“Okay? Hey, stay on the radio for a minute. I want to make sure your oxygen is working.”
“Slope hair fling.” I shake my head. Which leaves my vision blurry. My words aren’t working either. Or my hands. I try to hum.
“What, Murph? I didn’t hear you. Over.”
“Solry. Is fli herb.” No. I am not working.
“Murphy?”
I can tell he’s nervous. I’m nervous. My tongue is stuck, and I stare at the depth charts as the lines dance around. They dance even when I squint my eyes. Stop moving, please. I breathe, and my ribs move against the sub.
“Mary? Come up right now!” He’s yelling at me. Kip doesn’t yell at me. I reach for the radio. “Murphy!”
I fumble with the button again. “No.” I am not stopping now. I’m so close. So very, very close.
“Listen. You’re losing oxygen. Get up here!”
He doesn’t say “Over.” I want to tell him. I want to tell him I’m okay. That I’m just tired, and I can finish this no problem. But I’m not okay. I grab for my backpack, my hands like I’m wearing thick mittens.
“Murph. Please take a breath of real air.” He curses, and I tune him out.
My mittened hands keep dropping the bag, and I can’t hold on. I lie on my side for a minute, no idea where the sub is going.
I just want to sleep. My eyes blur, looking at the picture of Joan, and I close them. So wonderful. Joan did such a good job. I pull the sleeping bag up over my shoulders. It’s so warm. So warm and comfortable.
The sub tilts and something hits me in the face. I push it away, but it hits me again. I groan and open my eyes. A sulfate candle. I gasp and push up.
I reach for the backpack again. This time, I get it, but my foot kicks the rudder behind me, lurching the sub to the side. I hold my breath and fumble to right it with my foot. My hands shake violently. I unzip the bag all the way and pull out the other candles and matches.
I light the match on my fourth try, the panic a stack of discarded sticks next to me.
Carefully, I place the candle on the map, trying not to let the flame devour the paper. My fingers won’t stop vibrating.
“Okay,” I say into the radio.
“Oh my God, you’re alive. Are you coming up?”
I should. I really should. “No.” I breathe the oxygen candle fumes in, my nose an inch away from the flame. I feel better, still foggy, but better.
“No, no, no, Murph. You’re so close. Just come up.”
I let his voice bounce around the sub while I line up the compass and map. I steered off course fifty yards. I’m north of our charted route. I tell him over the radio.
“You’ve got less than a mile until you ground. Over.”
I sigh. “I’m okay,” I tell myself and Kip. All I have to do is survive for a little longer, maybe thirty minutes, and I will make it. The candle flickers below me.
“You’re not coming up?” I hear him sigh. “Okay, Murph.”
“Here we go,” I whisper.
I pull on the handle for the ballast tanks, and the sub rises. The depth charts say the water is twenty feet deep. The smaller the number, the closer I am, until the sub is waist-deep and I can open the hatch.
For the next twenty minutes, I lie frozen in the sleeping bag. The flicker of the flame makes me feel like I can’t move. Kip checks on me constantly, and it’s hard to concentrate.
At ten feet, the sub jolts, and I cry out. I must have hit something. Sand maybe. The shoreline. But I’m scared.
I yank on the ballast handle to raise the sub, but nothing happens. I’m stuck.
“Oh no, oh no, oh no.” I speak, and the words make the flame flicker. I stare down and hold my breath. Please don’t vanish. Please don’t go out. But the flame wavers, then disappears, and five thousand thoughts explode in my brain.
I don’t know where the matches are. I can’t find them. I must have thrown them earlier. I turn the backpack over, empty it out, and run my hands over the supplies. Nothing. They’re gone.
I sob and wipe my face. I suck in air, but there’s nothing. No oxygen. It’s like opening my mouth underwater and sucking in water. It’s like drowning.
I swipe my eyes again and think. I can do this. If I can open the hatch, I can swim to the surface. It’s not that far. I might be so close. Or I might drown. I just learned how to float. And my body is tired.
I push myself up to the hatch and put my hands on the handle. The metal Mr. Jack welded is cold. I tighten my muscles and get ready. I know there will be a rush of water. My biceps shake.
