Inhale, Exhale

by Matthews, C. L.

  “Hey.”

  He pulls me into him, the contact practically foreign. He feels like life before the sadness, life before the pain and endless nights, life before death and sorrow and emptiness. He feels like family and Mom even if he abandoned us all. He places a kiss in my hair, and my dam breaks.

  The tears come.

  Nothing he can say will be good, and it might actually destroy me. He’s not one to visit, and he sure as hell isn’t one to hold back in fear unless it’s that bad.

  “I love you. I know I’ve been a shit brother. I’ve walked out on our family and done horrible things. But one thing I’ve always known? You’re my sister. You’re my favorite hello and saddest goodbye. I shouldn’t have left. I’ve made more mistakes than I could ever get you to comprehend. I’ve never given up on hope that your and Dad’s love would get me back. I’m trying to be better, and one way is by making amends.” He nearly cries, finishing the last sentence with a sniffle.

  Why does addiction have to cause so much turmoil, and why does it hurt worse when it’s someone you love? Why is addiction easier than living? Like Nate, I’m addicted to the vast hollowness that was once considered a soul.

  “Even with all that said, I came here for a reason.” He tucks me into him, almost like a cocoon.

  When we were kids, he would do this when I was scared. When thunder would shake the house, he would tuck me into his arms. Though he’s my little brother, he’s massive in size. He towers over me and is like a huge, stuffed boar.

  “O-out with it,” I sputter, barely holding the gasps from fear. A panic attack is in limbo, waiting to pounce, waiting for any sign of weakness within my mind.

  “I didn’t think it would come across well. I’m afraid no matter how it’s said, no matter how it’s heard, it’ll be bad.” He stops, momentarily squeezing me tighter. With that hug, he’s holding my sanity in his hands. He’s holding my very being together. “Eleanor’s pregnant, sis.”

  Eleanor’s pregnant, sis.

  The fuck she is! He did not just say those three words. He did not just say them.

  There’s no fucking way.

  No.

  Please, God, no. I can’t take on anymore.

  Jason wouldn’t risk it.

  Not with our loss.

  Not with our past and what it’s done.

  “W-what?” I’m crying. I’m shaking. My entire body feels like it’s in a washing machine, turning and shaking in every which way.

  Jase wouldn’t fuck her without a condom. He wouldn’t do that to me. Not after Lilac, not after everything. He wouldn’t hurt me like that. He wouldn’t take the last part of us that’s left.

  He cheated on you.

  Then the emotional wave of denial smacks me. No. I don’t believe it. I can’t believe it.

  Believing it means he’s no longer mine. He’s no longer my Jase. No longer my husband.

  I can feel it, the moment my heart breaks in the palms of my own hands.

  I hold it there, my heart, the one that beats for my children alone, the one that’s been through so much that the tattered mess of what’s left is no longer recognizable. There’s not much left of the organ. It’s been beaten, maimed, and utterly destroyed. It lost a mother. It lost a child, a best friend, and now a husband. It’s lost so much it may never recover.

  How does one continue to love when their heart is taped off with no vacancy?

  My entire body shakes. I can’t place anything. The only thing repeating in my mind is no. It repeats over and over again, and you’d think I’d grasp at it, that there’d be more than straws to reach for, but there’s not.

  When love dies... how do you cope?

  It's not like you can mourn something that isn't physical. It's not like if someone passed away. It's not graspable. I don't even think you notice it, not really. Not until it's gone and too late, and you're stuck wondering what you could've changed.

  Do you get a sick day for that?

  Does your mind register the death like your heart does, or is it like a headache?

  When does the pain go away, and will you ever recover?

  Help me understand.

  Because I’m fucking torn, and there’s no love left in me.

  Not for him, not for her, not for them. That feeling, the emotion and sensation people crave, talk about it being the best thing ever, even desire it to their deaths—that concept is lost to me. It’s gone. I don’t want it back.

  My mind tries to hang onto something, like the fact that I’m in the fetal position, in a weird place while two figures fight above me. They’re blurry. I can’t make out what they’re screaming. I can’t make sense of what’s going on.

