By seven minutes, forty-seven seconds I had already imagined her a widow, dumbstruck, floating senseless through a year of grief before being swept up in a new love, even more tainted by the ever-present possibility of loss.
The second hand swept cruelly around the face of the clock. We were staring down nine minutes. The struts of the dome rattled with a sudden blast of wind; the canvas walls bellied in and out with the gusts. I shivered in the suit, hands numb, as if I were already in the water.
Nora clicked on the mic. “Raj, are you on your way up? Over.”
Continuous static grated the air, spitting and crackling.
Nine minutes, fifty-seven seconds.
“Raj, can you confirm—”
He exploded from the water, shards of ice flowing off his black-hooded head. I nearly fell backward off my stool, while Sigrid clapped and laughed. He bobbed for a moment, goggles clouded, before nudging out his mouthpiece with a pop. Nora caught him by the straps that secured the tank to his shoulders and with shocking strength hauled him halfway out of the water. We each took an arm and slid him the rest of the way. She got down on the ice and helped him sit up.
“Couldn’t you hear me?” he sputtered.
“Couldn’t you hear me?”
“Sure! I responded but—”
“Something’s up with the mics.” She cradled him, one hand over his heart. “All we heard was static for the last four minutes. Nearly five.”
He coughed a bit, shook his head, and peeled off his rubber hood with a wet smack. “It’s probably the valve again. You weren’t worried, I hope. I was fine—”
Nora hugged him, soaking herself. For a few moments they breathed together, then he pulled away, aware of the audience.
“Everything went perfectly. It was a ten-minute dive exactly, right? Didn’t I say it would be? Down to the second almost.” He held out one red rubber hand, a lidded plastic bucket half filled with pearly sand dripping from it. “Got the sample.”
Nora nodded and put a smile on her face.
Raj looked me up and down in the spare suit and laughed. “So, you’re going to give it a try?”
Which is when I made my decision—I could at least drop in with my head above water—show Sigrid I hadn’t put the suit on for nothing.
“Just going for a quick dip.” Making sure Sigrid had her eyes on me, I got on my ass and scooted over to the hole, dropped one finned foot in, then the other. Snakes of cold encircled my calves. “I’m not going under, just to be clear.”
“Val, that’s brilliant!” Nora said. “She’ll love you for it.”
“We got you,” Raj said. They gathered around, took me under the arms, and helped lower me down. Sigrid did a little happy dance, clapping her hands and chattering away. I focused on her as cold swept up my legs, shocking my torso and chest. I thought I’d lasted a good minute, but later Raj broke it to me that it had been only fifteen seconds before they hauled me out.
When it became clear I wasn’t actually going to dive, Sigrid turned away, refusing to look at me. Dripping, I stood over her like a swamp monster. Apologized as I unzipped and unpeeled the gear. She kept repeating that word, about the snake being necessary for her to stay alive. It cut me to feel the limits of what I could do for her—for anyone, including myself—just as it began to register with a flash of joy that I had, in fact—unmedicated—dangled my body in the great polar Enormity.
sixteen
Steaming water sloshed in the massive pot as Jeanne heaved it from the stove. Bracing it against the pocked metal basin, she poured in the third and last round of hot bathwater. The tub was nearly full, but with enough room for a little girl’s body. I’d scared up a few slivers of lavender soap, laid them on a clean washcloth next to the tub. Anything to tempt Sigrid into taking a bath.
“What do you think, Sigrid? Give it a try?” I called over to her.
She got up from the couch with her chin high, gave me a look that said, Please, have you forgotten about our deal? You chickened out on the dive, so no bath for me, and ambled down the hallway toward her bedroom, sweater dragging behind her as if she were a deranged bride.
“There’s your answer,” Jeanne said, not without satisfaction. She folded her arms across her gray, stained sweatshirt, an Arctic wolf’s face distorted across her voluminous chest. Her hair a lusterless brown under harsh kitchen lights, her face puffy and red after several early-evening glasses of wine. I thought, She’s me, in some fun-house way. She’s absolutely me if I really gave it all up, let grief dictate all: How close am I to this? We weren’t as far apart as I pretended.