Do I let it fill up and then leave? Or swim right away? I can’t remember. I can’t remember what Ford told me. What his book said. I cry out and close my mouth.
Get it together, Murphy. Get it together. Push open this hatch and go. Swim.
I close my eyes, clench my fingers around the handle, and lean against the side. I twist and push. Nothing happens. My heart pumps hard in my chest. I can do this. I have opened the hatch before. I steady my hands again.
I twist and push. Again, nothing happens.
I can’t do it.
I try again.
Tears stream down my face, and I let them. I stop and lie on my sleeping bag, my face to the hatch. I can’t do it. I was so close. Don’t give up. Just rest your eyes. Just for a second. To gather my thoughts. Then I can try again. Swim up. To the bobbing light of the sun.
I shut my eyes and put my hands to my heart.
Just a second. That’s all.
The hatch opens, and I blink into the blinding light.
I’m not underwater. I’m in the sky. The bright blue sky. I squint. Wings. White wings, larger than the body attached. Each feather is bigger than my hand. So soft. I could touch one. Touch one of the feathers and float away.
“Mary.” The voice is far away, drifting above me. “Give me your hand.”
A red dress. Short hair. Serious face. The sun glows around her. I smile. She is so beautiful. “Joan.”
“Take a breath.”
I nod. I am not afraid. I will breathe for Joan of Arc.
“No, really. Do it.” She waits for me, her hand extended. “Give me your hand. I can’t reach you.” She touches her fingers to mine. They’re a lot bigger than I expected. And freckled.
“Your hand looks like a boy’s,” I tell her.
“Makes sense.” The hand reaches down farther. “I can’t fit in there. Please. You are my favorite person in the world, but help me out. Please come up.”
“No, Joan.” I roll over and put my head under the sleeping bag.
“Murph, give me your hand!”
I stop smiling and yank off the sleeping bag. “Kip?”
“Who else would it be? Let’s go.”
I grab his hand, and he pulls me out of the hatch. I look around and gasp like I’ve been under the water for three hours, which I have. The sun glints off the water, warm on my face. “Should I kiss the beach?”
He laughs. “I’d rather you kiss me, but you can do whatever you want.”
The beach is twenty-five yards away from us, the waves lapping against the boat. “I did it,” I tell him.
“You did,” Kip says. We’re sitting on top of the sub, my feet near the stenciled name. “I knew you could, but yeah . . .” He jumps into the water. “Do you think you can make it to the boat?”
“I just piloted a sub across the Bay. Yes, I can wade twenty feet to the boat.” My legs are wobbly, and I almost fall, but I don’t want to admit it. When I get to the stern, I stop. I won’t be able to make it up the ladder by myself. “Okay, I know what I just said, but I need help. My body isn’t working.” I frown.
He smiles and pretends like I’m a pain, pulling me up. Using the side as a railing, I walk slowly to the front seat.
“Can you call Lydia? She’s been texting me every minute.” He hands me a towel, and I wrap it around my legs.
I shiver while he dials. When he hands me the phone, I hear a squeal. “You did i
t? You’re alive?”
She’s so loud, I have to hold it away. “Barely. But yes.” I’m grinning and dancing my feet on the bottom of the boat.
“Yay! We need to celebrate! Kip thought you were dead, so I needed to hear your voice.”
I put the phone down. “Did you think I was dead?”
“I did.” He touches his sunburnt neck and smiles. “Did you think I was Joan of Arc?”
I pinch my eyes shut. “Maybe.”
“Well, that’s ridiculous because she was definitely not as good-looking as me.”
I make a face. But it’s not real. Not at all.
Kip leans close and puts his hand on mine. “If anything, you’re like her.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Not good-looking?”
He shakes his head. “No, strong.” He squeezes my hand and starts the engine. Kip turns the boat toward Bournes, and I smile bigger than I ever have in my life.
While we head home, I know, now more than ever, that I can’t go back to my old normal.
