I think about you all the time. I think about how brave you were to try to bring Eddie out of the water, and how horrible it must’ve been to live with what happened. I know that you tried to look after Dillon. I often wonder how I would feel about you if I’d known about you from the start. I think I would have tried to kill you. But then I wouldn’t have discovered diving. Or the truth about everything else that day. I suppose what I’m trying to say is that I forgive you.
I might see you at Loch Duich in the spring for the West Coast Big Dive! I haven’t told my mum yet, but I will. She’s doing okay. I don’t think my dad will be coming home anytime soon, but things are better between us. Dillon’s okay too. He gets weekend leave now, and he should be able to come home next month—but I think he’s got a long road ahead. And as for me? I’m just Elsie.
Elsie Main (the Black Isle’s deepest girl)
I haven’t got any pockets, so I slip the letter inside my bra and stretch out on the ground so that Eddie’s headstone is behind me. I glance over at the house and see a silhouette in Dillon’s bedroom window. My brother waves from the window and I wave back.
Despite the frost, I feel warm. I empty the air from my lungs, from every cavity in my body, and look up at the angelfish in the sky.
Dear El,
I’m not expecting you to reply to any of my letters. Although I hope you will one day.
I’m sorry I didn’t tell you the truth, and even sorrier that you found out the way you did. There’s one more thing I have to tell you. Here goes . . .
Danny never told me who you were. I’m sorry I let you think that. And it wasn’t the day of that party that I realized, either. The moment I met you, I knew you were cool. You were my kind of girl—hiding out in the (my!) boathouse eating sweets and smoking cigarettes, but there was something familiar about you. Something that disturbed me a bit. I told myself that I was imagining it, but then you jumped off the harbor wall, and when I dragged you in, it hit me. I knew you were that boy’s twin sister. It was like I was reliving that horrible moment again, five years on. It felt like a punishment, but one that I deserved. I should have stayed away, but I just couldn’t. I saw your loneliness and I saw how alive you became in the water. I wanted to be the one to keep you alive because I had failed you once, and because you gave me a reason to keep going.
You didn’t seem to mind that I was socially awkward, or that I’d done lots of things in the past that I wasn’t proud of. I kept telling myself that it could never last because of what I had done, but I was never brave enough to leave. I tried, and I know I hurt you, but I was too selfish to stay away.
I don’t expect you to ever forgive me, but you should know that I love you and I never meant to cause you this much pain. Please forgive Dillon. He needs you.
T x
PS—Let me leave you with a few interesting facts about the River Tay. You probably already know this, but the River Tay is the longest river in Scotland. It flows east. Did you know that?
Acknowledgments
I owe huge amounts of gratitude to the following folks for being utterly awesome:
Elizabeth Bewley, my meticulous, dedicated editor at HMH, for your incredibly detailed revision notes, for brilliant suggestions, and for being a champion of Elsie from day one; HMH designer Cara Llewellyn, who came up with the beautiful cover design, along with hand-lettering and art from Connie Gabbert; Nicole Sclama; Ann Dye, Meredith Wilson, Mary Wilcox, and Betsy Groban of HMH, for everything you’ve done and will continue to do; Becky Walker and Anne Finnis at Usborne in the UK, for totally getting it, for your amazing insight, and for being a voice of calm in response to my panicked emails; Hellie Ogden, agent extraordinaire, for seeking me out, for your unrelenting enthusiasm, for making me do endless revisions, and for finding this book a home—simply put, you’ve changed my life.
Thanks also to the Janklow and Nesbit crew on both sides of the Atlantic, in particular Kirsty Gordon in the UK and Stefanie Lieberman, for finding this book a home in the U.S.; my fellow Birkbeckers who read and encouraged me during the first draft (your comments about it being a bit morbid were noted—honestly); my Birkbeck tutor, Julia Bell, for noticing the story’s potential and giving me the confidence to write it; the apneists, for your world records and breathtaking YouTube videos; all friends and family whose special occasions I missed because I was in writing lockdown—thank you for understanding; my mum, for being my best book friend and for hoarding so many books; my dad, for allowing her to hoard and secretly enjoying it. Thanks to both of you for everything (not just the book stuff). And finally, Peter, for being my number-one reader, encourager, and supporter, and for never doubting. I couldn’t have written this book without you.
About the Author
Photo Credit Melissa Valente
SARAH ALEXANDER works as an editor and lives in London with her husband and two chickens. The Art of Not Breathing is her first novel.
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