Shallow Breath

by Sara Foster

  She travelled to Thailand – somewhere neither of her parents had been – in an attempt to escape their ghosts for a little while. The south was still struggling to get on its feet after the Boxing Day tsunami, and when she heard of White Wave she instantly loved the idea. It was a way to make life meaningful again. For a while it had been redemptive, but the more she got involved, the more she began to see the politics, the bureaucracy, the endless red tape and the misappropriated funds. On almost every project, she witnessed cultural clashes and a slow erosion of values, which were replaced by the desire to keep heads down, do the job, chalk it up as a victory and then get out. Did all waves turn murky in the end, she began to ask herself, with the detritus of their journey? Even waves of kindness, of wanting to do the right thing?

  It was obvious there were others who felt the same way. People began to meet in offshoot groups, to discuss different ideas and objectives. Other plans were formed, some more radical than others. And, perhaps inevitably, she was drawn to one particular alliance: those who thought that helping the wildlife was an integral part of helping the community. They were generally in the minority, but they were probably the most passionate group of all. And that’s how she got to know Lexie, Adam, Nick and Carl.

  She doesn’t want to think of them – it still hurts terribly. She needs to sleep. But if she does, the dream will come again. The one where she stands at the top of a tall tower as the white tide gets sucked back, and back, until it’s beyond the horizon. Where she’s left staring into a deepening valley she’d never known was there, at the dropping void of exposed rock, sand and coral, watching thousands of flapping, fitting fish. And where she hears the defiant roar of water again before she can see it, before it charges towards her faster than she can run, transfigured into a solid black wall of oblivion.

  She knows it is only a dream. Even though she wasn’t there, she understands it wouldn’t have been like this. But still, she’s seen the footage – the shallow pools of water, the relentless roll of the tide, the stick figures and toy cars and houses gathered up and obliterated by the charging fury of water. She wishes she could stop thinking in metaphors – she understands that tectonic plates slowly wear each other down, to the point that one of them has to give in and shift, and the sea’s response to an earthquake is as reflexive as fingers jumping away from a flame. But it doesn’t stop the same dream from coming each night, and terror flooding her until she bolts awake, shaking. Will it stop when all this is over? God, she hopes so.

  They were meant to be in Iwate Prefecture together, but Carl had some last-minute business to attend to, and Kate was running late after her unexpected trip back to America. So on 11 March 2011, she had been stepping out of a taxi in central Tokyo, heading for the train station and Iwate, when the warning sirens went off and people began to run. The driver hauled her with him into a building, but it was her ailing grandmother who had saved her life, because she had been the reason for Kate’s hasty visit to San Francisco.

  In the weeks that followed, she had seen the events in Iwate on the television. She had watched the water racing greedily over the land, swallowing everything in its path. Kate and Carl had tried to reach Lexie, Adam and Nick by all means available to them. But there was never an answer. The three of them had been staying at a small guesthouse close to the harbour. The guesthouse definitely wasn’t there any more. Neither were many other buildings within a ten-kilometre radius.

  However hard she tried not to, she found herself imagining what they might have experienced. She wondered what they were doing as the water approached. She even scrutinised all the terrible raw footage she could – just to see if she could find them. But all she saw was the distress of so many others. After a few weeks of no word, she knew, for her own sake, it was time to stop searching.

  Initially, White Wave had listed all five of them as missing. Kate had seen it on the website, but soon afterwards the organisation had found out what they were doing, and had removed all traces of their group from the site. They cut ties with Kate and Carl. Carl thought it was a good thing. He persuaded her that maybe they should remain missing in some quarters, just for a little while.

  The plot hatched between the five of them had become the responsibility of two. They were more determined than ever to go through with it, in the name of their absent friends. But they needed a minimum of four. Carl was looking for one replacement. Kate was working on the other.

