Unbreak Me

by Michelle Hazen

  “When’s your lady coming down?” She reached for a tissue on the bedside table and blew her nose. His fingers clenched in his lap when he saw how thin her arms had gotten. When he took her to the doctor after he’d gotten home, she didn’t even make it over the hundred-pound mark.

  “Andra had to work.” He glanced away. “Besides, you told me to stay away from her. I didn’t think you’d want her to visit.”

  “I tell you to do lots of things.” She sank back into her pile of worn-out pillows. “I sure didn’t think you’d choose now to lose your contrary streak and start listening to your poor old mama.” She was trying to glare, but her eyelids loosened anyway, drooping shut against her will. LJ brushed her cheek with the backs of his fingers. It was still soft, not the papery brittleness he associated with the elderly. She wasn’t old enough to be so sick, but maybe when you had as much personality as she did, you could pack eighty years into forty-five.

  LJ watched her slip into sleep, a smile tipping up his lips. It was good to be home.

  Almost too good.

  He closed the door to her room and headed through the kitchen. New Orleans fit like an old boot, clasping the lumps and calluses of your foot so easily you forgot you were wearing it until you stepped into the shower and remembered you hadn’t meant to wear it quite so long.

  When he woke up this morning, he hadn’t jumped out of bed, eager to get to the barn. Instead, he’d lain there, his sheets wet with summer sweat, irritated at the second-rate air conditioner that had been all they could afford when they’d rebuilt the house. Mentally, he had counted the bills left in his wallet and wondered if there was anything he could pawn to get a leg up on a new AC unit. If there were any odd jobs he could do to pay it off before the buyback slip expired. Trying to make those numbers work out just pissed him off, so after he fixed Mama’s breakfast, he played his sax on the porch for an hour, letting the music wash all the mad out of his veins.

  Of course, the sound brought Ty out of his house with a guitar. They ended up jamming until Ty was late for his shift and noon had come and gone without a thing done. Then he had to feed Mama scraps of two nights’ worth of leftovers before he hoofed it down to the brand-new corner store the Lower Ninth had gotten before he left. It was crowded, and still small and understocked compared to the Rouses that reigned over the whiter neighborhoods.

  He’d prayed for years for a grocery store for his home. Now that it was here, every shelf in every aisle made him grit his teeth at the thought of what still wasn’t there. When he got home, he put a smile back on his face and helped his mama to bathe, the need for which had made her cranky enough to snap at him before she drifted off to sleep.

  All of that meant when he opened the front door and pushed out into the thick evening air, he’d barely had a chance to think about Andra all day. He dropped into the old porch swing, the chain creaking under his weight. The air felt swampy in his lungs after the crisp-paper dryness of a Montana summer. But it was warmer, too, like a home-cooked meal that’d be too spicy for anybody who wasn’t raised at your same table.

  He hadn’t called Andra the whole way out here. His Datsun had coughed and protested through the miles, keeping him busy with worrying about a breakdown he couldn’t afford. Every time he’d fallen asleep in the metal coffin of the truck bed, his mind had felt sludgy—too dark to try to pour through a phone line. As much as he ached to hear her voice, he didn’t know what to say.

  There was no excuse for how he’d ruined their first time together. He hadn’t made her feel safe with him, and even thinking of that made him sick with remorse. And then he’d had to run out the next morning before he could even feed her breakfast. It was the worst kind of timing, and yet his guilt mixed nauseatingly with undeniable relief. If Mama hadn’t gotten sick, there would have been no way to hide the fact that the more he wanted Andra, the more it scared her. He had no answers, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was a coward for leaving, even if he hadn’t had any other choice.

  All those thoughts just fed his superstitious dread. Every time his wheels had gone still long enough to pump gas or grab a sandwich, he’d had flashes of his mama dying before he could get home. Now that he was back in New Orleans, Montana seemed like a kid’s cowboy fantasy of a different life.

