Page 15 of Breathing Under Water

Maybe she sees something in my face, because her eyes soften. “No need to give up yet. Let’s put on our thinking caps...”

I try to quiet my thoughts and just nod encouragingly.

“If we only sent kids who are very high-functioning, and we kept the group small...” Her gaze drifts upward as she tries to puzzle something out, and then she says, “Oh!” She slaps the desk in triumph. “I have an idea about someone who could help you.”

“Amazing,” I say, getting excited.

“Would you be comfortable taking on a teenager too? A sixteen-year-old?”

I tilt my head, surprised by the question.

Her smile grows bigger as she says, “Trust me, you’re gonna love him.”

9

Berry

June 2023

Thank goodness for Harrison. That’s what we always say. A mantra we’ve been repeating for close to sixteen years. Every time I think that I have too much on my plate, that I just can’t hack it, Harrison reappears to save the day for me, or Phil, or Leo, or all three of us.

Ever since Opal Carter announced her retirement, I’ve been putting in longer hours at work, doing what I can to keep reaching for that principal position. I see it all day long, dangling in front of me like one of those snacks that gets stuck halfway out of the vending machine. I want it so badly that I can taste it. If only it were as easy as slamming my palm into the machine to make my bag of Fritos come out, I’d finally be in a position of control, where my competence and leadership could make a real impact. Barring any interruptions from my personal life, of course. The board’s putting more effort into the replacement process than I expected, searching for other options extensively enough that all my hemming and hawing about biting off more than I can chew may just be wasted energy anyway.

“I’m home!” I call out as I step into the mudroom, my armsladen with binders and textbooks. I’m greeted by the sweet smells of oregano and basil as I swing my hip to close the door.

When I round the corner into the kitchen, I find Harrison at the center island drizzling olive oil over a bowl full of spaghetti primavera. The sleeves of his light blue button-down are rolled up, and he’s got one of my old aprons tied around his waist to protect his dress pants. I notice he’s set a bowl of plain spaghetti to the side for Leo.

“You didn’t have to stay to make dinner,” I tell him, dropping my books on the counter and moving toward him for a hug.

“It’s fine,” he says with a shrug as I give him an extra squeeze. “I had nothing to do tonight anyway.”

“You should be going on a date. What about one of those singles nights out in Huntington? You could still make it if you go now, spritz on a little of Dad’s cologne and drive over there. Cara and I used to go back in the day, and we were—”

“Mom.” He cuts me off.

“What?” I bat my eyelashes up at him in false innocence and then sigh. “I’m just saying. You don’t have to babysit us.” It’s the umpteenth time I’ve said something like this to him.

At twenty-four, Harrison has already been climbing the ranks at the coastal preservation firm he joined after graduating from the SUNY College of Environmental Science and Forestry. We were thrilled when he announced he was moving back to the Island after four years upstate. He’s been talking about starting his own company, an ecotourism outfit with a big farm-to-table component, but I don’t see how he’ll ever have time for something like that if he keeps devoting so many hours to taking care of everyone but himself.

I bring my hand up to his face, patting my palm against thesoft scruff of his short hipster beard. “How long are you planning to keep this thing?” I ask. I suppose the beard is trendy, but I prefer his face clean-shaven.

“My face, my choice,” he says. “Leo’s upstairs showing Dad the Wingnut model. That cockpit is so intricate. Cool, cool stuff.”

“Agreed. The rigging too,” I say with a nod. The Wingnut Wings1/32scale WWI model took a few weeks for Leo to complete, and it is, indeed, quite cool. The rest of us hadn’t been particularly knowledgeable about aviation before Leo adopted it as his pet hobby. In the few years since he developed an interest, he’s gone whole hog, not just making models and flying drones around town, but also learning about flight patterns, FAA rules, the steps to building commercial jets, which airlines have the most outrageous accommodations in first class, you name it. After listening to Leo talk about planes so often, we’ve all come to fancy ourselves minor experts too, or “AvGeeks,” as Leo prefers. Apparently that’s a complimentary term to those in the know.

I ask Harrison about his day at work and the field study he’s been conducting at Hempstead Plains.

“I’m still getting used to working further inland,” he says as he heads over to the cabinet for a grinder of sea salt. “But the grassland ecosystem is phenomenal, a whole new way to dig into the impact of urban development.”

I love hearing Harrison talk about his job, seeing him light up about the science and the ramifications of small changes, but before I can ask for more details, my phone rings.

“Give me a sec,” I say as I reach for my tote. Karyn from the Y is calling. I hope there isn’t a problem. I don’t know what Leowould do if he couldn’t spend weekends with the Y’s audiovisual team, helping them do heaven-knows-what with speakers and spotlights for various events. Karyn’s been looking out for him ever since he was little, back when he did their STELLAR program. Over the years, the Y has been a godsend. Not to mention that Leo’s even earning some money over there now. He uses it to buy himself more aviation gadgets. All those simulator apps and drone attachments don’t come cheap.

“Hello?” I answer on speaker.

“Hey, Berry,” Karyn says, her voice, chipper as ever, catapulting into the room. “An opportunity has fallen into my lap, something I think you might like for Leo if you wanted to give group recreation another try.”

“Oh?” I share a look with Harrison, who’s leaning against the counter, watching me.