apparently reading my mind. “He’ll have to learn how to care for himself as an adult soon enough. You were meant for this position, Berry. I’d hate to see you turn it down just because it arrived a few years too soon.”

She’s right, and I would be agreeing wholeheartedly if only Leo’s best friend hadn’t just announced that his family is moving to Brazil as soon as the school year ends. Sebastian is the only other kid in the tenth grade on the spectrum, and Leo’s going to be lost without him. We have to figure out how to get Leo situated and comfortable for his two remaining years of high school, and I don’t know how I’ll win over the board of directors while I’m so focused on my son.

“I think we’re getting ahead of ourselves,” I say to her as much as to myself. “We don’t even know if the board will go for it.”

“Well, you just watch out for that Neil Rumson.” She lifts her lip into a comical, exaggerated snarl. She’s never been a fan of the school’s curriculum coordinator, a highly educated but generally unpleasant board appointee. He hasn’t recommended much during his three years at the school, and if the four textbooks I just lugged down the hallway are any indication, I’m kind of doing his job for him anyway.

“You think he’d want it?” I ask, surprised because I’ve seen Neil as little more than a showpiece for the school’s promotional materials. Yes, he has two impressive graduate degrees, but no, he doesn’t seem to know how to use them. Mostly he’s the board’s go-to guest at lunch meetings when wealthy donors want to meet a faculty representative of our illustrious private school.

“Anything with new prestige and added pay will appeal to him,” Opal says as she stands. “Just watch your back.”

I appreciate her advice but don’t pay it much mind. If the board doesn’t find an outside candidate, I’m confident there won’t be much of a contest between Neil and me.

After Opal leaves, I dial Phil, excited to share that I’m a contender. The phone rings three times, then a fourth, and I disconnect. He’s been getting harder to reach during the day, and I’m trying not to feel offended by it. It used to be that no matter when I called, he’d stop what he was doing—step out of a meeting or ask a colleague to wait a moment. But for the past few months, I’ve been getting his voicemail more often than I’m making contact. I dial my sister, Yvonne, instead.

“Good morning, Berry, darling,” she answers brightly. Even though it’s been this way for years, it still startles me when I hear her words come out in a nearly British lilt. She’s worked hard to shed her Long Island accent, inflections that always led people to ask us, “Are you guys Italian or Jewish?”

No more droppedr’s turning LaGuardia into “LaGuadia” or insertedw’s changing coffee to “cawfee.” Even the tempo of her words is slower than it used to be, most certainly slower than mine. With her lightened hair, understated aesthetic, and dare I say pretentious ways, she’s virtually unrecognizable from the kid sister who used to kick my legs beneath the Shabbat table on Friday nights.

“Hey, Sis. Guess what?” I say as I jiggle the wireless mouse on my desk to wake my computer screen.

“I don’t have time to guess,” she tells me in a matter-of-fact tone. “I’m meeting new clients out in Sag today.”

Yvonne has a thriving business as an elite event planner. Shecharges fees so high that they’re laughable, but people pay and Yvonne loves what she does. She never wanted to become Suzy Homemaker, as she put it. Never married, she’s long preferred casual dalliances to anything that would require more focus. Though she’ll turn fifty this summer, I believe her when she says she’s got no regrets. Her lifestyle suits her, and it also allows her to be a wonderful auntie to Harrison and Leo.

“Another wedding?” I ask. Last summer, she did ten weddings in East Hampton alone.

“Fortieth birthday party. Two hundred guests.”

It boggles the mind sometimes, the things people will spend money on, how much disposable income they’ll toss away on a party. Phil and I have been comfortable over the years, but we’ve always had to be responsible, especially with all the extra expenses for Leo’s therapies. Another perk of my possible promotion is the raise that would come with it.

“There’s about to be an opening for principal at Stillwell, and my boss already tossed my hat in the ring.”

“Your boss, as in the departing principal?” Yvonne asks but doesn’t wait for an answer. “I’d hazard a guess that makes you the front-runner.”

“I’m just worried it won’t be as flexible as my current position if—”

“Don’t you do that, Berry.”

“Yvonne.” I don’t want to hear what’s coming next.

“No.” Her voice is firm. “You have been coddling Leo for far too long. He’s nearly sixteen years old. You have one job as a parent, and that’s to make your children not need you. You’ve done a smashing job with Harrison, but it’s time to give that same gift to Leo.”

“But he does need me.”

As close as she is to our boys, Yvonne can’t possibly understand what it’s like to be Leo’s mother. He’s come a very long way since he was a toddler, but he still has moments of crisis. Beyond the life skills he’s lacking, his neurodiversity can send him spinning into anxiety—or down into crushing depression.

“Darling,” Yvonne continues, “I don’t have time to argue with you this morning, but it seems to me that you stand to inherit an incredible position that we both know you want, not to mention deserve. If you have to set up additional support systems to make it work, then start figuring out how to do that. There are plenty of parents raising children like Leo who work long hours. Even single parents. They make it work. You can too. And you know you can always count on me when I’m local.”

My phone beeps with another call. Pulling the phone away from my ear, I see it’s Leo calling, as if on cue.

“Thanks, Sis. Gotta run,” I say and then switch over.