Page 27 of Breathing Under Water

On the shelf below the planes sits Leo’s carefully arranged collection of rocks. I tend to zone out when he starts explaining the properties of each piece of quartz and hematite. I couldn’t tell you what’s what on that shelf, but I do notice the piece of Jerusalem stone my mother brought back from Israel when Leo was only a little kid. As usual, it’s still front and center.

I resist the urge to pick up the rock, to run a finger over its smooth edges and whisper prayers up to my mom the way I do sometimes in the middle of the night. I’ve missed her every day since she died six years ago, but as my marriage deteriorates, I find I’ve never wanted her advice more. What I wouldn’t give for one more afternoon sitting in my parents’ kitchen with a slice of babka like I did as a teenager, listening to my mom pick apart my problems, dismantling them piece by piece until they felt too small to matter.

But now’s not the time for nostalgia. I have only a few minutesbefore the others will be finished with breakfast. I move toward the desk, opening the top drawer and eyeing the containers of paper clips, staples, pencils, and other school supplies. Drawer by drawer I go, and nothing seems unusual. I repeat the process at his bureau and again find nothing of note.

Last, I move to the nightstand, where Leo keeps his Zoloft. I’ve tried to convince him to keep it in the kitchen, where we can all keep track, but he says the nightstand is easier for him. I open the bottle, quickly counting out the pills to confirm he’s still taking them as prescribed. His mood has been solid lately, but remembering how hard things were the last time he secretly went off them, how sudden the changes were, I’m still afraid not to check.

I’m about to close the drawer when something catches my eye. It’s a silver whistle, the kind a sports coach might wear.

Or a pool lifeguard.

I wonder if it was a gift from the swim teacher, McKenna. I haven’t met her yet, but Leo’s been talking about her an awful lot. My heart sinks when I remember the comment Harrison made about her being very pretty. Leo tends to fixate, and I hate to think about him pining for someone who’s years older than he is. It’s been hard enough for him to get, or rather to keep, the attention of a girl near his age.

I’m so focused on the whistle that I don’t hear Phil’s footfalls as he makes his way up the stairs. But then he passes by the door and sees me.

“You still do this?” he barks at me from the doorway. “Berry, get out of there!”

I look down at the whistle in my hand and then at the nightstand drawer. It’s wide open, like a confession. I don’t see a wayto pretend I was doing something else. Even so, my instinct is to protest.

“That’s not what... I’m just checking things.”

He marches into the room, a look of wild rage marring his features. It’s all the more ominous with his untamed morning curls billowing around his head. “You’re so focused on getting Leo ready for his next stage of life, on him being more grown-up, going off to college. Yet you continue to treat him like a child. He doesn’t need you looking over his shoulder for every last thing! Some people value privacy!”

Before I can respond, Leo appears at the door.

“Why are you both in my room?” His eyes fall to the whistle in my hand. “Why are you holding that?” He starts clapping his hands repeatedly, the way he does when he gets agitated, and his voice rises. “Why are you holding it? It’s mine! You aren’t supposed to take other people’s things.”

“I’m not taking it!” I rush to explain. “I was just looking. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” I hurry to put the whistle back in the drawer, even though I know I won’t get the placement right. Leo will have to adjust it so the whistle sits exactly as it should. As he hustles over to the drawer to do just that, Phil catches my eye. He tips his head forward with his eyebrows raised, saying everything he needs to without uttering a word.

Eyes still focused on the nightstand, Leo says, “The whistle is mine. You shouldn’t touch my stuff. Now everything is crooked. You made my things crooked, and the whistle is mine.” He takes everything out of the drawer, placing the items in a heap on the countertop, then picks up the objects one by one to return them to their perfect, rightful positions.

“I’m so sorry, Leo. You’re right that I should ask before I touch your things. Next time I’ll ask.”

Phil steps closer to Leo as if to put a hand on his arm, but Leo doesn’t enjoy spontaneous physical contact. Phil seems to remember himself, dropping his palm to his side and saying, “You’re allowed to keep some things private. Mom and I were just talking about what a big mistake she’d made to be handling your things without you here.”

I bite back the nasty words that jump to mind as Phil sells me out like that. Looks like our usual “united front” strategy is just one more thing that’s flown out the window recently.

“Yes, it was a mistake,” Leo says, his back still turned to us as he continues reorganizing the drawer. “Mom made a mistake. A mistake. She made a mistake.”

Maybe. But Leo’s getting older, and perhaps it’s time for me to be more honest with him. If we want to prepare him for adult scenarios out in the world, we should probably start at home.

“Okay, here’s the thing,” I say, and Phil slowly shakes his head as though he’s already lost patience with me for whatever I’m about to do. I roll my eyes and look back toward Leo. “One of the reasons I came in here was to look at your Zoloft bottle, to make sure you’re taking the pills. They’re important for you, and we all remember what happened last time you stopped taking them. I love you enough to check. That’s not a mistake.”

Leo doesn’t look at me while I’m talking, but he pauses just long enough for me to know he’s listening. I look again at Phil, noticing his cheeks have turned pink, as they do when I push hisbuttons. One hand is clenched at his side, and the corners of his lips are turned down as far as they go. Things are about to get even worse between us. Of that I am sure.

I hear the metal clink of the whistle as Leo places it in the nightstand. Then he closes the drawer and stands back to his full height.

“Next time you’ll ask,” he says, and his voice sounds calmer. I know Phil would say the reason Leo feels better is because he’s put everything back the way he likes it, but I think it’s also because now he understands what I was doing. He accepts and appreciates that someone’s got his back, no matter what it costs her.

14

McKenna

June 2023

I’ve gotten to Hollyhock early today because Coach let us out before our usual end time. Probably because he felt bad about nearly killing us in the weight room. His repeated chants of “Strong beats tired, Sonny” are still echoing in my head as I sit on the front steps of the clubhouse, scrolling through social media. As I swipe through picture after picture of Meadowbrook students “summering” in Nantucket and the Vineyard or lazing around on European beaches, I try not to be salty. Even if I could afford luxuries like that, the constant grind that is my life doesn’t allow for them. Just a few unscheduled days out of the pool can affect a swimmer’s times. It wouldn’t matter anyway, I suppose. Glory’s condition has me tethered close to home for the foreseeable future. I’m interrupted from my negative spiraling by the sound of Leo’s voice.

“McKenna, why are you sitting on the steps?”