  I can only feel.

  Feel the coldness, feel the detachment, feel the harrowing realization of a love lost to the cruelty of life, to emotions that are gone and may never come back.

  I’m lost to you.

  I’m paralyzed, and I’m not coming back.

  Jase

  “What the fuck did you do to her? Why is she shaking? Why can’t she hear me?!” I yell.

  I heard her. She was fine moments ago. Then, I heard her wail. It was like a creature begging to be put out of its misery, like all the times she asked for death to take her. She hasn’t been in this much pain since Anise.

  “Stay back!” Nate hollers back at me.

  No. I won’t stay back. That’s my wife!

  I try approaching again, and Nate’s fist is connecting with my eye.

  “I told you to stay back!” he bellows, his hands raised to strike me again.

  I rub my eye, wondering why he’s not helping her. “What the fuck did you tell her?”

  “The truth,” he says right before I tackle him to the ground.

  “How did you even know?” I scream.

  “He told me.”

  “He who?”

  “You’d know if you weren’t such a fucking loser,” he snaps, pushing himself into my face.

  Our limbs connect with each other at his response. My face feels like hell and then some, and he’s yelling. It isn’t until Ace and Jaz are screaming that we pull apart.

  “Mommy, Momma!” Jazzy cries, touching Lo’s arms, shaking them.

  “Go away! Both of you!” Ace barks, his face glacial, his arms tight and stiff at his sides. “Both of you!” He looks between Nate and me, his eyes the same as mine and just as expressive too. “Leave!” He pushes toward us. “Before I call the cops.”

  I shut my eyes, unsure how any of this happened. How can a house be so divided? How can my son look at me with so much disdain? I’m unsure we’ll ever be able to fix it, patch it up, or even mend the scars.

  “I’ll go,” I mutter, lifting my hands, “but I’m taking Jazzy to Grandma’s.”

  “Fine, but leave before I lose it. I’m not against hitting my sperm donor,” he replies acridly.

  Love is leaving him day by day. It’s replaced with a cruel hatred, fueled by emotions he doesn’t quite grasp yet.

  My baby girl stares at me, tears leaving her eyes, tears I’ve once again created. She’s scared, confused, and I’m not helping. Fathers are supposed to be the last man to break their daughter’s hearts, and here I am, doing exactly that.

  Ace

  I stare at my mom or, at least, the body of my mom.

  It’s like when Grandma died. She’s here physically, but as I kneel next to her, trying to get her out of her stupor, mentally, she’s gone.

  “Mom,” I try again, losing hope.

  My eyes burn, but I won’t cry. Not again. She won’t take another piece of my soul with her. Not like Aunt El and Dad have. Not like Gray, and sure as hell not like Grandma. I won’t let them ruin me. I’m barely holding on as it is.

  “Mom, please,” I say, my voice hoarse with the impending storm inside my chest.

  How can I hurt this much? How can I bear this much pain and still breathe?

  “Fuck!” I roar, knowing if she’s capable of coming back, she’d reprima
nd me for that word. “Why, Mom? Why now? Why, when I need you the most, do you break? You can’t do this! Not again! Please, just come back to me. Please, Mom. I can’t do this without you. I’m not ready for you to be lost in yourself again.”

  I slam my fist into the cushion, crying, praying this ache will recede, and I’ll feel whole again. I just want my mom back, to have my family be normal and put together.

  My heart smacks my ribs with its force, the air in my lungs becoming less and less as I shake with hate, bitterness, and agony.

  When her hand grips my wrist like it’s a lifeline, I’m stunned silent. My eyes meet her face. Her eyes are aware. They’re present. They’re alive.

  My frame rocks, confirming the exertion I’ve put my body through. The exhaustion overwhelms me, and she sees me.

  She sees me.

  “Baby boy,” she murmurs, her voice almost sedated. “What’s wrong?”

  This is how it happens. She goes into a shell, and she pops out, and nothing makes sense to her. She’s almost like a coma patient, having to learn of the last moments that pushed her in her fog.

  “I’m not ready for you to go, Mom.” My voice quakes with a fear and emptiness I refuse to let win.

