Jenna Marcus - Breathe Deep & Swim

Copyright 2021 by Jenna Marcus.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication in print or in electronic format may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the prior written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events and incidents are either the products of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Distribution & Design by Bublish, Inc.

ISBN: 978-1-647043-13-1 (Paperback)

ISBN: 978-1-647043-12-4 (eBook)

To my dad, Alan Marcus, for his infinite support,
and for listening to every chapter as I crafted this book.
Your generosity, compassion, and humor are priceless. I would not be who I am without you.

Contents

one

It felt like a phantom clock was striking midnight.

I thought I heard twelve chimes, but maybe they were ringing somewhere off in the distance. Maybe I was just imagining it because the sound of midnightthat finite clangwould have fittingly stamped this moment. But even without hearing the distinctive ringing of a midnight bell, even without confirmation of the time, Id always remember this moment. At some point in the night, Dad had died, and wed been left to figure out the rest of our lives, or at least the next few hours.

Id never seen a corpse before, not in its organic form, before being preserved in a coffinonly after being coiffed and cleaned to a perfection that never replicated the actual living person I once knew.

At Uncle Earls funeral, hed worn an intensely black suit with a matching tie, but hed once said he would rather die than wear one. Well, I guess the suit was fitting then, because if hed taken one look at that Windsor knot, he would have dropped dead on the spot.

Lying in that shiny coffin, Uncle Earl had been like a wax statue, a pristine, unnatural representation, not the Uncle Earl we knew. That wax figure wouldnt ruffle my hair while saying, When are you going to cut that thing? Are you looking to grow a pet? Itd always driven me crazy when he said that, but he was being true to who he was; he was his authentic self. In that coffin, any semblance of authenticity hed once had dissipated, leaving a body in a proper suit. I supposed hed been prepared and preserved to look like that for an audience, to appear more
palatable.

This was different though, and not because the dead man lying in the bed was my dad. This was different because my dad still looked like himself. He wasnt made up for anyone; his life had just faded away. His lily-pad-green eyes were dull and staring at nothing on the ceiling. His jaw was slack. He looked like he was waiting to sleep, but his soul had left his body instead.

The most potent difference was the absence of living movements. He was missing those subtle movements, like adjusting himself under the bedspread, or twitching his nose from time to time. He was missing his stare, when he would focus on a particular point as if to turn it over in his mind before slightly shaking his head to refocus his eyes. His dark-brown hair somehow had lost its sheen, which seemed impossible since it had grown oily from not showering for days on end.

It was his stillness that filled the room. His severe lack of movement connected him to all other corpses, but because he wasnt in the standard coffin, in the standard funeral home, I couldnt shake the expectation of seeing him move. It was almost like I was taking for granted that people could move. Even if you were a quadriplegic, your eyes could move back and forth, and your chest would rise and fall with every breath you took.

It was impossible to mistake a dead man for what he was, and however I felt about this situation, I knew that he was dead.

Wolfgang, why is this door open? Van Gogh called from the hall. His footsteps began to slow to a stop as he hesitated to enter the room. We both knew this room was off-limits, and we both knew why.

Normally I followed the rules, especially ones set by Van Gogh, but Id felt compelled to go into our dads room, almost as ifas if I knew that I would find my dead dad lying in his own filth. As I mentioned, it had been a while since hed showered.

Wolfgang, why are you in here? You know you shouldntholy shit! Van Gogh shouted, stopping a few feet away from the bed.

Although my brothers eyes were usually a mirror image of our dads lily-pad-green ones, his naturally seemed livelier. In fact, they seemed to be expanding and retracting, if that was even possible.

I had no idea how to respond, other than to say what we both knew was a lie.

I dont know what happened. He just died.

He just died. Yes, he had, that was obviously true, but we both knew what happened, we both knew the cause.

Van Gogh ran his fingers through his short dark-brown hair, staring down at the body.

Shit, shit, shit. My brother didnt always know what to say in uncomfortable situations, but that was probably because he was rarely uncomfortable. Even when he got into verbal boxing matches with Dad, he didnt seem uncomfortable, just angry and disgusted. But now, as he continued to run his fingers through his hair, it was obvious that he was severely uncomfortable.

I know. I dont know what happened. I just found him here, I repeated. Normally, I was very verbose. It probably came from the fact that I was a bona fide bookworm, at least thats what my teachers told me. That was one of the reasons I did so well on my compositions, especially in English class. I usually knew how to sew together sentences that sounded articulate, but not obnoxiously so. Dad always said I was too smart for my own good, and that he couldnt understand a word I was sayingbut that was because he wasnt really listening. He never really tried to understand.

What are you even doing in here? You know you shouldnt be in here without a mask! Van Gogh exclaimed, adjusting his white N95 mask.

I mean, does it really matter anymore? Hes dead, I said, reaching for the mask tucked in my back pocket.

Wolfgang, we dont know if hes still contagious! Van Gogh cried as he pulled a pair of gloves out of a pocket in his tattered Levis. He handed them to me before helping me adjust my mask. There, thats better.

We simultaneously looked down at the stiffening body. I didnt feel his skin, but I knew my dads body was getting colder and that rigor mortis would set in at some point; it was only a matter of time. However, how much time we had, who knew? I couldnt tell you what time it was.

It was at that point that I asked the obvious yet complex question I knew was on both of our minds. Now what?

Van Gogh took a deep breath, so deep that I could feel him holding it for some timeas if he needed the oxygen, any oxygen, even if it were contaminated. He slowly exhaled as he looked over our dads body.

Now? We need to get out of this room, he said, taking hold of my hand and walking me into the hall. My brother hadnt held my hand since I was eight years old and he was ten. Even though Dad had never instructed Van Gogh to do so, hed always taken hold of my hand as we walked across the street.

Although it was six years later, and I knew that as a high school freshman I was a little too old to walk hand in hand with my older brother, I was reluctant to let go. Van Gogh had always been my life raft. I knew I needed him, and I also knew I could always rely on him.

Although my brothers plans werent always fully thought through, I knew he would have one. I knew he would do everything in his power to get us safely across that street.