--Sally--
We could still see the shore from the first dive site. Henry and Gretchen started checking their equipment and putting it on as soon as Mick cut the throttle and started fishing for the mooring buoy. After the two of them had rolled back over the side of the boat, Mick offered me fins, a mask, and a snorkel. I didn’t want the fins and was skeptical of the snorkel. I asked him for a weight belt like the others had, but he wouldn’t give me one. I easily forgave him for that since he didn’t know how well I could swim. I could fix that, but I couldn’t do it with the mask on, so I handed it back to him. Then I casually stepped up the bench seat along the boat’s side, having waited for a swell to give me some extra upward momentum, and performed a needlessly high, arcing swan dive into the water.
I wasn’t able to stay under for very long after the dive, and I must have looked silly trying, legs pointing straight up and kicking, bobbing up to my hips like a cork. I hadn’t noticed at the beach how much higher I floated in saltwater than in fresh. Mick must have known, and it made me kind of miffed that he wouldn’t give me a weight belt. Afflicted by the curse of buoyancy, I paddled around on the surface, watching Henry and Gretchen from above. Again, since I had never been in the ocean before, I assumed all of it was crystal clear and filled with the same rainbow-colored fish and coral. I figured the divers were trying to sneak up on the fish because they moved very slowly, only occasionally kicking. After 20 or 30 minutes, they drifted to the surface. I was there waiting for them, and we swam back to the boat.
I liked being in the water, and I tried to enjoy floating so easily. I let them get in the boat first, taking off their fins and climbing the small ladder astern. After Henry was up, I swam to the ladder, grabbed the bottom rung, and pushed myself as deep as I could. Timing the swells, I pulled up and kicked hard, launching myself up on deck. I didn’t quite make it far enough to turn my hips and end up sitting, but I pulled myself the rest of the way aboard easily. Henry and Gretchen were busy taking off their gear, but Mick saw me, and I felt a bit embarrassed that I hadn’t made it all the way up with my first jump.
We snacked and talked about the fish and the coral while we motored to the next site, bouncing up and down in our seats. I stood and made my way up next to the wheelhouse to watch Mick pilot the boat. As soon as I got there, he asked me how much weight I normally wore. I felt vindicated and wished I could have quoted a number, but when I wanted to stay on the bottom, I usually just found a rock that seemed about right.
He explained how he would have weighted me with scuba gear, about the density of saltwater and the buoyancy of the wetsuit. He said he wanted to leave me a little light because the wetsuit would compress and become denser farther down. The scuba rigs had inflatable vests they used to adjust as they descended, but he wasn’t offering me one and I wasn’t asking. They seemed needlessly bulky and cumbersome. I didn’t see why you wouldn’t just come up for breath when you needed it.
At the second dive site, I loaded a weight belt the way I liked it. Mick counted the weights, then gave me more to adjust for the saltwater and the suit. He insisted I try the fins. Since he was helping me get my weights right after seeing me swim, I decided to give them a shot. They made it impossible to move around in the boat. I couldn’t even turn to dive in, so I tucked my heels up on the railing and did a back flip over the side.
Mick was right about the fins. Just a few dolphin kicks along my dive line got me down to the gravelly sand forty feet below. I was still too light, but not badly so. I rolled a flip turn, streaming my loose hair in a circle around me, to look up at Henry and Gretchen, still slowly sinking down.
I love dolphin kicks. I bent and waved my entire body, cracking my fins like the end of a whip, and shot back up toward the boat. That time, I didn’t even need to pull with the ladder to end up seated on the stern. When I popped up, Mick was leaning over the side of the boat where I dove in. He turned to look at me in amusement with his big, hang ten, surfer grin, and I asked him for another weight.
I swam like a fish, like a torpedo, weaving through the water, kicking with every inch of my body. I shot down to where Henry and Gretchen had begun their leisurely underwater stroll and spiraled around them a few times, my hair flowing freely down my back when I moved and floating forward into a cloud around my head when I stopped. I had really become a mermaid!