  “I’m not going anywhere, baby. C’mere,” she whispers, pulling my body to hers. She holds me like she used to, before everything went wrong, before we were broken... before we lost everything.

  “Please don’t go,” I mutter, my body still rigid with anxiety.

  “I’ll always come back,” she hums.

  Just like with Dad. She does this. She’s nearly catatonic until you ask her to come back. It’s been so long since those words worked. I’m dreaming that they worked just now, I must be.

  We lay here for hours. I know because the sun is cresting, and we’re still here. The sky is hollow, just like me. It’s barren of clouds. It’s clear like my mind. It’s empty, and it’s mirroring me.

  Lifelessness could be the book of Ace Collins.

  The book of how love ruined me.

  The start and end of happiness.

  The start and end of me.

  When the sun starts to go down, I get up, lifting my mom. I’m lucky she’s small and light, lucky she’s easy enough to carry. I take her to my room, tucking her in. I know she’d appreciate it, not putting her in the bed that cages her demons, that keeps her plague going.

  Heading to the kitchen, I sift through the cupboards for anything to cook. Mom is a chef. It’s something that’s always lived on even through her void. She’s taught me some things, and it’s going to come in handy tonight.

  After putting together some chicken quesadillas, I head to the living room. No matter how many times I sit here, trying to mull over what keeps happening in this family, I can’t.

  Whatever Nate told her, it wrecked her.

  Hopefully, this time, she won’t stay in her mindless bunker. Maybe she’ll see how much I’m hurting, how much we all hurt when she shuts down.

  I barely touch the food I labored over. The scent is appealing, but the thought of eating when Mom hasn’t makes me nauseous.

  Eventually we’re all going to have to talk.

  Me, Mom, Dad, Jaz, Nate, Tobe, Gray, and the whore who has ruined everything.

  Shit.

  Gray. She fucked up when she kept their affair from me. She knew for weeks before telling me. She made it worse by not telling my Mom, but the fact that she acts like we should still be friends after this? Fuck that. Fuck all the things she wants. She’s dead to me.

  I clamp my mouth down, my teeth grinding, making my jaw pop. It’s not okay for me to call any woman a whore, but if it was acceptable, it’d be Aunt El.

  Anger and bile rise in me. The fury inside me scorches. It’s like heartburn, starting in your gut, slowly rising until it suffocates you from the intensity.

  This can’t continue. Mom can’t keep doing this, and if getting her away from Dad is how it’ll happen, I’ll make it work.

  For her, I’d do anything.

  The exhaustion must’ve gotten the better of me. I wake up to Marianas Trench playing. I’ve always been a huge fan, and the music always spoke to Mom.

  Mom.

  Jumping from the couch, I hurry into the kitchen. The smell of bacon wafts in the air, making my stomach growl. Palming my tired eyes, I realize she’s cooking.

  “Mom?” I ask, not seeing her.

  She saunters out of the pantry, wearing a peach dress that looks vaguely familiar and a small smile that’s absolutely foreign to me.

  “Hey, baby boy,” she sings.

  She thinks I hate when she calls me baby boy, but I don’t. It makes me feel like she’s her old self. Her cheerfulness, though, that terrifies me. The last time she was like this, she was in the hospital for trying to kill herself.

  It’s a cold December morning. The normal frost chills me on my way home from school. Gray and I are walking home. She has this weird fascination with snow. Every chance she gets, she makes snow angels and snowmen. Today isn’t any different. It’s glacial out, the bite of winter’s apex frigid and nearly unbearable. The snow falls, trickling down like dust or sparkles, like the stuff Jazzy puts on her cheeks.

  Gray stares upward, a wonder in her eyes I don’t understand. For the last year, Gray has been my Elysium, my home away from home. She keeps me busy, protects me from my mom’s episodes. That’s what the doctor calls them. Episodes.

  As Gray twirls in the winter air, I find myself at ease and smiling. They say kids grow up too fast, and that’s what it’s been like for me.

  I’ve had to.

  Mom needed me to step up for Jazzy’s sake, so I did.

  “Ace! Dance with me!” Gray whoops on a giggle.

