In At the Deep End

by Penelope Janu

  ‘I have to put up with your screams. I have an idea.’

  I squeeze his leg. ‘Sorry. But I think I’m showing him enough of me already. Panic attacks, vomiting, everything else.’

  ‘You’re giving him a hard time. You need as many excuses as possible.’

  ‘I want to go into the water on my terms, not his. He’s only got this power over me because of Professor Tan, and Palau.’

  ‘Hate to point it out, Harry, but your terms weren’t working for you. And don’t forget he’s an action hero. Meaning he has the capacity to help, whether you want him to or not.’ Liam taps my nose. ‘You’d usually be practical enough to see that. It’s doing your head in, not sleeping well.’

  It’s not unusual for me to dream about the accident, but it’s been happening nightly since I fell on the rock shelf. Liam took me by the shoulders this morning and shook me until I opened my eyes. He wrenched me upright and I sobbed all over him, crying like a baby.

  ‘What time do you have to be at the hospital?’ I ask. ‘Go back to bed.’

  He yawns. ‘Seven. May as well stay up and get some reading done.’ He shudders and puts his mug on the coffee table. ‘This tea is awful.’

  ‘It’s meant to settle the stomach and calm the mind. Sorry I woke you up.’

  ‘That’s okay.’ He winks. ‘Least I get to see Per in his Polarman costume.’

  I elbow him. ‘Shut up. I hate your man crush. Is my face blotchy?’

  He studies it. ‘Eyes like a puffer fish. Same dream?’

  It’s always the same dream. Though it’s more a re-enactment than a dream, because everything I dream about actually happened. The four-wheel drive went around the bend and swerved because of the truck in its path. Then the road gave way, and suddenly we were airborne, and crashing down the gorge like a ball in a pinball machine. I’m not sure how long I blacked out for, but when I opened my eyes it was quiet, eerily so. I imagined feeling the dampness of the forest in the car. Dad was unconscious. The car was lying on its side and he was on the high side, still strapped to his seat, suspended from his seatbelt. He had a gash in his head; blood was running down his forehead and dripping off his face. I couldn’t look away.

  ‘Dad?’ The sound didn’t come out properly. It was barely a croak.

  ‘Harriet?’ Mum said. I couldn’t see her, but she sounded close.

  ‘I’m here, Mum.’

  ‘Thank God.’

  Mum was in the front passenger seat, and I was behind her. Our side of the car was on the ground; all I could see out of my window were rocks and murky green shapes. I leaned forward, trying to see Mum. The car shifted and tilted forward, like it was going sideways down a steep hill.

  ‘No sudden movements, darling,’ Mum said.

  I found out later she’d broken her arm, pelvis and a leg. But you wouldn’t have known it. Her voice was calm, patient. It was the same tone of voice she used when she was braiding my hair and telling me not to fidget.

  ‘Is your seatbelt still on?’ she said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Undo it if you can, or slip out of it. Can you see Dad’s toolbox?’

  It was still strapped to the back of Dad’s seat. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. The window above you, Harriet, behind Dad’s window, you have to smash it open. That’s how you’re going to get out. Find something in the toolbox—a spanner, or screwdriver, or use the box itself.’

  I glanced at the window. Everything outside was blurry. I couldn’t think why that was.

  ‘Dad can’t get out that way,’ I said. ‘Why can’t I open the door above me? Then I’ll open his door. I can pull him out, and you can push.’

  Mum hesitated. ‘I’ve hurt my arm, Harriet, and I can’t undo my belt.’

  The door I was wedged against was wet. What had been a trickle of condensation running down the inside of the windscreen was now a stream of water, making it even more difficult to see outside. But I still didn’t understand what had happened. Everything—my thought processes, my speech—was laboured. Then Mum went quiet. I could hear her breathing but she wouldn’t answer me when I asked about the windscreen. I thought I had to think things through for both of us.

  ‘I’ll get Dad out. And come back for you. Is that all right? Don’t worry, Mum, Dad’s not dead. He’s still bleeding, so he can’t be. Drew will be here soon, and get him to the hospital in Brasilia. Won’t he? He was only an hour ahead of us. He’ll search when we don’t turn up.’

