The Water Cure by Sophie Mackintosh

Author:Sophie Mackintosh
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780241983027
Publisher: Penguin Books Ltd
Published: 2018-01-23T16:00:00+00:00

Stupid to meet a stranger but I was still convinced by the intrinsic goodness of people, I was so innocent, and I had not been exposed to the world very much. I didn’t understand how rapidly things had changed, how all that had been needed was permission for everything to go to shit, and that permission had been granted. I didn’t know that there was no longer any need for the men to hold their bodies in check or to carry on the lie that we mattered.

On the third day without Mother I wake early. It is a very clear day, the promise of intense heat later. I stand on the terrace, breathing the salt air off the silent bay. Below me, something breaks the surface of the swimming pool. I move to the rail and see a figure in a long white gown – the drowning dress, I realize, with its weights and embroidery. She breaks the surface. It is Grace, her hair loose in dark ropes around her shoulders. I am too far away to see the expression on her face.

As I watch, she swims to the shallow end and takes in deep gulps of air, resting against the side for a few seconds. Then she goes back into the deeper water and holds herself under again. I count the seconds. She surfaces desperately. She pulls herself under again. It does not seem to be giving her the satisfaction that it gives me, no end point, no closure.

Her movements become more furious, not less. She is making up for lost time, maybe, her body once more her own, to use as she wants. I stop watching after the third time, ashamed. I let her do what she needs to do.

I am standing in the centre of the kitchen. Sea air comes in from the open door. The scent of citrus fruits, though we have not grown them for a while. The landscape stopped supporting them: thinning of the soil, vestigial minerals. We used to cut the oranges and lemons into medicinal segments. We would give them to the damaged women, to wedge in their mouths and hold there for a long while, letting the juice pour down their chins, their throats. Sometimes we did it to each other too.

Llew is a shadow against stainless steel, against the cracked white paint heavy with dust. He tucks both his arms around my waist, his chin resting on my head, having entered the room out of nowhere. I am being held and I am not used to holding. Nobody has seen us, and I can’t tell if I want to be caught or not. It would be disaster, yet at least someone would bear witness, would confirm that this is real, that this is happening to me. But he lets go at the sound of footsteps. Grace enters the kitchen and stops at the sight of us, but his hands are not on me now, there is still no proof. Love

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