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Authors: T. Greenwood

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But the music was gone. There was only the sound of water beneath me. Only the gentle rocking of the boat. Only the sound of Gormlaith at night. And, quite suddenly, Max was gone too. That night dissolved into the sound of the oars dipping into the water. The sound of Devin's low hum.
It wasn't my fault.
I couldn't protect her, save her. But the lake was giving me another chance. The secret didn't matter, because it didn't belong to me. And the bruises Max had left on Devin's life had already begun to fade. Blue turning slowly from indigo to black.
E
PILOGUE
T
ime does not heal wounds. It's a body's ritual that does. The instinctual cleansing with rain or other waters, the application of salves. Despite the sting. Even neglected, the body begins to take care. To repair itself. Blood clots, tissues regenerate, flesh scars. Soon, the thin white line is the only evidence of the pain. It is the body, not time. Time does nothing except create distance between the body and that which caused it harm.
Recollection of fear can be stronger than the original fear itself. Similarly, bliss is sometimes more vivid when recollected. How else do you explain longing? Longing for what has already passed. That's the real pain.
But you insisted, you pried with your fingers to see. You returned to me after I turned away. You made me recollect for you, collect again and again for you, interrupting the healing with your curiosity.
Now that I have given you the words, you may long for them. You may miss me. You may try to find the notes to the song again and again and won't be able to find them. Perhaps, the wounds I made will already have begun to scar. Maybe the body will have begun its ritual of forgetting.
I told you not to ask for haunted, not to ask me to recollect. Because recollection is like tearing at closed wounds. Like peeling back the careful tissue put there by the body to make it safe. And because remembered pain is always worse than the original pain, because this time it is expected. This time you already know how much it will hurt.
January 1995
I
t is winter here. I
I found a dusty Crock-Pot in one of Gussy's cupboards, and I am making stew from frozen stew meat and the memory of other winters in Gussy's kitchen.
This morning I awoke to six inches of new snow, splinters of glass still swirling furiously outside my window. Before I attempted to fight through the blizzard to put chains on the van, I listened to the radio for the listing of schools that would be closed due to the storm. I felt like I was seven years old again, praying for a snow day. Answered prayers, every school that I visit with the mobile library would be closed. I shivered with cold and excitement and went to the shed in my bathrobe for more wood for the fire.
Inside I built a fire that roared and crackled, and then set about finding the necessary ingredients. Stew meat, garlic, thyme. I went to the closet, rearranged to accommodate Devin's garden, and grabbed two jars of red tomatoes.
Now, I peel fresh carrots and potatoes, leaving their skins in brown and orange heaps in the sink. I crush the pungent garlic with a fork and find thyme hiding behind salt and baking powder in the cupboard. I put everything in the Crock-Pot and then open the seal on the tomatoes. The sweet smell of summer makes me dizzy. Recollections of the giant's garden captured in a glass jar.
I might survive winter this way,
I think.
When the crock is full, I turn the dial, putting my hands on the sides to make sure that it still works. It heats up as quickly as the woodstove in the other room.
Rump is whining at the door to be let out. I am reluctant to open the door again; heat escapes so quickly. But she insists, and I relent. She is still a puppy really, and I should be proud of her. Alice and Maggie's pick of the litter, Rapunzel, is not nearly as obedient and considerate. Alice named them both, Rumpel-stiltsken and Rapunzel. She whispered their names to me before I had even decided to take her home. But now, in winter when Maggie's visits are necessarily made less frequent by the weather and when Magoo hibernates for days on end, I am grateful for her company. Sometimes when I am sleeping, she finds me buried under the covers and curls her warm body against mine, making me feel not quite so alone.
