The Last Exhale

by Julia Blues

  “Get my phone,” Rene instructs. “Look for William’s number. Tell him I said to meet us at the house.”

  My voice cracks when he answers.

  • • •

  The house is empty. Everything that made this house a home is gone. “I can’t believe somebody else will be living in here in less than a week,” I say to no one in particular.

  Rene slowly climbs the stairs, holding onto the rail with one hand and her nurse, William, with the other. They don’t need me. Rene doesn’t need me.

  When William comes back down the stairs, I say, “Hey man, I—”

  He interrupts my apology speech with a nod. “It’s all part of the job,” he says, letting bygones be bygones. “She wants you upstairs.”

  I push open the door to our bedroom. No furniture, no Rene. Same thing in the guestrooms. The only other room on this floor is the room our son had—which we never went in after he passed. I open the door to find my wife lying in his twin-sized bed. “Rene?”

  She lifts the cover, invites me under his sheets with her.

  I slide my shoes off and join her. Instead of lying in front of her, I slip in behind and wrap my arms around her, holding her with all my might.

  “Can you feel him?” she asks.

  I can. His presence is so overwhelming I can’t even form my lips to tell her so.

  “Every night, long after you’d gone to sleep, I’d come in here and just lay.”

  I don’t know how to take that, so I say nothing. I just let her talk.

  “For the longest, I could still smell him.” A light chuckle makes her thin body shake against mine. “Remember how he loved to puff out half the container of baby powder and smear it on his chest?”

  I smile in the darkness. “I remember.”

  “You started it when he was just a baby. It always got a giggle out of him.”

  “I wonder if he’d still do it now.”

  For a while, neither of us can muster up any more words. We lay and hold each other in the memory of our son in his bed.

  A tender knock at the door breaks our silence. William walks in, asks Rene, “How are you feeling?”

  “I’m still breathing.”

  “Not for long if you don’t keep this in.” He lifts a tube from the pillow, placing it around her head and up her nostrils. He checks her temp and pulse. Holds a cup of water with a straw in it up to her mouth. “Take these. They’ll help you sleep better.”

  Before heading out of the room, he asks if I need anything.

  I want to ask if he has something to help me sleep better. “I’m good,” I say instead.

  My wife rubs her hand back and forth against mine. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  I take my hand from hers, turn her face toward mine. It’s hard to look at her frailness so close, but I tell her what my heart has been feeling since the day we met. “There’s no place I’d rather be.”

  A tear rolls from her eye and saturates her hairline. Then another. And another.

  I kiss her tears. Kiss her eyes. Kiss her lips. I love this woman.

  In between kisses and tears, I feel her voice. “I never should’ve pushed you away.”

  “Why did you?” I whisper back.

  “Because I didn’t want this.”

  I didn’t want this either.

  Rene says, “You remember a few years back, when I had a little meltdown after we made love?”

  How could I forget? That was the night everything changed between us. “Yeah.”

  “I had found out that day about the cancer.”

  It all makes sense now.

  “After Reggie left us, life didn’t make sense anymore. Didn’t seem like anything would last. Had watched my grandmother struggle with her cancer; my aunt, too. Then burying Mama and Daddy. I lost hope.”

  I kiss her shoulder. “Wish you had talked to me about it, told me something. Shutting down confused me.”

  “I know,” she says, then lays her head on my chest, buries herself in my embrace.

  I hold her and pray time stands still.

  31

  BRANDON

  A cool draft pulls me out of the warmth of my dreams. My chest feels light. “Rene?”

  No response.

  I call out again.

  It takes my eyes a little longer than normal to adjust to the darkness. Once they do, I see my wife balled up in the corner of our son’s closet, trembling. I pull the covers off the bed, wrap them around her. “What are you doing in there?”

  In her eyes is so much fear, so much regret. “I killed him. I killed Reggie.”

  “What did William give you?” I reach for the door to call the nurse up here.

  Rene grabs my hand, stops me. “I fed him bad milk.” She touches her chest. “From here.”

  Nothing’s making sense. I want to pick her up from the floor and shake sense into her lips.

  She stands up, holds my hands in hers. “I’m not crazy.” She leads me over to the bed. We sit together. She picks up Reggie’s favorite bear from the floor. Its nose is worn from years of Eskimo kisses. She rubs her finger across the spot where the nose should be before rubbing her own nose back and forth against it.

  I touch her hand, touch the bear. Feel memories travel through my fingertips.

  “About a week after we brought him home from the hospital, I couldn’t get him to stop crying. I gave him a bottle, rocked him, walked him all through the house. Nothing would calm him down. My breasts began tingling, so I thought maybe I should try to breastfeed him. He latched on immediately. It hurt me at first, but since it calmed him down, I let him continue sucking. The same thing happened the next night. The more he did it, the more we both seemed to look forward to it. It seemed to be what both of us needed. We bonded.” Her cheeks spread and she gives Bear another nose kiss.

