Only a Breath Apart

by Katie McGarry

  “That’s not going to happen. I’m not here for your father. I’m here for you.”

  Goody. My bad luck never runs out, does it?

  “How would you describe your parents’ relationship?”

  Complicated. “Good.”

  “Good?”

  “Good.”

  “Is the relationship your father and mother share the type you want when you’re older?”

  Something dangerous coils inside me. “I don’t know.”

  “What would you list as the good qualities of their marriage?”

  I scrub my hands over my face as I start to sweat. Is the thermostat set to two hundred degrees? “They love each other.”

  “What does that love look like?”

  My face screws up. “Blue with polka dots. What type of question is that?”

  “What would you list as the bad qualities of their relationship?”

  All of it. Some people aren’t meant to be together, and maybe they’d be better apart. “Next question.”

  “Is there abuse in your home?” he asks.

  I flinch at how easily he says the words. Maybe he didn’t receive the memo, but we don’t talk about this. “I’m sorry. I think I misunderstood. Can you repeat that?”

  “Is there abuse in your home? Physical? Emotional? Verbal?”

  My mouth dries out, and it becomes harder to breathe. I glance around again, my eyes jumping from wall to wall, and I feel suddenly trapped.

  “Anything you say in here remains between us,” he reminds me. “I’m here to help.”

  And that is my undoing. “Why would anyone expect to come in here and be helped?”

  Pastor Hughes doesn’t react like I want him to. I’ll admit, I wanted him to flinch but he’s unmoved. “Why would you say that?”

  Is he capable of not asking a question? “If,” I emphasize the word. “If someone was being abused, you wouldn’t help them.”

  “That’s not true.”

  I laugh. It’s not the cute type. It’s the manic type, and I begin to wonder if I have gone insane. Like the Hatter has decided he officially has had a little too much tea. “So, if a woman was being abused by her husband, and the daughter happened to tell you, what would you do?”

  “Talk her into calling the police.”

  “Why can’t you?”

  “I would encourage the daughter to do it first. She needs to be empowered in making decisions for her life, but if she won’t do it, I would. As a mandatory reporter, I’d have to.”

  He makes it sound so easy. “Fine. She calls the police and the police show, what do you think would happen?”

  “Why don’t you tell me what you think would happen?”

  This guy is a conversational moron. “The woman would tell the police that her daughter was wrong and that the bruises on her face were due to an accident. The woman would say her daughter either misunderstood or was being overly dramatic or that she was some bitter teenager getting back at her parents. Or maybe the call wouldn’t be taken seriously because the husband is golfing buddies with the chief of police.”

  “Did this happen to you?”

  No, but it’s what Mom said she would do if I called the police after Dad hit her last month. “There’s no help for someone like this girl.”

  “What if making that call led people in authority positions to become aware that there might be a situation and that forces all the adults, even the mom and dad, to seriously search for and accept help?”

  “Will calling the police fix the situation?” I demand.

  “Calling will help.”

  “I didn’t ask for help. I asked if calling will fix the situation. What’s the point of calling the police or coming here if nothing will change?”

  “What if it can be changed?”

  “What if it can’t? What if this is a waste of time?”

  “It’s not a waste of time. Help is available, and if there is ever abuse, the police should be called.”

  “Why, so they won’t believe the daughter?”

  “You call because I will believe the daughter.”

  Hope. It’s there like the breaking of dawn, but that thin sliver of hope isn’t strong enough to break through this incredible coldness. So cold, I shiver. He says he’d believe me, but I don’t believe him.

  “Does your father abuse your mother?” he asks.

  I welcome the cold now, stare at the floor, and pretend I’m some place other than here.

  “Has your father recently threatened you or your mother or your sister? Does he have a weapon? Has he done anything to make you think he’s going to hurt you or your mother?”

  My throat burns and my knee bounces.

  “If your father threatens you or your family, if he hurts you or anyone else, you need to call the police. It’s not okay for someone to hurt you or someone you love.”

