A Breath Too Late

by Rocky Callen

  No.

  No, Father chipped your crown away. Your chocolate-brown eyes open and I will myself to look deeply into them. Tell me, I whisper. This time without accusation. This time just to see.

  To see you and how you changed from the woman I recognized in the rearview mirror, bright smiles and laughter, to the woman who no longer fit into her life. Maybe that will help me understand why I could no longer fit in my own.

  And as if I pushed on a door, it opens and I see a thread of memories that tells me not enough and too much at the same time.

  * * *

  You hadn’t always worked at the grocery store. Before the Dixie’s red apron and uniform, I remember you having clothes that made you look smart and fancy. I think you worked in an office. You even had a briefcase with papers inside. You’d pick me up from school in your minivan and squish me in a big mommy hug and then we’d hold hands when we got home and march up our driveway. Your heels click-click-clicked on the floor. My light-up-sole tennis shoes sort of squished instead of clicked.

  “How was your day, love?” you’d ask.

  And I yammered on about August and his drawings or my kindergarten teacher’s bug collection or our classroom’s pet rabbit or learning how the letters of words fit together. You’d listen and make excited faces on cue. As I talked, you’d kick off your heels and rub your feet and set me up at the kitchen table to color or do homework, and then you’d start cooking.

  When Father first moved in, our routine didn’t change. He’d just come home from work and somehow slide into the flow of it. A baritone addition to our kitchen. He’d lean against the countertop and ask you what you were cooking. He’d kiss your neck. He’d toss a “Good job, kid” in my direction when I displayed my coloring masterpiece. He fit. He took up space but didn’t dominate it.

  You didn’t smile much at first. You’d watch him carefully, studying him as if you weren’t sure you could see him quite right. But as the seasons changed and our flow continued, you started to laugh when he joked, or smile when he wrapped his arms around you in the kitchen. You stopped stiffening every time he’d sit with me.

  Father was a head taller than you. You fit just under his chin when he hugged you, and just like he seemed to fit right in our kitchen and lives, you seemed to fit there with him. His shoulders were broader, his arms longer, and he wrapped you up and you’d close your eyes and breathe him in.

  One day, as you were frying chicken and the oil popped and crackled, Father came in with his booming voice and said, “How are my girls doin’?” Arms outstretched in the kitchen doorway. I lunged out of my chair and got to him first. It was a race to see who got the first hug. He knelt down to squeeze me and then he let me go and I ran back to the table to try to draw a copy of a picture that August had given me: a cheetah in the jungle.

  My drawings never looked like August’s. Eventually, I stopped trying to redraw them and instead I’d make up stories that I’d tell him the next day. But that day, I was still trying to retrace his steps and perfect spots that looked more like globs on my too-short, too-squished cheetah. Father looked at you and cocked his head. “Hmmm…” he said. It was a sound he’d make when something smelled good in the kitchen or when he pulled you into his chest for a kiss.

  You smiled. Your hair was pulled into a messy bun with a pen. You were turning the chicken in the pan and looked over at him when he didn’t move. “What?”

  My gaze went back to my page. I was coloring and searching for a different orange. I knew the shade. Sunset. Just like our street name.

  “I never noticed how short your work skirts are.”

  “My … skirts?” You chuckled. “They practically touch my knees. They aren’t short at all.”

  There was teasing in his voice. “Those knees must make the men wild.” I wasn’t looking, but I knew that Father was wrapping his arms around you. His voice was closer. Sort of muffled as he kissed the back of your head. It’s funny how we can hear so much. A movement. A gesture. A feeling in a voice, a sound.

  Like I knew that you threw your head back when you laughed even though I didn’t see it, because the laugh was so sudden and loud. That’s what you used to do when a laugh took you by surprise. “Oh, stop it.”

  That night, he did.

  We went on with our flow. Our routine. But little things started to change. Subtle things.

