by Lucy Clarke
But then she feels the warmth of his hand around her wrist. He gently draws her hands from her face, forcing her to meet his gaze. He doesn’t look embarrassed or awkward. He just tells her, “You’re going to be okay.”
She hears the firm certainty in his voice, sees the steadiness of his gaze, feels the strength of his grip—and she wants to trust in him.
I like imagining what we’d do if we had just one more night together.
Sometimes I picture the winning-lottery-ticket version of this answer: a tropical beach, fresh lobster, champagne, you in a flowing dress, barefoot. But that’s not really what I’d want. If we could be anywhere, I’d choose the bedroom of our rented apartment in London. Yes, darl, our old bedroom with its cracked ceiling, drafty, single-paned window, and the mattress that sagged in the middle. I wouldn’t even mind hearing next door’s bad Nineties rock music thudding through the walls because it’d remind me of when you stood on our bed playing air guitar at three in the morning when we couldn’t sleep.
So I’d spend our final night in that room—in that bed—and we’d laugh together, and make love, and I would memorize every detail of your body: the feel of your hipbones, the taste of your skin, the wisps of finer hair at the edges of your temples, the amber flecks of your eyes.
I know that some people probably thought that we were reckless in our relationship. I’m sure your friends blamed me—thought I moved too quickly, spent money too easily, swept your days up into mine. And they were right. But when I was with you, Eva, I felt the strongest urge to live life for the moment, because I never knew when it was going to end.
12
Time slides by. Eva sees it pass in shadows between day and night, in the dwindling bag of coffee Saul spoons into a mug each morning when he visits, in the thickening layers of salt blurring the shack windows. Callie calls her daily, sometimes hourly, and Eva listens to the words of comfort and encouragement that she whispers from the corner of a set in Melbourne.
This morning she stands on the deck, a hand placed over her stomach. There is no longer the firm, small roundness to it. It has only been ten days and already it has flattened, all physical trace of the pregnancy gone. The bay is glassy, the goose-belly gray sky reflected on its surface. It makes Eva think of the Dorset coast and the early-morning walks she’d taken as a teenager when the sea was still and quiet.
She sees Saul at the far edge of the bay, making his way along the shoreline toward her. He visits each day before work, and on the days she feels she can’t get out of bed, he sits at the far side of the room on a wooden chair that looks too feeble for his frame, talking lightly about his plans for the day or bringing her something to read from his collection of ocean books. She is grateful to him, immensely grateful, yet she wishes it were Jackson who was here with her, not Saul.
When he gets closer she sees he is wearing a wetsuit rolled down to his waist. “Going free-diving?”
“Yep.” He smiles at her, sunlight falling across his face. “And so are you.”
“Sorry?”
“I thought you might want to give it a go.”
“No,” she says immediately. “I can’t.”
“But you haven’t been in the water since—” He doesn’t finish the sentence.
“I know. But I just . . .” Just what? she thinks. She was too sore to swim immediately after the miscarriage, but now physically she feels fine. There is nothing stopping her.
“You’ll love free-diving.” He turns and looks at the bay as he says, “The moment you dive under, everything else slips away. No matter how wound up I am before I get in, all of that disappears underwater.”
Eva had wanted to dive from that first morning she saw Saul moving fluidly through the bay. But she’s not sure she’s ready; she feels heavy, as if her grief is a weight, physically pressing her down.
“I’ve got a wetsuit for you,” he says, opening the bag he’s holding. “It was in the lost-and-found box at work. I’m no good on sizes, but it looked about right.”
Eva finds something unbearably touching about the idea of Saul searching through wetsuits at work, planning this. Trying, in his own quiet way, to help.
“Will you give it a go?”
She looks at him, then slowly she nods. “Yes. I will.”
THE WETSUIT IS A bit long in the arms and loose at the back, but all in all, it’s not bad. On the shore, Saul fixes a weight belt around Eva’s waist and hands her a mask and a pair of fins.
