Underwater Vibes

by Mickey Brent

  “Ahhh!” she screamed as her spikes slid on the slippery floor. Her alarmed face headed toward the linoleum.

  “Gotcha!” Hélène lunged, grabbing her colleague’s tiny waist.

  The two women stood clinging to each other and panting. After a few awkward seconds, Cecile pulled away. “Merci,” she mumbled, cringing.

  “Nice artwork.” She pointed to the oval peach smudge on the mirror. Then she flashed a confused smile at Hélène before tiptoeing into a stall.

  *****

  Sure is hot in here. Sylvie opened the neckline of her bathrobe. Her wet hair tumbled down, cooling her skin. She turned the yellowed pages ever so thoughtfully. As she took in each enticing poem, she became oblivious to all around her. Every few lines, she closed her eyes to better consume the author’s delicate prose. The howling wind outside, flinging sheets of raindrops against the locker room’s windows, intensified the poem’s enchanting effects.

  It was only when she heard a bird’s faint cry that she looked up.

  Then something smashed into the locker room window. Sylvie ran outside.

  Right below the window, a small form lay on the muddy soil. It was a baby chick. Sylvie swooped it up, amazed at how light it felt in her fingers—like a piece of fluff. She inspected the lemony ball of fuzz. Its miniature red beak opened and shut.

  It’s trying to say something. But no sound came out, not even a peep.

  Sylvie’s heart melted. “Salut, ma petite,” she whispered, gently stroking its head.

  Rain pounded on Sylvie’s head. Drops trickled down her face. Hunching over, she sheltered the chick in her arms. As water slid down her bathrobe, a chill ran through her.

  But Sylvie didn’t care. She was focused on the tiny creature in her hands, the chick’s warm chest against her own. Its heart was beating rapidly, like an overwound watch.

  She’s like Yaya—soft and gentle, weak and fragile. Despite the sloshing noises filling her ears, Sylvie thought she heard a voice. She lifted her head but saw nobody in the downpour.

  Then, ever so faintly, she recognized the words of Yaya, her grandmother: “Soak up the pleasurable moments in life, honey. Every little bit. Make ’em seep through your pores till you burst.” Sylvie looked at the furious rain clouds. Water streamed into her eyes, smarting them.

  “All right, Yaya, you got my attention. I’m soaking ’em up.”

  The elderly woman’s voice continued, “Especially, don’t be afraid of love. You never know when it’ll come, so when it hits you, make sure you grab it, honey. With both hands.”

  I’m grabbing, Yaya. I’m grabbing. Sylvie cradled the frail creature solemnly.

  The voice concluded, “’Cause you never know when it’s leaving you for good.”

  Sylvie placed her ear on the chick’s tiny wet chest. The heartbeat was gone.

  As its body began to chill in her hands, Sylvie felt pain erupt in her own chest. She choked back a sob. Desperate to bring the bird’s precious life back to Earth, she pushed her fingertips deep into the chick’s flesh as she stroked its feathers. But her efforts proved futile.

  Standing in the mud, she gave in to her emotions—something she hadn’t done in years. I feel so empty. She pressed her face next the chick’s body one last time. Come back, she pleaded, but its tiny life was over.

  After a pensive moment, Sylvie realized she was shivering. Her eyelids were so cold, they refused to cry anymore. She found a drier spot on the ground and, ever so gently, set the chick down. After covering its body with damp leaves, she took one last look at its burial place and went inside to thaw out.

  *****

  “Bonjour.” Hélène rescued an orange flower that had gravitated to the carpet. “Bet you’re as bored as me, n’est-ce pas? Let’s take a walk.” Humming, she sauntered off toward the office kitchen. She plopped the flower in a glass of water, then went to the coffee machine.

  Abruptly, she stopped humming. Ah oui, I’m supposed to stay away from this.

  Reluctantly, she poured the smooth black liquid into the sink. Squeezing her eyes shut, she inhaled its tangy aroma. Roasted beans, roasted bliss. When she lifted her lids, a trail of darkness was winding down the drain. Mince, what a waste. She rummaged in a cupboard until she unearthed a stray chamomile teabag. Unceremoniously, she dunked it in her mug.

  Back at her desk, Hélène took a sip of herbal tea and scrunched her nose. C’est affreux.