  And that’s all it had been. He’d always known that someday, his mama would no longer be able to work and he’d have to support both of them. He’d known that until you made a name for yourself, the show industry paid only starvation wages. But he’d been stubborn and ignored those realities as surely as he’d ignored Bill Lawler’s ultimatum. In the end, all that dreaming didn’t do a thing. He grew up in the streets of New Orleans, and that was where he was always going to end up, working a job that filled his stomach but not his heart.

  The porch swing creaked as he waved away a mosquito, focusing for the first time on the street he stared out at. The freshly painted red stairs up to the Robinsons’ porch looked good but almost garishly cheerful next to the flaking trim that was waiting on next month’s paycheck. The drooping sun struck a green glow among the lush weeds of the lot next door, the Graviers’ vacant foundation peeking up like bleached gray bones begging to be buried.

  LJ closed his eyes, and this time it wasn’t his mama’s slack face that appeared behind them. It was Andra’s fingernails, scraping at the paint of her windowsill before she found the latch and threw the window open. How her naked back had heaved as she sucked in the air that was clean of his scent, safe from memories he couldn’t shield her from.

  She was probably relieved she didn’t have to see him after that. He sure didn’t feel like the same man who’d sat a saddle on so many of her family’s horses. And even when he’d been that man, he hadn’t been different enough from her bad memories to make new ones with her.

  His hand tightened on the swing’s armrest, a splinter of the weathered wood driving deep into his palm. It was no wonder. To teach her how to feel safe again, she needed something better than a man who lost his temper at grocery store inventory and an air conditioner that wasn’t even broken yet. Her father, his mama, his own instincts: they’d all been telling him the same thing, and it was about damn time he started listening. Probably Andra would be a lot better off if she never heard from him again.

  Twenty-three

  Andra threw her truck into reverse, backed up four inches, cranked the wheel, and crept forward five. She reversed again by centimeters, wincing as she watched the bumper of the Honda behind her, half expecting a crash to announce she’d gotten too close.

  She’d meant to make a quick stop to eat before she got to LJ’s house so he wouldn’t feel obligated to feed her. Except she’d had to drive nearly a mile away from the restaurant before she found a spot along the street big enough to wedge her truck into.

  Most of the streets in New Orleans were smaller than the narrowest alley in Montana and lined on both sides by cars parked so close together they must have been swung into place by a crane. But as soon as she’d gotten out to hike to the restaurant, the scent hit her.

  Lemon cake. Bright and citrusy, wafting on a wave of Madagascar vanilla that smelled like LJ’s kitchen. She smiled.

  The post-lunch walk back from the restaurant was lovely, the brutal heat made lighter by the weave of arching branches shading the whole street. As she passed the trunk of a tree, the sidewalk climbed and cracked over the top of huge roots. When it dipped back down the other side, it turned from cement to ancient bricks that disappeared under a blanket of moss, only to have their crumbling red edges froth back to the surface again. How many layers of sidewalks were there under this one, gripped in the claws of the tree roots or blotted out by modern gray concrete?

  This whole city felt like it had been around for ages, generations of kids and grandparents tripping over these same sidewalks. Maybe if she stayed in this place long enough, where the past and present mixed together in such
a glorious mess, she’d start to get some perspective on her own life.

  She finally edged herself out of the parking spot and whooped in triumph, smacking her hand into the steering wheel. “Take that, New Orleans! Country mouse can drive!” A horn blared behind her, and she jumped and hit the gas. Her front tire dropped, her teeth snapping together with the impact. She stomped on the brakes, and the horn behind her screamed again. “Shit.” Gingerly, she drove out of the pothole, listening for the flap-flap-flap of a flattened tire. It held steady, though, and she made the next turn.

  It was probably good she had to focus on negotiating traffic, because it would give her less time to think. In the two and a half days it took her to cross the country, she’d had way too much of that. And way too much time to guess at what LJ was thinking. He’d finally called yesterday, but she had been pumping gas. When she’d hopped back in and seen his name on the screen, she hadn’t dared to hit the “Call Back” button. They hadn’t been together that long, had never even been on an actual date, and a thousand unanswerable questions about their future were already rattling around in her head.