“Come on, Rump,” I say, standing in the doorway, shivering in my robe.
She begs me to be patient with her wet brown eyes. She is particular about where she pees. She is usually fond of the side of the shed, but today the snow is obstructing her path. I watch her swim through the fresh snow looking for a more accessible spot to relieve herself. Finally, she finds a place and then finds her way back to me through the white ocean and shakes the white crystals off all over my bare legs.
“Get in,” I say.
Inside she goes straight to the flannel dog bed my mother bought her for Christmas that I have put close to the woodstove. I follow her and try to warm my hands near the fire.
“Should we shovel the driveway today?” I ask her, but she is already dreaming. She chases dream rabbits, dream squirrels in dream summertime.
Outside it continues to snow, but inside everywhere I look there are pieces of summer. Oblivious to the storm outside, Lenny and George paddle through the summer water, lie prone under the warmth of artificial sun. In the closet, on shelves I made from boards and bricks, the colors of Devin's garden are captured in clear glass jars. In the living room, among Grampa's books, Devin's boxes hold suns that do not set, butterflies in eternal flight, and flowers that never wilt. It is easy here to believe in spring.
I pull on my new Sorels, their felt linings thick and warm around my wool clad feet. As I begin the daunting task of uncovering the van, I think,
Winter will not last forever. Spring is inevitable.
But for each path I clear, each straining muscle in my back, there is more snow falling from the sky to replace it. Like Sisyphus in this ridiculous task. I am able, after an hour, to make a pathway from the door to the road. On either side are cold, white walls.
But rather than returning to the warmth of the house, and the warmth of Rump's body against mine, I decide to walk. The wind blows snow into my eyes like small pieces of glass. Winter is so much more beautiful under the moon or the sun. But today, the whole world is white, and I can't feel my toes.
In winter, you can't tell where the lake begins or ends. And after snow, it is almost impossible to differentiate earth from water. I trudge through the snow toward the lake, my only reference point the trees, tired and heavy in their white dresses.
I am alone here. Only a few people are stupid enough to brave this, to spend three, sometimes four months in this white dimensionless world. I could scream or sing at the top of my lungs and the snow would swallow my sound. My words would only freeze in the air, splinter and fall to the ground in shattered pieces.
I think of my mother coming here to escape from us. While Colette and I fought and sulked and played the TV too loud, when we grew bored with each other, with winter, our mother would come to this place. Grampa, too, loved winter here. Like my mother, he must have come here to be alone. To disappear into this white. I imagine him walking across the frozen water, judging the thickness by the sounds of his footsteps.
I walk to where the old stump sticks its wrinkled head up from a mountain of snow and look out toward the island. Wind tears through the trees, lifting the cloaks from their shoulders, leaving their branches bare and exposed.
I step onto the ice, tentative and scared. But after a few steps, I see that the ice is thick, my footsteps light. They make dull soft thuds as I move farther away from land. In this tentative way, I walk until I can't see the camp anymore. I walk until I am completely enclosed by white snow, white air, white sky.
Devin was wrong about the lake. It can resist a fist; it is not weak at all. Its strength is in its resistance, not in its pull. And now, it holds me up.
It holds me up.
But you must be careful. You must not tread too heavily, must not threaten it with the temper or carelessness of stomping feet. You must treat it with tenderness, forgiveness. You must trust its hands. Then it will take care of you. Then it will keep you safe.
A READING GROUP GUIDE
BREATHING WATER
T. Greenwood
 