  “Maybe with a bit of sugar…” She fished around in her drawers. Ripping open a packet, she trickled the white powder into her cup. “Voilà. That’s better,” she exclaimed, four packets later.

  After an hour of nonstop translating, Hélène pulled on her hair. This is so dry, I could scream. Who cares anyway? She clicked on her mouse. Her latest poem appeared on the screen: The butterfly’s sick of its current life. It’s bored. It needs a huge change. More action. A bit of passion…

  She smiled at the flower she had rescued. Much more exciting, non?

  *****

  Sylvie scrutinized her face in the mirror. Grief made her full lips seem heavier. In their wetness, her eyebrows seemed bushier than usual. A swollen tear rode over her cheek, splattering onto the counter. Instantly, her mind reeled back, playing scenes of the past, unfurling the mighty sights, sounds, and smells of crashing waves, seagulls…

  Greece, she thought. Home… Instead of cheering her up, a wave of nausea hit. As soon as she thought of the tiny, lifeless chick lying under damp leaves, panic hit.

  Yaya! Just as she grabbed her cell phone, it buzzed in her hand.

  One new message, it read. Non. Please don’t let this happen. Sylvie took a deep breath, pushed Enter and then Loudspeaker.

  “Bonjour. Vous avez un nouveau message,” announced the computerized voice. Sylvie held her breath as she waited for her message.

  “Salut, mon lapin, where are you?”

  Sylvie relaxed as soon as she recognized Lydia. Never thought I’d be glad to hear that obnoxious voice again.

  “I’m here at the park—our park—waiting for you. Téléphone-moi, honey bunny, d’accord? It’s been days, and I’m worried about—”

  Behind Sylvie, someone cleared her throat.

  The swimming instructor hit Off, chopping Lydia’s voice mid-sentence. When Sylvie jumped up, her hair did a lasso whip, flinging rain around the locker room.

  “Pardon!” she gasped at the woman standing before her.

  “Voyons, ma petite, it can’t be that bad.” The older woman laced her arms around Sylvie, whose eyes were swollen from crying. Wiping the droplets off Sylvie’s face, she smacked her cheek with a motherly kiss.

  “I swear, in all these years, I’ve never seen you so melodramatic.” Shaking her head, she sighed. “She’s not worth it, I tell you.”

  Sylvie opened her mouth. “But—”

  “Shhh, ma petite. Inge knows best,” continued the heavy-set woman with a tight, gray bun, placing her finger over Sylvie’s lips. “Besides, the herd’s already in the water.”

  In her soft white bathrobe, Sylvie looked more like a Hollywood actress lamenting before her final scene than a certified swim coach. The only hint of her true profession was her footwear: yellow and green flip-flops. As soon as she heard “the herd,” her eyes sparkled.

  Inge, the older woman, squeezed her waist. “They’re so excited about the new pool. We can’t keep them waiting, n’est-ce pas?” She nudged Sylvie out of the locker room.

  The clamor of fifty ten-year-olds roughhousing at the pool’s edge shook Sylvie out of her misery. Her agile body braced itself for action.

  “Come on, les enfants. Calmez-vous!” hollered Inge. “Is that how I taught you to greet your teacher? Now, what do we say?”

  “Bonjour, Mademoiselle Routard!” yelled the group in unison.

  Smiling at the sea of young faces before her, Sylvie forgot all about her poems, the tiny bird, and Yaya—for a few chaotic, yet exhilarating hours in the pool.

  Chapter Ten

  Th
e next morning, a young couple on a tandem bicycle passed Hélène on the road.

  Hélène stared at the girl hugging her boyfriend, ponytail swishing as the couple maneuvered through the dark. Hélène winced at the early-morning giggles blended with the slippery sounds of tires over damp pavement.

  What happened to us? she wondered, remembering her recent fight with Marc. He had pounded his fist on the table; she had rescued the vase before it crashed, hugging the daisies to her chest until he stormed out. She winced again, feeling fresh pain as the two joyous cyclists—piled with camping gear—pedaled away.

  *****

  Sylvie was already in the water. “Bonjour,” she called as Hélène slowly entered the pool’s cool water. She gave her a kiss on the cheek and handed her a yellow Styrofoam board. “Today we’re learning how to kick.” Clasping the side, she demonstrated the breaststroke with her legs.

