Excerpt:

“Later, I will remember bits and pieces, and not at all once. It will come to me in flashes through the days that follow. I will remember jumping into the cool glass water and the shock of it. Paul smiling and giving me the thumbs up. The regulators in our mouths, goggles on our faces. How we look like we were traveling to a different planet, and maybe we are. Then we dive, adjusting our buoyancy level to help us sink to the bottom.

I will remember trying not to think of drowning and reminding myself not to hold my breath. We are wearing scuba gear so we can breathe, but it is hard for my body to know that. I’m just afraid. I want to hold my breath. Paul notices and points to himself, steadying me, reminding me to breathe. Just breathe. And at last, I do.

There is a kind of peace underwater that I’ve never felt anywhere else. Maybe it’s the feeling of being suspended, or held really, supported by the water. It’s a kind of flying feeling and otherworldly. I feel joy at seeing fish around us, and the rocks.

And this is where things will get hazy. I will remember we are underwater longer than I expected, or maybe time just moved differently under water. My breathing becomes short and shallow. Fast. The regulator bubbling. I lose sight of Paul. I lose sight of everything. I am alone in the water with the fish and the rocks and shadows moving in, pulling me to them.

I can feel my heart thudding in my chest, my blood pulsing through my body, and for a moment, I think I see the wide and gaping mouth of a woman in the hull of a ship, reaching out, but trapped by a pipe that has crushed her.

My mask fogs up and I can’t see.

I need to clear it, but I can’t remember how to do it. And I need to rise to the surface, but I can’t remember what I need to do to reach the surface again. What did Shawn say? Did he tell us what to do? Why did I agree to do this stupid thing? This isn’t an adventure. This is foolish.

I’m afraid. Terribly so. The fear is black and icy. Cold. I need to breathe. To breathe for real. Not water and not the oxygen provided by a machine. I need cool Michigan air, laced with the hint of fish and a bite of coming rain. I need firm land under me. To know where I stand, literally.

I reach upward, my body flying forward, surrounded by a fog of blindness, my breathing shallow and fast, my heart lurching.  

Then there is a crack. Something breaking. I don’t hear it exactly, but the crack reverberates through me and then I don’t remember anything at all, except for the woman on the water’s floor, her skin half sloughed off, her too-wide smile, and her arms reaching to wave me in, to join her at the bottom of the lake.”

From THE KNOWING by Tanya Eby