As they wade into the sea, Saul says, “See that cluster of rocks out there to the left of the bay? You good to swim that far?”
“I’ll be fine,” Eva says.
Saul spits into his mask and rubs it around with his fingers. Eva does the same and then she pulls on her fins and kicks away from shore.
The wetsuit shrinks against her skin, a cold trickle of water seeping down the gap at her back. She swims slowly, the weight belt feeling heavy at her waist as she finds her stroke. Saul stays at her side, never overtaking her. It’s good to be moving again, shaking off the inertia that had settled in her limbs. She has swum in the bay many times, but never with a snorkel mask. The visibility is incredible; she sees the pattern of ridges on the seabed and the glistening clarity of the water ahead.
When they reach the rocks at the far edge of the bay, they tread water and Saul pulls out his snorkel to tell her, “We’re going to dive down to the bottom—it’s not deep here, maybe fifteen feet. You know how to equalize?”
She nods.
“Good. Keep equalizing as you go so your ears don’t hurt. Then I just want you to try and stay on the bottom for as long as your breath will comfortably hold you. Try and do everything slowly. The stiller you can be, the less oxygen you’ll burn. And don’t force it. When your body tells you it’s time to surface, you listen to it.”
Eva readjusts her mask, takes a gulp of air, and dives under, holding her nose and blowing out air to stop the pressure building in her ears. She kicks a few times to reach the bottom and then positions herself flat. As soon as she stops kicking, she finds herself popping right back to the surface.
She snatches another breath and goes down again, her body fighting against the water to keep her under. Within a matter of seconds she is back on the surface again, gasping for air. “I can’t stay down,” she tells Saul, frustrated.
“This time, when you swim down I want you to hold onto a rock. Wrap your hands around it and just hover there. We’ll go down together, okay?”
She takes a deep breath and dives under again, Saul with her. Underwater he moves gracefully as he swims to a rock ledge and holds onto it, beckoning her over.
Eva kicks toward the rock and clings onto it as well, but even as she holds it, her legs begin floating up above her head. She fights to keep her body level with Saul’s, but already she is out of air and has to let go and pings back to the surface.
She snaps off her mask. “I can’t do it,” she tells him when he surfaces.
“Listen,” he says, swimming over to her side. “Free-diving isn’t about how long you can hold your breath for or how deep you can go. It’s about understanding yourself and what you’re capable of—and then exceeding those limits.”
“But I can’t even stay under for thirty seconds.”
Saul pulls his mask down around his neck as he treads water. She sees a faint red indentation left behind on his forehead. “You were rushing. You’ve got to learn to get in the right mind-set before going under.” He wipes water from his eyes. “Sometimes I just float on the surface, breathing through the snorkel and slowing my heart rate. Then, when I’m relaxed, that’s when I dive down.”
“Okay,” she says. “I’d like to try again.”
Eva floats on the surface with her face in the cool water, arms spread at her sides, letting the water bear her weight. She takes steady breaths in and out through the snorkel, watching Saul dive under, his sleek black shape gliding beneath her.
Once her breathing has regulated, she draws
in a deeper, longer breath, then dives down. She doesn’t kick hard for the rock, rather angles herself toward it and lets her body descend in a smooth point. She grips it and begins calmly letting out her breath, silver air bubbles shimmering as they rise. Moments feel slower underwater and it seems to her as if her muscles relax, loosen. Something inside Eva falls still.
Eventually she lets go of the rock, and looking up, she gently kicks for the surface. When she breaks through it, she doesn’t gasp a panicked breath, but inhales slowly, deeply, filling her lungs with fresh air.
As she waits for Saul to surface, Eva realizes that for the few seconds she was underwater, she wasn’t thinking or worrying. Instead she was just in the moment, absorbing her surroundings, and she sees that this is exactly what Saul wanted her to experience.