  She had originally planned to find Desi, but while Jackson had been gone she had decided to ask him instead. Wasn’t he everything they needed? She had watched him come out of the sea carrying one tank in his arms and another on his back, and she had been convinced he would do it. She had been waiting for the right moment when he’d brought up White Wave, and then she was wary, and it all went wrong.

  And now, Desi has appeared. And so she will stick to her original plan, and talk to Desi first.

  It is hard having Jackson so close to her, thinking she doesn’t care. But she has always known something that Jackson hasn’t – that until now they’ve been on borrowed time. She has made a commitment, and she will not back down.

  ‘I haven’t done anything,’ she had said to Jackson, when he had questioned her. But she had deliberately missed out one key word.

  Yet.

  30

  Jackson

  Jackson has resigned himself to a restless night, with Kate asleep only metres away from him. He can picture her slender form curled in her sleeping bag, her blonde hair fanned on her pillow. Perhaps he should go over there and tell her to come back. He should reassure her that, whatever is going on, he will support her. That’s what you were meant to do when the times got tough. You had to show a little faith. Why is the first hand he plays always the one where he pushes people away?

  Before he knows it, he has cracked open a bottle of bourbon bought in duty-free, and is mixing it with some flat Coke. It tastes disgusting, but that doesn’t seem to stop him from pouring another. When he cannot determine a course of action, it seems he can’t help but invite drink to choose it for him. It usually does, by slowly blanking out the questions until they don’t matter.

  He will go round to see Desi later tomorrow, once Kate has visited her. Then he can find out what Kate wanted. But by that time she’ll be gone, and he has no idea where she’s heading. He feels sick at the thought. If he lets her leave, he might never see her again. But can he bear the humiliation of begging her to stay?

  His hand is shaking as he refills his glass, while his head is a slurry of indecision. A stream of discontented faces begins to swim through his mind. He can see Pete’s eyebrows inverting to a frown as he wondered why Jackson hadn’t taken more notice of Maya’s whereabouts. He can hear the hidden question as Desi asked ‘How are you?’, when what she actually meant was ‘I haven’t seen you in a long time. Why didn’t you visit me?’. He has no idea where Maya is, or how she’s doing, when he should have been busy supporting her these past few weeks. And Kate – who had recently become the guiding light on his horizon – has abruptly extinguished her presence in his life.

  To top it all off, he’d caught sight of Charlie at his bedroom window, watching them all from a distance. He slugs back the last of his drink and begins to mix himself another while he thinks about his dad. He wishes he’d known his father in his prime, before he sold the boat and stopped crayfishing. Desi had always talked disparagingly of going out on the water with Charlie and Rick, but Jackson would have loved to experience it – their dad as skipper, and Rick hauling pots. Instead, he’d grown up listening to Rick’s boasting after he took over the boat, while his dad quietly massaged his painful hands each time Rick got up to collect another beer.

  As a boy, Jackson had jumped every time Charlie paid him attention, mainly because those times were few and far between. If there was something practical to be conveyed, Charlie could teach Jackson how to build a fire, or fix a pipe, or gut a fish. But, other than that, his dad had little to say. Jackson has
spent a lifetime trying to work him out, and has never succeeded. Desi gave up long ago. It had been Hester who bound the family together, but when she died those ties had dissolved. Jackson doesn’t even need to be a bridge between his father and sister. Where possible, they like to pretend that the other doesn’t exist.

  He feels sorry for his dad, but he would never let it show. He is pretty sure Charlie would rather be reviled than pitied. But still, Charlie is the patriarch of the family, and none of them give him the time of day unless they need something. No wonder the old man is sulky and obtuse. Is that what sixty-odd years of hard graft got you? A dead wife and a fractured family.

  Screw that! he thinks, slamming his drink down and collapsing on the bed, his head spinning. He is better off a free agent. He should be thanking Kate for letting him go.

