Page 5 of Breathing Under Water

Oh, for the love of God.

It’s been only two weeks since Opal officially retired. She also informed the rest of the staff that I’d be temporarily stepping into her role until a permanent replacement is hired. This is the first staff meeting since that announcement, so I can’t just up and leave. It was one thing as assistant principal—we made it work. But acting as principal is a whole new ball of wax, full of obligations I can’t pawn off at a moment’s notice simply because of Leo’s insistence on speaking to Mike Cromwell.

Mike is the facilities manager of Southreach Senior High School, and even though he’s pushing forty, he’s Leo’s only other friend at school besides Sebastian. When Leo started high school the year before, he spent so much time watching Mike and his guys do work around the property that Mike took an interest in him. They talk shop from time to time, trading tips about wires and batteries and who knows what. And now, when Leo has a bad day at school, Mike Cromwell is the man he goes to see. You wouldn’t expect the same guy who oversees building operations to be the safe haven for a teenager who struggles with autism, but there you have it, folks. People surprise us. When you have a child like Leo, you find kindness in places where you least expect it.

“I’ll call my husband,” I say before ending the call and immediately dialing Phil.

“Please tell me you’re almost home,” I say as soon as he picks up.

“Nope, still out in Simsbury.” His words are clipped like he wants to hang up, like he only answered to make sure this isn’t an emergency.

Nikki Watts, one of our fifth-grade teachers, pokes her headout of the conference room. She’s looking to see if I’m coming back to the meeting. I hold up a finger to indicate I’ll be one more minute. She nods as if it’s no big deal, but my head starts to pound.

“Shit.” The expletive slips before I can catch myself. Phil hates when I curse, but old habits die hard.

“What is it? Do you need me?” he asks, his voice suddenly gentler, more like how it used to be. Before his mom died, we still communicated like people who took comfort in each other’s existence.

Once I’ve explained the situation, he clams up again. “Just ask Harrison. He’ll do it.”

“No, Phil!” I nearly screech. “We’re not going tojust ask Harrison. We can’t keep relying on him like this. He’s got a job, remember? He can’t just walk out anytime his autistic brother needs a hand. He’s already helping us out more than he should.” Poor Harrison has spent most of his life accommodating his brother’s special needs, never complaining about how much attention Leo got when they were younger (and still gets, frankly). For their whole lives, endless responsibility has fallen on Harrison as his kid brother’s keeper. It’s long past time for us to set Harrison free. Yet here we are again.

I scurry even farther from the conference room until I reach the end of the hallway. The wall beside me is decorated with self-portraits the fourth graders painted. Those pictures need to be taken down and returned to the children before summer, and I keep meaning to email Jean, the art teacher, about it. Just one more task that’s gotten away from me.

“I’m calling Yvonne.”

Phil balks at the mention of my sister. We both know how thiswill go. Yvonne will gladly figure out how to get to Leo, just as she does every time we ask her for help. When she picks him up, she’ll pepper him with questions the whole ride home. Leo has always enjoyed her company, her no-bullshit approach to life, and he’ll be fine riding with her. But later, once he’s settled at home and everyone is back from work, she’ll call to tell us all the new information Leo revealed to her, all the ways we should be parenting differently. As usual, she’ll use today’s incident as another example of why I should have been tougher on Leo from the beginning—as if pushing the kid into situations he wasn’t ready for, or ignoring his howls of agony when we encouraged him to try uncomfortable things, would have helped him grow into a more well-adjusted person who’d understand when a girl is flirting with him.

“You’re going to regret that,” Phil says.

I picture Leo huddled in Mike Cromwell’s office, and my heart hurts. Nobody really gets it, what it’s like to be the mom of a child with autism—the frustration and guilt that eat away at you, the isolation you can feel from friends, colleagues, even your spouse.

“You know what, Phil?” I spit back through the phone, thinking about how much he’s retreated into himself over these past ten months, telling me repeatedly that he’s handling his emotions about his momhis way, but mostly just shutting me out. “At least she’s there for him. And for me.”

I end the call without waiting for him to respond. Leo has to be my first priority.

4

McKenna

May 2023

Pacing along the edge of the pool, I monitor the movements of my student, six-year-old Eloise Lowell, who’s diligently working on her backstroke.

“Chicken, airplane, soldier!” I call down to her, reminding her of the positions for her arms.

Though it’s only May, it’s a picture-perfect, eighty-five-degree Saturday. The chairs on the pool patio are mostly empty, but bulging stacks of fluffy towels wait in cubbies for any club member who wants to settle on a chaise or take a dip. There are still a few weeks before Long Island’s local schools will let out for summer, but I’ve already gotten six students signed up for private lessons.

“Wait,” Eloise says, stopping mid-stroke and treading water. She looks up at me through iridescent goggles. “Miss McKenna, which one’s soldier again?”

“Soldier is arms down.” I mimic a soldier standing at attention, clamping my arms firmly into my sides. “Ten-hut!”

She giggles, showing off the empty space in her mouth wheretwo front teeth used to be, and I break character to grin back at her. Then I squat down so I’m closer to her level. “You were already doing it right though, kid. No need to alter anything.”

Her smile grows wider at the praise, and I realize I’m enjoying teaching more than I expected. Though, TBH, the money’s still my favorite part.

“Can you tell my mom?” Eloise asks. “She promised I could learn water-skiing at my dad’s beach house once I got better at swimming.”

Beach house. Right.