SAUL SLIPS OFF HIS fins and wades through the shallows behind Eva.
Reaching the beach, Eva pulls off her mask and stands with her hands on her waist, catching her breath.
“What did you think?” he asks.
“I loved it,” she says quietly, as if she’s surprised by the fact. “That last dive, I came up feeling . . . I don’t know how to describe it. Energized . . . but also, peaceful.”
He smiles, nodding.
Eva tries to remove her weight belt, her chilled fingers grappling with the safety catch.
“Here,” he says, stepping forward. He takes the belt in one hand and attempts to release the catch a couple of times, but the clasp is jammed. He has to slip his hand between the belt and Eva’s wetsuit for purchase, and this time, when he pulls it firmly, the catch releases.
Glancing up, he sees Eva’s gaze is fixed on his face. “Thanks for taking me,” she says.
There is a drop of water just below her left eyebrow, a perfect single sphere. He has a curious urge to put his lips to it and taste it. Surprised by the thought, he hands back the weight belt. “No worries.”
“Saul,” she says, the seriousness of her voice drawing his gaze back to her face. “I wanted to ask you something.”
He shifts, the sand moving beneath his feet.
“I called Callie last night and told her I was thinking of staying in Tasmania a little longer. Just while I get my head together. What would you think if . . . if I stayed here in the shack, just for another week or so? Would that be okay?”
The neck of his wetsuit feels too tight, as if it’s constricting his breathing. He wants to unzip it, yank the damn thing off.
Eva must read his hesitation. “It’s only that Callie thinks she’ll be working crazy hours. I was just worried I might be a bit cooped up in her apartment, that’s all.”
He knows Eva cannot stay on Wattleboon for much longer—not without everything coming undone. He’s already taken too great a risk as it is. “Listen, Eva,” he begins.
She tilts her head to one side and the drop of water on her eyebrow runs to the corner of her eye, where it rests like a tear.
Despite every logical thought in his head, he finds himself saying to her, “Stay as long as you need.”
13
Most days Eva finds herself eager to free-dive. Now that she’s relaxed underwater, she’s noticing more: seaweed with the hues of autumn, tiny boxfish that look as if they’ve swallowed an ice cube, crayfish that lurk in cracks in the rocks. Even on days when the visibility is poor, she enjoys the sensation of the swell moving around her and the clicks and echoes of the sea. It’s here that her thoughts fall still.
Now she returns to the shallows and slips off her fins and mask, salt water dripping from the ends of her hair. She grabs a towel from the shack and cranks on the outdoor shower. Under the warm running water she massages shampoo, then conditioner, through her hair. She rinses it, gazing up at the hazy clouds forming in the early-evening sky.
Eva cuts the shower and dries herself, then moves inside, throwing on a big sweater and a pair of jeans. She grabs a glass of water and eats a bowl of cold pasta left over from lunch while leaning against the kitchen side.
Standing there, she rereads a few pages of a book Saul lent her by Jacques Mayol, a prolific free-diver who writes poetically about the union between humans and water. She’s already read it cover to cover, fascinated by his theories about dolphins and the aquatic nature of man. She’s made pages of notes, something about his writing inspiring a connection between her work with water births and free-diving.
She checks her watch, running a finger beneath the strap where her skin is still damp. It’s only seven o’clock. She doesn’t fancy another evening alone watching the portable TV that only picks up flickering reception on two channels.
She washes up her dish, then does some halfhearted tidying around the shack, which is already neat. She picks up her book and puts it down again, feeling restless. What she’d like is a beer and some company—and she takes this as a good sign. When Saul stopped by the shack before work, she’d suggested going to the Wattleboon Tavern this evening for a drink—but he couldn’t as he’d be working late. Eva had felt an odd sting of disappointment at his answer, as if she somehow knew he’d say no.
Perhaps I’ll go anyway, she thinks. Deciding to ride the moment of optimism, she swaps her sweater for a pale gray camisole, grabs her wallet, and then leaves for the pub on foot.