  “When he was around six months, we were having another bonding session. He had his hand on my breast. I put my hand on top of his, then gave him a kiss on his forehead. That made him stop sucking to give me a quick smile, then he went back to business. I held his hand in mine for a minute, rubbing his soft skin with the pad of my thumb. I put his hand back on my breast and watched him drift to sleep. That was when I felt it. The lump. I slowly slid my nipple from his mouth and patted him over my shoulder until I heard a burp. I lay him in his crib and practically ran to the hall bathroom. I touched my breast again to see if I had really felt a lump. It was still there. The next night, I fed him from my breast again. What kind of mother does that?”

  “Rene, look at me. You didn’t kill him, if that’s what you’re trying to say.”

  “But I had a lump in my breast and every night I fed my child from it like it was normal. I didn’t even get it checked out.”

  A mixture of emotions flood through my veins. Anger being the main one. “How could you not go to the doctor, Rene?”

  “I was scared.”

  “Well, why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I was scared.”

  Her fear didn’t change the outcome, didn’t change the lump in her breast. I tell her just that. “And we’re still here.”

  “You’re right, we still are.”

  32

  SYDNEY

  The truth is Eric broke my heart a long time ago. Long before I had even thought about walking away from our marriage. It was months after we began dating seriously. We’d already had sex. Had already met both sides of the family. We were moving in the direction where a future together is undeniable. The first time I’d said those infamous three words, we had just finished a late night run. Adrenaline was pumping, pheromones were riding the night’s sky. In the middle of stretching, the words slipped out. I’d actually felt good saying them. It felt right. He didn’t say anything back. He was bent over in a deep hamstring stretch. When he looked up and our eyes connected, I searched his face for any indication that he heard me. He blinked, asked if I was ready to head home. Outside of the radio, the car was in complete silence. He didn’t say any
thing about me putting my feelings out there. Didn’t say he felt the same way back. I knew he heard me.

  Almost a year later, he finally said those three words back. It was well past the other side of midnight when a call from him woke me out of a crazy dream. Though pissed at the late call, I was relieved to be back to reality. His voice was just as breathy as mine, sounded desperate. I quickly gave him my full attention. He needed me to come to the hospital. He’d been shot. Twice. His shoulder blade and gun hand. He was on his way home after pulling a double shift when he was almost hit by a car speeding through a red light. It was late at night with barely any traffic, made it obvious a maniac was on the road. Eric flipped his patrol car around and hightailed after Speedracer. The car pulled over almost immediately after seeing flashing blue lights in his rearview. Eric didn’t call it in, didn’t run the plates. Just got out his car and marched up to a tinted-out window. When the driver refused to roll down his window, Eric gripped his gun a little tighter. The driver swung open his door, fired at Eric’s hand on his gun and ran to the front of the car, fired another shot before running off into the night. He didn’t want to kill Eric, he just didn’t want Eric to kill him. The shooter was a bipolar ex-cop off his meds. Was having a manic episode. Thought the Force was after him and needed to protect his sanity, not realizing he’d already crossed the line of insanity. He’d made a bad decision, thinking he could handle his mental illness on his own.

  Being shot made Eric realize that when it all boiled down to it, I was the only one he knew would be there. He’d called me in the midnight hour to be by his side before going into surgery. He needed me. He wanted me there. It took close to two years and two bullets for him to utter the words, “I love you.” He changed my life in a moment of desperation. Another moment when my presence in his life was convenient for him. He couldn’t say it back when I said it, couldn’t say it at any other time. Had to clear his conscience before going into surgery, after his life flashed before his eyes.

  It’s times like that that force you to make an honest confession to yourself. I had spent the bulk of my relationship with Eric trying to prove to him that I was worthy of his attention, his love, his future. I was competing with myself, the me I would be if he decided someone else was worth his time instead of me. I was competing with his options by making sure I was his only option, the only one he’d want to be with. I wanted him to forget about the woman before me. If giving him what was between my legs was the key, I was going to give him the best sex he’d ever had. I cooked him some of his best meals. I bought him the best gifts. Whenever he wanted me around, I was there. I tried to sell myself to his family, knowing good and well I’d never win over his mother. But I tried. Sometimes it felt like his heart was just as cold toward me as his mother’s. Still, I decided I was going to put my best offer on the table, hoping one day he’d sign on the dotted line. I, too, acted out of desperation when I looked in the mirror and saw the possibility of my life resembling the same lonely life as my mother’s.

  In the end, we all do what we need to do to make our life be what we want it to be. We put our hopes and dreams on the line for the sake of making someone else happy, for making it convenient for the next person. We make the wrong decisions, hoping one day they’ll turn out right. And when they don’t, well, we just keep on making wrong decisions.

  Whether Rachel is right about what I’m doing with Brandon—building something—I know what I feel and it feels far from wrong.

  • • •

  Six miles later, my legs feel like they’ve been dipped in hell.

  I should’ve given him the letter. Should’ve just given him the damn letter and moved on a long time ago. I wouldn’t have had to explain my feelings because I’d be long gone, in some faraway place, building a new life with someone else.

  No matter how fast or how much harder I run, I can’t seem to outrun the thoughts chasing down my sanity. This is not the time to lose it, Syd.