Grieving Joan of Arc, the French people fought harder for their freedom. And twenty-two years after her death, the English left France for good. King Charles demanded a retrial for the girl who made him king.
Because the unfair trial had happened in the Church courts, the king needed help. He needed the Church to take responsibility. Joan’s pope had passed away, and a new pope, Nicholas V, wanted a strong relationship with the new France.
Two of the men who had sentenced Joan to death were also deceased, but the remaining churchmen were interviewed and given amnesty. They wouldn’t be punished for what they had said about Joan’s case.
They agreed that the trial had been political. That it was meant to make it look like Charles had been crowned by a witch.
They interviewed childhood friends and soldiers about Joan. One hundred and fifteen people told her story. How she was brave and loyal. How she prayed. How she was honest and truthful. Many people admitted they had lied at the earlier trial.
Twenty-five years after her death, the first trial was declared flawed.
France rejoiced.
Four hundred years after her death, she was nominated for sainthood. And finally, in 1920, Joan became Saint Joan of Arc. Just like her idols who had spoken to her in her father’s garden.
As soon as I get to Bournes, my feet on solid ground, I call Betty on the phone she bought me and ask her if she and Alex would meet me for dinner. She says of course.
At the Harbor, we sit at a table far from the bar, but the crowd is loud, and bursts of laughter echo around us.
Alex is quiet. She hugs me, and her long black hair tickles my nose. She pats my hand when we sit. When our drinks come, Betty squeezes a lemon into her water and stirs it with a spoon.
“How was the practice launch?” she asks.
I fidget. “It wasn’t a practice exactly. I crossed the Bay.”
“You what?” Betty leans forward and looks over her glasses at me.
I tell them all about it, a thrill building in my chest as I recount the morning. Alex clasps her hands together, and her pretty silver bracelets clink when she moves her wrist. By the time I’m finished, I can’t remove the smile from my face. I did it. I piloted the sub. My sub.
“Perhaps your submersible could do a world of good for our waterways. Exploring and discovering,” Alex says. “How very courageous of you.”
“It made me realize something,” I say. I tip my chin up, but my fingers fiddle with my fork. “Mom is picking up Dad tomorrow.”
Alex and Betty look at each other.
“I don’t want . . . I don’t think it’s good for me to live with him. I was thinking about what you and Mr. Harris said . . .” I know she’s offered, but this is harder than I thought.
I’ve never felt like I belonged anywhere, but I do now. I belong to Betty and Ford and Lydia and Kip. All these wonderful people who wanted to be part of me. My family.
“Could I live with you?” I manage.
Betty smiles with crinkly eyes. “We were hoping that’s what you wanted to talk about,” she says. “Your mother and I wanted it to be your decision. No one wanted to pressure you.”
Alex puts her hand on mine, the silver bracelets knocking together when they touch my skin. “We would love that.”
I close my eyes in relief. “And I understand I’ll have to go to school in North Beach instead of Our Lady.” I say it, but I choke a little. I could see Kip and Lydia on the weekends probably. And holidays.
“Oh, honey,” Betty says. “Where do you want to go to school?”
I tell her the truth. “Our Lady.”
“Then you’ll go to Our Lady, Mary.”
Mr. Harris is surprised to hear my voice. I ask him to meet me at the library in the morning. Then I crawl under the covers and sleep in the house on Bleecker Street for the last time.
In the morning, Betty picks me up just like usual, like nothing is different. Only, everything is different. At eight, Mr. Harris walks into the library with his red nylon bag, and we sit in the conference room used for story time with the toddlers.
I tell him everything, every hit and bruise, and he writes it down in my case file. Each word leaks out, and instead of leaving me empty, it fills me up. I feel brave and strong. I feel more like Joan of Arc than ever.
Mr. Harris drafts a safety plan. I will move into Betty and Alex’s house on Tuesday, tomorrow. Tonight, I will sleep at Lydia’s to say good-bye.
Betty drops me off at my best friend’s house and hugs me tight. When I walk in, Lydia sprints down the stairs. “It’s finished!” she yells. “It’s finished!”
“Let’s watch it,” I say.
