Page 17 of Breathing Under Water

“It’s ashe. A very prettyshe.”

“That doesn’t make me want to learn to swim,” Leo says as he puts down the cardboard he’s holding and reaches into the pocket of his jeans. He removes one of his small Matchbox-sized airplanes, this one red with blue stars painted on thewings. He runs his finger over one of the wheels, spinning it in circles. I’m sure Karyn knew her comment would make Leo uncomfortable, but it did compel him to stop and hear her out.

“Well, she’s too old for you anyhow.” Karyn laughs and then continues undeterred. “Her name is McKenna Jamison, and I’ve known her forever. She had a pretty rough childhood, a mother who was sick on and off for years and then died before McKenna finished high school. But she kept swimming through all of it. I suppose the sport helped her, you know—kept her moving in the right direction in life. I saw her today, and it turns out now she’s one of the best swimmers on Long Island. I think you’d like her, Leo. You could go once just to try it out. See what you think?”

“Okay,” he says, picking up the box again and making his way toward the garage recycling bin.

I’m shocked by how quickly he’s agreed. I know that sometimes he feels bad about never learning to swim, but between his sensory issues and our own fears as parents, we never managed to teach him. Maybe it has bothered him more than he’s let on.

Leo’s out in the garage breaking down the cardboard box while I collect a few additional details and finish the call with Karyn. As I hang up, Harrison whistles under his breath. He’s focused on something on his phone as he says, “Leo’s going to like those swim lessons.”

“What is it?” I move toward him and look down at the screen. He’s pulled up a photo of McKenna Jamison from the Meadowbrook swimming and diving team website, and I see why Harrison is transfixed. The girl is stunning. She reminds me of a younger Margot Robbie, except for the touch of red to her blond hair andthe sprinkle of freckles along her cheeks. She has the same large, almond-shaped eyes, full lips, and high, sculpted cheekbones. Her look has an edge to it though, probably from all those years of swimming broadening her shoulders and toughening her up.

“Why didn’t any of the swimmers look like this when I was in school?” Harrison jokes.

I swat his arm to stop him from ogling the poor girl, though I’m kind of guilty of it too. Leo returns from the garage and sits at his usual seat at the table, which Harrison has already set for dinner. Removing the little plane from his pocket again, Leo places it beside his plate, above the knife and spoon, as he does every night.

Phil appears in the kitchen doorway then, clad in a pair of worn jeans and an old Rolling Stones t-shirt. It’s unusual for him to be out of his work clothes already.

“Casual-Friday-on-Tuesday at work today?” I ask.

He looks down at the t-shirt stretching across his broad chest.

“Oh, no...” He hesitates as if he doesn’t want to say more. Then his gaze lands on Leo. “The dry cleaner overstarched my dress shirt. The stiffness drove me nuts all day.”

“Want to give it to me to soak later?” I offer.

Phil’s never been a fan of wearing anything other than butter-soft clothing. Not so different from Leo, who can’t stand garments made of crisp polyester, or worse, wool. At least Phil, unlike his son, can generally put up with the labels inside his pants. A memory flashes in my mind from nearly a decade ago—a night Phil and I spent together, cutting tags out of all the uniform t-shirts and shorts Leo had to wear for the special-needs summer camp he went to when he was seven or eight. We’d sat on the floor of the family room working through thepile, laughing about the fact that a camp for kids with autism wouldn’t have thought to use tagless shirts. I look over at Phil now, plugging his cell phone into the charger, and I miss the way we used to be.

When he looks up and catches me staring, his eyes harden. “What?”

I paste a smile on my face. “No, nothing. Why’s it always got to be something? Come sit. Harrison’s pasta looks amazing.” The cheeriness I force into my voice sounds false, even to me, but Phil seems to accept it.

“When’s it going to let up, do you think?” he asks me, referencing my new schedule as he pulls out his chair at the table.

I open my mouth to respond, but Leo interrupts.

“I got another job,” he tells Phil. “And in exchange, I will learn how to swim.”

Interrupting is not unusual for Leo, but the enthusiasm for the swimming takes me by surprise again. Despite the monotone nature of his voice, his eyes are bright.

After the consistent reluctance he’s shown, all those times he screamed when we tried to get him to put so much as a foot in the pool, I’m relieved he’s finally willing to try. All the professionals and “experts” we worked with over the years told us that when Leo reached his teenage years, he might develop some new behaviors, good or bad. As I look across the table at my sweet, unique son, I wonder if this is the beginning of many other changes too.

Later that night, I’m slathering my face with a new night cream. It probably won’t erase the crow’s-feet deepening at the corners of my eyes, but I’ve always been a sucker for good ads and empty promises. Like how I believed Phil when he told me he just needed a few months to grieve his own way, and then he’d be back to himself.

I study myself in the mirror for a moment and decide that even with the new lines on my face, I don’t look half bad for a woman who recently had her third “forty-ninth” birthday. It drives Leo crazy when I describe my age that way, but I’m sticking with it until the math gets too complicated to do on the fly.

Phil knocks lightly on the bathroom door and then lets himself in.

“Hey,” he says, a mild politeness as he starts fishing through the vanity drawer, pulling out the Tums.

I place the cream back in the medicine cabinet and reach for my hairbrush. “So I think Stella’s seeing someone new.” My assistant’s high-drama dating life has been an ongoing topic of discussion for Phil and me. We were particularly invested last year when she and a boyfriend adopted a puppy and then, after their breakup, had to battle for custody of the dog for nearly three times as long as they dated. Stella got the pooch.

Phil pops the antacids in his mouth. “Nice,” he says without looking at me. “Hope it works out.” He walks out of the bathroom, leaving me there, and I decide I’ve just about had it with this little force field he’s built around himself, no longer letting me in to talk about anything at all.

“Phil,” I say, following him back into the bedroom. He’s now sitting on the bed pulling off his socks.

“Enough with this,” I say when he looks up at me. “Are we ever going to start having real conversations again?”