  Yet it happens anyway. “What’s the point of all this? Why do I have to be here? I don’t hit people, and no one hits me. And I never said my father hits my mother.”

  Silence again as he studies me, and I feel like a sweater that’s unraveling.

  “How would it make you feel if your father hit your mother?”

  “I never said he hits my mother,” I say again.

  “It’s a hypothetical question.”

  I’m hypothetically considering screaming at the top of my lungs because that’s the most insane question I’ve been asked. “I’d imagine it would feel great. How do you think it would feel?”

  “How are you feeling now?”

  “Fantastic. Like sprinkles on top of a sundae.”

  “Really?”

  “No, not really. I’m angry.”

  “And how is that working out for you? The anger?”

  I tighten my grip on the armrests because it’s either that or flipping his desk. Deep breaths. Very deep breaths. Push down the anger. Push it down and drown. I can’t be angry. I can never be angry. I can never be my father. “I changed my mind. I’m not angry.”

  “You’re not?”

  “Nope. You can go to school and ask anyone. I’m known as the Ice Princess. I don’t have emotions.”

  “So you’re not angry now?”

  “I’m annoyed, not angry. You’re asking me stupid questions, and I have a right to be annoyed.”

  “Is that the only reason you’re angry?”

  “No, I mean yes, I mean … I’m not angry.” I’m so confused.

  “If your father had hit your mother, do you think you’d be angry?”

  “How else would I feel?”

  “Is angry how you want to feel?”

  “Want? There is nothing about this life I want. I don’t want to be monitored every second. I don’t want to go to college here in town. I don’t want to be groomed to take over my father’s business. And I sure as heck don’t want to—” I choke on the next words … watch my father hit my mother.

  My chest is rising and falling fast, too fast. Because I didn’t mean to say any of that, because I didn’t mean to say anything, I stand and go for the door.

  When I place my fingers on the handle, Pastor Hughes says, “Living in anger is like being a ghost in your own life. If you’re willing, I’d like to help you let go of the anger. I’d like to help you be more than a ghost.”

  “I … I am … I am not angry!” I stutter, and a flash of nauseating heat hits me hard.

  Pastor Hughes stares at me with a calmness I resent.

  “I’m not,” I repeat in a voice so quiet I’m not sure if he heard it.

  “When you’re ready to talk again, I’m here,” he says.

  I can’t take any more, so I leave. My father shoves off his chair to his feet. “I thought you would be in there longer.”

  I say nothing as I walk down the hallway. There’s this red-hot rage underneath my skin. Molten lava that’s desperately trying to erupt.

  “Scarlett, wait. I need to go to my session before we head home.”

  “Go to your se
ssion,” I bite out. “I’m not stopping you.”

  His footsteps quicken as he tries to keep up with me. “Where are you going?”

  “Home.”

  “How?”

  “I’ll walk.”

  “This is ridiculous. We live miles from town.”

  I spin on my toes and meet him eye to eye. He wants to do therapy, let’s do therapy. Right here in the hallway for all to see. “Then it’ll be a long walk, won’t it? But that’s my choice. Like having a job should be my choice. Like having a bank account should be my choice. Like having a counseling session with a pastor should be my choice. Like not living with a man who treats my mother the way he does should be my choice. My. Choice.”

  Anger flashes in Dad’s eyes, but I’m saved once again by Pastor Hughes. “Mr. Copeland, Pastor Morris is ready to see you.”

  I should become mute. I should become meek. I should lean around Dad and say words that would make Pastor Hughes think that he somehow misheard what I said, misreading another possible act of rebellion. I should do this because the hell Dad’s promising by his glare when we go home will be awful, but I’m sick and tired of being controlled.

  With my arms stretched, I bow to mock my father, the king. The world belongs to him, and we’re pieces to be discarded at will. I straighten, and the Ice Princess officially leaves the building.