  ‘Yes,’ she finally said. ‘Drew will come.’

  There were scraping noises then, and a whining sound. The car shifted again, tilting even further forward. Then Mum said, very quietly, so I had to strain to hear her, ‘I love you, Harriet. So does Dad. Have you taken your seatbelt off yet? Do that, and then get the toolbox. Hold onto something when you break the window, because you’ll be forced backwards. The car may move again. It doesn’t matter. Get to the surface and Drew will come. Quickly, darling.’

  I undid my belt, struggled to my knees, and grasped the strap that attached the toolbox to the back of Dad’s seat. I’d just got the buckle open when the windscreen shattered. There was no explosion, just a relentless crackling sound. And then, as water flooded into the car, everything made sense—the blurriness outside the car, the dampness within. The car had been under water all that time. And now the water was coming in. It reached my chest within seconds, a bubbling churning mass, and then I was kicking my way through it, squeezing my body between the seats to the front of the car. By the time I got there Mum was underwater. Dad was still hanging from his seatbelt. There was a pocket of air above his head but most of his face was submerged. I tasted his blood in the water. I tried to lift him higher but I wasn’t strong enough to keep him there, so I had to let him go. I screamed for Mum but of course she couldn’t answer me. I took a breath, and dived—

  ‘Harry?’

  It’s an effort to open my eyes and focus on Liam. He’s squatting next to me. ‘Let it go,’ he says, grasping the tops of my arms.

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Want a hot chocolate? To get rid of the taste of the tea?’

  I give him a shaky smile. ‘Better not. Throwing up milk might get messy.’

  He strokes my cheek with his index finger. ‘Go get dressed then, Polarwoman. I’ll do up your zip, and tie back your hair.’

  ‘You can’t call me that. He won’t let me go to Antarctica, remember?’

  I open the back doors as soon as I see Per on the deck. Liam pushes me out of the way and walks outside first, even though I told him to stay inside.

  ‘Greetings,’ Liam says, shaking Per’s hand.

  ‘Morning.’ Per nods in my direction as he kicks off his boots. ‘Harriet.’

  Liam puts an arm around my shoulders. He smells of coffee. ‘Take care,’ he says. ‘See you tonight.’

  Per walks down the steps and across the lawn. I have to run to catch up. He stops dead when I grasp his wrist. I take a deep breath as I link my arm through his and thread our fingers together.

  ‘I’m sorry about yesterday,’ I say. ‘And for going into the surf when Helga and Allan were there.’

  He looks at me suspiciously. ‘You’re apologising?’

  ‘Liam said we’re on the same page, that I should be practical. I’d like to go into the water again. You want to please the professor. We both want The Adélie.’

  It’s still dark. We’re standing under the washing line. The waning moon casts stripy shadows over Per’s face. He’s frowning.

  ‘You’ve been crying,’ he says. ‘Why?’

  When I blink up at him, he raises his brows. Is this a test? I’m sure he knows I want to tell him to mind his own business, or to piss off. I straighten my shoulders.

  ‘The thought of going under the water gives me nightmares. I can’t stop the crying when I’m asleep.’

  ‘What do you dream about?’

  ‘The accident. And you’ve promised not to ask about that. Remember? In Professor Tan’s of
fice.’

  Now he’s cross, but he’s trying to hold it in.

  ‘So let me understand this,’ he says. ‘One, I can’t touch you inappropriately.’ He looks at our hands, still joined. I see the incongruity as clearly as he does. Holding his hand makes me feel safer, just like he said it would, but there’s an undeniable physical attraction between us as well.

  ‘That’s right,’ I say, tightening my grip.

  He doesn’t say anything for ages. Then he takes a breath. ‘Two, you don’t want to hear anything from me that may be categorised as a lecture. Three, I’m not allowed to speak about the accident.’

  ‘Yes. They’re my conditions. But point two is tricky. I don’t like long silences—they make me uneasy. But I’m not likely to have much to say because,’ I gesture towards the ocean, ‘you know, the nausea. So while I don’t want you to lecture me, you can still talk. If you want.’ My nose is cold and my teeth are chattering. ‘Can we walk now, while you talk?’

