The Last Exhale

by Julia Blues

  A tap on the door jars me from my madness. I stand up, stick my whole head under the water. Do my best to keep my emotions in check. “Yes?”

  My husband walks in, cracks open the shower door. “You okay in here? Been in here for a while.”

  I lather my hair with shampoo. “Yeah. Running all this week has my hair in need of a good wash.”

  He rubs his thumbs across my eyes. “Must’ve gotten some shampoo in your eyes; they’re red.”

  “Must have.”

  He stands there for a second, just looking at me.

  “Hey, babe, can you shut the door. Letting the steam out.”

  “You sure you’re okay?” he asks again.

  “I’m fine, babe. My woman-time is about to come on and has my emotions out of whack. You know how that goes,” I say in between sniffles.

  “I’ll put the kids to bed and when you get out, I’ll give you a nice rub down.”

  My lips part into a half-smile.

  Eric nods, closes the door, and heads out of the bathroom. Twenty minutes later, he’s back with a cup of hot tea and a warm bottle of massage oil.

  This is exactly why I have to stay as far away from Brandon as possible.

  No one leaves a good man.

  13

  BRANDON

  It’s a quarter after eight and still no sign of Sydney at the gym. It was the same story last night. She hasn’t been back since I let my mouth run the wrong course. Seems like miscommunication with women, or the lack of communication, is becoming the story of my life. I’m either saying the wrong thing or the right thing at the wrong time.

  I grab my cell to dial my brother’s number. Four rings later, his voicemail alerts me he’s unavailable at the moment. I click the phone off before hearing the beep to leave a message.

  Two nights in a row I’ve wasted waiting on another man’s wife. Doesn’t make any sense.

  Wife. Speaking of which, I left mine a week ago and have yet to hear from her. I thought she would’ve at least called to make sure I was okay, that nothing had happened to me, that I wasn’t run off the road by a drunk driver or something. She’s definitely not the same woman I fell in love with almost a decade ago.

  Instead of heading to my apartment, I find myself driving a path I rarely drive. Haven’t been here since my son passed away. My wheels turn into DelCosta Funeral Home. I pull into the back of the building and use my key to unlock the service door.

  I see Rene, but she doesn’t see me. She has on a long white coat, black gloves, a mask covering her nose and mouth, goggles over her eyes. I watch as two men enter through another door, wheeling a table with a white bag on it. They grab the bag from each end and place it on the table in front of Rene. The two men wheel the now empty table out of the room, leaving Rene to herself again. She unzips the bag, stares at the man’s body for about five minutes. Walks around him, views him from different angles. She takes one of his stiff hands in hers, closes her eyes, says a sincere prayer before rinsing his body with hot water and bleach, sprays him with more water and a soapy solution, and again with water.

  I nearly gag as the smell of death begins to invade my nostrils. I cover my nose and mouth with my shirt, try to quickly fill my nostrils with the scent of life.

  Rene slides the bag from under the man, rinses and places it in a bin with other bags to be sanitized for later use. She then covers the man with a white sheet.

  I watch through a storage room window as she tosses her mask and soiled gloves in the trash. She removes her goggles, sprays them with a clear solution before placing on the shelf for another day’s use. Her lab coat comes off next. It’s placed on a rack and sprayed with a can of Lysol. She turns off the classical music and lights. Her footsteps stop in front of the door I’m behind. We’re so close I can hear her hesitated breathing.

  My heart pounds heavily against my chest.

  “Rene,” one of the male voices calls out.

  “I’m coming,” she says.

  Finally, I’m able to breathe again as I hear her footsteps fade in the dark. A few minutes go by before I step out of hiding and into the hallway.

  I find myself creeping up the stairs to the owner’s office. A shallow light reflects off the hardwood floor underneath the door. I turn the knob slowly, see my wife nursing a half-filled glass of clear liquid.

  We make eye contact.

  “What took you so long to come up?” she questions.

  “How’d you know I was here?” I do a poor job hiding my voyeuristic shame.

  “I smelled you.”

  The fact that she could pick up my scent in a place saturated with death surprises me. Then again, her nose is trained for the aroma of death. Anything smelling different would put one on alert.

  My eyes stare in her direction. Her face holds much more softness than Sydney’s, but her eyes look as vacant as a midnight sky with no stars.

  The window behind her desk is open. I can see the moon’s reflection ripple on top of the lake. A burning candle is on the windowsill. Another one’s on her desk. A third one is on the table, burning next to her drink. One tranquil, one citrus, another earthy. A mixture of moods floating in one room.

  Rene’s eyes are on mine when I notice an open cabinet next to the door. Inside are about twenty or so different bottles of hard liquor. I guess this is how she decompresses at the end of a day filled with death. And all this time I thought that’s what the baths and red wine were for.

  “Those are for nights like tonight,” she answers my silent inquisition.

  I sit on the sofa next to her. “I saw you downstairs with the body. Saw you hold his hand.”

  “Wesley Washington.”

  “Sounds like you knew him.”

  She nods. “He was a cop who worked for us every weekend on traffic patrol for the last four years. I could always depend on Wes. He was a good worker.” The glass of clear liquid comes up to her lips. She swallows slowly. “A good friend.”

