Deep Betrayal

breath, and I let myself sink under to sit cross-legged on the rocky bottom, pressing my hands against the underside of the willow branch to keep from floating.
    I’d heard voices before. If Calder’s theory was right, I should recognize Dad’s thoughts, seeing as he was family, and I was familiar with his voice on land. Maybe I could … if I strained.… At the very least I could practice my breath control.
    The underwater experience always started the same for me: The crush on my ears. The metallic ringing. The low, humming vibration. I had to push past all that to hear anything else. The pips of lake trout. The brushing grasses. Thetumble of small stones under my feet. Only when I searched beyond the expected could I discover the unexpected.
    But today there was nothing.
    I pulled out from under the branch and pushed myself up to the surface. Water streamed down my hair and down the lengths of my arms. I stared down at the water. My face reflected back at me. When did I start looking so serious?
    I ducked under the branch again. Crush, ring, hum, pip, brush, tumble, then suddenly the hard bite of the T sound. I pushed further, straining to hear more. Teh, teh , the words time and can’t . Then the slosh of a J .
    The first voice I heard was Calder’s. I’d know it anywhere. But it was muffled and far, far away. It came to me broken and thin: “Jas … iss time oo oh home …”
    Then Dad’s voice, as clear as if he were standing right next to me: “I told you. I can’t.”
    “Remem’er … Ba—and for … exerci … both muscles … impor’an …”
    “I feel tight. I’m drying up. I need to stay in the water.”
    Calder’s voice wavered even more. “Thas nah … emo … Geh … ba … your family.”
    They both went out of earshot. I pressed forward, keeping only one finger on the branch. Where did they go, where did they go? After a few minutes:
    “Speaking of family,” Dad said.
    If Calder responded, I heard nothing from him.
    Dad continued, “What are your intentions regarding Lily? I worry I’m not there to supervise.”
    Oh dear God , I thought. Oh, please, no. Dad, do not embarrass me. I’m begging you .
    “What was that ?” Dad asked. Still nothing from Calder.A long, painful pause. For a moment I assumed they’d swum out of my range. Then:
    “I think my daughter might love you,” Dad said.
    Sweet Jesus .
    “She does,” Calder said, completely confident.
    “And what about you?” Dad asked.
    Again, a humiliating silence filled the seconds. Had Calder responded? Was he considering his response? Did he say yes? No? Geez, Dad, I could kill you right now. Get out of my business .
    “What is that?” Dad asked again. “Don’t you hear that?”
    “Jason, focus … go home.”
    “I told you. The more I’m gone, the worse Carolyn reacts. The worse she reacts, the harder it is to look at her. And that just makes me need the water more. The more I need the water, the more I’m gone. It’s a vicious circle.”
    “… ly … break …” I was losing track of Calder again.
    Then Dad said, “Do you think I should tell Carolyn the truth?”
    “NO, Dad!” He couldn’t tell Mom! What was he thinking? Surely Calder wouldn’t let him. That would be too much for her to bear.
    “Damn it, what is that? Is that Maris? Do you think I’m finally hearing them?”
    “No,” Calder said. “I heard … time, too.… eavesdropping …” Then Calder’s voice turned from confused to sad. “Lily, is that you?”
    I stood up, bashing my head on the underside of the branch, and ran, wet and heavy, into the house to hide and wait for his retribution.

22
BOUND
    S urrounded by dog-eared books and crumpled paper balls, I barricaded myself in my room to await my sentence for spying on Dad and Calder. Two days had passed. If I didn’t miss him so much, I would have applauded Calder for his sense of justice; punishing me for eavesdropping with the silent treatment was pure poetic genius.
    While I waited for him to return—and for him to tell me how he’d answered Dad’s questions—I reread the same Emily Brontë poem I’d been reading since breakfast:
There is not room for Death
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Thou art Being and Breath ,
And what Thou art may never be destroyed .
    I couldn’t have agreed more. In recent days, I’d never felt stronger. Maybe not indestructible, but I was definitely not as afraid of Maris as I should have been. Or