The Last Exhale

by Julia Blues

  “How old was he?”

  Had. Was. Hate referring to my flesh and blood in past tense. “Five.”

  All she can do is shake her head back and forth. Don’t know if she does it to shake away thoughts about being without her own kids or to keep herself from crying.

  My throat suddenly becomes dry. When I swallow, it feels like my throat is being stuffed with dryer sheets. I get up to grab another bottle of water from the kitchen. “Can I get you something else to drink?”

  She declines.

  When I walk back out, Sydney’s standing by the front door. “Didn’t realize it was so late. Gotta figure out how I’m going to get out of this.”

  I say, “Talk it out.”

  “I wasn’t talking about the marriage.” Before walking out the door, she turns back to look at me. She looks down at her shoes, says, “The first time Eric and I met, I knew he wasn’t the one for me, but I kept dating him. I kept trying to convince myself that I was falling in love with him, and for a moment, I thought I had.” She fidgets with the keys in her hand, still avoiding eye contact. “When he proposed, my soul said no, but my lips betrayed me. Here I am, almost seven years and two kids later, and I still feel the same, like he’s not the one for me.”

  For a moment, I feel like I’m her husband. Feel like I’ve been denied access into the heart of the woman I married. An innocent bystander in the demise of my own marriage.

  20

  SYDNEY

  I’m in a daze.

  Been this way since getting back from Brandon’s place. Don’t remember picking the kids up from my mother’s house. Don’t remember cooking dinner or running EJ’s bathwater. I’m so used to this life that I don’t have to think about what I do day in and day out. It’s who I am, who I’ve become.

  Splashes from the hall bathroom reminds me my son is still in the tub. I push the door open, see him flipping around in the water like he’s a dolphin auditioning to be a new member at SeaWorld. I pull the door back, leave it halfway cracked. Contemplate if I’d be a bad mother if I let him stay in there all night.

  Eric Sr. walks up the stairs with a giggling Kennedy on his back. He drops her off at the top of the stairs, pats her lightly on the backside. Tells her, “Time to get ready for bed.”

  “Are you gonna read to me?” she asks.

  I walk downstairs, let them have their moment.

  Forrester is in his usual spot by the fireplace. I bend over, pick him up. Nearly break my back. “We’ve got to put you on a diet, buddy.” He yawns in my face. His breath has the smell of a ten-day-old dead fish baking in an Arizona sun. I quickly put him back down.

  My running shoes are tossed over by the front door. They stare back at me. I wanna put them on, lace them up and run away from here. The more time I spend with Brandon, the more it’s evident I shouldn’t be in this marriage. I’m not me, not the me I used to be. Not the me I want to be.

  I feel lips on my cheek. Didn’t realize I was no longer alone.

  “How was your workout?” asks my husband.

  I straighten a family picture on the mantle. “It was fine. Ran intervals, lifted a few weights. You know, the usual,” I say, avoiding eye contact.

  “I’m all for the fitness, babe, but maybe you should cut back some.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  “Just seems like you’re either at the gym every evening or getting up at the crack of dawn to run at the park.”

  I turn around to look at my husband. “I could say the same about you with all these extra hours you’ve been putting in at work lately.”

  “It’s not the same.”

  “And why not? Time away from home is time away from home. Doesn’t matter the reason.”

  “I’m just saying, Syd.”

  Forrester meows for my attention. I rub him a couple of times on the top of his head. He purrs his contentment as he walks off to his food dish. It only takes a few rubs across his fur for him to not feel neglected. Wish it were the same for my husband.

  “Mom,” Kennedy yells from the top of the stairs, “I gotta pee and EJ won’t let me in the bathroom.”

  “Those two.” I head toward the stairs.

  Eric reaches out and grabs my hand, pulls me into him. My mouth barely opens as his tongue penetrates my lips and tiptoes across mine.

  “Mom, EJ locked me out.”

