Mary Underwater

by Shannon Doleski

  “Okay,” he says.

  “Okay, like you want to kiss me too?”

  “Yeah.”

  I pull on my red strap. My fingers are tingly. Kip wants to kiss me too. “Some people think Joan was in love with the married knight who sponsored her.” I freeze when I repeat the words in my head. I am so embarrassing.

  Kip keeps a straight face for exactly five seconds. “Did he look like me? Then I would understand. She definitely was, then.”

  I knew he would make jokes. “Can we stop talking, please?”

  He nods, and it’s very quiet. Seagulls caw behind me. His face is so close, I can feel him breathe. If I don’t kiss him, I will die. I will melt and ooze into the Bay like oil. The fluttery feeling in my ribs gets bigger and bigger until I close my eyes and lean in.

  I kiss Kip Dwyer on the mouth. And it is a little messy. But. It is starry nights on a bridge. And fireworks. Warm hugs on porches. It is floating and flying and drifting.

  It is perfect.

  “Tell me about it,” Lydia demands two days later, the Friday night before my practice launch. One week before the real launch and Ford leaves for Japan. Lydia’s editing her movie on her computer, her face a few inches from the bright screen. I’m lying on her bed.

  “No. I don’t make you talk about kissing Omar.”

  “Why not? That’s what friends do.”

  “I don’t want to.” I’m afraid if I think about it too much, if the words come out, it will disappear. Like it never existed in the first place.

  “It was that bad?” Lydia turns around with wide eyes.

  “No, it wasn’t bad at all. It was wonderful.” I sigh and cover my face with a pillow covered in pink skulls. “I told him happy birthday afterward.”

  “Why? Isn’t his birthday in March?”

  “Yes!” I throw the pillow across the room and hit her in the butt, and my voice is no longer muffled. “Because I am not normal.”

  “For you, that’s not that bad,” she says, laughing. I don’t mention the Joan thing.

  “Can we eat?” Lydia stands up. “I’m hungry and need to take a break. This doesn’t look how I want it to look.” She flings her hands toward the computer.

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “It’s not . . .” She purses her lips. “Inspired enough.”

  I don’t know what that means. I raise my eyebrows. “Let’s eat.”

  Saturday is practice for a practice. Practice in the driveway for Sunday’s practice launch. For the last few days, I’ve learned how to open the oxygen tanks, tested out the motor in the large garbage bin filled with water, and manipulated the hand and foot controls.

  Ford makes me sit in the sub in the morning, when it’s cooler, for three hours, just to monitor the oxygen. Every thirty minutes, I open the valves and record the information. I check the carbon dioxide scrubber.

  At the three-hour mark, Kip opens the hatch and peers down at me, his hair a fuzzy blond halo. “How was it?”

  “Fine.” I grab his hand, and he hoists me out. The freckles on his hand make me clear my throat and yank my hand back when I come out of the hull.

  Ford’s standing on the gravel. “How was the breathing?” He’s in full military mode. No smiles with his bottom teeth. No dear. No honey.

  “Okay,” I say, wiping my forehead. “We need more silica gel. The fish finder fogged up.” That will help me see where I’m going. So a boat doesn’t run me over.

  “Hmm, what were the numbers on that?” He crosses his arms, the sleeves rolled tight.

  I push my hair into a ponytail. The Bay will be much cooler underwater. “I was fine. The lowest was eighteen percent.” Lower than that, and I would start to feel funny. Dizzy.

  “You won’t feel so relaxed tomorrow.”

  I don’t know what he wants from me. “I’ll sing a song like you told me.”

  “If you feel faint or different in any way, you tell us over the radio immediately. Are you tracking?” I do have a backup to my oxygen, sulfate candles. They will release pure oxygen into the hull. Open flames are dangerous, but they are quick and effective if the tanks malfunction. Not enough to travel over miles, but enough to let me surface and open the hatch.

  His nagging is annoying me. “I know, Ford.” I rub my eye.

  His face softens. Thankfully. “A lot of time to think down there, huh?”

  “Too much. I’ll start talking to myself.” Obviously. I already had an hour-long chat with Joan.