The Wattleboon Tavern is a squat building made from cement blocks that have been painted a sage green. A liquor store is attached to its rear, like a fanny pack strapped to a bad outfit. What it lacks in terms of elegance, it makes up for in location: it faces the Duntree Channel, and as the sun lowers, golden light streams through the wide windows.
Inside, the place hums. People crowd around dark tables drinking and talking, and the air smells of freshly cooked fries and the yeasty flavor of beer. Cricket plays on a flat-screen TV high on the wall, watched by a small audience with necks craned. Opposite the bar a doorway leads into a gaming lounge, where men in work boots and ratty T-shirts stand in front of flashing slot machines.
As Eva waits at the bar, she glances around, surprised to see so many young people. She’d imagined they’d all leave for Hobart or even mainland Australia once they’d reached eighteen, but they’re here grouped around tables in their skinny jeans and skate shoes.
Eva orders a beer and takes a seat on a stool at the edge of the bar. It’s nice to be away from the shack and see the routines of other people’s lives on Wattleboon. She imagines Jackson would have liked bringing her here; he always loved nights out, being sociable. Last summer they’d been at a wedding where the bar staff left at midnight, but there was still a fridge full of alcohol that the newlyweds had paid for. Jackson—with his shirtsleeves pushed up and a tie wrapped around his head like some Eighties rock hero—vaulted over the bar and began serving drinks. He created amazing concoctions from the alcohol and mixers left, and the guests cheered as he raced through their orders, tossing bottles of vodka and rum through the air and catching them backhanded.
Eva had laughed with her head thrown back, amazed by his flamboyance. When the rush had passed, he’d slid a cocktail across the bar and said, “For you, madam. For being the most beautiful woman in the room.”
“Except for the bride,” she amended with a small smile.
He leaned close to her and whispered, “Including the bride.” He’d kissed her on the mouth and she’d felt desire rush through her.
From somewhere within the pub comes a bellow of laughter that makes every nerve ending in Eva’s body fire. She knows that laugh: the timbre, the depth, the way it rumbles as it’s released.
Suddenly she is rising from her stool, turning on the spot, searching for Jackson among the crowd.
The laughter comes again and Eva follows the sound toward a group of people who are sitting in the corner of the pub. She sees the broad set of a man with his back to her, his shoulders quaking.
Saul.
Her stomach falls with disappointment.
It is a moment before she remembers Saul told her he’d be working late tonight.
Clutching her bag, Eva ducks her head and makes her way through the crowd, keeping her gaze fixed on the exit.
HE SEES A FLASH of dark hair, a slim, tanned arm. He glances up and catches the back of Eva disappearing out of the tavern door.
Shit, he thinks.
Grabbing his phone and truck keys, he makes an excuse to his friends, then jogs across the dusty parking lot and sees Eva striding away down the road.
He has to run to catch up, loose change jangling in his pocket. “Eva!” he calls. “Wait!”
She turns. Her cheeks are flushed.
Saul comes to a stop in front of her. He can feel beer swilling in his stomach. “You were in the tavern?”
Her chest rises and falls as she says, “I decided to go on my own—since you were working late.”
“Yeah, sorry,” he says, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “I finished earlier than I thought . . .” The lie sticks in his throat.
They’re standing on the roadside and a truck flies past with a kayak tied to its roof. A loose bungee strap bounces against the wheel arch, then swings high into the air.
“You could’ve just said no. I do understand you’ve got your own life here.”
Tension throbs in his temples and he runs a hand back and forth across his forehead. He doesn’t say anything.
“Do you wish I’d left with Callie—is that it?”
“No . . . I . . .” He doesn’t know what to say. Yes, he wishes she’d left. No, he wants her to stay. “I like having you here, I do. But . . .” He trails off again, frustrated. There’s no way for him to explain why he lied to her.