Every Thursday night after practice, they’d have a light dinner of grilled salmon salad dressed with balsamic vinaigrette. For dessert, a few squares of dark chocolate. Afterward they’d go into the bedroom and Tony would prepare the syringe while she changed into a peach silk nightgown. He’d dim the lights, then drape her across his lap and fold back her skirt like a parent about to deliver a spanking. He’d give her the needle, which stung a bit but in a sexy way, and he would kiss the injection site delicately before easing her onto the floor and making love to her from behind, her knees and palms cool and supported against the wood floor. Neither spoke the whole time. They both knew what to expect and what was expected of them.
These date nights weren’t enough to save the relationship, though. Alison began to tire of Tony’s ambition. She felt as though he considered himself to be the only real diver in the relationship, and once or twice she even found herself thinking the same. So to maintain her focus, she broke it off. Six months later she was handed a diagnosis of ovarian cancer. When Alison confessed about The Attack and the Laotian acupuncturist to the doctor, he mumbled something about quackery and then assured her that there was probably no link and even if there were she should focus on getting better. Even so, she’d always believed the cancer was a punishment for allowing Tony to contaminate her.
Bleached grass tickled Alison’s feet as she continued her morning meditation and breathing exercises. The air was fresh, tinged with salt. The Bahaman sun wasn’t yet high in the sky, and its warmth was as soothing as amniotic fluid. She was confident that she could make it past sixty-seven metres. Going down had never been her problem. It was forcing herself back up and turning away from that giddy freedom that was difficult.
The International Association for the Development of Apnea’s rules stipulated that when divers resurfaced they had to execute three tasks in order: remove their goggles, make a circle with their thumb and index finger, and say, “I’m okay.” If divers messed up, forgetting one item or doing them in the wrong sequence, their dive would be invalidated. The reasoning was that divers had to prove they were consciously aware, that both body and mind had returned from the underworld. Alison thought of this ritual as a cleansing spell, a reassurance to audience and judge that the divers hadn’t been transformed by their superhuman feats. She’d been disqualified in the past for failing to perform the sacred sequence.
Back in her cabin Alison sat in front of her laptop. On Tuesdays she had a long-standing Skype appointment with her parents. They were sitting side by side, partially obstructing the Chagall print on the white wall behind them—a wonky blue town with a workman angel floating above the peaked roofs. They filled her in on their retired life, discussing their various health problems and recipes involving sea bass and ancient grains. She told them about the weather and the conch fritters the cook had made for her and the team. They didn’t discuss the upcoming dive or their flight to the Bahamas or anything else related to the true substance of her existence. She’d written them an email banning these topics from their conversations, and so far her parents had obliged. Talking about things, Alison believed, could diminish their power.
Just as they were saying their goodbyes, her mother interrupted.
“Have you spoken to your sister recently?” she said.
“I’m talking to her Sunday,” Alison said.
“I actually liked that guy,” her father said. “Good taste in music.”
“Poor girl,” her mother said. “She’s really upset. She hasn’t said anything exactly, but I can just tell. She’s so sensitive.”
Alison tapped her foot against the floor, told her blood to cool. “I already said I’m talking to Brianna on Sunday.”
“We never have to worry about you, Ali,” her mother said. Alison stopped herself from pointing out that freediving was among the most dangerous sports in the world.
Most of the time Alison liked to train alone, but she couldn’t do everything by herself. On Wednesday she had dinner with her seven teammates, the people who would set up the rope and attach tags identifying the depth along the way. Alison would have to carry one of these back to the surface and show it to the judges to prove she’d been there. Her team would also pilot the boat and some members would scuba dive partway down with her and accompany her on the last hundred feet of her ascent, the part where hydrogen narcosis or blackout was most likely to occur. They called themselves Alison’s pod, a nickname Alison herself never used.
For dinner they had fish chowder, broiled grouper and papaya salad prepared by their cook. Alison didn’t eat any of the chowder. She had a few bites of grouper and a thin slice of papaya, the sweetness explosive on her tongue. She smiled nervously as the conversation swirled around her. She removed a sliver of bone from between her teeth and placed it on her plate parallel to the knife. She never knew what to say to these people her age who had children and spouses and friends. Who were skilled divers, but not exceptional ones. They laughed and gulped down creamy spoonfuls of chowder, gossiping about other freedivers and speculating on which judges the Association would send. Alison wanted to be alone. One of her teammates, Doug, put his arm around her shoulder, and drew her close. “You don’t have to speak now, pod-queen. Just don’t forget those magic words.”
In unison, the table erupted: “I’m okay!”
On Sunday she spoke to her sister Brianna over Skype. Brianna was sitting on her balcony in a pink terry cloth robe and sipping something bubbly and orange out of a champagne flute. The green and blue glass of condo buildings rose in clumps in the background, like millions of aquariums stacked on top of each other.
“What are you drinking there?” Alison was determined to keep the conversation light.
“It’s not like I’m keeping it,” Brianna said, taking a defiantly long swig.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Well, it’s not a Jaws jizz injection, but it keeps me afloat.”