  “Wait.” Hélène frowned. “That’s not the stroke you were doing the other day.”

  “What do you mean?” When Sylvie stood, droplets ran down the front of her suit.

  Hélène couldn’t help noticing her teacher’s chest muscles, so near and glistening wet. Is she even real? Her body belongs in some sort of museum. Realizing the goddess was still staring at her, Hélène stammered, “I…I was watching you. You were doing a different stroke.” She took a step back.

  “So you were spying on me, eh? How naughty!” Sylvie splashed a few drops at Hélène.

  “Non, not at all!” Hélène laughed nervously. “When I was leaving, I saw you swimming. Like this.” She imitated her teacher doing the freestyle.

  “That’s le crawl. I figured you’d want to learn the breaststroke first.”

  Breaststroke? Hélène glanced at her teacher’s chest again—so smooth, so tan. She felt a hard knot in her stomach. “Non. I want to learn the crawl, like you.”

  “Okay, we’ll do the crawl for now,” Sylvie said, caressing her moist neck. “I’m sure we’ll have plenty of time later to practice the breaststroke,” she added with a wink.

  Hélène felt a rush of adrenaline through her body.

  Clasping the edge of the pool, Sylvie demonstrated how to do the scissor kick. Hélène imitated her. Laughing, they kicked until bubbles spewed everywhere. But when Sylvie showed her how to kick using a Styrofoam board, instead of moving forward, Hélène’s body began to sink. She rose, gasping for air.

  “Can you breathe?” Sylvie tapped her lightly on the back.

  Water sputtered from Hélène’s mouth. She nodded.

  “Bien. Let’s try again. I’ll hold you this time.” Sylvie opened her arms.

  “Non!” Hélène exclaimed. “I mean…That’s okay. I’m fine.”

  “Just till you get the hang of it.” The goddess wrapped her arms around her waist. Hélène stiffened.

  “Allez, just relax,” whispered Sylvie. Hélène’s body stiffened even more. “Voilà. I’ve got you. Breathe deeply and let the water support you.”

  Hélène let Sylvie bring her into the prone position. Clasping the board, she kicked, advancing slowly in the water.

  “C’est parfait,” said Sylvie with satisfaction. “Now, try it on your own.” She released her hands from Hélène’s waist. Her student’s body began to sink.

  “Keep kicking!” ordered Sylvie.

  Like a sputtering motor, Hélène’s legs revved up. A rush of bubbles erupted near her feet. I’m actually swimming! The blond woman was beaming as she inched across the pool.

  *****

  Hélène was still on a high as she pedaled to work. The traffic signals kept turning red, but she didn’t care. She had kicked across the pool four times—all by herself. She smiled at the thought of Sylvie, who had been so gentle and encouraging.

  The streets were still dark, but a faint orange hue was just lifting to tint the sky.

  At yet another red light, Hélène set her foot down. Startled, something hard was beneath it. She glanced down. Under her boot was a small picture frame. As she dusted off the glass, a painting gradually emerged.

  Dozens of white houses were perched on a cliff, overlooking a vast blue sea.

  Hélène ran her fingers over the rough waves, admiring their crashing white tips. It was painted in oil, with Santorini 1983 written at the bottom.

  She had always loved the seaside, though she rarely went. As a typical Bruxelloise, the hour and a half drive seemed too far for just a day, and Marc would never agree to staying at a hotel.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by a honk. Only then did she notice the steady flow of cars racing past. She hastily looked around. Seeing no potential owners—just an overflowing trash can—she stuffed the frame into her jacket. Guess you’re mine, she mused, cradling the painting to her chest like a newborn.

  *****

  Hélène unzipped her jacket and set her newfound treasure on her office desk directly in front of Marc’s picture, which was tiny and bland compared to the gold-framed massive one adorning Chaussette, her black-and-white cat.

  As Hélène waited for her computer to boot up, she imagined herself swimming through powerful waves, mastering the scissor kick alongside Sylvie, off the coast of an exotic island. A tingle of excitement ran down her spine. When the search engine finally appeared, her fingers couldn’t type the word “Santorini” fast enough.