  He’d said if she ever knocked on his door, he’d answer. If she could just see his face, she was sure they could work everything out. And she thought maybe he needed to see her here, outside the safe shell of the family ranch, to believe they might have something real.

  She already felt more real. She’d stayed in whatever motel appealed to her for the night, and chatted with strangers she met at stops along the road, even men. She should have taken a trip years ago. It was weirdly freeing to be alone in a place where no one knew her history. She could be anyone.

  She took one more turn and then hit a bridge, the sound of her tires buzzing into an even hum as she crossed a canal. Her window hissed down, and thick, humid air draped her face. This was it. The Lower Ninth Ward: LJ’s home, which she’d heard so much about. She just hoped there was a parking spot somewhere that was her size.

  As soon as she turned onto the first street, Andra’s smile faded. The rest of the town was packed to the last inch with brightly painted houses, tiny cars, and enormous trees. But here there was nothing but space. She slowed down, her head swiveling.

  The lots were like a mouthful of broken teeth: the houses dotted here and there just served to draw attention to the gaping holes where others should have been. In places, there were only porch stairs left, their steps leading up to nothingness.

  When LJ had talked about home, he’d never said anything about this.

  A young mother pushing a stroller turned to scowl at Andra’s truck, and she realized she was staring. She shook her head and replaced her foot on the gas. Her phone announced that she’d reached her destination, but no house waited at the end of the concrete walk. Andra double-checked the number on the address she’d pulled off LJ’s résumé, and peered out her side window. Bushes grew up out of the windows of the nearest house, and the numbers were long gone. The next one looked inhabited, but she gaped in horror at the faded spray paint of the X by the front door. Squinting at those numbers, she forgot to look for the ones that denoted the address.

  She couldn’t imagine living in a house with the number of her lost loved ones painted across the front. She threw a glance into the passenger seat, where LJ’s old door still rested. It looked conspicuous, even wrapped in a sheet.

  The house across the street had another X on it, bricks showing through the fading paint. What had the rescuers been thinking, vandalizing homes that way? You couldn’t paint over brick. They must have thought no one would ever live in them again.

  Andra pulled over, her hands shaking. She deliberately relaxed her muscles, fighting the edge of panic chilling her skin. It had happened twice on the drive down. In a dingy restaurant that smelled of spilled beer, and once when she’d glimpsed a man in a gas station with a profile just like Gavin’s. But each time she’d fought through it and kept herself from totally losing control. The trip was her choice. Somehow, knowing that she was taking charge helped battle the attacks every time they threatened to take over.

  She took a long, slow breath and looked around. The damage from the flood was bad, but it was over a decade old. That crisis was long past. Still, as distracted as she was by wreckage and the idea of seeing LJ again, she’d be lucky if she didn’t run over somebody’s dog by accident. The neighborhood wasn’t that big. She could walk to LJ’s and get her truck after she found her destination.

  Besides, there was plenty of parking here. There were hardly any houses, and even fewer cars. She hadn’t seen a single bus stop, so no wonder LJ was so insistent that he bring his truck. She hopped out and checked the map on her phone for where to go. A couple of boys rode by on bikes. One offered a shy smile, and the other quickly glanced away. She returned the smile, only then realizing she hadn’t seen another white person since she’d crossed the bridge.

  It wasn’t something she normally thought about, the race of the people around her. Then again, Montana wasn’t the most diverse place: other than a handful of Latinos, there weren’t many other ethnicities to speak of. Suddenly, she felt clumsy, conspicuous, as if she were being tested.

  She ran her hands down her arms, cupping her palms over the bare skin. This morning when she woke up, she’d put on a sleeveless eyelet-lace blouse with a high mandarin collar and delicate, feminine edging. Beneath her jeans, sweat was already starting to collect behind her knees, but at least that was a little less skin showing to mark her as a visitor in this place. She ran her thumb over the bend of her elbow and then started down the street with a long, determined stride.