  The way she says that pinches at my ego. A husband’s supposed to be a good friend, not another man. “How’d he die?”

  She holds the drink in her hand, but doesn’t drink. Just holds it and stares. “Cancer.” The drink that temporarily rinses all pain away nears Rene’s lips. She takes the rest in one hard swallow.

  I want to reach my arm over her shoulder and pull her close, do for her what she depends on the drink to do. She gets up before I have the chance to do anything.

  She stands by the window gazing out at the man-made lake. “Why’d you move out?”

  I knew the question would come sooner than later. I was hoping for later. “I think you already know the answer.”

  Her voice cracks. “What’s happening to me?”

  My heart stops beating as my feet move in her direction. I wrap my arms around her, try to hold her together before she completely breaks. I do that while fighting back my own emotions.

  The woman I’ve loved for so long is still inside. She’s fighting with the woman she’s become. Maybe if I hold her tight enough, I can pull the real her out, like Logan did Jean Grey in X-Men: The Last Stand. If only for a moment, long enough for her to love me back.

  Rene pulls away. Her eyes darken. “Why are you here?” Her Phoenix side is stronger. “Just leave.”

  I have to become Wolverine. “I already left.”

  And with that, I walk out. Again.

  14

  SYDNEY

  I drive into the parking lot of Pick Your Fit.

  This is the same time I’ve run into Brandon here twice. I’m not here to work out this time. I’m here with an option.

  An SUV swerves into an empty parking spot, almost swiping off my side mirror. A crazed-looking man who looks like he hasn’t shaved since Jesus walked the earth jumps out, slams his door shut, does the same to the trunk after he grabs a bag out of it. He flings the bag over his shoulder and chirps the alarm to his truck on.

  I slink down in the driver’s seat, hoping he doesn’t see me. He doesn
’t.

  Everything in me tells me to leave the madman to his madness and drive home to a man of calmness. Why am I here?

  I honk my horn, roll down my window. “Tough day?” I ask, throwing all sensibility out the window.

  He slows his stampede, turns around with furrowed brows and flared nostrils. He sees me, smoothes out the anger in his face.

  “Let me guess, every barber within a forty-mile radius was booked today and your wife used the last razor to shave her—”

  Brandon just stands there and stares at me.

  I put my attempt to be funny on pause. “I never was good at telling jokes,” I say.

  Brandon walks back toward my car. “Wasn’t expecting to see you anytime soon.”

  “Yeah, well, I wasn’t expecting to see myself around here either.”

  “Ahh.”

  “C’mon. Where’s the jokey-joke guy I met a few days ago?”

  He shrugs broad shoulders. “Guess he doesn’t want to come out and play today.”

  “Wanna talk about it?” I want to slap myself for asking that.

  No response.

  “Ohhhhkay.” I turn my eyes away from him for a moment to break the stare. I restart the engine, tell him, “I came by to see if you’re serious about running. If so, meet me tomorrow. Six a.m. Riverpoint Park. Google it if you don’t know where it is. Show up a minute late and you’ll just have to find someone else to help you train.” I roll the window back up and put the car in reverse.

  • • •

  Once the kids are tucked in for the night, Eric and I retreat to our room. He goes in the bathroom, comes back out with string wrapped around his fingers, uses it to saw between his teeth. The popping sound makes me cringe.

  “Babe, can you do that in the bathroom, please?”

  He stops for a moment, sucking air through his teeth. “You check Kennedy’s homework?”

  “I looked over it a little after dinner.”

  “I think we have a little mathematician on our hands, don’t you think?”

  I go in the bathroom and pull out a string of floss. “Yeah, she’s getting good. She’s doing good in all her subjects.”

  Eric rinses his mouth out in the sink. “Hope we can get the same teacher for EJ when he gets to first grade.”

  The mention of teacher makes me think of Mr. Carter, and thinking of him makes me think of his twin. Brandon. Can’t seem to forget about him even when I try. I avoid eye contact with my husband when I say, “Yeah, that would be nice.”

  I grab a handful of curls and plop them on top of my head with an elastic band. Wash the day’s makeup from my face. I do idle things in the bathroom, trying to figure out how to tell my husband I need him to drop the kids off in the morning so I can go for a run. A run with another man, but he doesn’t need to know all the details.

  He’s pulling back the covers when I saunter back into the room. “I’m thinking about running in the mornings before heading into the office. My legs feel trapped on the treadmill. I need to get back to what I’m used to.”

  “Sounds like a good idea. You always did say you prefer the outdoors versus running inside four walls.”

  “Exactly. Plus, these thighs act like they’re finally ready to lose their winter weight. I need to take them to the next level.”

  Eric lightly slaps my thighs. “I’ve noticed and I like.” He leans over, gives me a peck on the cheek.

  Though I appreciate the compliment, I wish he would’ve said something before I made mention of it. It’s like I have to point things out in order to get him to take notice. I scoop out some Vaseline from the jar in my nightstand, massage it into my feet, in between each toe. Put my socks on to seal in the moisture while I sleep. “I was actually thinking about going in the morning. You could drop EJ off at daycare and I should be back in time to get Kennedy to school.”