“Well, it’s only fifteen minutes long, so I want to stretch it out. I’ll make popcorn.” She calls out the window to her parents. “Mom, where is the popcorn?”
“In the pantry.”
“Why are you both in swimsuits in our front yard? It’s gross! The neighbors don’t want to see that!”
I don’t hear what her mother says because I’m laughing. When we have our popcorn in a bowl and cold sodas, we go upstairs and sit on her unmade, rumpled bed, the sheets with gold crowns.
“I haven’t uploaded it yet, so if you see something terrible, please tell me. But gently. I am a very tender human.”
“Okay.” I fold my legs under me and put the popcorn in my lap. Lydia pulls her laptop over, presses play, and stares at me while the movie plays.
The dragon keeps scorching the village. It does it over and over. When the villagers repair their houses, when they replant the beautiful flowers, the dragon swoops in and terrorizes again. It steals a human.
Repeatedly, the girl watches her village get destroyed. She weeps and feels powerless.
But the dragon steals a glimmering heart gem. A red heart in the middle of the charcoal town. The dragon flies away, and the girl stops crying. She finds a sword in the rubble.
Armed with the sword, the girl journeys. She finds the dragon in the cave. She tiptoes around it while it sleeps, a concerned look on her face. When it wakes, the dragon sees the girl and rears back, its neck long and scaled.
Fire spews from its mouth, singeing the girl’s dress.
She raises her sword high, and my heart pounds. Lydia didn’t want to kill the dragon. “What’s going to happen?” I ask, gripping the popcorn bowl.
The dragon shoots fire again, and the girl plunges the sword into the white, scaly stomach.
Instead of slinking down in pain, the dragon becomes hundreds of little yellow flower petals. They fall gently around the girl like rain.
Lydia slams the laptop shut. “It’s so bad.”
“It’s not bad. It’s perfect.” I pry the computer back open.
“It’s not. It’s awful. I can’t even watch it.”
“Lydia Anderson, it was the most beautiful, perfect movie I’ve ever seen in my life. You’re amazing.” I hug her close.
“Sometimes dragons need to be slayed,”
she says.
I nod against her. “Sometimes dragons need to be slayed.”
I lie next to her until it’s late. Until it’s after midnight. I can’t sleep. I keep seeing the destruction the dragon left and how the girl had no choice.
When Lydia is asleep on the pillow next to me, I pull off the covers. Lydia wouldn’t understand. And even though I’m telling her everything now, this is one thing I can’t. She would be a good friend and want me to stay safe. She would tell me that it was just a story, that you shouldn’t actually confront dragons. Which is true. I would tell myself the same.
But I sneak out of her house and walk through the dark to the house on Bleecker Street. I wait at the kitchen table. I don’t know when he’ll be home. Sometimes it’s early, sometimes it’s late. I prop my head on my wrist and wait.
I must fall asleep, because headlights in the window and the tires on the gravel wake me up. He’s home. I rub my eyes and sit up straight.
He opens the door and walks toward the refrigerator. The greasy, smoky scent of the Tavern hits my nose as he passes me. He doesn’t notice I’m here. I prepare myself and push my shoulders back.
I am not afraid.
“Hi, Dad.”
He turns from the refrigerator to face me. “I didn’t see you,” he says, a chicken leg in his hand. His voice says he’s functional. He will not fall asleep in his truck tonight. He will sleep in the bedroom at the end of the hall. Next to the room that used to be mine.
I am not afraid.
“I know what you did.” My voice is strong. Stronger than his. I stand up.
“What are you talking about?” He’s not angry yet. He might think he outsmarted me before. That a broken sub would keep me quiet. Keep me here. He’s wrong.
I am not afraid.
“I talked to the social worker. I’m leaving.”
“Good.” He gives me something that looks like a smile. “Have fun with those girls.”
His tone makes me cringe. “You need to do something first.”
“I don’t owe you anything.” It’s a sneer. He owes me everything. He owes me the world. My dad comes close to me and pushes, but I’m ready with planted feet, hands clenched at my side. He’s predictable. His moves are the same every time, and I am prepared.
Mary Underwater Page 13