 
ABOUT THIS GUIDE
 
 
The following discussion questions
and author interview are included
to enhance your group's reading of
Breathing Water
.
 
Visit
www.tgreenwood.com
for the opportunity to have
the author chat with your group.
Discussion Questions
1.
Discuss the symbolism in
Breathing Water
. How do the camp renovation, the tadpoles, and the butterflies in the box apply to Effie's story? Do you think Effie was pinned down like the butterflies, or was she growing into one?
2.
What is the significance of the title? Does is refer to drowning, or does it apply to the idea of the tadpoles being able to “breathe” water? Discuss the motif of water as it pertains to Effie's story and examine the last two paragraphs of the novel, about the strengths and weaknesses of water. How does the sentiment apply to Effie? To life in general?
3.
Compare the touch of Max and Devin and how Effie reacts to both. Consider the scene where Devin catches Effie on the swing. In what ways does that speak to their characters as a whole?
4.
Revisit the scenes with Effie's parents, namely on the Fourth of July. Do you think her relationship with them—and how they treat her—had any influence on her relationship with Max?
5.
Dissect Effie's relationship with her sister, Collette, as well. How are they different, other than in stature? How are they alike? Why do you think the news of Collette's engagement brought on the reaction it did in Effie?
6.
Why do you think Effie stayed with Max as long as she did? She seemed aware of his abuse, so what prevented her from leaving sooner?
7.
Breathing Water
opens with the lines “Do not ask me for haunted. Do not ever ask me for haunted, because I will give you haunted and you will never be the same.” Discuss the theme of being haunted. What haunted Effie? What haunted Devin? Max? Gussy? Maggie?
8.
Who do you think is being addressed as “you” in the set pieces opening each part? Are these from Effie's point of view? What contextual clues lead you to your conclusion?
9.
Talk about the gifts that Effie finds on her porch and the significance of each of them.Why did Devin leave those particular things? Why did he leave anything at all?
10.
Size is an important element in
Breathing Water:
Effie is petite and Devin has a large build; the shadow boxes contain miniatures. Are there other examples of size differences or smallness in the novel? What purpose do they serve?
11.
Color is used a lot in the novel, particularly blue.What is the significance of that, and does it change depending on the usage?
12.
Discuss Effie's lies throughout the story.When and why does she tell them? Do they make her an unreliable narrator? Do they affect your ability to believe her theory behind Keisha's death? Do you think it was such an innocent accident, or has she convinced herself that Max is less culpable than he should be?
13.
At one point, Effie says, “That's not the same as knowing someone.That's just knowing somebody's habits, somebody's characteristics.” Devin replies, “Our habits can be pretty revealing.” Do you agree with him, or do you think Effie is right that it's not the same as knowing the person? What do your habits say about you and your fellow reading group members?
14.
Discuss Effie's reaction to learning about Devin's relationship to Keisha. Do you think she suspected all along, or was it a complete surprise? How would you have handled the news if you were in her shoes?
15.
Compare and contrast the relationships between Effie and Max with Maggie and Bugs. How do Effie and Maggie help each other?
16.
When Devin explains why he came to Gormlaith, he tells Effie, “You look for something you've lost, and you wind up finding something else.” How does that apply to Effie? What did she go back to the lake to look for? What did she find? Have you experienced that in your own life?
17.
Throughout
Breathing Water,
Effie flashes back to instances of violence in her affair with Max. Have you or someone close to you been involved in similar relationships? How has any personal experience shaped your reading of the novel and understanding of Effie's character?
A C
ONVERSATION WITH
T. G
REENWOOD
T. Greenwood sat down with fellow novelist and fan Amy Hatvany to discuss
Breathing Water
and the writing life. Amy is the author of four books, the most recent of which,
Outside the Lines,
was released in February 2012. She is currently working on her next novel, the story of a woman who is unexpectedly thrust into the role of mother and suddenly forced to confront the complicated reasons behind her previously hard-fast decision to remain childless. For more info on Amy, you can visit her website at
www.amyhatvany.com
.
 
Amy Hatvany:
Breathing Water
was your first novel, originally published in 1999. What a joy it was to revisit this book—I loved it all over again. Can you tell me what inspired you to write the story?
T. Greenwood: For me, there are always a number of factors that create the perfect storm of a novel idea. In the case of
Breathing Water,
there were several different “inspirations.”
I began writing this book when I was twenty-seven, after several gypsy-like years moving from city to city (Burlington, Vermont, to Flagstaff, Arizona, to Seattle, Washington, to San Diego, California). As someone who spent the first two decades of her life in the same place, all of this wandering had left me feeling homesick and a little bit rootless. In short, I was missing my home state of Vermont. I was also fresh out of graduate school and too broke for a plane trip, and so I decided to conjure Vermont in my writing.To travel in the way I always had as a little girl . . . through story.
At the same time, I had a first line that came to me, long before there was any story to tell.
Do not ask me for haunted.
The voice I heard captured perfectly the type of story I wanted to tell in tone, attitude, and subject matter. I knew that my narrator was exactly that: haunted by something, by someone. I trusted that if I really listened to that voice, it would tell me where to go next.
Lastly, I had an image that I knew somehow belonged in this book, an image that had haunted
me
for nearly a decade. When I was a teenager, I was at a baseball game with girlfriends.There was a family from my hometown who was also there. The man was Native American, and his wife was white. They had a whole gaggle of boys. During the game, two of the younger boys had decided to run off and play. The baseball field was near a river. Suddenly, about halfway through the game, one of the little boys came running to the baseball field screaming that his brother had fallen in the river. What happened next was so horrifying, I will never forget it. The game stopped, and everyone in attendance rushed to the river. Several of the fathers made a human chain that traversed the width of the river, and they walked, slowly, dragging the river for the boy. The mother stood, helpless, in the current, holding her dress and keening as they searched for her child. And the father, a larger-than-life, almost mythic, figure in our town, stood on a large boulder overlooking the river, chanting softly. The sun was going down, soft and pink all around us. I had never heard or seen or felt such an overwhelming sense of grief, or of community. They finally found the boy's body about a half hour later. It was this recollection that informed the opening scene of
Breathing Water
.
Obviously, these seeds of truth became fiction, and the novel grew from them.
 
