Read Online The First Rule of Swimming by Courtney Angela Brkic - Free Book Online
Authors: Courtney Angela Brkic
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Magdalena that Marin’s shelf too closely resembled a grave, and what other explanation could there be for her uncle’s continued absence?
Due to her relative proximity in Split, their mother warranted only one corner of a shelf, together with assorted cousins and friends, and on rare visits to the island she regarded the cabinet with irony. “Our saint!” she would salute her brother a little bitterly, announcing her certainty that he had become prosperous abroad and merely discarded his links to the island like so much ballast.
The last time Jadranka had visited the island, she brought their grandmother a photograph of herself. “This way you can keep an eye on all of us together,” she told her, already planning her escape.
Magdalena alone had caught the look of despair that crossed the older woman’s face. “You shouldn’t have said that,” she chided Jadranka later.
They had driven for the rest of that January night, Jadranka remembering the way they used to ride Magdalena’s scooter around the island as teenagers. In the first year of the war there had been blackouts, and Magdalena had taken the bulb out of the scooter’s headlight, so that they had flown through the dark. “I’d look up at all those stars,” Jadranka said in a dreamy voice, “and you’d be going so fast that they’d start shooting.”
Magdalena remembered her sister’s arms clasped around her waist and the way she would sometimes sing, the wind distorting her voice, her hair so long that it lashed Magdalena’s cheeks like little sparks. They had not worn helmets in those days—nobody did—and they had traveled the roads so quickly that the tires barely made contact with the island.
“I remember,” she told her. “It’s a wonder we’re alive to tell the tale.”
At this, Jadranka turned to look out the passenger window. She studied something, some feature of the dark sea that was invisible to Magdalena’s eyes.
“That’s the problem,” Jadranka told the window. “You remember too much.”
Her words stung Magdalena. After all, it was Jadranka who had started these reminiscences. She gripped the steering wheel more tightly and concentrated on the road in front of them.
“Lena?”
But Magdalena refused to turn her head.
“I know you hate to talk about it—”
The tiny door that Magdalena had left open in the presence of her sister now slammed promptly shut.
“—but you’ve been alone for ten years. Not even widows wait this long.”
They were climbing a hill, and the car heaved as Magdalena shifted into a lower gear.
“Not even Mama waited this long.”
Silence.
“And I hate leaving you like this.”
“You’re not leaving me,” Magdalena said, at last. “You’re going. There’s a difference.” She shifted gears again, satisfied by the car’s violent lurch.
“Because the truth is that I may not be coming back.”
Magdalena looked sharply at her sister, remembering how she had ignored the American’s question about how long she would stay. But Jadranka had turned to look out the window again. “Don’t be dramatic,” Magdalena told the back of her head. This time there were lights on the dark sea. A ferry, perhaps, or a night fisherman with a death wish. They flickered for a moment before disappearing into the black.
She told none of this to Katarina, who insisted that Jadranka had been happy, that she had put on a bit of weight, a vast improvement from the pale, skinny girl who had arrived in January, poorly equipped for the harsh New York winter with her paper-thin coat. She had gotten on well with the children, playing with Christopher in the park and standing for hours in the bathroom with Tabitha as she experimented with her mother’s lipsticks and eye shadows.
She adored her studio, though she had only shown Katarina a little of her work, preferring to keep the rest under lock and key.
“Was it locked when she left?” Magdalena asked.
Katarina hesitated. “Yes.
Due to her relative proximity in Split, their mother warranted only one corner of a shelf, together with assorted cousins and friends, and on rare visits to the island she regarded the cabinet with irony. “Our saint!” she would salute her brother a little bitterly, announcing her certainty that he had become prosperous abroad and merely discarded his links to the island like so much ballast.
The last time Jadranka had visited the island, she brought their grandmother a photograph of herself. “This way you can keep an eye on all of us together,” she told her, already planning her escape.
Magdalena alone had caught the look of despair that crossed the older woman’s face. “You shouldn’t have said that,” she chided Jadranka later.
They had driven for the rest of that January night, Jadranka remembering the way they used to ride Magdalena’s scooter around the island as teenagers. In the first year of the war there had been blackouts, and Magdalena had taken the bulb out of the scooter’s headlight, so that they had flown through the dark. “I’d look up at all those stars,” Jadranka said in a dreamy voice, “and you’d be going so fast that they’d start shooting.”
Magdalena remembered her sister’s arms clasped around her waist and the way she would sometimes sing, the wind distorting her voice, her hair so long that it lashed Magdalena’s cheeks like little sparks. They had not worn helmets in those days—nobody did—and they had traveled the roads so quickly that the tires barely made contact with the island.
“I remember,” she told her. “It’s a wonder we’re alive to tell the tale.”
At this, Jadranka turned to look out the passenger window. She studied something, some feature of the dark sea that was invisible to Magdalena’s eyes.
“That’s the problem,” Jadranka told the window. “You remember too much.”
Her words stung Magdalena. After all, it was Jadranka who had started these reminiscences. She gripped the steering wheel more tightly and concentrated on the road in front of them.
“Lena?”
But Magdalena refused to turn her head.
“I know you hate to talk about it—”
The tiny door that Magdalena had left open in the presence of her sister now slammed promptly shut.
“—but you’ve been alone for ten years. Not even widows wait this long.”
They were climbing a hill, and the car heaved as Magdalena shifted into a lower gear.
“Not even Mama waited this long.”
Silence.
“And I hate leaving you like this.”
“You’re not leaving me,” Magdalena said, at last. “You’re going. There’s a difference.” She shifted gears again, satisfied by the car’s violent lurch.
“Because the truth is that I may not be coming back.”
Magdalena looked sharply at her sister, remembering how she had ignored the American’s question about how long she would stay. But Jadranka had turned to look out the window again. “Don’t be dramatic,” Magdalena told the back of her head. This time there were lights on the dark sea. A ferry, perhaps, or a night fisherman with a death wish. They flickered for a moment before disappearing into the black.
She told none of this to Katarina, who insisted that Jadranka had been happy, that she had put on a bit of weight, a vast improvement from the pale, skinny girl who had arrived in January, poorly equipped for the harsh New York winter with her paper-thin coat. She had gotten on well with the children, playing with Christopher in the park and standing for hours in the bathroom with Tabitha as she experimented with her mother’s lipsticks and eye shadows.
She adored her studio, though she had only shown Katarina a little of her work, preferring to keep the rest under lock and key.
“Was it locked when she left?” Magdalena asked.
Katarina hesitated. “Yes.
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