Open Water, Caleb Nelson [best summer books txt] 📗

a sound the colour of James Brown’s scream, pale and broken. Something has seized the body of the person the scream came from. The sound lasts seconds but only grows stronger. And then, for a moment, there is silence. There’s commotion, panicked movement, a car speeding away, a bike laid on its side, the owner laid out on the ground. You’re running towards him. There’s surprise on his face because he allowed himself to forget about today. And who can blame him? You reach for his hand and ask if he needs anything. He doesn’t dap your hand this time, because all his strength left him with that scream. He doesn’t laugh or smile or cry. We need an ambulance, someone says. There’s a lot of blood, you need to hurry. The young man on the ground shakes his head. You didn’t realize you were still holding his hand but you let go now. His rhythm is infectious and you are stood ­stock-­still. You have known him by many names, but today he was Daniel.

25

‘What’s your trim saying?’

You’re sitting amongst your own mess, holding the phone to your ear. When you came home, you trashed your room with the furious ease of a tornado. It was juvenile, and good to feel in control of something, but now she has called and the dust has settled and you have run out of things to say.

‘Hey – you there?’ she asks.

‘Yeah.’

‘I didn’t hear from you. I was a little worried but I thought you might’ve got caught up in work or something.’

‘Something like that. Sorry.’

‘Don’t be silly. How was your day?’

‘OK,’ you say.

A pause. ‘Are you all right?’

You begin to sob, gasping for air. You’re suffocating in your own room. You hang up the phone. You are hiding your whole self away because you haven’t worked out how to emerge from your own anger, how to dip into your own peace.

She calls right back.

‘What’s going on?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Nothing? You don’t sound OK. That sound you just made . . . just talk to me, please.’

‘There’s nothing.’

‘It doesn’t sound like nothing.’

‘There’s nothing.’

‘You’re not being fair. I’m really here just trying to check you’re OK because I care and all I’m getting is nothing, nothing, nothing.’

‘I don’t know what to say to you.’

‘It feels like you’re pushing me away. Like there’s something wrong and you just won’t tell me. It’s felt like this for a while.’

‘There’s nothing.’

‘You’re not being honest with me. I can’t do this if you won’t be honest with me.’

‘There’s nothing. Can’t you just drop it?’

‘Fine. Whatever.’

On the line, static; the dam has burst, and anything else said will be drowned by the sound of rushing water. And like that, a joint, fractured, broken.

The line goes dead and the ocean has stilled.

You stop calling. You stop returning her calls. A few days later, you turn off your phone entirely. You’ve been keeping her at arm’s length since she moved to Dublin, and now, you push, knowing she can’t just make the short journey across ­south-­east London. You push, knowing it’s easier to retreat than showing her something raw and vulnerable. Than showing her you. You live in a haze, cool and blue, light with anger, heavy with melancholy. You live at a pace in which you are unmoving. You live as a version less than yourself. You sob often, suffocating wherever you go. You are hiding yourself. You are running, stuck in place. You are scared and heavy.

You ache. You ache all over. You are aching to be you, but you’re scared of what it means to do so.

You’re sitting at your desk, letting the time pass until you can sleep and have a brief reprieve. You’ve since cleaned the mess you made, but your mind is chaotic.

You’re reading but taking little in. You’re looking at images but not seeing. You’re listening to music but the melodies are dull, the drums lack punch, the lyrics come towards you and join the wash of your own thoughts, like a tide coming and going, coming and going, the tow tugging you this way and that, and all you can do is stay still. You don’t have it in you to move any more. You don’t have it in you to swim.

It’s harmful where you’re going. You know this, and still you go, you hide. It’s easier this way. You don’t want to have to question why Daniel shook his head when someone was calling an ambulance for him. You don’t want to admit that he too knew he had been marked for destruction, that he had spent a life so close to death that it was less a life lived and more one survived. When the time came, he was ready to rest. You aren’t ready to confront these facts and what it might mean for you. You are scared and you are heavy, and you are not ready.

A knock at your door. Your brother comes in without waiting for an answer. He’s been checking in once a day since you lost your friend. Your curtains are drawn so you couldn’t tell what the time is, but as he enters, sunlight flickers. He leaves the door open and the light streams in. You recognize the shadows on your walls: leaves swaying in the breeze at golden hour, the shapes soft, the movement easy, entrancing.

‘Yo,’ he says.

‘Yo.’

‘You spoken to her?’

‘Nah.’

Your brother sits on the edge of your bed.

‘Are you gonna speak to her?’

You turn to him now.

‘What would I even say?’

He shrugs. ‘Something. Anything. Tell her how you are, she’ll wanna hear from you.’

‘I know.’ You know this, and still you hide.

‘Man,’ he says. ‘How are you feeling?’

You open your mouth to speak, and your body begins to shake and wobble. You open your mouth to speak, but you don’t have the words. Your brother knows what it is like to not have the words, and he can see the panic rising in your body, he can see you’re about to start gulping for air, he sees there are tears on