  I have to tug his hand to get him going.

  ‘What do you want me to talk about?’ he says.

  ‘I don’t care. Anything, really, just nothing personal about me. You’re an environmentalist. So am I. Talk about that.’

  ‘I’m an environmental scientist,’ he corrects.

  ‘Whatever. What was your PhD topic?’

  ‘Climate variability and anthropogenic factors in polar regions, with a specific focus on the internal dynamics of glaciers.’

  ‘Well, then. There you go. Fascinating stuff.’

  I’m dimly aware of him smiling as we reach the top of the dune and the steps that lead to the beach. But then the taste of the ginger and valerian tea takes over. It’s rising up to the back of my throat. I have to keep swallowing it down. The surf isn’t large today but the waves are dumpers, unpredictable and dangerous. Even experienced surfers avoid waves like these. They can break boards. And bodies.

  I jerk my hand out of Per’s grasp moments before I retch into the grasses. It doesn’t take long. He hands me the water bottle once I’m upright again. Then he takes my hand and we walk down the steps together.

  ‘Your conditions are ridiculous,’ he says.

  ‘You have to agree to them.’

  ‘No I don’t. But I will. Because like I said yesterday, you have to trust me.’

  I take a deep breath. ‘At the beach?’

  ‘That will do for now.’

  My steps slow as Per and I, hand in hand, step onto the concrete landing at the southern end of the beach. The landing is like a deck, and overlooks the pools. The pool closest to the sand is the children’s pool. There’s also a much larger, deeper, rectangular pool. It’s too early for the Amazons, but this is where they swim their laps. The large pool is bordered on the short sides by the children’s pool, and the southern rock shelf and cliff. The landing, and a rocky wall that leads to the ocean, border the long sides.

  Seawater floods into the pool when the tides are high, or the waves are big, or the weather is stormy. Today the surf is small and the tide is out. The water in the pool is still, except where it’s ruffled by the breeze. Even so, I’m swallowing compulsively. What if I throw up on the concrete? How will I wash it away without going near the water? What if people step in it?

  I freeze when we approach the pool steps. There are five of them, each about a metre long and a ruler-length wide. There’s an aluminium railing either side.

  Per is still talking. He’s speaking calmly and without expression about how difficult it is to extract and transport core samples, notwithstanding significant developments in coring technology. He’s been on the same topic since we stepped onto the sand.

  ‘Analysing ice core samples allows for the measurement of climate variation over millennia,’ he says. He tugs my hand. When the only move I make is to lean backwards, he stops talking about ice. ‘Harriet?’

  My eyes lock with his. They’re darkest grey. They’re probably reflecting the colours of the ocean but I try not to think about that. He prises his fingers away from mine and puts his hands on my shoulders. Then he moves so close that I have to tip my head back to keep my eyes on his.

  ‘I’m going to be sick,’ I say.

  He jerks his head towards the pool. ‘You’re not getting wet. I’ll sit above the top step. You can sit next to me. We’ll work our way down.’

  ‘You said you wouldn’t force me.’

  He frowns. ‘I won’t.’

  ‘I can’t walk.’

  ‘I’ll pick you up.’

  He slides one arm beneath my shoulder blades and the other behind my knees as he scoops me up. He takes one step, and adjusts his grip.

  ‘Per!’ I launch myself out of his arms.

  ‘Jesus!’ he says, bending his knees and catching me. ‘What are you …’

  My body convulses in a giant retch. He swears, puts me onto my feet and drags me to the far end of the pool, where the rock shelf is. Moments later I’m on my hands and knees. I’ve already vomited the ginger and valerian tea so there’s nothing much left. I dry retch for a while.

  Per stands back and leaves me in peace until my breaths have quietened. When I sit he gives me a chamois to wipe my face. He squats in front of me.

  ‘Sorry.’ I swallow. My words are a jerky series of croaks. ‘I thought you were going to throw me in.’

  He’s terribly serious. He shakes his head. ‘I would never do that.’

  The thumping in my head is settling down. So are the flashing lights. ‘You said if I made trouble you’d throw me off the Adelaide.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘On the phone. When you told me you were going to the Swedish Ambassador’s cocktail party.’