I looked up at the patchwork sun dancing back and forth on the water’s surface and wondered if I could fly. With big, hard swings, I twisted, bent and kicked with all my strength, moving fast through the water, breaking it in front of my face like the first moments after a high dive. I shattered the surface and swam into the air until only my feet remained in the water. Throwing my arms back, I crashed, laughing as hard as I swam. Mick was definitely right about the fins.
I swam down and back up, over and over, practicing timing of the waves and different exits from the water. I couldn’t turn a full, 540-degree flip, but in higher seas I might have managed it. It occurred to me that I might have been scaring the fish that Henry and Gretchen were looking for, so I took a break, rolling onto my back and slithering along the surface, breathing hard from my exertion. The ocean teased me to jump again, boosting me on every swell then dropping me down into every trough. I rolled over so it could taunt me to my face and surveyed the panoramic seascape below. It really was beautiful, the two divers meandering along the bottom with the other fish, the turtle swimming along the sand between outcroppings, the shark cresting the nearby reef at the water’s surface.
It wasn’t a big shark, but it was pretty, graceful. I wanted to point it out to them, but it was above them and they were looking down at the reef. I couldn’t call out to them underwater and I didn’t want to scare it away. The shark descended along the reef’s edge, weaving smoothly through the coral. They would see it when it passed them. Before it got to the sandy bottom, it kicked, darting out into the channel, moving straight toward Gretchen. As soon as it got to her, she exploded.
I thought at the time that it had punctured her cylinder, which wasn’t true. It had, however, damaged her first-stage regulator, and a jet of compressed air erupted to her side, behind her head, tumbling her around violently in the water. Her tank drained in seconds, leaving her at the center of a sphere that contained more air than water. I swam down and away from her, trying to catch sight of her around the rising canopy of air. Henry was with her, but her limbs and hoses extended wildly around her, and she convulsed, unconscious, drowning.
I also caught sight of the shark, which had darted away from the explosion. It looked a great deal bigger at that point, but only because I was scared and angry, channeling a thick column of terror and wrath in its direction.
I started swimming toward Henry, who had his second regulator in Gretchen’s face, billowing air around her as they ascended. The shark did too. Maybe it was just curious, but it should have known better.
As far as my dolphin-kick was concerned, it had attacked my pod, and wrath always trumps terror. I thrashed hard, coming straight down from above it, vectoring to intercept before it got to them. It accelerated, and I adjusted. It still hadn’t seen me. I was going to catch it, but I wouldn’t be able to strike it squarely coming in at an angle. With another kick, I was on it. I had no time to think, but I wasn’t planning to shoo it away. I reached up into its gills from both sides to rip out its heart. So much stronger than I expected, it bucked hard and threw me. I had something, not its heart, and it ripped away from me in a plume of blood.
I surfaced and scissor-kicked hard to stand up out of the water, screaming at the top of my lungs. Mick saw me, and by the time the divers surfaced, he had gotten my point. He threw a ring buoy at us. It fell short, but I grabbed it and gave it to Henry. Standing on a swell, I waved to Mick, and the two of them lurched up along the surface, toward the boat. I pushed them as hard as I could, moving them in faster. As we got close, Henry yelled, “Pull her in,” dipped under Gretchen, and pushed her up as hard as he could. Mick
caught one of her hoses and heaved her up the side, dragging her over the railing and down to the deck.
I went down to build some upward speed, then climbed in after her. Mick had her vest open and pulled her out of it roughly onto the deck. He had his head down on her chest checking for breathing and a heartbeat. I had watched her drown and went straight for her face, locking my mouth to hers, pinching her nose and puffing into her as hard as I could. She convulsed again, spraying seawater into my face, and started gasping while Mick rolled her onto her side. Muffled within her gasping, coughing, crying scream were sounds that could be knitted together to form the word “HENRY!” He wasn’t in the boat.
I pushed up toward the side and rolled immediately back into the water. I saw him near the stern, taking off his fins. I also saw the shark out near the limit of my vision, but it was coming toward us from the boat’s nine o’clock. I swam out toward the bow to get a better angle of attack in case it got there before Henry was up the ladder. It was coming too fast, but it wasn’t aimed at him.
