A Single Breath

by Lucy Clarke

  She kicks hard for the surface and she and Saul break through it, grinning.

  EVA STRIPS OFF HER wetsuit, then wraps Saul’s beach towel around herself. She pushes her hair back, squeezing the water from the ends, feeling so much better for the dive.

  Saul has changed into shorts and a pale gray T-shirt, his collar dark from his wet hair. His expression is relaxed as he looks out over the water. Eva realizes how kind he’s been these past few weeks, offering her a place to stay and looking after her in the wake of the miscarriage. It’s strange to think that when she first met him she’d believed him to be someone completely different.

  Saul goes into the cabin and rummages in a plastic bag, asking, “D’you want a sandwich? I’ve got prawn or bacon.”

  “Bacon, please.” As she crosses the boat, she feels something sharp slice into her foot and cries out.

  A hot pain shoots through her heel and she hops, lifting up her foot to look. “Shit!” Embedded in her skin is a fishhook, two of the barbs sunk deep into her heel.

  Saul comes to her side, angling his head to see the damage. “Where did that come from?”

  “No idea.”

  He moves a plastic crate toward Eva and says, “Sit. I’ll get it out.”

  He disappears into the cabin and returns with a tattered red first-aid box, which he sets down beside her. Then he leans over the side of the boat and washes his hands. He dries them on the bottom of his T-shirt and she sees a glimpse of his stomach, the skin there paler than the dark tan on his forearms.

  He draws an icebox opposite Eva and sits on top of it. “Give me your foot.”

  Eva knows that she could take the hook out herself, yet she finds herself wanting the reassurance of Saul’s hands against her skin.

  She raises her foot and Saul places it carefully on his thigh. Her toenails are unpainted and she sees that the seam of her wetsuit has left a red indentation along her calf.

  Gently, Saul angles her foot to get a better view of the hook, his brow furrowing as he assesses the damage. “This is going to be a bit rough, but I’ve got to ease this thing out. You okay with that?”

  Eva nods. “Do it.”

  As he pulls the hook, she grips the sides of the crate, feeling the metal snagging against her skin. The pain in her foot is hot and fierce.

  Saul pauses a moment and Eva exhales, catching her breath. “You’re doin’ good. One barb out. One more to go. Ready?”

  She nods and grits her teeth. This time the pain is more intense, like a knife being stabbed in her foot. She squeezes her eyes shut and starts to count. Before she reaches four, it is over.

  “Here you go,” Saul says, holding up the offending hook.

  She angles her head to look at the sharp barbs. As she draws her foot away, Saul says, “You’re not finished.” He takes out an antiseptic wipe, and cupping Eva’s heel in one hand, he carefully smoothes the wipe over the wound.

  Eva winces. “Sorry. I’m not brave.”

  He looks up at her, his gaze steady. “You’re incredibly brave, Eva.” Then he smoothes the Band-Aid carefully over her heel, pressing down the sticky edges with his thumbs. When he is finished his hands stay lightly clasped around her foot.

  Eva does not withdraw her leg. She waits, watching him.

  Very slowly, Saul’s fingers travel over the sides of her heel, tracing her bare ankle. She is aware of the gentle pressure, the warmth of his touch. Her breath catches.

  Saul looks up and she meets his gaze.

  He blinks, suddenly removing his hands and standing. “Sorry,” he says in a low voice.

  As he steps aside, Eva rises, too, and catches his hand instinctively. “Saul . . .”

  He freezes, eyes lowered. Then, very slowly, he turns back toward her. Eva’s heart drums as his gaze moves from their joined hands, over her body that is wrapped in his towel, and up to her face.

  Looking into his eyes, she feels a connection pulsing between them that she is only just starting to understand. She becomes viscerally aware of every detail of his face: the salt caught in the stubble on his jaw; the stray eyebrow hairs that won’t grow in a smooth arch; the darkness of his eyes that are fixed on her.

  She does not know who moves first. She is simply aware of their bodies drawing together, her hand reaching for him, his palm on her cheek.