  He reaches over to find his phone and text Desi, to tell her to ask Kate about White Wave. Then he remembers – his sister doesn’t have a mobile, or an email connection. The thought strikes him as incredibly funny, makes him laugh out loud. Perhaps Desi will finally come and join them in the new century now she is home. She’s only missed a decade or so. Then he will be able to speak to her without having to turn up on her doorstep.

  And yet, he really should go and see her. It’s probably time they had an honest conversation.

  He sits up, momentarily sober. If he doesn’t want to spend the rest of his life avoiding his sister, he is going to have to ask her to tell him the truth. He needs to confront her, to see if she really blanked out that day, or if she remembers that he was with her, and what he had said. Originally, he had been scared about reminding her, in case he jolted her memory and it made a difference to the trial. He’d thought he was doing her a favour. He’d never imagined she would go to prison, so he’d kept away.

  But he has a sneaking, uncomfortable suspicion that he was the trigger for what happened. Because less than an hour after he had confided in her, and told her what he knew about Rick, Desi had gone and attempted to kill him.

  31

  Desi

  As soon as Desi knows they will be leaving, the days in Monkey Mia start to shimmer, like a mirage beginning to disperse. Desi fights the growing emptiness and clings to Connor as much as she can. Their talk seems to have released his tension, and he is unusually attentive, keeping his arm around her as he drives the boat, pulling her close and kissing her as often as he can. They don’t discuss their thoughts, but they are clear. However hard they try to grab onto these final days, the time will keep on slipping through their fingers. Soon it will be gone.

  Desi wants to tell Connor how much she dreads going home, but what difference will it make? What can he do? He knows she left abruptly, but Hester had smoothed things over on that front, bringing Jackson for a visit. There had been no sign of Charlie. ‘He’s not happy,’ Hester had admitted. ‘He thinks you showed him a complete lack of respect after all he’s done for you, running out on him like that.’

  Desi had waited for Hester to add more, to say that she understood, but she hadn’t. Still, at least Connor had had a chance to work his charm on her mother. And whenever she spoke to Hester and Jackson on the phone, it was clear that Jackson still hadn’t got over his day spotting whale sharks from the plane. Desi wondered what her father was making of that – she couldn’t ever remember him taking his children out for the fun of it.

  Their final day on the boat is quiet. More often than not they come across groups of dolphins snagging, sleeping tightly packed together, like rows of sausages bobbing on the water. Towards mid-afternoon they find a small group foraging, but there is no sign of Sparkle or Storm. Desi is particularly disconsolate about this – she had hoped to spot them before leaving, to know they had recovered from their ordeal.

  The next morning, once they have packed boxes into their 4WD and dismantled the tent, Connor commandeers some men to help get the boat out of the water. Desi has a short time free for a final swim, and hurries to the beach. It is early, and Nicky is waiting already. As soon as Desi enters the shallows, the dolphin swims towards her, a piece of seagrass trailing from her mouth. She lets it go, but as Desi reaches across she snatches it back.

  She repeats the process. Each time Desi goes for it, Nicky grabs it again first, pulling it away and shifting position.

  Desi giggles. ‘Are you teasing me?’

  Nicky just watches her.

  Connor appears on the beach, waving his hand, gesturing that she should come in. Desi’s eyes fill with tears. ‘Stay safe, Nicky, till next time,’ she says. As she makes to move away, the dolphin rolls upside-down so that her grey, faintly speckled belly is showing, and allows Desi to give her the briefest of strokes. Then Nicky is gone, taking the seagrass with her.

  After an endless round of goodbyes, they set off. Connor is quiet, while Desi feels sick and miserable. It is nine hundred kilometres to get home, and they are planning to split their journey and stop at Geraldton for the night. With nothing to do, and no enthusiasm for the day, Desi begins to doze.

  She wakes to the sound of a door slamming. Connor appears on her side of the car, opening the door, and she is blasted by a surge of hot air. ‘Come on,’ he says.

  ‘Where are we?’ she asks, as she climbs out.

  ‘Shell Beach.’

