Page 46 of Breathing Under Water

Beck’s gaze is steady, as though he’s waiting for me to say more. But that’s it, that’s all of it.

“What?” I ask.

His lip ticks up on one side, a small smile.

“What?” I say again.

He leans back in his chair, regarding me. “You just get it,” he says with the hint of a shrug. “It’s nice.” The intensity of his gaze makes me shift in my seat.

“I’ve never liked being underestimated, and I don’t like when it happens to other people.”

“So by giving those lessons, you were busy proving the haters wrong. And maybe yourself too.”

“Yeah, until I ruined everything with my temper. I don’t know what it is with me. Sometimes I just can’t control myself. Even when I know I’m only shooting myself in the foot. I get so angry I feel like I’m breathing fire. And I don’t stop until I’ve incinerated everything in my path.”

“Maybe you just have big emotions,” he says. “You could be a little more generous with yourself.”

“Maybe.” I nod, but I don’t really mean it. “My grandmother always said I should embrace the passion, that my intensity is what gives me my speed in the pool. But sometimes I feel like I’m a walking stockpile of TNT, just waiting for someone to throw a match.” I’m not painting the most attractive picture of myself. “I’ve probably scared you off now, huh?”

“It’d take a lot more than big emotions for that to happen,” he says, and suddenly I feel a longing that frightens me. The path I’m on doesn’t leave room for these feelings, not when I’m so close. Two more years. Once I have my degree and the job that follows it, I’ll finally be able to take care of myself, on my own terms. I should have said no to this date, but I didn’t know it’d be like this. And now I’m doing mental gymnastics, tryingto figure out how to let this situation progress without derailing my goals.

“So what inspired you to go into environmental science?” I ask, trying to move the focus off me.

He looks off to the side, as if pondering how to answer. “I guess after all those years looking out for Leo, watching for when my parents were tense about something, I sort of became wired to notice small changes, to help fix things. Then, you know, living where we do, we’re surrounded by coastlines that look fine from a distance but are quietly deteriorating. It just kind of translates.”

“And are you? Fixing things?”

“Works in progress.” He smiles sheepishly, like maybe it’s not as easy as he thought. He then starts telling me all about his dream of opening a restaurant focused on sustainable gastronomy. He’s so animated while he talks about it, using lots of words I’ve never heard applied to food, and I have to ask a million questions. When he mentions the closed-loop system and regenerative sourcing for the third time, I think I’m finally catching on.

“So it’s basically like a salad bar, but with no waste?” I ask.

“Tell you what,” he says. “Why don’t you let me cook you dinner next week, and I can show you?”

I really want to say yes, but instead I go with the truth. “I have to see. If I find another job, I don’t know what my schedule’s going to be like, and if I haven’t found a job, I should probably be spending the time looking, and I have to leave time to visit my grandmother, and practice and everything. I shouldn’t even really be here now, and I have to figure out my service hours again.”

He chuckles. “Take a breath, McKenna. It’s fine. Just let me know if you find yourself with some spare time.”

If only.

When I turn the car onto Glory’s street, it’s nearly dark outside. I’m shocked to see the For Sale sign staked into the grass beside our driveway. Even though I knew it was coming, I’m surprised the broker has already been here to set it up. The waning evening light makes it impossible to read all the words on the rider, but the sign looks just like any other listing notice on someone’s front lawn. I was the one who told the broker I was ready to start this process, but looking at the sign now, I don’t feel ready at all.

I wonder again if there’s any way I could keep the home, but no, not with Glory’s bank accounts and her binder full of crazy. We have almost nothing, and I need to do this if I want my grandmother to have proper care for longer than a few months. I stare at the sign a moment longer, wondering why I never thought about the people in all those other homes, never wondered if the signs staked outsidetheirhouses were part of a bigger, sadder story.

Dropping my bag inside the front door, I head to the kitchen in search of something to eat. The shelves inside the fridge are so much emptier than when Glory was living here, and I feel a weight in the pit of my stomach looking at them. I think about ordering delivery, but given my new salary of zero, I figure I’d better settle for the sad-looking, day-old sandwich sitting on the top rack.

23

Berry

July 2023

Saturday used to be my favorite day of the week, back when the boys were younger. All four of us sleeping in, then padding our way down to the kitchen for challah French toast. That was the one and only item Phil could cook, thanks to his grandmother, or his bubbe, as he called her.

Back then, when Harrison was just hitting puberty, Challah Saturdays were sacrosanct. He and I would hover near the stove, snatching pieces of the warm, eggy toast off the platter Phil was loading up. Little Leo would wait patiently at his seat at the table, fixated on a puzzle or an Erector set. The bowl of powdered sugar would be positioned, always, right in front of his place setting. Meanwhile, Phil would sing Springsteen songs and shimmy around, shaking his butt out of time with the music, making us all laugh at his ridiculousness. Even Leo, his back ramrod straight in his chair, couldn’t resist looking up from the task in front of him to laugh at Phil’s antics.

As I make my way down to the empty kitchen on this rainy summer Saturday, I can’t remember the last time we made brunch as a family. I suppose the French toast was just one ofthose family traditions that fizzles out gradually, the kind where you never know which time will be your last. Harrison is out of the house, of course, but Leo’s still here. He hasn’t come out of his bedroom yet, and I don’t even know where Phil is. Last night, he was out late with Leo, flying a drone around town again. It seems to give Leo comfort, flying those things above all the places where he spends time on the ground. The YMCA, his high school, Phil’s office, his aunt Yvonne’s house, you name it. If Leo has been somewhere, chances are, one of his drones has too.

Even though it’s midmorning, the sky outside is an ominous gray that matches my mood. Since the swim lessons got canceled, Leo has been out of sorts, and I don’t know how to help him. Every time I suggest finding a new place to take lessons, he starts yelling that he’s not upset about the swimming. I wish he’d just tell me what it is then. Karyn at the Y said Leo could help out at the pool there, but when I passed along her message, he reached into his pocket for his small yellow airplane. In my desperation, I pushed him for more information. I should have known better. He walked out of the room, and the only thing I felt sure of then was that I clearly didn’t understand. Were I not so torn up about his disappointment, I might have been a little excited to see him acting like a typical teenager, all moody and tight-lipped. But when you have a child who’s struggled with depression, you lose the luxury of being flip.