  This was LJ’s home. However foreign it felt, she would be okay here.

  Music played from nearby, something jazzy and full of brass, but without a drum. A whiff of smoky mesquite wood and barbecued meat drifted out of a grill set beside someone’s porch steps. She inhaled, her eyelids drooping, but then the ground dropped out from underneath her.

  She stumbled, going ankle-deep in a gritty puddle in the bottom of a pothole. She pulled her cowboy boot out, shaking off the water. Sandals were going on the shopping list, stat. These boots were stifling, the soles transferring the heat of the pavement upward until her feet might as well have been resting in a roasting pan.

  The music was coming from this street: a small porch seething with bodies and the flash of sunlight off brass instruments. She passed another vacant lot, trying not to be rude as she peeked toward the musicians, searching for house numbers.

  Then the sax threaded up through the center of the song, and she stopped as if the sidewalk had grabbed her boots. It wasn’t the song he’d played for her, but all the other music was sharp corners, where LJ’s saxophone was smooth curves.

  She could hear him, but she couldn’t see him. The house itself was narrow as a hallway, painted a bright purple no one would dare in Montana. Every bit of shade from the covered porch was filled with black men holding musical instruments she mostly couldn’t name. Trumpets, maybe horns? A handheld keyboard with a tube hanging off it that was tucked into its player’s mouth. Two guys lounged on the porch swing, the sousaphone player squished in behind it. There was only one woman, her fingers cradling her instrument with the same loving reverence LJ always used for his saxophone.

  Andra finally spotted LJ tucked into the center of the crowd. He was the tallest, with droplets of sweat beading his bare, rippling back muscles as he curled forward into his instrument. The keyboardist glanced at her but kept playing. Up close, their crazy collection of instruments was so battered that the brass held the texture of wadded paper, smoothed back not quite flat.

  A shorter man on the porch steps cocked his chin at her, resting his guitar in his lap. “You looking for somebody?”

  She resisted the urge to cross her arms and tried for a smile that looked friendly, but hopefully not encouraging of the flirtation in his. “Found him, actually.”

  The music
stopped and LJ spun around. She lifted a hand to shield her eyes from the sun, a self-conscious prickling running down from her scalp.

  He blinked, and she waited for that huge, bright smile, but instead he said, “Andra! Hey, uh . . . wow.” He set his saxophone on the porch swing. She took a step closer to the house, but instead of coming down to meet her, he opened the front door and reached inside.

  Guitar Guy grinned. “LJ, I should have known that was your cowgirl when I saw her walking down the street so fast. She’s got the boots and everything.”

  LJ came back out of the house with a short-sleeved button-down shirt and pulled it on over his bare chest as he stepped over Guitar Guy’s seat on the stairs. A scrap of candy wrapper drifted down the cracked sidewalk between his house and the street, and he swooped it up, stuffing it into the chest pocket of his shirt.

  Now he smiled. His eyes first, then his high cheekbones, then that huge grin spreading across his face like the sunrise. “What are you doing here, Andie-girl?” he murmured, pulling her into his chest. His arms held more tension than usual, and he hugged her almost too tight.

  Over his shoulder, his friends watched, and she closed her eyes. Sweat slicked the skin of his back, and his shirt was clammy against her palms as the sun beat down on them. She’d imagined this moment a lot of times, but never with the dry ache of her tongue begging for a drink of water. She wanted to tell him so many things: that she missed him, that she wanted to help with his mom, that her body didn’t feel like her enemy anymore. But all those things sounded stupid to say in front of his friends, and he let her go before she could think of a safer topic.

  “Get you in out of the sun, girl,” Guitar Guy said. “All that white-ass skin, you’re gonna burn.”

  “Ty,” a female voice whispered. “Shut up.”

  Andra’s hair clung to the back of her neck, the black strands seeming to soak up all the sun, cooking her scalp. She could barely think. “No, he’s right.” She gathered her hair up, holding it in a messy handful and waving her other hand to cool the molten-hot pulse at her throat.