  “What were you thinking about?” Kip asks, grinning. “Anyone I know?”

  I stare up at him, my eyebrows pushed down low. It’s my best move. “The sub.” Except for the hours I spent thinking about kissing.

  “Okay, okay,” he says, his arms surrendering. “Remember when you thought it was my birthday?”

  “I hate you, Kip Dwyer.” Except I don’t. Not at all.

  Ford steers me toward the cottage. “Let me get you some lunch, Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary. That will make you feel better.”

  Sunday morning, I wake up early, my body stiff from hours cramped in the sub. I try to stretch the feeling back into my muscles. The house is quiet. In the bathroom, I stare at my serious reflection in the mirror.

  I wet my brush under the tap and wrestle my hair. I need the security of my braids today. I part it down the center and make two neat French braids, pulling them tight so I can feel my heartbeat on my scalp.

  “You’re not going to let me die today, Joan, right?”

  I pray.

  I know Ford will have food, but before my nerves get the better of me, I attempt to eat a banana in the kitchen. My mother walks in with coffee. We haven’t talked since my birthday. I haven’t told her what I’m doing or what today is. I don’t plan to either.

  “I checked your dad’s pots and sold the crabs. Got a good price for the males.”

  I freeze. My mouth goes dry. An eerie feeling runs through me. I grip the counter in front of me. Money is always good news in the Murphy house, but I don’t trust what it means this time. I dread the words that will come next.

  “I’ve got enough for your dad’s bail. I can pick him up tomorrow.”

  I was right.

  My dad is coming home.

  The bells from Our Lady ring as I walk over to the marina. Nuns file into the church, a black line on the pink horizon. I slip into the side chapel, little candles in red votives lining the wall in front of a statue of Mary.

  I kneel on the leather stool and close my eyes. “He’s coming home.” I clasp my hands near my lips. “Mary.” I don’t know what to say at first. “I don’t want him to.”

  Why did she have to tell me today? Why now? My thoughts are wild. Frantic. I shake my head. I can’t think about him. I have to concentrate on the sub. On the launch.

  I peek with one eye up at the saint. “I want to survive.” I want to survive. I need to.

  “I think I’m named after you.” I pause. “Along with millions of other girls, but still. You’re the Star of the Sea. Protect me. Please.”

  With twitching fingers, I light a candle and watch the little flame hover in the dark of the church. “Amen,” I whisper.

  Because of the tides, we push the launch back to eight, and I have time before the others come. I check on the sub, which they moved to the boathouse yesterday, and see it intact, Murphy’s Law. Meet the bad luck head-on.

  I hug my shoulders. To distract myself, I take out my checklist and reread it, then line up the contents of my backpack on the dock. I mentally match them to their job on the list, then repack my bag. When I’m done, I stand up and find my life preserver in the box of the Dwyers’ supplies.

  On the dock, I sit and wait, the life preserver tight on my ribs. Kip comes in a few minutes later.

  “Hey,” he says, sitting beside me. “Can you wear that?”

  “No, I can’t move with it. It’ll be next to me.” I just like the security of it. It’s holding my insides together.

  “Murph, I
want to make a joke about you wearing it on land. But it’s your day. No jokes.”

  No jokes from Kip makes me nervous. I look at his gap. He smells like toothpaste. “He’s coming home tomorrow. My mom just told me.” I thought I had time. Ten days. By that time, I’d have done it, piloted a sub across the Bay. Now I’m not so sure.

  “What do you want to do?” Kip asks. He grabs my hand and sandwiches it between his and the dock.

  “I don’t know.” An itchy despair creeps up my spine.

  “Do you still want to do this?”

  “More than anything.” I stare at Murphy’s Law. Mr. Dwyer and Ford tested the pressure hull by lowering it into the marina and bringing it back up manually, with no pilot. All the measurements were the same. No leaks.

  “All right, lovies,” Ford says, walking into the boathouse, “none of that. We’ve got a sub to launch.”

  Lydia shows up, complaining about how early it is, while I’m reciting the prelaunch checklist with Ford. Mr. Dwyer is here now too, waiting by a winch, his red hair and freckles bright. He wraps his big arms around Kip in a huggy, wrestling move.

