Page 23 of Breathing Under Water

I tense up, which I immediately regret, but it’s too late. He already felt it.

“You’re still mad?” He has the gall to sound surprised as he withdraws his arm and takes a step back.

“I’m not mad. I’m upset,” I answer without turning around. The sky has begun to darken, and I can see a portion of his reflection in the window above the sink. I watch as he crosses his arms against his chest. The t-shirt he’s wearing is fitted, and I notice he looks like he’s lost a little weight. Not in a concerning way, but in a dropping-those-last-ten-pounds kind of way.

“I can’t just forget every argument,” I tell him, now scouring the pan with more aggression. “I need to actually talk things out in order to move on. Saying, ‘Oh, it’s been a few hours since we attacked each other, so we’re fine now’—that doesn’t work for me. You don’t want to talk about your mom, you don’t wantto talk about new therapies for Leo. We don’t solve issues by ignoring them, Phil. That’s never been us.”

“But don’t the swim lessons kind of resolve everything about the therapist?” he asks. “Leo’s out doing a group activity, just like you wanted. He’s being social, supervising other kids. If that won’t teach him a few things about how to interact properly, I don’t know what will.”

I slam down the faucet and spin to face him. Water from the sponge in my hand splatters to the wood floor. “You’re missing the whole point!”

He doesn’t respond, just looks down at the wet spot and uses his socked foot to wipe at it.

His disregard only makes me angrier, so I keep going.

“None of those other kids are his age, and neither is the teacher. And even if they were, he’s done plenty of group activities in the past and has never been able to connect with peers. The swimming doesn’t change anything.” What I don’t add is that my current mood isn’t just about the social skills coach. All these months of letting Phil “process” on his own have left me with little patience for how he’s been acting more recently. It was one thing when he’d take calls from his newly widowed dad in another room so they could speak in private, but something new has been going on. I can feel it in my bones, and I don’t like where my thoughts are heading. Even this morning, when his cell phone rang, his eyes darted right to me before he silenced the call.

On top of the evasiveness at home, suddenly he’s traveling for work. He says he and his partner, Dean, are thinking about acquiring a few smaller medical supply outfits, and they have important meetings requiring them to show up in person, butI’m not convinced. Not by a long shot, buddy. The charges for that travel, the hotels, meals—they’re all company expenses on the company card. I can’t even check that stuff to verify if what he’s telling me is true. Maybe it’s a blessing in disguise, because so help me, I don’t know what I’d do if I found out he was stepping out on me.

It’s mind-boggling to me why this is happening now, when we’ve been married nearly thirty years, and when we’ve already made it through what should have been the hardest years of our marriage.

“I need to know what else is going on here,” I demand.

And that’s when I see it. That look that passes over his face. Maybe I’ve been too quick to jump to the wrong conclusions. He’s going to fess up, and whatever’s going on, it must be something we can work through together.

But the look fades in an instant, and he squares his shoulders.

“I don’t know what you’re getting at. I just figured we felt the same way about the swimming and there was no reason to call Martina for a referral,” he says.

Martina is the therapist Leo started seeing when he was diagnosed with depression. She’s given Leo some tips for interacting with others, but she’s mostly focused on providing him a safe space to explore and process his feelings. It’s not the same as having a social skills coach, who would teach him specific behaviors or give him exercises and actions to try out in the real world. Leo needs the whole kit and caboodle.

“Well, clearly, I don’t feel the same way.” I turn back to the sink as Harrison and Leo come up from the basement.

“I can’t take any moreCrimson Skies,” Harrison tells us, talking about an Xbox game Leo loves, something with simulated aerialbattles in an alternate reality. “I just keep losing to the pro.” He points a thumb at Leo.

“Better you than me,” Phil says lightly. “I cannot get a handle on that targeting system.”

“Yeah,” Leo says. “Dad is very, very bad at the game.”

Phil just chuckles as he looks at Leo with clear affection. It makes me want to throw my sponge at him, the way he can still find space in his heart for them but not me. Not that I’d ever want him to pull away from the guys. They should never have to feel the cool breeze of Phil’s gradual retreat. I’m tempted to wave my arms in front of his face and shout, “Hey! Remember me? The wife you used to adore?”

“We’re going to watch the game,” Harrison says, pulling my focus back to the moment.

“It’s lovely of you to stay and watch with your brother, but—”

Harrison cuts me off. “Mom, I want to stay. Could you please give it a rest? It’s not like my friends are all out partying without me. It’s a Tuesday, and they have jobs just like I do.”

“But you could be meeting a girl. Sorry, a young woman.” I know I sound like a broken record, but we don’t need Harrison to stick around tonight.

“Yeah, you should go on a date,” Leo says. “I got asked on a date, and I ran away and everybody laughed, and then I had to get picked up from school.” Leo has perseverated on the incident with Sienna and the junior prom for the many weeks that have elapsed since that day. Before any of us can say anything conciliatory, he adds, “You should ask McKenna on a date.”

“Ooh, McKenna...” Phil says in a singsong voice. “It does sound like that girl is going places. Right, bud?” He glances at Leo.

“Yes.” Leo nods sagely. “She goes to places like Hollyhock and Meadowbrook, and probably many other places too.”

Before I can explain to Leo what Phil meant by the metaphor, Harrison says, “Guys, stop. I haven’t even met her.” His neck is flushing as he adds, “I just thought she looked cute in her picture. It’s nothing. I think lots of girls are cute. Sorry, young women.” He curls his lip at me good-naturedly. “Come on, Leo,” he says, turning toward the family room. “The Yankees wait for no man.”

When the familiar sounds of a ball game begin to fill the air, I bring my eyes back to Phil’s. He runs his hand through his curls, making a mess of them before he plants both hands on his hips and waits for whatever I’m going to say.