  You’d ask if I had seen a skirt. You’d search for a pair of heels. Father would drink in the scent of you when he got home and then ask why you smelled of cologne, which made you blink in response. You’d sniff yourself and say, “I don’t know what you are talking about, babe.” And you’d offer your wrist for inspection. I thought you smelled of strawberries.

  He’d ask why you were smiling for seemingly no reason and that made you laugh. Not in a head-thrown-back way, but in a tight way, like you had to stuff it between you as a buffer. He started talking about how late dinner was and how hungry he was and how his momma had dinner ready when his poppa walked in the door. All of this was tucked into hugs, and kisses, and surprise flowers, and our nightly flow.

  I barely noticed how you started to go straight into the kitchen to cook rather than swing my hand as we talked about my day. Or how you started checking the clock. Or how I knew I shouldn’t talk so much once he sat at the table because he just wanted some quiet. Little things. He’d fit into our flow, but just like a boulder can shift the waters around it, Father did too. At first, we didn’t see how our current was disrupted.

  One day, your car didn’t start. It was an old car. It wasn’t surprising. I was in the back seat and you hit the steering wheel in frustration. You sighed. “Well, love, looks like we are going to walk to school today.”

  “Let’s go!” I gathered my book bag and slid off my booster seat. We walked to school, swinging hands.

  “Aren’t you going to be late to work?”

  “Yeah, I’ll be late. But it should be okay. I’ll just bring some work home with me to finish up. And your father used to work in a mechanic shop, so he should know what’s wrong with the car. I’ll call him when I get home and then call a taxi to take me to work.”

  We didn’t walk home from school at the end of that day. You picked me up and waved to me from the back of Mr. Grayson’s bright green sedan. “Look, Ellie! We got a ride.”

  We didn’t have taxis in our town. It was too small for that. But Mr. Grayson was retired and had a new shiny car and was only a phone call away if anyone needed a ride. He had four Black Ice car freshener trees hanging off the rearview mirror and I loved the smell of them. I felt like we were from those movies with rich people who had drivers. The seats were black and smooth and the windows were electric. I played with the control, watching them go up and down. You laughed.

  When we got home, you paid Mr. Grayson and he tipped his hat to both of us with a furry, bearded “Enjoy yer day, m’ladies!”

  Your car wasn’t in the driveway. “I guess your father already brought it to the shop.…”

  And sure enough, when we walked through the door, Father was already washing his hands in the kitchen. There was black stuff on them. He looked up. “My girls!” He smiled. And we went to hug him, his hands still under the stream of faucet water.

  “Did you take the car to the shop already?”

  He paused washing, but didn’t look at you. “Yep. Should be done this weekend.”

  Relief melted your expression. “Oh, good. Mr. Grayson is a godsend, but I won’t be able to pay for rides for too long.” You took off your heels and set them by the door.

  But the car wasn’t ready by that weekend.

  Or the next.

  When you voiced your frustration, he teetered from “It will be ready soon” to “You shouldn’t have to work” to “Don’t you trust me to take care of you?” Dinners started to feel tense and the kitchen started feeling too small and I started to bring my coloring up to my room. I could feel the shift. The current change.

  And then one day, al
l of your work clothes were gone.

  Everything.

  No heels.

  No skirts.

  No blouses.

  You erupted. When Father walked through the door, you yelled at him. He didn’t move. He just listened, his face deathly calm. Then he told you he had sold the clothes. He said he’d sold the car because he couldn’t fix it and you didn’t have enough money to keep it at the shop. That it didn’t make sense for you to keep working.

  You slapped your hands against the countertops. “That is not a decision that you can make!”

  And then Father cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. His back was straight and he walked slowly toward where you stood. “Everything that happens in this house is my decision,” he said, his breath on your cheek. It almost sounded like a teasing whisper. But it wasn’t.

  It was a growl.

  Your eyes changed then. You searched his face and suddenly recognition lit your eyes. I hadn’t seen this man before, but you had. And that’s what you’d been looking for all those months, that’s who you were trying to see, but then you forgot that he was there. You forgot to look. But then you saw.