  The kiss is tender. She tastes warmth and salt, and her eyes flutter closed. She feels their tongues meet, feels his shoulders beneath her hands, feels the press of their hips. They fall into each other, sinking into one another’s longing and need.

  And then, moments later, they are slowing down, pulling away as her thoughts rush headlong toward Jackson: his hands, his skin, his touch.

  She rests her forehead against Saul’s shoulder, the taste of him still on her lips, the memory of her husband still in her mind. Saul holds her in his arms and they stand like this, feeling the sea surging beneath them.

  16

  Saul draws the boat beside the jetty, hearing the rub of fenders against the weathered wood. Eva climbs onto the jetty and he watches her walk the length of it, his truck keys dangling from her fingers, the white Band-Aid flashing on her heel.

  He runs a hand through his salt-matted hair, thinking about that kiss: the sweet softness of her mouth; the press of her hands on his shoulders; the smooth skin of her throat. He’d wanted to peel away the damp towel she was wrapped in and touch every inch of her, lick the salt from her skin. But they’d stopped. They had no choice.

  It was a mistake.

  One he knew he wanted to make again.

  He shouldn’t have even brought her along on the research trip. It was too risky; too many people about. He scans the parking lot, checking for any vehicles he recognizes, but thankfully it’s clear.

  He watches Eva pulling herself into the driver’s seat of his truck, then hears the grunt of the engine as she reverses, lining up the trailer with the boat ramp. She looks tiny sitting upright in his seat, her chin lifted to peer in the rearview mirror.

  He calls out for her to stop when the trailer reaches the water, then he drives the boat forward, feeling the clunk of metal beneath him. On his signal, Eva pulls away, engine straining, and the boat is dragged from the sea.

  When the boat is out of the water, Saul jumps down, the gravel sharp on his bare feet. “Great job.”

  Eva smiles, her lips parting over white teeth, and he feels the strongest urge to lean down and kiss her again. He makes himself turn away and secure the boat to the trailer while Eva heads for the restroom at the edge of the parking lot.

  He takes the straps out of the truck and begins looping them around the metal bars of the boat when he hears his name. “Saul! Long time no see, mate!”

  He turns and sees Flyer loafing toward him, a squat man with more beard than hair, whom Saul knows from his schooldays.

  Shit, he thinks, glancing over his shoulder to check for Eva.

  “How are ya?” Flyer asks, pumping Saul’s hand.

  “Good. All good,” he says, knowing he must keep this conversation short.

  “Caught your dinner?”

  “Not today. Just tagging.” The sun is starting to burn through the clouds and Saul feels hot beneath his T-shirt.

  “I got a load of flatties. Bloody things were practically jumpin’ in the boat. Didn’t even pretend to fight.”

  “Too easy.”

  “Saw the terns diving out there,” Flyer says, rubbing his nose, which is sunburned from a summer on the water. “Reckon the tuna must be schooling.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Wouldn’t mind getting out there soon with the big gear.”

  Saul nods.

  “Bumped into Jimmy a while back. Said your place’s all done up.”

  “Finished just before Christmas. Nice to be in. There’s still stuff to do.”

  “Ain’t there always? I’d never see a bloody fish if I worked through the list that needs doin’ round our place.” Flyer continues talking, telling Saul about
the solar panels he got halfway through installing, but had to stop because the roof tiles started coming loose. “It was like ridin’ a bloody sled up there. The wife cracked the shits over that, I can tell ya.”

  But Saul isn’t paying attention, as he’s caught sight of Eva making her way toward them.

  Saul turns to Flyer, who is deeply involved in his story by now. Just as he is about to interrupt and tell Flyer he’s got to run, Flyer notices Eva. “Who the heck is that?”

  Eva stops at Saul’s side and smiles lightly, glancing between the men.

  Saul has no choice but to introduce her. “Flyer, this is Eva. Eva, Flyer.”

  “G’day,” Flyer says. He wipes his palms on his T-shirt and shakes her hand. He straightens a little and smoothes back what hair he has. In the presence of female company, Flyer is all charm. “You’ve been out on the water, too?”

  “Just helping Saul.”

  “Where d’you recruit your assistants from, mate?” Flyer says with an easy grin.