  My husband’s kiss leaves me breathless, leaves me wanting more. He leaves me panting for air as he runs up the stairs to see what all the ruckus between the kids is all about.

  I fall into the sofa.

  A couple of hours ago, I was almost certain I was ready to walk out of this marriage. It made so much sense. The longer I stay here, the unhappier I become. The more I resent myself. And in return, the more I resent my husband and kids. They don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve them.

  Is boredom really a reason to leave this home I’ve made?

  I’m beginning to feel like that reason’s not good enough, and that scares me.

  • • •

  The first thing I do after pulling into an open parking space at the job is grab my cell and call my good friend Katrina. “You were right,” I say when she answers.

  “About?”

  “I’m falling for him.”

  “I knew it.”

  “How could you know? It wasn’t even like that when we were at the lounge.”

  She sucks air through her teeth, then huffs. “Do you really believe that lie?”

  My reflection grabs my attention in the rearview mirror. Crinkled brows, a pout in my lips. Hurt written all over my face. “Hey, Kat, where’s all of this coming from? I’m calling you as my friend, and right now, you’re not making me feel friendly.”

  “He’s married, Sydney. And so are you.”

  “And so is his brother, but that didn’t stop you from thrusting your butt into his man parts on the dance floor.”

  “Unlike you, I left it on the dance floor.”

  “Wow. I can’t believe you said that.” Obviously calling her was the wrong thing to do. I don’t know what I was thinking. She would be the last one to remotely understand what I’m going through. Still wasn’t expecting her to throw daggers my way.

  “What do you want me to say? Aw, how cute. You two would be great together. Is that what you want me to say?” Her voice is full of contempt.

  “Well, no. Not exactly.”

  “Good, because I’m not. And I’m not going to sit up here and act like I agree with what you’re doing either. It’s wrong. Point. Blank.”

  I can see her pointing her index finger in the air accentuating the point and the blank. “Can you cut me some slack? I’ve never done anything like this before,” I say, feeling more angered than hurt.

  She takes another labored breath before responding. “No one gave me any breaks when Elton came home smelling like another woman. No one cut me any slack when I was giving birth and my child’s father came to the hospital with fresh hickeys on his neck that I didn’t put there.”

  “And you married him anyway.”

  “Screw you. Oh wait, that’s what you’re doing to your marriage.”

  “Hold on, hold on, hold on. That was so uncalled for.”

  “And so was your comment.” She shuffles around on the other end of the phone. “Look, we marry who we love, whether that love is right or wrong, it is what it is. If I had to do it all over again, I’d find a good man, strap him to the bed, and never let him loose. You have a good man at home. I suggest you forget about what’s-his-name and do the same before it goes any further.”

  I sigh loud enough for the dead to hear.

  21

  BRANDON

  After a long day crunching numbers at the job, all I want to do is kick my feet up at home with a beer in hand. But tonight, something more pressing leads me in another direction.

  Sydney left a lot on my mind when she left my place the other night.

  Life is funny.

  Since the b
eginning of time, we are born to die. Everything that happens in between is up to chance and opportunity.

  I often wonder what happened to my son’s chance and opportunity. He was taken at a time when the only decisions he could make was between what cartoon he wanted to watch and which new toys he would add to his Christmas wish list. A parent should never have to mourn their child, no matter their age.

  In a few weeks, Reggie would’ve been turning nine. Nine. Halfway to being a legal man. It hurts knowing I won’t be able to show him how to shave, to tell him about women. Will never know if he’d be into sports or more into academics like my brother and me. The unknown kills a piece of me every day. His death tore Rene up. She wouldn’t have any talk about having more children. Said it wouldn’t be fair to his memory. I didn’t push it. Sometimes, I wonder if we’d be separated if he were still living or would we have still grown apart. Questions that will never be answered.