  I stare at her awkwardly. She knows I’m not into dancing.

  “Aw, come on,” she coaxes, grabbing my wrist. “Don’t be a Scrooge.”

  She knows how much this time of year wears on my family, and she means nothing by the jab, but it hurts. My mom hasn’t really been my mom in over a year, and she hasn’t really been aware either. It’s like she’s a brain dead patient, and it’s crippling.

  “I didn’t mean it,” she says, noticing my change of mood. “Really, I didn’t.”

  She smoothes my hair back, something that a friend shouldn’t do. Her hand feels like fire against my face as she leaves her fingers against my cheek. She pulls me into a hug, her compassion astounding me. She just knows when I’m hurting.

  “I-I should go,” I say, pulling back.

  “Oh... okay.”

  We’re nearly home, and she splits left, taking the path that leads to her house. The snow crunches beneath my feet. I watch as each step sinks with my weight. It’s insane that only I will have the evidence of taking this path. The snow will eventually fill out again, and it’ll be like I was never here.

  Snow is like memories.

  Some come.

  Some go.

  And it all eventually melts away.

  It’s almost morbid how you live life backwards. You start young, not remembering anything but slowly learning. Then, you hit that peak in life where it counts down while you’re still aging up.

  We may only live once, but it’s not entirely true. We can also live many times. If we take each day and create new memories, marking them forever, we will never really die. Yes, our bodies are gone. Yes, our souls will pass too, but in memories, we live eternally.

  I wish my mom and her dad would have done that for Grandma Anise. Then, Mom wouldn’t feel so much, and instead of leading to her feeling nothing at all, she’d smile at the memories.

  By the time my thoughts have settled, and I’ve stopped debating how the world turns so fast that we don’t feel it at all, I’ve arrived home.

  As soon as I walk through the doors, my skin feels inflamed. The torrid heat from inside makes me feel like Frosty the Snowman when spring comes knocking.

  I toe out of my boots, unwrap my scarf, and the two jackets mom always made me wear
before leaving. My hands are warm. When they touch my skin, it’s icy. They even feel like lava to the rest of my body.

  Mom doesn’t greet me. It’s how it’s been for a while now. Aunt El must’ve taken the kids for the day because Jaz usually runs and jumps into my arms. Today, she’s nowhere to be seen. We’re very close, and I spend all my time protecting her from the sad truth—Mom’s gone, and we don’t know when she’ll be back.

  I set my book bag down and head for the kitchen. I’m always hungry. No matter how often I eat, I can always pile in some more. Opening the fridge, I search for supplies for sandwiches.

  “Mom!” I call out, wondering if she wants me to make her one. “Hey, Mom!” I yell louder this time. Maybe she’s in the bathroom.

  Closing the fridge, I seek answers, listening for the water or any other sounds that’ll warn me where she is. It’s silent.

  “If you’re messing with me, it’s not cool!”

  When she used to be more present, she and Jaz would play this game where they’d be eerily quiet until I popped around a corner. Then, they would terrify me by jumping out and shouting at me.

  But when I peer around the corners, through the halls, and up the stairs, there’s no one. Finally, nearly ready to call it quits, I make it to my parents’ room.

  The bed is a mess. That’s something else my mom has lacked on. Before Grandma passed, she always made sure we had our beds made and hers too. Now, it’s a non-issue. If we do our bed or not, she doesn’t pay much attention.

  But that doesn’t matter. I know she still loves me.

  She has to, right?

  There are no sounds, but she’s not sleeping. I check their closet. There have been occasions when she’s been crouched in there, clinging onto a piece of Grandma’s clothing. She’s not there this time.

  Her bathroom is the only place I haven’t checked. Maybe she took a bath and passed out. She does that often, like the only solace she has is in boiling water that numbs the rest of her senses.

  Tap. Tap. Tap. I knock gently, not wanting to scare her, since she’s probably asleep.

  There’s no response.

  “Mom?” I ask, preparing to open the door. “I’m coming in,” I warn.

  The knob clicks. When I swing it open, I have to stop it from opening too hard. What my eyes see makes me wish I was blind.