  The sun is scorching as they run up the path. At the top of a small incline, the view spreads out before them. To the undiscerning eye, it looks like another dazzling white beach. Desi has to focus to make out the carpet of tiny bivalve shells, packed together as far as the eye can see.

  ‘Billions of them!’ Connor says, kneeling down to collect a handful and throwing them high into the air. He picks one up and brings it closer to show Desi. ‘Incredible,’ he murmurs, as the shell rests in his palm, an ancient filigreed fan, ‘to think that all these once had life in them.’

  They stroll down to the water, and Connor takes off his sandals and wades in. Desi slips off her own shoes and follows him. ‘Pretty awesome, hey?’ he says, his face alight against a backdrop of aquamarine sea.

  ‘This hurts,’ she laughs, wincing as the hard shells press into her feet. She turns to head back.

  ‘Wait a minute. I’ve got something for you.’ Connor rummages in his pocket and hands her a small box.

  She opens it to find a gleaming white pearl. She takes it out and holds it up. Set above the pearl is a small silver dolphin, leaping over this tiny iridescent globe.

  ‘Put it in the box, quickly. Don’t drop it or we’ll never find it,’ Connor smiles, looking around him. Then he turns serious. ‘This is a promise, okay? That I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

  Her eyes fill with tears. ‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘It’s perfect.’

  He puts his arms around her, and Desi forgets the hard shells scratching her feet. She can only feel the cool, flowing water and the warm press of Connor’s body, and hear his steady, beating heart.

  Eight hundred kilometres left, as they return to the car and she fastens her necklace, letting it play between her fingers. Then seven, flashing by in a blur of red and brown and green. Passing six with petrol fumes and tepid fries. Checking in to their Geraldton motel at five. At four, Connor’s voice talking about spectrograms and new equipment. By three, checking oil and flight times. Two. A cassette tape playing, and then rewinding. One. Daydreams of dolphins. Connor’s voice again, full and throaty, telling her he loves her.

  And then he’s gone.

  At Lovelock Bay, everything is the same. The front steps still have one brick missing. The door is still rimmed with peeling red paint. Only Desi has changed.

  She has walked the last few kilometres, as they weren’t sure the boat would make it up the track. She hadn’t minded. She had wanted to keep their goodbye private, and she needed the following time to clear her mind. The first hour had passed in a blur of tears, but eventually they had dried, leaving a weary fog of exhaustion.

  When she finally arrives at Lovelock Bay, she is sweating and grimy and desperate f
or a shower. It is early afternoon and the campground is quiet. She pauses at the front door. On the phone, her mother had sounded delighted to hear she was coming home, and had reassured her about her dad. ‘Of course he won’t turn you away,’ she’d said, but Desi still wasn’t certain of her reception.

  She decides to knock. But there is no answer.

  She turns the handle, and lets herself in. ‘Hello?’ she calls, as she wanders through to the kitchen.

  ‘Well, well, well, the wanderer returns.’

  Rick is sitting on a kitchen chair, his dirty boots up on the table, his ankles crossed, a beer in hand.

  Desi is instantly on her guard. ‘Where are Mum and Dad?’

  ‘Your dad’s gone to get the boy from school. I’ve no idea where Hester is.’

  ‘Okay, then. I’m going to get a shower.’

  She walks quickly away from him, down the hallway and into her bedroom. Everything has been tidied away, and the bed is neatly made up, a fresh pot of flowers on the side table. She sits heavily on the mattress. There’s no way she’s going for a shower yet.

  A voice booms close by. ‘Your dad is pretty damn pissed off with you.’

  She jumps. Rick has followed her. His bulk fills the doorway and his hands hold on to the top of the frame while the rest of his body leans in.

  Desi is completely unprepared for this. She stares at him.

  ‘Nothing to say for yourself, eh?’ He walks into the room, and instinctively she jumps up, taking a few steps away towards the window. The space is tiny; there’s nowhere to go.