  Thinking about my son not only makes me miss him, it makes me miss the love that filled my heart. Love for my son and my wife, my love for life. In a way, Sydney’s starting to bring a little of that feeling back. She’s starting to help me feel good about life again, even if it’s just to listen to me harp about my marriage coming to an end. Still feels good to be heard and given the opportunity to listen to her problems. Though she left me feeling a little unsettled with her reasons for wanting to leave her unhappy marriage, I still felt her pain. Still feel connected to her in some way.

  I look over at the passenger seat, see the business envelope staring back at me. Never thought this moment would come, never wanted it to come. Being put in a vulnerable place will make you do some of the most unforeseen things.

  The security guard signals for me to stop before going through the gate when I pull into the subdivision of darker times. I roll my window down. “Everything all right?”

  “Congrats on the offer on your house! This economy has everybody making changes, but I see it ain’t stopping somebody from buying your house.”

  I shake my head. “You must be talking about another house. Mine isn’t for sale.”

  The severely gray-haired man looks me straight in the eyes. “I guess the Missus is making changes without you. Figures, since I ain’t seen you ’round here in a while.”

  “Good night, sir,” I say through a halfway rolled-up window. That old man is always meddling in other folks’ business.

  I drive toward the back of the subdivision, make a right onto a street that’s become unfamiliar to me. My foot’s barely on the gas. Speed limit’s thirty-five, I’m driving five miles per hour. I slam on my brakes, create friction between rubber and concrete loud enough to scare the man on the moon.

  As blinding as a fluorescent yellow jumpsuit in the middle of July, I see a “for sale” sign in the front yard of the house Rene and I shared for five years. Under contract. What the hell is going on here? Rene can’t sell our house without my permission. My attention’s so caught up in the words above the “for sale” sign, I almost shatter my teeth when I notice a familiar face plastered on the sign staring back at me with a huge grin on her face.

  The whole town’s laughing at me.

  • • •

  Been in the car fuming for the past two hours with nothing to do but sit and wait, wait and sit. I get out the car, pace the street back and forth to let off some steam without trying to look like a crazed man in this quiet neighborhood. Pacing makes me all the more heated in this too-hot-to-be-spring weather. I hop back in the car and put the air on blast.

  I grab my cell, dial the number on the sign. No answer. End the call and dial it again. Every time Sydney’s overly happy voice thanks me for inquiring about my own house I end the call. Not sure what I’d say if she answered anyway.

  A blue hatchback pulls up to the curb. Figure they’re interested in the house even if it is under contract. I get out the car to walk over and yell out, “This house is off the market,” just to make sure they know it’s not for sale no matter what the sign says. I take the under contract from off the top of the “for sale” sign, put it in my trunk. Would’ve taken the whole sign out the yard if it wasn’t hammered six feet below.

  “What are you doing here?” a voice I hadn’t heard in a while demands.

  I turn around, don’t see her. A man with blond hair and a bag on his shoulder stands next to a dehydrated-looking woman with barely any hair. I stare into her face, blink three times as if my vision has suddenly disappeared. “Rene?”

  “You shouldn’t be here.”

  The guy comes over to my wife and touches her elbow softly. “Let’s go inside.”

  “And who are you?” I try hard to keep my composure because nothing feels right about this moment, and everything seems to be wrong with my wife.

  She looks up at him and gestures toward the house. “Can you give us a minute?”

  I don’t wait for him to be out of earshot before I say, “You’re taking things too far, Rene.”

  She leans on the car, braces for a conversation she wasn’t prepared to have tonight.

  “What’s going on here? How can you sell our house?”

  “You don’t live here anymore. Why shouldn’t I?”

  “You can’t sell the house without my signature.”

  “It’s in my name. And I can do whatever I want with it.”

  Now it’s my turn to use the car to hold me up. She’s right. She had the house transferred into her maiden name a few months before we got married after her parents died in a train crash. They were scared to fly because they didn’t want to crash. Stayed on the ground and died the same way.