I thought I had hurt it badly enough to frighten it away, but apparently I only spooked it. It was back, and I did not expect it was curious. I flip-turned and thrashed. I needed some depth to make it into the boat, and I intended to come up on the boat’s far side in case I didn’t get all the way out. When I rolled to come up under the keel, the shark was way too close, moving fast, almost on me.
With two more panicked kicks, I was out of the water, pulling myself up, leaning in over the side. I felt my ankle tear, pulling me down hard and suddenly onto the railing, badly winded. Mick saw me and got a handful of my hair, keeping me aboard. With one arm scooping along the boat’s side, he flipped me up and in, throwing me onto the deck. I pulled my knee up to hold my injured ankle and found with great relief that my foot was still there, only sprained. The fin had torn off.
My mouth gaping, desperate for air, I reeled, watching the blue sky swing back and forth in front of me. Mick was pulling in the mooring line to get us out of there. No one had checked to see if I was OK. I wasn’t. I slung my head around to the side, looking at Gretchen and Henry across the deck. She lay on her back, panicked, with him on top of her trying to soothe her. I pulled as hard as I could for air but only got a trickle in. He had one hand behind her head, one beside her face. He spoke calmly, quietly to her.
I wouldn’t be able to hear until I got some air, and I arched my back, sucking hard again, pulling in a slightly thicker stream. I was going to be OK. I heaved my chest as hard as I could. He stroked her brow to calm her. She was crying, and she started to reach up around him with her arms. I was terrified, hurt, still couldn’t breathe, though I was making good progress refilling my lungs. I heaved again, croaking with my inhalation, head thrown back, back arched high, shoulders up off the deck.
He kissed her forehead and embraced her, pulling her head to his shoulder. His face bowed to the deck on the near side of hers so he would be able to turn his head to look at me. I finally achieved a slow gasp. I was almost ready to breathe again. I only needed him to look at me to make sure I was OK. Just look.
I saw Mick back at the wheel, throttling up. My shoulders fell back down on the deck, and I breathed heavily but with difficulty. Everything would be fine as soon as I saw Henry’s eyes. I had my sprained ankle in my hands, but there was nothing to be done for it there. When he looked at me, I would nod that I was OK so he could go back to Gretchen who was starting to calm down.
The boat moved faster than it had on the way out, heedless of the waves, jumping and crashing over them, throwing us into the air. He pulled Gretchen closer so her head wouldn’t slam into the deck like mine was, instead taking the impacts with his arms and shielding her. He turned his head the wrong way, whispering into her ear, then looked back down at the deck. I willed him to look at me, just to check that I was there, that I wasn’t hurt. The concussion was starting to daze me, but its pain was nothing compared to how my ankle ached when the boat jolted us down and up. My vision began to blur as tears welled up. LOOK AT ME!!!
I turned my eyes back up toward the angry, bouncing sun and lowered my leg back down to the deck. The ocean had left a drying film of salt across my face and parted lips. My ankle throbbed with each heartbeat and stabbed at me with every jolting wave, but that pain was nothing compared to how my heart ached.
As soon as we pulled alongside the dock, he picked her up and carried her in his arms (not over his shoulder as he had carried me) up to the house. Mick helped me get our things packed and onto the dock. He needed to get to wherever drivers go after they drop you off at your hotel. I tried to carry one of the bags in, but it was too heavy to manage with my ankle hurt.
Limping into the bedroom, I found them, Gretchen seated on the edge of the bathtub, Henry filling the tub. He passed the inside of his wrist under the faucet to measure the water’s temperature, like you would measure the warmth of a baby’s bottle. Neither of them had looked at me yet, and the room seemed suddenly crowded. I backed out slowly, feeling out of place. I limped out to the deck shower and took off my wetsuit, hosing myself down with cold, fresh water, rinsing off the sand and salt and shock.