Clenching her teeth, Alison ordered her pulse to steady. “Thanks for that. Makes me super happy I told you.”
“Jesus.” Brianna opened her eyes wide. “Touchy. I thought you were over that. You know I was telling this guy at work the other day about freediving. He thought it was just the most hilarious thing he’d ever heard.”
“Great.” Alison reached for the mouse.
“Stop,” Brianna said. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m a total hormone-a-thon these days.”
“Well, I’m sorry, too, but I can’t talk to you like this. It’s too close. Everything.”
“Is this about the email you sent?” Brianna put down her glass and started talking in a high voice, the one she used for all her imitations, while bouncing her head back and forth and rolling her eyes. “Dear family. Please respect my wishes not to talk about anything ever and to lord my prissy ass over every one of you.”
Alison exhaled and inhaled deeply through her nostrils. “I really am going now.” The cursor floated above the red icon of a phone.
“I’m just so pissed at you, okay?” Brianna said. “I mean, I get the whole dive or whatever. But I want you here with me. I need you here.”
Alison took her hand off the mouse. “You’ll be fine, Brie,” she said. “If it makes you feel any better, the pain during my surgery was pretty minimal.”
Alison looked back on the day of surgery almost fondly. The pleasing crinkly sound her gown had made, how firm and official the table had felt beneath her back. It was so nice of everyone, the nurses and the doctors, to restore her body. Best of all there had been the familiar buoyant sensation as the anesthesia seeped into her blood while she counted down, down, down.
“But I’m not you, Ali.” Brianna leaned back into her chair and retrieved her glass. “And they’re not removing a tumour.”
Alison clicked hard. Brianna vanished.
Alison had always believed that Brianna could have been a better diver
than her if she’d stuck with it. When they were younger they used to take turns seeing who could swim farther underwater in the local pool. The lifeguards would beg them to stop, blasting their whistles and waving their arms, but they kept pushing themselves. At seven, Alison could do one and a half laps, but Brianna, a year older, could manage two, sometimes two and a half. If there were boys watching, she would even do a little corkscrew turn at the end to show off. But it was never important to her. Alison used to fantasize that they were mermaids separated from their true parents at birth, their sparkly rainbow tails slashed into ordinary human legs.
The night before the dive, Alison had a meeting with her team. They went over the next day’s schedule one last time and reviewed safety procedures. Everyone seemed excited and tense. To protect herself from this spiky energy, Alison envisioned being surrounded by a force field. She was grateful to her teammates, she truly was, but she had to keep herself apart from them if she was going to succeed. She told herself the diving record would justify her coldness. If you could accomplish something like that, people didn’t expect you to act normally. In fact, they were disappointed if you did.
After they disbanded, Alison was walking along the beach on the way back to her hut when she heard the sound of someone jogging behind her. Doug.
“Can I walk you home?” he asked.
Alison sighed and nodded. They walked without speaking for a while, admiring the stars. At least he knew how to be comfortable with silence.
About two hundred feet from her cabin, Doug reached his hand under the back of her shirt and rubbed her spine. She jerked sideways, swatting his hand away.
“What the hell?” she said.
“Just checking,” he said.
“For what? Scoliosis?”
“A dorsal fin.”
Alison stiffened and turned away. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Sure you don’t,” he said and hugged her, lifting her into the air and humming the theme from Jaws as he spun her around. “Shark Woman!”
He put her down and she blinked tears out of her eyes.
“Hey,” he said. “Hey, there, relax. No one’s judging you. I’m buds with Tony from way back. He never talked about me?”
Alison shook her head no.
“He was always trying to get me to try that shit, The Attack or whatever he calls it, bragging about how he had a connection with a heavy duty Laotian shaman and how it would make me tap into my true predator instincts. But I don’t like jabbing stuff in my butt.”
Alison was stunned. She’d always believed that The Attack was something she alone shared with Tony, something that only existed in the separate dimension created by their unique relationship. She tried to walk away but Doug had her by the arm.
“I don’t know what Tony told you,” she said, “but I haven’t in years and years.”
“Since the cancer,” he said softly.
“Fuck off,” Alison jerked herself free of his grip.
“We’re just sharing here.” He grabbed both her elbows and spoke so close to her that she could smell the whey protein powder on his breath. “No need for that kind of language.”
Doug kissed her, prying her lips apart with his thick, wet tongue. Alison closed her eyes and prayed adrenalin would stop surging through her veins and destabilizing her inner ecosystem. He clasped her tighter.
“Don’t be so stiff, baby,” he said. “It’ll help you relax.”
Alison considered hitting him, but who knew what he’d do. Punch her. Break her collarbone. Anxiety was the worst pollutant there was. It was best to just go limp.
Doug fondled her breasts and rubbed his crotch against hers. He reached down her shorts. “Come on. It’s not like you can get pregnant.”
Alison kneed him in the groin and he shoved her hard, sending her flying into the sand. She stood up and brushed the grains off her shirt and shorts.
“Whatever,” Doug said. “You were bone dry. Not that I should be surprised.”
Alison didn’t say anything. Doug stared at her for a few moments, shaking his head. He sighed and walked away.