  “That’d be tellin’.”

  Flyer is about to say something further, but Saul cuts him off. “We’re gonna have to shoot. Get the gear back to the lab.”

  “Sure thing,” Flyer says, but doesn’t move to leave. Instead, he is leaning close to Saul. “Hey, mate . . .” His tone is altered and Saul knows exactly what’s coming. His heart begins to pound. “I was sorry to hear about Jackson. Keep meaning to call to arrange a beer or somethin’.”

  Saul feels dull-witted and can’t think what to respond with. “That’d be good,” he manages eventually.

  “Tragic, wasn’t it? He was fishing off some rocks, I heard?”

  Saul nods slowly. He is acutely aware of Eva standing at his shoulder, her head lifting in interest at the mention of Jackson. “Yeah, fishing in England. It was a shock,” he says vaguely.

  “I’ll bet. My missus heard about it. Tells me Jeanette is havin’ a tough time. Distraught, she reckons.”

  Saul swallows, feeling the blood pumping hard around his body.

  He senses Eva’s gaze on him, silently asking, Who is Jeanette? He cannot look at her.

  Flyer continues. “I know things between them hadn’t been good for a while, but she was still his wife.”

  It takes all of Saul’s effort to keep his hands at his side, not to ram his fist down Flyer’s throat to make him shut the hell up.

  “Anyway,” Flyer says brightly, as if relieved to have gotten that out of the way. “Best let you get on—but great to see you, mate.” He squeezes Saul’s shoulder. “Let’s do that beer soon, eh?” Then he winks at Eva and says, “See ya, love,” before striding back to his car.

  Saul doesn’t move. His pulse throbs in his neck.

  Silence swells between him and Eva. He can feel the burn of her gaze on him.

  When she speaks, her voice is deadly quiet. “Jackson had a wife?”

  EVA WAITS FOR SAUL’S answer. Waits for him to tell her that Flyer was mistaken.

  The harsh glare of the sun exposes every detail of his expression. She sees the sweat on his brow, the vein standing proud at his temple, the squint of his eyes as he looks past her, just beyond her shoulder.

  He swallows. “Yes, Jackson was married.”

  She leans forward as if she’s taken a blow to the stomach. Saliva swills around her mouth and she clamps her hands over her lips. No, no, no! He can’t have been married before. He would’ve told her. It would mean he’d had a wife. A wedding day. A wedding night. She screws her eyes shut as unbearable images rupture her thoughts.

  “Eva . . .”

  “Who is she? How long were they married?” Her voice is a thin thread, trembling with questions. “When did they get divorced?”

  Saul exhales a long, low breath, pushing out all the air from his lungs. His gaze is pinned to hers and the intensity of it scares her. “They never got divorced.”

  She blinks. “What?”

  “He was still married to her when he . . . married you.”

  Time becomes suspended, as if everything has been stripped away: the sound of boat engines, the smell of the sea, the feel of the sun on her skin. There is nothing, only the words that Saul has just spoken, which scream and claw through her skull. He was still married to her when he married you.

  The air is like a wall, solid and unmovable. She can’t breathe. Her ears fill with the rushing sound of blood. The ground seems to tilt. She sees Saul’s hand reaching for her arm, but all she knows is that she doesn’t want him near. She yanks her arm away, stumbling backward.

  She presses herself against the truck, air surging into her lungs. Her chest rises and falls. The metal bodywork is hot against her back and she feels a wave of nausea push through her. She breathes deeply, willing herself not to be sick.

  “I . . . I don’t understand. It wasn’t legal? Our marriage wasn’t . . . real?”

  He is shaking his head, repeating the word, Sorry.

  “Oh God . . . I . . . I . . .” She breaks off, squeezing her hands to her head. “Then it’s bigamy,” she says, the word sounding so alien on her tongue.

  None of it feels real; it’s as if she has stepped out of her body and is watching the conversation as a bystander. She can hear her voice, but isn’t aware of actually framing the questions she asks: “Who is she?”

  “Her name is Jeanette.”

  “Is she Tasmanian?”

  He nods. “Lives up in the north—”

  “Does she know about me?”