I dried off a little and used the towel to wrap my hair in a beehive. Searching cabinets and drawers for a plastic bag, I made an icepack for my ankle. Then I limped into the living room, grabbed a cushion from the sofa, and sat in one of the big, low chairs, curling myself around the cushion. The ice felt good on my ankle. Other than that, my brain was empty of thought. I’d had plenty of time on the boat to accept the fact that he didn’t love me. Why should he? How many days had it been? I stared off into the kitchen, sitting with my back to the house’s panoramic windows. I didn’t see anything anyway. I breathed, slowly and steadily, then closed my eyes.
It was early evening when he asked me if I was OK. I opened my eyes and lied, “Yes.” He was probably only talking about my ankle anyway. He and Gretchen stood by the bedroom door, both in bathrobes. She looked nervous, guilty.
“I saw what you did,” he began. “By any reasonable accounting you have fulfilled your promise to me, and I release you from your indenture. Gretchen will take you anywhere you want to go and see that you’re established.” He turned and walked into the bedroom.
Gretchen stood motionless. She had known what was coming. I hadn’t. I had felt sad and lonely because the woman who had taken care of him for years meant more to him than I did. I accepted that; I understood it. Then I found out he was finished with me and sending me away.
“Well, shit,” I said without thinking. A classy dame like me didn’t use that kind of language, but it seemed a classy dame like me didn’t get to stick around either. See that I’m established? I didn’t need to be established. I was a self-made woman and wrote my own ticket, thank you very much.
I threw the cushion I was holding back into place, scowling after it. He had thrown away my luggage and progressively destroyed the clothes off my back, but I still owned a towel I had stolen of my own accord from the hotel in Hong Kong. It had to be around here somewhere. I ripped the beach towel off my head and threw it across the room. Naked and fearless, I curled tighter into my seat. My ankle was their fault, so I was keeping the icepack.
Gretchen, pale as a ghost, took a step toward me and began, “Thank you—”
“Shove it.” I was taking a little break from being perfect.
She went into the bathroom and returned with some rolled bandages. “Please,” she begged, kneeling in front of me, “let me wrap that for you.”
I moved my icepack aside and extended my leg over the side of the chair. It wasn’t Gretchen’s fault. I felt like I knew her well enough. Even if she thought he was wrong, she wouldn’t have said anything. I failed that little test back in Hong Kong. Not only was I the newcomer, she treated him better. Maybe it wasn’t his fault either.
Gretchen’s hair was down, so I couldn’t see her face while she wrapped my ankle, but I could feel her helpless guilt. Her hands moved gently, but th
e dressing was firm. She was better at everything. She tucked the end of the last bandage into place and lifted my icepack to lay it slowly onto my ankle after I returned to my original posture. She looked down at her hands in her lap and was still.
“Gretchen,” I asked, feeling sorry I had snapped at her, “can I ask you a personal question?”
“Anything.” I believed her. When she promised someone “everything forever,” she meant it.
“Before you were his assistant, how long…” I knew what I wanted to ask but not how to ask it. “How long, when he made you go off to school”—I had to say it outright—“when he sent you away, how long was it until you came back?”
I barely got out the last few words while bursting violently into tears. What was wrong with me? Couldn’t I at least go a full day without crying?
Gretchen rose enough to put her arms around me, and I saw that she, bandaging, diving, drink-mixing, jet-piloting Gretchen, wept too. I returned her embrace, and we sat there silently until the sun had set.
Gretchen took a deep breath and broke the silence. “I dare say, Love, that you’ve decided where you want to go, and I’m to take you there.”
It took me a few moments to understand what she meant. When it clicked, I took a deep breath too. “I have,” I said, failing not to get my hopes up. “Shall we go?”
“Let’s.” Gretchen helped me up and walked with me into the bedroom, where Henry lay face-down in a pillow, the same way he had collapsed from his painful migraine two days before.
“Gretchen?” asked the pillow’s muffled voice.
“Yes, Darling?”
“Do you think she’ll be OK?”
Gretchen shrugged off her robe at the foot of the bed and crawled in next to him, saying, “Yes, Darling, I think she will.”
I crawled in along his other side and added, “Once I’m established.”
Carried Away Page 11