AH: Effie talks with Devin about books “making your own déjà vu.” Are there any particular books that do this for you—take you back to a certain place and time in your life?
TG: Absolutely.
A Separate Peace
transports me to my high school football field and track, springtime, cherry blossoms and lilacs. Toni Morrison's
Jazz
carries me to my little apartment in the U District of Seattle. (The one with the green bathroom and clawfoot tub.)
The Poisonwood Bible
recalls the summer that I was really, really ill and spent nearly a month in bed at our summer place in Vermont.
 
AH: I was struck by the use of color in this novel—blue, especially. It almost seems like another character. Was this a deliberate choice when you were writing the story, or did it develop on its own?
TG: It was completely subconscious. I actually hadn't noticed it at all until someone called my attention to it. I am a very visual person, though, so it makes sense that I would use color to evoke mood.
 
AH: Perhaps subconsciously, Effie seems to be drawn to wounded people—first Max, and then Keisha. What do you believe this is rooted in for her as a character?
TG: That's a good question. I think Effie is a caretaker. I think she wants to make people better. I also think that people who are wounded themselves tend to be drawn to others who are similarly wounded.
 
AH: If you had written
Breathing Water
today, is there anything you would change about it? If so, what, and why?
TG: I think of all of my novels as artifacts of a certain time and place in my life. I wouldn't write this novel today.
Breathing Water
captures who I was (as a writer, as a person) at twenty-seven. I could never tell this story now.
 
AH: How has your writing style changed over the years?
TG: I like to think (have to believe) that I am becoming more skilled with every novel I write. I think I used to rely more heavily on the music of my language to carry the reader through a novel. Plot used to terrify me, while now it thrills me. I also think that as I get older, and my experience in this world expands, so too does my understanding of human nature. I hope this is evident in my work.
 
AH: If you could go back to the writer you were when you penned
Breathing Water,
what is the most important thing you would tell her about following this career path? Is there anything you wish you had known?
TG: I would tell her that she must be patient. That the writing life is harder than she could ever imagine, with more disappointments (and joys) than she can dream. I would also tell her to be persistent. I would tell her that she needs to be prepared to get up early (that no matter what anyone tells her, writing and being a mom at the same time is HARD). I would warn her that this one novel in particular is going to take a really long time to write and even when she does finally finish, she'll think nobody on earth is going to want to publish it. I would tell her to wait.To keep writing. And I would promise her that one day she will be pleasantly surprised by how the world works. That
Two Rivers
will not be the end of her career but the beginning of it.
 
AH: I'm sure it's impossible to pick a favorite of your own novels, but is there one that you are especially proud of, or that you think best represents your particular style and voice?
TG: Amy, you know this is like asking a parent to pick a favorite kid. Each of these books, for me, is the best of me and the worst of me, all wrapped up into three or four hundred pages. I am proud of the poetic language in my first three novels. I am proud of the scope of
Two Rivers
. I am proud of the characters in
The Hungry Season
. I am proud of the courage it took me to write an ending that a lot of people would resist in
This Glittering World,
and I am proud of the momentum and ride that is
Grace.
Of course, I see all of their flaws as well, but like any good mom, I overlook them. Each one represents my best work at the time. That is all I can offer.
 
AH: What's the most difficult question for you to answer as an author?
TG: The one you just asked! Actually, that one and
What is your favorite novel?
I am always inclined to say
Bridge to Terabithia
(the first book that made me cry), or
Alice in Wonderland
(because it reminds me of my grandfather), or
Jazz
(because I wrote my thesis on it and feel like I know it inside and out). So don't ask me that one.
 
AH: Can you talk a little about what you're working on now?
TG: I just finished the first draft of a novel called
Bodies of Water
(at least that's what it's called for now), which is actually a story about Gussy's sister, recalling a tragic love affair set in the early 1960s. It was thrilling to return to Gormlaith in this new book. I just need to keep checking in on Effie and Devin, too. And I guess I'm still using fiction as my ticket home.

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