  “Let me know when you’re ready,” he tells me. He pretends to throw Kip in the water.

  “You have everything?” Ford asks. “Remember, you’re only staying in the marina this time. If you need us, radio over. We will haul you out or come down and get you.”

  I nod. I imagine the sub sinking to the bottom of the marina and seaweed creeping its way around the hull, a tangle so thick, no one will ever find me.

  So much work. Weeks of work just to end up in the bottom of the marina. Just to end up in the same town. On the same island.

  “Are you ready?” Ford asks. “Any last-minute nerves?”

  “No. Once I set my mind to something, I do it.”

  “Give me a hug,” Ford says. “Never said that to one of my submariners before.” He squeezes me, his small body only slightly bigger than mine. I bite my lip and tell myself Joan probably didn’t cry when she left for war.

  “I need one too,” Lydia interrupts. She latches on. “Don’t die,” she whispers. “I’m so glad we’re friends again.”

  “Me too.”

  She puts her chin against my head. “I’m proud of you.”

  When it’s Kip’s turn, he says, “I’m not hugging you. Or saying good-bye.” He stands in front of me, his shoulders square in his red shirt. For a minute, I don’t want to climb in my sub. I want to stay on land where life is normal.

  But tomorrow will be the normal I’m used to.

  So today is the day life changes.

  “Game face on, Murph. Let’s go.” Kip pats me gruffly on the back and steps to the winch.

  They lower me into the water.

  It’s quiet inside the sub. So quiet that when I unzip my backpack, the noise echoes around me. Flat on my stomach, I take out my flashlight first and place it on the bottom. Next, the radio. I switch it on so it hums.

  I put Joan’s card, found in my jumper pocket, above my hand controls, her halo golden. I kiss my fingertips and press it to the picture. I make the sign of the cross. I am not afraid. I am not afraid. Please don’t let me die. Please.

  I put my feet back by the rudder and diving plane controls. The sleeping bag Ford gave me separates my ribs from the metal.

  Over the radio, Kip says, “If you’re ready, we’re going to unhook you.”

  I hold the button down. “Okay.”

  The sub lurches a little, and I brace myself with my elbows. The water cradles me for a second, then drops. I flip on the motor and pivot the ballast tanks.

  “You’re free,” Kip says.

  I don’t feel free.

  “I feel like we should say ‘Over,’” he says.

  “Are you a truck driver?”

  “I do love gas station food. Over.”

  I smile. “I’m sure that won’t get annoying.”

  “I’m never annoying. Ford is losing it, by the way. He’s very worried about you. He’s pacing up and down the dock, watching your buoy. Over.”

  Ford wants me close today. The bright orange bubble that open-water swimmers use for safety is tied to my hatch to track me. He wants me to sit in the sub and practice the controls. Not leave the safety of the marina water. Next week, I can leave the marina. But by next week, it will be too late.

  That despair keeps sneaking in.

  Joan wouldn’t wait. Not if her life depended on it.

  For twenty minutes, I stare out at the channel that leads across the Bay, that sinking feeling in my chest. In front of me, I see a trio of skates slide past my sub, their stomachs white. They flap under the wooden posts of the pier.

  Kip says, “Mary?”

  No “Murph.” I frown. “Why no ‘Over’?”

  “The Coast Guard is here.” I hear yelling. Muffled yelling. “I think Ford’s getting in trouble.”

  I press my lips together. Because of me? I put my hand on the ballast control. I could go up. The Coast Guard would take my sub. They might arrest me or Ford. And then what? I’d never get to pilot my sub.

  Or. Or. I could go. I could flee. I could do what I was born to do.

  “Kip.” I lift my chin, my heartbeat pinging between my ribs and the sub. Ricocheting like a bullet. “Kip. You asked me what I wanted to do, and I know. I’m going to go across the Bay. Today. Can you get your boat to follow me?”

  “Murph.” So much reservation in one syllable. But he doesn’t say “Mary.” It’s something. A chance.