Once he was out of sight, Alison began to head home with deliberate slowness, instructing herself to relax.
When she got to her cabin she took a shower, turning the water as hot as she could stand and then even hotter. Lathering her neck, she realized that her necklace was gone. She stumbled out of the shower and, covered in foam, searched through her heap of clothes. Nothing. Tomorrow, then. She rinsed and dried off before pulling on an oversized T-shirt with a picture of a palm tree on it. As she climbed into bed, she took several big breaths and tried to imagine herself as a jellyfish glowing in the darkness, glowing a clean white light.
Searching for the pendant along the beach she encountered swirls of seaweed like clumps of mermaid hair that had been yanked from scalps. It was dawn and light crept in a line across the horizon, turning the grey light golden. Her parents were probably collecting their luggage in Nassau now or checking into their hotel. They’d agreed to meet after the dive, as Alison had requested. They always respected her instructions, even when they shouldn’t have.
She couldn’t find the necklace anywhere, and after an hour of looking, she accepted that she would have to dive without it. She hated any change of routine, but she couldn’t afford to freak out over it. There wasn’t enough time.
The rest of the morning went as planned. A light jog, breathing exercises, meditation. From her perch above Dean’s Blue Hole, she could see the team setting up the rope with its assortment of tags glittering like fishing lures. Doug waved at her and she shut her eyes, exhaling and inhaling. Sixty-seven and a half metres. Sixty-seven and a half metres.
It was nothing.
As the morning wore on, people began to gather by the water’s edge. Some benches had been set up for the audience. She saw her parents wearing their matching Tilley hats and khaki shorts. Were they nervous or excited? Would they be here if Brianna had told them the truth about the abortion? She wished her sister were with them instead of in a waiting room somewhere. She wished she were with her sister, holding her hand or brushing her hair. She wished that none of them were there, that none of them even knew about the dive.
Alison saw two judges walk toward the beach and then one of the teammates gave her the signal to come down to the water’s edge. The water was warm and clear, and the boat wobbled slightly as she climbed aboard. She looked over the edge of the boat to avoid making eye contact with Doug. The water went from turquoise to indigo. They anchored the boat and she adjusted her goggles. She slipped into the water and floated on her back beside the rope, gulping air into her lungs. A judge counted down from five to one. Alison flipped over and dove. She pulled water around her, parting it to make way for her body. The world got colder and darker and more familiar. She could sense the rope beside her. She could see the tag for sixty-seven and a half metres just ahead. It was bigger than the rest but she didn’t grab it. She kept kicking and kicking until she couldn’t see the rope, her legs so smoothly coordinated it was as though they were fused together.
Love Lasts Forever but a Tattoo Lasts Longer
No perky carnations enlivened the institutional orange and beige decor, no flower girl flounced down the aisle or ran shyly into her mother’s arms, no organist cracked his knuckles and poised his supple fingers above brass knobs. The wedding lasted five minutes. It took place in a Clorox-perfumed alcove off the prison visitation room and the wedding cake was a Baby Ruth from the vending machine. The priest smelled of hot dogs, relish speckled like radioactive jizz in his moustache. He resembled a wax Jeff Goldblum that had been left all day in the sun, his features lopsided, the right side of his mouth drooping and his left ear lobe flapping against a ruddy neck. Eyes closed, he stumbled through the ceremony, his voice veering between volumes as if controlled by a remote being passed back and forth between
a person suffering from a migraine and someone’s elderly, hard-of-hearing aunt.
I didn’t give a shit. All I cared about was Jake. Jake with his shaved head and chapped lips, his bushy eyebrows and expressive nostrils. He was making goofy faces at me, tongue darting, eyes flaring and crossing. Idiot that I was, I was misty-eyed; my heart boomed with happiness. As requested, I was wearing a white dress with a neon pink push-up bra and pantie set flashing through the sheer, itchy fabric. Before Jake kissed me, he grinned and took a step back, admiring the words togethercoloured instant tattooed in Helvetica across my chest, the black ink, mixed with Bing Crosby III’s ashes, raised and scabbed. Jake told me he’d fallen in love with me the first time I read e.e. cummings, his favourite poet, to Line Break, a poetry group that I used to run at the penitentiary.
After we said our I dos, we signed the marriage certificate with two sullen guards serving as last-minute witnesses. Jake’s brother Jordan had cancelled the night before, claiming food poisoning. My mother had refused to come because when she’d voiced her concerns about the marriage, I had responded like the smug bitch I was back then: I told her she was just jealous. “Unlike you, I’ll actually have a husband who doesn’t run around on me,” I’d said. “I’ll know where he is every second.”
I didn’t even notice Jake during my first Line Break session. Then again, I was nervous that the men gathered in a semi-circle around me were just biceps and goatees and macho energy. My skin was gauzy with sweat—after hearing about the program, my mother insisted that I wear a thick black turtleneck, baggy jeans and running shoes despite the fact that it was August. She didn’t want me to “inflame the poor fellows’ desires” by wearing my “usual pin-up girl getups.”
Difficult People Page 7