  Rene is so strong. Endured losing both parents, then our son. Now the house. She only kept it because her parents put their hard-earned money into it and we had plans of filling it up with tons of kids. Maybe letting the house go is her way of finally letting her parents and our son go. All of our dreams. Now I’m wondering if it’s her way of letting me go as well.

  She’s staring at me. I can feel it, so I turn to look at her. For a moment, we just stare into each other’s eyes, eyes flooding in memories. She rubs her hand over her thinning hair. I want to ask what happened to all her curls, but now’s not the time. With the same hand she used to rub over her hair, she reaches for my hand. Curves her pinkie finger around mine; something she started after the first time we made love. “I never stopped loving you,” she reveals, words I’ve been dying inside to hear from her lips again.

  I squeeze her pinkie tight. “Then what are we doing here? What’s this all about?” I point to the sign posted in our front yard. “You know I love you, Rene. Whatever it is, we can work this out.”

  She shakes her head. “This is how it has to be. Let’s just live with the memories of how it used to be, Brandon. The love we’ve shared, let that be enough. This is the best thing for us. I promise you.”

  We’re not having another read-between-the-lines conversation tonight. “How is this the best thing for us? Obviously, it’s tearing you up more than you want to admit.” I let her finger go. “Are you even eating?”

  “It’s too complicated.”

  “I’ve got a degree in figuring problems out. Give me what you’ve got.”

  Bored.

  I think about Sydney and her failing marriage. Ask Rene, “Am I boring to you?”

  A light in one of the bedrooms comes on. Both of us look up at it.

  Neither of us say anything.

  Both of us on opposite ends of the rope. I’m tugging to keep what we have, work on it, make it what it used to be. She’s tugging her end to let it all go, hold on only to the memories. Start what used to be with someone new.

  I ask, “Does he make you happy?”

  Rene dabs at the corners of her eyes. “There used to be a lot of joy in there, a lot of life. We were so happy. I don’t think we could ever get back to that place.” Her eyes reveal tears on the verge of running a marathon down her face.

  “Maybe not, but we can sure try.” I l
eave her side to go back to my car. With the envelope in hand, I stand back by her side. I tell her, “These last few years haven’t been easy, Rene. And I came to a point of calling it quits.” I pull the contents out of the envelope. Let that truth stop time. “I’ll tear these into a million pieces. All you have to do is say you want to give us another shot.”

  The new man in my wife’s life walks out of our house, interrupts our moment. He beckons her attention, doesn’t acknowledge me. She waves a hand in his direction. Then turns to me. “You’re not the man you once were. I’ll go to my grave knowing I’m responsible for that.”

  “What does that mean?”

  She fumbles through her purse, pulls out a pen. Takes the papers from my hand, sets them on the hood of the car. Flips to the pages with a “sign here” arrow pointing to defendant. She scribbles her name, shoves the papers back at me. So much guilt rides her eyes when she looks up at me. “I have cancer. I’ll probably be dead before the ink dries.” She pushes herself off the car and runs as best she can toward the house.

  22

  BRANDON

  For two days, I’ve been in the same spot on my couch with signed divorce papers in my lap. Haven’t gone to work. Haven’t brushed my teeth or taken a shower. Don’t know when I last ate. None of that matters now anyway.

  Boomboomboomboomboom.

  Cancer.

  My wife’s ending our marriage because she has cancer.

  Boomboomboomboomboom.

  My head throbs. Feels like whoever is knocking on my front door is in my head knocking my thoughts around like a game of cricket. I don’t want to answer it. Not in the mood for company, but the knocker is relentless.

  When I get up from the couch, I almost hit the ground. Weakness is in my knees. Head feels loaded and light at the same time. Maybe I should eat.

  “Took you long enough,” my brother says when I let him in.

  “Your mouth is the last thing I need right now, Drew.”

  He sticks his nose in the air, takes rapid inhales. “What. Is. That. Smell?”