  “My dad is not going to let me do it, Kip. Okay? He’s not. I need to go now. This is my only chance,” I plead.

  It’s very quiet on the other end. Like he’s not holding the button down. Either something happened or he’s thinking. Or he’s grabbing the boat. Whatever it is, it’s probably bad. He’s probably not going to help me escape.

  I bite my thumbnail. “Kip!” I watch the fish finder, and the water is empty ahead of me through the narrow channel Kip took the Barbara Jean on my birthday.

  Still nothing over the radio. Not even static.

  I push my eyebrows down. “I’m going no matter what. Okay? So you can go with me or not.”

  On the other end, Kip curses. “I’m trying to sneak past the Coast Guard to get keys to help my girl. Could you please keep it down?”

  I grin so hard it hurts. Kip Dwyer. If I could see his freckled face, I’d kiss it.

  If I can survive steering through the narrow marina, the open water should be easier to navigate. My eyes dart between the compass on the outside of the porthole and my maps. I push the foot controls too hard and then too soft. Even though I’ve practiced for weeks, it’s suddenly different.

  “Relax, Murphy. Relax.” I try again.

  “There’s a big ship at the mouth, do you see it?” Kip asks. “Over.”

  “I see it.”

  “Let it get by you. Over.”

  The sub sways under me. The wake from the ship. It makes me feel small, like a minnow compared to a whale. I press my elbows into the sleeping bag to steady myself. It does nothing. I hum to myself. The Our Lady song we sing in chapel once a week.

  “I felt that,” I tell Kip. “I didn’t like it.”

  “I think that’ll be the only one. The big ships are headed toward the ocean, not up the Bay. Over.”

  Following the maps, I start again, pushing the motor harder as I leave the marina. “I’m out.”

  The first hour is easy. The water gets deeper, the sub gets cooler, and I figure out the foot controls. I pull the sleeping bag up to my waist as I drive.

  “I saw a bugeye,” he says. The wooden oyster boat of the Bay. “Maybe our next project can be that or a skipjack. What do you say?”

  I smile and press the pedals behind me.

  “Halfway, Murph. Over.”

  Good. I have about two hours of oxygen left and an hour and a half to go. “Tell me about Ford and the Coast Guard. Do you think he got arrested?”

  I can hear Kip laughing.
“He was saying curse words I’ve never heard in my life. They took him somewhere, which was a good distraction. And Lydia’s mad at me because I didn’t take her with me. But she was on the other side of the boathouse! I couldn’t get to her! Over.”

  “Thanks for coming with me.” Kind of with me. Above me. I look up at the roof of the sub like I can see his boat.

  “You’re not getting mushy on me, are you?” There’s static for a second. “Of course I would. You do things for your lady love.”

  I roll my eyes and beam at the same time. But to Kip, I say, “You forgot to say ‘Over.’”

  “You’re heartless.” I can practically see his gap through the radio. “I’ll check in with you in five minutes. Over.”

  For the next thirty minutes, he checks in like he says. It’s quiet when he leaves, and each time I miss a voice other than my own. I put the radio down and look through the porthole. I’m so far down, I can see only a few feet in front of me. A storm last week left the water murky. I’ve gone almost five miles in less than two hours. If I’m reading my maps correctly, I have two miles to go.

  While he’s gone, I open the valve to the oxygen and record the numbers.

  “Time. You alive down there? Over.”

  “Yes, I’m two miles out. Does that match up with you?”

  “Yeah. See you in five. Over.”

  Kip checks in five more times, and I run my finger over the path on the map. I’m going to do it. I’m going to cross the Bay in a submersible.

  “Murph? Over.”

  “Here.”

  “How’s life at the bottom of the sea? Over.”

  “Fine.” I press the radio to my mouth, but it falls out of my hands and bangs against the metal side. “Whoops,” I say aloud. My fingers feel funny.

  “You can’t say fine because that’s what we say when we’re not fine. So say a different word. Over.”

  “Okay.” My fingers feel too big on the button. I look at the radio, confused, and blink. When I measure the oxygen levels, they’re low. Really low. Fourteen percent. I don’t want to tell him. He’ll make me come up.