  JESSE

  I’ve been waiting for a day to go as planned since Gran’s death, and today won’t be it. I try to do something nice for Gran, to honor her, and instead I end up knee-deep in mud, and not the kind I’d thought I’d be in by now. I should be planting flowers at Gran’s final resting place, but instead I’m changing the tire of my truck off the side of the road. I hit a pothole and blew a tire. A poetic summary of my life.

  What should have been a few minutes turned into longer. Tools broke, lug nuts were stuck, the jack ancient, my patience shot. Finally finished, I toss the tools into the bed of my truck then wipe the sweat off my brow. I glance down the road and squint. Someone’s walking, a hitchhiker, maybe, and that doesn’t make sense. This isn’t a direct route to anywhere.

  A breeze runs along the highway, and the walker’s long hair blows around her head. Same form-fitting pants, same blue shirt, same strut that hypnotizes me. That’s Scarlett miles from town and without her father. As she gets closer, she’s watching me like I’m watching her.

  Her mascara is smudged and smeared. Could be the heat. If I didn’t know better, it could be tears. She has a limp and she wears dress flats on her feet. I suck in a breath to ask her what her deal is with taking long hikes in the wrong shoes, but swallow the words.

  She lifts her chin, probably waiting for me to say something smartass, to shoot her down because that’s what the two of us were doing the last time she was in my truck. Two five-year-olds with toy guns. Taking aim and firing.

  I go to the passenger door and hold it open for her. She pauses, as if she’s waiting for me to take an unfair hit. I hold my hands in the air. No more sparring. Even I’m tired. I incline my head to the cab, and Scarlett slides in. I round the front, jump in, start the engine, then pull out onto the road.

  Scarlett leans against the rolled-down window, her hand fisting her hair near the base of her neck. She’s known for keeping to herself, but Scarlett doesn’t look like the girl who thinks she’s too good to speak to me. She looks like she’s been dragged out into the open by an angry mob and stoned near to death.

  I have to give her credit. If I were the one on the road, I would have kept on walking, even with the offered ride. Accepting this help would have cost me my pride. Scarlett, at least the Scarlett I once knew, lives on pride.

  Earlier today, her father was going caveman in a public parking lot, and she waved me off. I should leave it alone. Scarlett’s not my problem, I shouldn’t care, but … “Things between you and your dad looked intense. You okay?”

  “Nope.” She pops the p as if her answer doesn’t carry weight, but she’s dropped a bomb. At least to me it’s a detonation. I hadn’t expected her to be honest.

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “Nope.”

  Fair enough. “That’s okay, I don’t like talking about things that bother me either.”

  Scarlett glances at me, and for the first time since freshman year, her eyes aren’t frozen. It’s as if that one sentence has caused them to thaw. Now, they’re a deep blue. As blue as the sky, as blue as the sea, and I’m lost in them longer than I should be.

  She blinks. I do, too, and I force my focus back on the road, but I don’t see pavement. I see her beautiful eyes, I see her sad eyes, and I wish I could take away her pain.

  “Can I help?” she asks.

  Hearing her voice jars me, and I look at her to make sure I didn’t make it up in my head. “Help with what?”

  Scarlett gestures to the bed of the truck. “I’m assuming this is for Suzanne. I liked her. A lot. When we were younger, I used to pretend she was my grandmother.”

  A stinging in my soul. “She liked you, too.” More than liked. Gran loved her enough to give her power over my future. Loved her enough to mention Scarlett at least once a month—a constant reminder that Gran didn’t like my decisions.

  Scarlett bites her bottom lip and the motion causes another stirring, but this time in my blood.

  “Or maybe that’s something you want to do alone,” she says, “or with your friends or—”

  “No,” I cut her off. “That’d be fine. She…” I pause because I’m close to feeling and that scares me. “Gran would have liked that.”

  Scarlett nods, and we continue down the road.

  “The problem is,” Scarlett says, as if we had been having a longer conversation or that I had overheard the one in her head, “I don’t know what to say when someone loses a loved one. And I really don’t know what to say to you.”

