I shove in my own mouthpiece, lift my hose, and jam my thumb against the button. The vest loosens around my ribs. The water’s already up to my chin.
“You won’t regret it, Oliver,” she calls out, removing the mouthpiece for one last breath. As she’s about to go under, she adds, “You’ll thank me later.”
I shake my head, pretending to ignore the sudden enthusiasm. But as I sink down – as the black water licks my cheeks and fills my ears – it suddenly hits me that I never told her my real name was Oliver.
47
At three in the morning, her car now blocking the fire hydrant in front of Maggie Caruso’s building, Joey promised herself she wouldn’t fall asleep. At three-thirty, she rolled down her window, so the cold would keep her awake. By four, her head sagged. By four-thirty, it flopped back into the headrest. Then, at exactly ten minutes to five, a sharp, shrill beep jolted her awake.
Blinking herself back to the waking world, she chased the sound down to the lit-up screen of her global positioning system. The bright blue triangle was once again moving across the digital map, straight down the West Side Highway. Pulling the screen onto her lap, she watched as Gallo’s car weaved its way toward the tip of the city. It was like a primitive videogame she had no control of. At first, she thought they were headed back to Brooklyn, but when they blew past the entrance to the bridge and instead shot up the FDR Drive, she felt a flame blaze at the back of her neck. There were only a few things open this late. Or this early. Aw, don’t tell me they’re…
The tiny triangle turned onto the 59th Street Bridge, and when Joey saw it make its way toward the Grand Central Parkway, she cranked the ignition and took off. At the top of the digital map, the blue triangle veered straight toward it. The most popular five A.M. destination in Queens: La Guardia Airport.
48
Sinking under the waves, I float like an astronaut and plummet into darkness. Bubbles rise all around me, bouncing against the front of my mask. I crane my neck up at the only source of light, but the deeper I fall, the faster it fades. Sea green becomes dark blue becomes a cloud of pitch black. Just breathe, I tell myself as I force a raspy puff of air through the mouthpiece. I suck in again and it sounds like a respirator. No waves, no wind, no background noise. Just the gurgling echo of my own breath. And Gillian saying my name.
Don’t even think about it – not now. But some things can’t be ignored. She probably heard it from Charlie. He said my name at least a dozen times in the garage. Struggling to remain calm, I search around for reassurance, but everything – in every direction – it’s all dark. I grab my nose to pop my ears and a wave of tiny fluorescent fish zip by my face. I duck to the left and they’re gone. Back to black. It’s like swimming through ink. And then – a white lightsaber slices through the dark. Gillian’s flashlight. She shines it at me, then back on herself. She was right next to me the entire time.
C’mon, she motions, trying to get me to follow. I hesitate, but quickly realize she has the only light. Besides, after what she said about Charlie – there’s no way I’m proving her right.
She kicks her legs, and her flippers whip through the water. The way she moves – the graceful stretch of her arms – it’s like she’s flying. Behind her, I fight to keep up, thrashing my arms in a violent breaststroke. It’s harder than I thought. For every few inches I swim forward, the underwater current seems to push me back. She looks over her shoulder to see if I’m following, then quickly picks up speed. Whatever she wanted me to see, we’re getting close.
Swimming forward, she shines the light outward and it hits a beige wall. Then I notice the way her air bubbles slide down her back. That’s not a wall. It’s the floor. We’re at the bottom.
Instinctively, I spin myself upright. My breathing quickens; I’m not sure why.
I look to my right, but the mask blocks my peripheral vision. I quickly turn my head to both sides. There’s nothing to see. No one’s there. That is, until something slithers up against the left side of my neck.
Jerking wildly, I spin back and grab it by the throat. In front of me, Gillian whips around and shines the light my way. There it is. My attacker: the inanimate inflation hose that’s supposed to float next to me while I swim. Assaulted by my own octopus.
You okay there? Gillian motions with a sarcastic hand on her hip.
Floating helplessly, I just nod.
Once again, she dives toward the darkness. Once again, I follow.
She shines the light to survey the ocean floor, but all we’ve got are some swaying green plants, loose shells, and what looks like a rusty, abandoned lobster trap. Turning herself rightside-up, Gillian snaps her flippers and a snowglobe of sand swirls around her.
Not much further, she motions by holding her pointer finger only a few inches from her thumb. She lets out a huge breath of air and the bubbles rise between us. Tracing the slant of the ground downward, she swims out even deeper. As I breaststroke behind her, she just keeps going. From where I’m watching – the way she holds the light against her chest – the outline of her body glows with a shimmering halo. It’s like chasing a firefly through an underwater forest.
A convex black wall rises up from the sand and comes to a point right above our heads. To the left, it continues on further than the flashlight lets us see. With her hand sliding across its chipped metal surface, Gillian swims to the right and quickly turns the corner. Above a broken rudder and missing propeller, the words Mon Dieu II – Les Cayes, Haiti run perpendicular toward the ocean floor. Even when it’s turned on its side, there’s no mistaking a sunken ship.
The moment I see it, my breathing again starts to quicken. It’s like standing outside an abandoned house. Freaky and cool, but there’s no reason to go in. Gillian, of course, sees it differently. Wasting no time, she swims around to the back deck, leaving me in a blur of bubbles. By the time I catch up, she’s already investigating – shining the light up and down the barely rotted deck. There’s a bit of greenish brown moss, but not much – it hasn’t been down here long.
Straight above us, a silver flash catches my eye. At first, I assume it’s the metal railing that surrounds the deck, but as Gillian lifts the light, I quickly realize that’s just part of it. Bolted to the deck and perpendicular to the ground, a red-and-white Coca-Cola machine sways open above our heads. Inside, all the cans are gone. No doubt about it – the rustbucket little ship hit a rock and got picked clean. Haiti steals sodas from us; we steal ’em right back. Only in Miami.
I turn to share the joke with Gillian, but to my surprise, the only thing there is the flashlight – sitting on the ocean floor, pointed up at the Coke machine. Confused, I glance around the ship. No one’s there. Above my head, the door of the machine continues to swing with the tide.
“Illian…?” I whisper through the mouthpiece, though I know she can’t hear me. Spinning around, I crane my neck in every direction. A cold wave of water shoves me in the chest. I don’t understand. Gillian’s gone.
Reaching down, I grab the flashlight and shine it out across the horizontal plane. In front of me, a trail of bubbles leads straight to the boat’s two-story cabin. The door’s missing from the doorframe and the glass has been pulled from the porthole windows, but even from here I can see how dark it is. I shake my head to myself. No way I’m going in there.
A minute later, the trail of bubbles is long gone. And still no Gillian. I shine the light at the doorframe of the cabin. No movement. No puffs of air. Slowly, I swim closer, mentally replaying every teenage slasher flick I ever laid eyes on. At the door, I hammer the flashlight against the metal hull. It clangs with a low vibration. There’s no way she’d miss it. Not unless she was stuck… or needed help.