  That evening, trees whipped past as she biked through Parc Cinquantenaire. Halfway through, she spotted a group practicing karate. “Hi-yah!” they yelled in unison, kicking their feet over their heads. One of the women in the back caught Hélène’s eye. She was in a crisp, white kimono with a black belt circling her tiny waist.

  It’s her! Hélène sucked in her breath. She waved shyly, but Sylvie was too busy flipping her opponents to notice. Pedaling away, Hélène turned back a final time. Her instructor now held a robust man in a headlock. Hélène caught her breath. Sweetness mingled with danger. She checked her arms for goose bumps.

  *****

  Hélène reached for the butcher knife. It’s not just for me, she reminded herself. It’s good for him too. She rolled up her sleeves and started chopping. Soon, clumps of carrot tops littered the counters. Chaussette, her kitty, slid in piles of whole-wheat flour as she tried to cross the floor on all fours. Instead of scolding her, Hélène sat on the ground to watch. As Chaussette pranced joyfully in the powder, Hélène’s mind drifted back to the ninja goddess in the park. She had never thought uniforms could be so sexy. Sure, she caught herself looking at cops, and even sometimes…

  Her eyes went back to Chaussette. The fuzzy cat became a novice figure skater struggling to stay upright. Hélène chuckled at her antics, imagining the chubby kitty in tights and a leotard.

  That looks like fun. She jumped up. I think I’ll join you. Soon, a frantic beat filled the kitchen as Hélène revved her body for action. Ditching her knife, she unleashed her feet. “Let’s take over the linoleum!”

  Chaussette observed her mistress with great interest. Attempting a fancy ballet move, Hélène slipped on the flour, creating a loud, ripping sound, followed by “Mince!”

  After she had hit the floor, she glanced between her legs, giggling at the gaping hole. Black threads protruded, like spider legs. Guess I’m not ready for the splits yet. At least, my jeans aren’t.

  Hélène was still giggling on the linoleum when she heard a slam. Her face froze.

  Wiggling to her knees, she adjusted her apron and grabbed the butcher knife.

  *****

  Chaussette ran off as soon as Marc strode into the kitchen.

  “I’m starving,” he announced, casting his coat onto a wooden chair. Mechanically, he pecked Hélène on the forehead. “Eww, you’re dripping.”

  “Worked up a little sweat preparing dinner.” Hélène smiled sheepishly.

  Scowling, Marc wiped the sticky wetness off his lips with his handkerchief. “What’s all this mess?” He gestured at the flour-dusted floor. His eyes fell on his supper: quiche Lorraine, grilled chicken, steamed s
quash, roasted potatoes, a healthy salad, and sparkling mineral water. “Humph,” he grumbled, reaching for the radio. The news came on in French. He turned up the volume, grabbed a beer, and strode into the living room.

  Lying on the sofa with his feet propped on a pillow, Marc clutched the London Times. Clearing his throat, he began reading with a heavy French accent: “Zer vas uh sliight differrance of opeenion…” The words came out choppy, mushy—like thick meat struck by blades in a blender.

  “Dinner’s ready,” Hélène said in a discreet voice from the dining room.

  Marc continued reciting in garbled English.

  Hélène leaned over his prone body. “I said dinner’s ready.”

  Grumbling, he opened a bottle of Bordeaux and poured himself a generous glass while Hélène served him a heaping plateful of quiche Lorraine, squash, and steamed potatoes.

  Hélène sighed as she watched him chew while his eyes devoured his newspaper. She observed his square jaw mechanically rising and falling—gravitating from low to high speed—with each forkful. That jaw…Efficient as an industrial sewing machine. And as appreciative too.

  Finally, she announced, “Chéri, I’d rather you not read the paper at dinner.”

  “I like to know what’s going on,” he retorted without raising his eyes.

  “I’ll tell you what’s going on.” She gravitated to his side of the table. “C’est…That’s extremely rude!” She grabbed a fistful of his newspaper.

  Marc gripped it defensively. She jerked hard; there was a loud rip.

  Hélène flew backward and landed on the floor, clutching half the paper.

  Marc shrugged and went back to reading his half of the article.

  “Aaaiiee, that hurt.” Hélène rubbed her lower back. From her view on the floor, he looked bigger, uglier. The stench of his athletic socks next to her nose made her stomach turn. And those were on our living room pillows. She shook her head. He’s such a pig.