  ‘I’ve changed my mind. Now I want you to trust me.’ When he holds out his hand I take it, and he pulls me to my feet. ‘Should we make a second attempt?’

  When I take a shuddering breath and nod, he picks me up again.

  ‘Tighten your arms around my neck,’ he says.

  It’s not like he has to ask, I’m holding on like a barnacle. I haven’t been held like this since I was a little girl, and Dad or Drew lifted me into their arms. When Per sits down he takes me with him. I’m not sitting next to him. I’m on his lap.

  ‘Åpne øynene dine,’ he says. ‘Open your eyes.’

  I’m not in the water. But when I see that his feet are resting on the first step of the pool and he’s wet to his ankles, my stomach rebels all over again. He tips me forward and rubs my back as I spit saliva into the pool.

  CHAPTER

  22

  Per and I have been at the beach—excluding the weekends—every morning for the past four weeks. We must be up to day twenty.

  I’m sitting on his lap on step three of the pool, breathing into the warm soft skin where his collarbone meets his shoulder. He smells fresh and salty, just like he always does. If I lift my face a little higher, up against his neck, there’s a hint of pine as well. He’s always cleanly shaven when he arrives on my deck.

  ‘You know it’s fashionable to have a three-day growth?’ I say.

  ‘Not in the Norwegian Navy,’ he says. ‘Unless you’re on leave.’

  I press in closer and he tightens his arms around me. I hear the Amazons laughing as they warm up on the sand, and the waves as they crash on the shoreline. Neither of us speaks until he says, ‘Are you falling asleep, Harriet, or struggling for breath?’

  He’s more aware of when my heart rate goes up or down than I am, so he must know I’m doing neither of these things.

  ‘I’m just breathing like a normal person,’ I say. ‘Stop micro-managing me.’

  When I’m relaxed like this, which doesn’t happen often, I try to hide my awareness of his scent, and the feel of his body as it holds onto mine—the way his hands move up and down my spine, and the way he sometimes rubs his cheek against the top of my head. Being comfortable in his arms makes me feel safe. He’d be happy about that. But I’ve banned him from thinking inappropriate thoughts. He might
have a problem with me taking pleasure from lying here, breathing him in.

  ‘Stop wriggling. Du er umulig.’

  I sit up straighter, and look into his eyes, narrowing my own. ‘I am … what?’

  ‘Impossible.’

  I shrug and rest my face against his neck again. Then I stretch my legs out so they float on the top of the water. I move my feet up and down in a careful kicking motion.

  ‘Should I put my hand in?’ I move one of my arms from around his neck, and rest it on his chest. His heart thumps. My hand quivers. He puts his hand over it.

  ‘You’ve had enough for today.’ He rubs my hand. ‘You have the coldest hands on the planet.’

  ‘It’s been weeks and I’m only waist deep. I’ll never get to Palau at this rate.’

  He rests his chin on my head. ‘Stop chasing deadlines. You’ve got to be in control of your heart rate before you move on.’

  ‘I have to overcome my fear of the water before I learn to swim. Not the other way around, right?’

  ‘You said it, not me.’

  He hasn’t lectured me since the day we sat on the sand and argued. Not in English anyway. I’m pretty sure he does it in Norwegian, particularly when I’m throwing up into the rock pools, or refusing to do what he says.

  I link my hands behind his neck. After a while he stops scowling.

  ‘It’s humiliating how I do what you tell me to do. I’d rather be disobedient, like Dougal.’

  The corner of his mouth twitches. It’s the first time he’s smiled today.

  ‘Your heartbeat, Harriet,’ he says. ‘Focus on that. On Monday we’ll come to step three again. If you can match your breathing to mine within the first half hour, you can put your hands in the water.’

  I didn’t get wet for the first three mornings we came to the pool. I sat on Per’s lap on the landing above step one. I listened to his heart and the slow regularity of its beats. On day four I put a foot into the water, and on the following day, both feet. Eventually my calves got wet and we moved to step one. Then it was step two, where sitting on Per’s lap the water reached up to my thighs. We started on step three at the beginning of this week.