  If those are the rules, I should be permanently chained to the trailer. “I guess I’d say the same thing as when someone else’s father acted like a jerk in a parking lot, and that person ends up walking miles for home. Sometimes, there aren’t words and that’s okay.”

  This time, her entire face softens, and Scarlett is absolutely stunning. I’ve never seen anyone as beautiful in my life—even with the mascara smudges, even in the ninety degree heat. I run a hand over my face because if I don’t stop staring, we’ll crash.

  “If you want me to take you home tell me now,” I say. “Otherwise, you’re going with me.”

  She shivers as if she’s cold and whispers, “I don’t want to go home.”

  The turnoff for our road arrives, but I don’t take the right this time. Instead, I keep going and eventually take the dirt road that will get me closer to the oak in the east field, toward the place where I laid my mom to rest and where I want to spread my gran. When we hit the stream, I veer off the dirt road and we go over the land I love more than my own life.

  The truck rocks and jostles over the bumpy terrain, and Scarlett no longer looks hard or calculating. Just thoughtful. For the first time in weeks, I find some semblance of peace.

  * * *

  It’s near eight and the sun is more west than it is anywhere else. Another hour and this place will be dark. I’ve dug, I’ve planted, I’ve sweated, I’ve watered, all with Scarlett by my side. She’s turned over dirt, she’s packed soil over new and old plants, and she’s poured water onto dry ground.

  We’ve worked for over an hour in the most comfortable silence of my life. Never once did I have to tell her what to do, never once did I have to tell her the vision I had in my head. It’s like she had crawled up in the scary place and took out the blueprints for how I needed Gran’s final resting place to be.

  To be honest, maybe I didn’t have a blueprint and Scarlett’s a genius. She’d been like that when we were children, knowing what to do with my land in such a way that it had seemed like the God-given plan from the start. Like the peonies along the stream, the black-eyed Susans near the woods, a
nd the honeysuckle near the sugar maple that we used to call ours.

  I toss the shovel into the bed of the truck then scan the area to see if I missed anything in the cleanup. Scarlett’s on her knees, patting the dirt around one of the rosebushes. She rubs a hand along her brow and leaves a trail of dirt on her skin.

  Warmth in my chest at the familiar sight. Scarlett was like me as a kid. A day hadn’t been done right unless you ended it with more soil on you than on the bottom of your shoes.

  Scarlett lifts her head and smiles … at me. It’s a gentle smile, and one that causes a spike of excitement in my blood. It’s as if the sun has melted off her outer shell and has revealed the girl I once knew, and a woman I want to get to know.

  My feet move, one in front of the other, even though I don’t recall making the conscious choice to move. It’s more a response to a gravitational call, one I can’t ignore.

  I crouch next to her and Scarlett busies herself dusting the soil off the leaves of the rosebush, as if the tender drops of the next rain won’t be enough to wash the dirt away.

  “Thanks for helping me,” I say.

  She continues to fuss over the plant. “Thank you for offering me a ride.”

  A lock of her hair falls forward and entwined in the strands is a small leaf. I reach out to remove the offending foliage then freeze when Scarlett’s deep blue eyes dart to mine. I stop breathing, stop moving and my mouth dries out. My heart picks up speed because the need is to draw nearer. The urge is to touch her cheek, to cup her face, to … “There’s a leaf.”

  “Okay.” She slowly wets her lips, and as I draw my fingers through her hair, the leaf falls to the ground. Scarlett briefly watches it, but then returns those gorgeous eyes to me.

  “Thank you,” she whispers.

  “You’re welcome,” I whisper back.

  Time has halted, and the world surrounding us is nothing more than beautiful slants of light. Wind rushes through the trees; a crack from above and Scarlett jumps to her feet. I look up in time to catch the sight of a twig tumbling to the ground. I slowly stand, and wonder what the hell any of that was.

  A leaf.

  My fingers in her hair.