  I pick my pace up to an eight-minute and one-second speed, shave thirty-one seconds off my normal pace. Pound the pavement hard enough to leave my size eight-and-a-half ASICS’ impression in the concrete. Been running for a little over an hour. My smartphone’s running app tells me that. Tells me I’ve put over eight miles on these thighs. I come to a halt, bend over a patch of grass. I dry heave for a few seconds too long to count. Nothing but air. Then it all comes out. The bile from my failing marriage, from being the woman that my friends look down on, the woman who’s gone half crazy trying to put it all together while falling apart, all of that comes up from my pit and gushes from my lips like a fire hydrant being released for maintenance. My high levels of frustration, anger, regret, consideration of adultery and then some have built up to the point my soul can’t tolerate another drop. I hurl some more, soil the earth with my pain and tears.

  “Are you okay?”

  I wipe residue from my mouth with my shirt, turn around and see a car pulled over to the side. A female’s head hanging out the passenger window.

  “You need me to call nine-one-one?”

  I wave my hand. “No, I’m—” Another wave of bile flows from my mouth, feels like a barrel of cayenne pepper’s lodged in my throat; burns my esophagus.

  Now there are three cars pulled over. Someone runs up behind me. “Drink this.”

  I look at the half-empty bottle of Gatorade sideways. “No, thank you. I’m really okay,” I tell the guy.

  “You’re dehydrated. You need something.”

  I give the stranger a once-over. He’s in spandex and a soaked T-shirt. Looks like he just finished a workout himself. He needs to replenish his electrolytes, yet he’s concerned about mine. I grab the extended bottle from his hand and say a quick silent prayer over the lemon-flavored drink. Down it in one long gulp. “Thanks.”

  “I’ve been there before. Ran my first marathon a few years ago and almost died from dehydration.”

  Lacking energy, all I can do is nod.

  “Are you running alone?”

  I nod again, mouth “thank you” to the other drivers as they slowly pull away.

  “Do you live near here? I can drop you off.”

  None of the houses around me look familiar. I ask, “What street is this?”

  “Putney Road. Not too far from Hillside Boulevard.”

  It dawns on me where I am. I spent the night at Mom’s after Eric came home hours after his regular time, smelling like he’d drunk a gallon of tequila. The kids had already been at her house. I brought them over a few days ago to give Eric and me a little space to try to figure things out without them getting in the way. What good that did. I tell the guy, “Thanks for all your help, but I’ll be fine.”

  He gives me a look that lets me know he’s not buying it.

  Again, I thank him and begin a slow jog in the opposite direction. I jog far enough to ensure the man is long gone, then I turn back around and walk toward my mom’s house. I may have been crazy enough to drink from a drank-on bottle from a stranger, but I’m not crazy enough to lead him to my mother’s house, especially not in such a weakened state. I’m too weak to fight off a ladybug at this point, let alone another person.

  I walk past my emotions stenching up the ground. Almost makes me hurl again. It looks like I let go of a week’s worth of food and years’ worth of misunderstandings and lies. I feel much better letting all of that go. Physically and emotionally.

  My stomach does a few tumbles. I swear Gabrielle Douglas is in there flipping around for another gold medal. It amazes me how much we allow ourselves to hold on to for the sake of looking like we’ve got our lives together.

  No more of that.

  A door has been opened and misery is finally taking a step out.

  33

  BRANDON

  Back at my apartment, I get things situated for Rene’s arrival. She didn’t want to stay at my place originally, but I told her she had no choice.

  A knock at the door disrupts my flow.

  I look thro
ugh the peephole, see Sydney standing by the stairway. I open the door.

  She comes in, takes a seat on the couch. “How’s your hand?”

  I look at my hand, rub my fingers across it. “Almost all of the stitches have fallen off. Still feels a little stiff, but better.”

  I move a pile of clothes from the couch to give her more room. Toss them on my bed in the room. Tell her, “Rene’s going to be staying here once she hands over the keys to the house.”

  “That’ll be in a few days.”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  Sydney asks, “How’s she feeling?”

  I shrug. “She’s had better days. We plan to get her into one of those cancer treatment facilities.”

  “Oh good. That’ll be great.”

  “Yeah.” I sit next to her on the edge of the couch, sit with my elbows pressed into my knees. “Look, I’ve been wanting to talk to you.”

  “I’ve been wanting to talk to you too.”

  I say, “My wife changed. I thought it was me. Then you came. Things aren’t the way I thought.” I flick at a peeling bandage on my hand. “I think it’s best we stop here.”

  “You’re right.” She bobs her head up and down. “I totally agree.”

  “Seeing my wife all broken made me realize it was never about me. Maybe talking to your husband, you’ll see things differently too.”

  Sydney asks to use the restroom.

  “You know the way.”

  Something about her being here throws me off. Before she came over, I was sure about my stance about us. There could never be an us. I still have a chance to love the only woman I’ve ever loved, whether it’s short-lived or for another decade. I’m not letting her go or risking this opportunity for anyone.