  His lips turn down, head shakes. “I’m all for fitness, but tomorrow’s a no-go.”

  “Why not?”

  “Officer Bragg’s memorial service. Thought I told you last night.”

  “Babe, it totally slipped my mind. I thought you said it was Saturday.”

  “Nope, tomorrow. I was hoping you’d make it.”

  Last night, my mind was so preoccupied with training Brandon that I hadn’t heard a word Eric said. I have no way of getting in touch with him to let him know plans—or in this case, demands—have changed.

  I tell my husband, “I’ll be there.”

  15

  BRANDON

  Andrew picks me up a few minutes after nine.

  “Can’t believe Melissa’s letting you out for the night.”

  “Man, I can’t either. She’s been keeping me hostage in the bedroom.”

  “That’s not a bad problem to have, Bro.”

  He shakes his head. “It is when you feel like your sperm is more important than your love.”

  Nothing I can say to that. “Want a drink?”

  “Naw, I’ll grab something once we get to the spot.”

  I tell him, “Let me change my shirt first. We’re too old for this twin-dressing-alike foolishness.”

  He laughs. “Mom had us doing that nonsense all the way through high school.”

  “She would’ve had us doing it in college too, if we went to the same school.”

  “You ain’t never lied.”

  We both chuckle at the memory.

  After changing my black shirt to a white button down, I grab my keys. “I’ll drive.”

  “You won’t get an argument out of me.” He subconsciously rubs the scar under his chin.

  My brother hasn’t been much of a driving fan since his near-fatal accident over fifteen years ago after trying to make an eight-hour drive home for Thanksgiving with no sleep. NoDoz failed him not even two hours into the drive.

  I called him up a couple of nights ago to see if he wanted to check out a new over-thirty dance club and restaurant on the east side of town. Figured we both needed to get out for some male bonding.

  “It’s pretty crowded out here,” Andrew says once we pull up.

  “Sure is. One of my coworkers said it’s the best new thing in town for the grown and sexy.”

  I follow the cars going toward the side of the building until I find an empty spot. No sign of a ticket attendant gives my wallet a sigh of relief. Since I don’t have to cough up parking money, I go ahead and pay a twenty-dollar cover charge for both of us to enter.

  Soon as we walk in, Carl Thomas circa 2000 pumps through the speakers. I can dig it. This isn’t the atmosphere for a beer. I order up Hennessy and Coke for the bro, a glass straight for me. I see he’s found us a high-top table in the corner.

  “It’s thick in here,” he says.

  I’d been gone at least fifteen minutes. I slide his drink over to his waiting hands. “That it is.”

  “You’ve got that Southern thang I like,” blasts through the speakers. A sly grin flashes across Andrew’s face.

  I nod my head for an explanation.

  “Sometimes I can’t believe I met my wife up in a club. Told her she’d be the mother of my kids before I even asked for her name.” His smile quickly fades at the memory. Eleven years later and his declaration has yet to come to fruition.

  “Let’s not go there tonight, Bro. Tonight’s supposed to take our minds off of the wives.”

  Andrew swallows his drink in one gulp, takes it straight to the head. “Yeah, you’re right.”

  I raise a brow and squint an eye in his direction. Got to keep an eye on the half of this duo who can’t hold liquor too well. We both cut the conversation to a minimum as we allow the drinks, music, and sights of beautiful women to take over.

  The DJ changes the mood of music from soul music to a rapper known as the King of the South. The crowd goes from grooving to throwing arms in the air. Not a track I was expecting, but it seems to be working for the crowd.

  My twin taps his watch to the three o’clock position.

  I turn my attentio
n to the right, toward the entrance. Nearly bite the inside of my mouth when a woman with bronzed, shoulder-length hair and signature high cheekbones walks through the door with two other women. She spots me immediately. The look on her face is stuck between fear and I-need-you-in-the-worst-way.

  I acknowledge her presence with a shaky nod.

  “That was intense,” Andrew declares. “How do you know her?”

  I give him the skinny on Sydney.

  He slaps the back of my head. “Can’t believe you were in the gym acting like me, ’bout to get me fired with your foolishness.”

  “Hey, she put the bait on the hook. I snagged with honor.”

  “She is nice on the eyes for sure,” he says. “Had me second-guessing my vows when she walked into my classroom the week before school started.”

  My eyes are still on her as I tell my brother, “Probably not worth the trouble for either of us.” Though Sydney is very easy on the eyes—getting double glances from just about every guy up in here—I still feel my wife looks three times as nice.

  “Sho’ you right. Mom and Dad didn’t raise us to be rolling stones. We married the women we wanted to marry.”

  I neither disagree or agree.

  “Another drink?” Andrew offers.

  “Yes, sir.”

  The slightly shorter, identical version of me leaves the table as Somebody Else’s Mrs. slides into his place before he even reaches the bar. “I see you found a razor.”

  I smirk. “Yeah, and I wish you had seen your clock this morning and been where you threatened me to be.”

  “Please, please, please accept my apology about this morning.”

  “I don’t think you should give up your day job to tell jokes or do James Brown impersonations, ma’am.”