  “No. They were separated a while back—”

  “But not divorced?”

  “No. Not divorced. But I don’t think they were in touch.”

  Saul says this to try to make it better—but it doesn’t. Nothing can make this better.

  Her clothes stick to her damp skin. The stones are sharp against her throbbing heel as she paces alongside the truck, her mind loosening. She presses her fingertips to her forehead trying to still her thoughts, but her memory of Jackson is fracturing into sharp, jagged pieces that feel as if they’re tearing through her skin.

  Then suddenly she stops and turns to look at Saul. “My God,” she says, her eyes widening. “You knew. This whole time, you knew.”

  “No, Eva. Listen,” he says, lifting his hands in front of him. “I knew when Jackson married Jeanette. But I had no idea about you. Not until after Jackson’s death. I promise you. Dad’s the only person Jackson ever told.”

  She laughs then, a sharp hysterical sound. Dirk knew that his son had two wives! Her visit to him begins to make sense. That’s why, after a few whiskeys, he admitted that Jackson should never have married Eva.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  He shifts. “I didn’t want to hurt you . . .”

  It’s a pathetic answer, insulting in its weakness. Her fingers slip into the pocket of her shorts and she fishes out his truck keys. With one quick movement, she slings them as hard as she can into the water. They make a small splash and disappear.

  Saul doesn’t turn around. His eyes are locked on her. “Eva . . .” he begins.

  But already she is turning from him, from Jackson, from both their lies.

  She grabs her bag from the truck and begins to run as everything that she believed in splinters around her.

  17

  Melbourne rears up tall and angular, muscular skyscrapers squaring up next to each other under a darkening sky. The taxi weaves through the city streets and Eva stares blankly through the window watching streetcars slide by, their carriages full.

  The driver calls over his shoulder, “You said Borralong Street, right? What building?”

  “Parkside,” she tells him.

  They roar on. Eva’s gaze travels to her engagement ring and wedding band. The polish of the platinum has been dulled by salt water and sunscreen, and they stick faintly to her skin as she twists them off.

  She turns her wedding band slowly through her fingers, reading the italicized inscription: This day and always. She shakes her head at the irony. Sh
e will not wear them—not when there is another woman who’s already been promised an always from Jackson.

  She opens the window a crack; fume-tinged air and the rush of traffic flood in. Without pause or ceremony, she lets both rings drop from her fingers. They clink against the taxi’s side and then are lost beneath the wheels of other vehicles.

  She closes the window and sits back, inspecting the pale band of skin encircling her finger. The flesh beneath looks wasted and shrunken from the pressure of wearing the rings. She rubs at her finger, trying to massage life back into it.

  Eventually the taxi pulls up outside a prestigious apartment building with stylish curved balconies and gleaming tinted windows. Callie is sitting on the steps in the fading evening sun, dressed in a pair of tailored trousers and an open-necked cream shirt. She must’ve come straight from the studio. Eva can’t even think what day of the week it is. All she knows is that just a few hours ago she was on a boat catching squid in Tasmania—and now she’s in Melbourne.

  She pays the taxi driver and climbs out with her bag. Callie steps forward, and Eva falls into her open arms. Callie smells of perfume and mints, and her bracelets jangle as she holds Eva tight to her. After a few moments, she takes Eva by the hand and leads her inside.

  They ride up several floors in a mirror-paneled elevator. Eva keeps her gaze lowered, careful not to catch her reflection. Her flip-flops look tatty and worn against the polished floor and there is a faint smear of an ink stain on her shinbone that looks like dirt.

  Callie unlocks the door into a bright, spacious apartment and Eva follows her through to the kitchen. Two wineglasses wait on the marble island. Callie takes a bottle of white wine from the fridge and pours them both generous glasses.

  Eva’s hand trembles slightly as she lifts the wine to her lips. The cool liquid slides down her throat and she leans back against the kitchen table, letting out her breath. She’d called Callie on the way to Hobart airport when the shock was still so fresh that she didn’t even believe the words that she was saying. But now the truth is working into her and she feels as if she’s splitting open at the seams.