  You didn’t shout. Your voice matched his low, dusky quiet. “I think—you should leave.”

  “You think … I should leave. Let me tell you what I think…” His fingers grazed up your arm, up your throat, and then his one, two, three, four fingers wrapped around your neck and squeezed. Your hands fumbled at his as you tried to pry his hand away. “I think you should be a good girl and listen.” He whispered in your ear and then he let go. You rattled out a cough. “Shhh, shhh, shhh.” He wrapped you up in a hug and tried to lull you back into quiet, back into him. He was soft and tender as he rocked you in his arms. Like he was trying to rock you to sleep. But I saw your eyes.

  They were wide open.

  Father’s cruelty bit when we least expected it. Between movie nights and Saturday pancakes. His laugh bellowed in our home, but there were times when we’d have to tiptoe around his mood, afraid to set it off like a bomb. It only got worse with time, when whiskey started getting stockpiled on our pantry shelves. Your smiles and laughter started sounding hollow and when you looked at him as he walked in the door, you would hug and kiss him, but the moment you turned away, your face fell.

  Our home was a little run-down. Peeling paint, old laminate countertops, cabinets with caving-in bottoms, sofas that had holes, and flowers that looked like they were drooping. There was a time when none of that mattered; it was home. But as the years passed, the house felt like it was crumbling from the inside out, just like our fake smiles.

  While life had been changing for a while, it snapped into a before-and-after with the sound of a slap.

  On the way home one day, you had asked me, “Ellie, wouldn’t it be amazing to see the mountains right outside of our window?” You were looking at our neighborhood as if seeing more than the boarded-up doors, barred windows, and rusty playground equipment in abandoned yards.

  I loved the mountains. I loved the way my chest and my legs ached as we climbed up trails, and the peaks where it looked like we could see the whole world while sitting cross-legged with peanut butter and jellies. But I looked at our neighborhood and couldn’t see beyond the rust and dried grass. I couldn’t see whatever wondrous thing you had built up before your eyes. “There are no mountains around here, Momma.”

  You were quiet for a moment before looking ahead toward our driveway. “You are right. There are no mountains here. But what if we chased them?” You looked at me then, a smile flickering across your lips.

  “I’d like that! An adventure.”

  “That’s right, beautiful. Our own little adventure.”

  We didn’t say anything else as we climbed the stairs. Father was inside.

  I ran to Father for a hug that felt too tight and my chest felt compressed with too little air. “Father! We are going to chase the mountains!” I squealed. I was practically bouncing in his lap with excitement.

  His eyebrows pitched up. “Oh really? And how are we gonna chase the mountains, doll?”

  “We are going to go on an adventure, silly. We could drive…”

  “Momma doesn’t have a car…”

  “We could fly! Or walk! I am a very good walker.” I puffed out my chest. I knew I would be the best adventurer.

  “And whose idea was it to go on this little adventure?”

  “Momma’s!”

  “Ellie…” Your voice was soft yet urgent, but I was too excited to pay attention.

  “She said that we could live in a house and have mountains right outside our windows and…”

  “Is that so?” Father said.

  “Ellie…,” you said at the same time.

  I was thinking about treasure maps and big windows and mountain peaks. I didn’t notice the air getting sucked out of the room or the way you and Father watched each other. On a razor’s edge. A step away from explosive mines in the floorboards that I was too oblivious to see.

  “Go upstairs, Ellie,” Father said.

  I ran upstairs, skipping steps and humming all the way to my room. My bedroom floor vent looked into the kitchen and I perched myself above it and spied. I couldn’t see everything. But I could see enough.

  You and Father didn’t move from your spots. You stared at each other. I had thought that you’d both be excited, but something was taut between you and I suddenly felt all wrong. My tapping toes and humming stopped.

  “The mountains, huh?”

  “Abel, we were just daydreaming. You know, make-believe as we walked home.”

  Father reached for the glass of whiskey that I hadn’t seen on the table and took a long sip until it was empty.

  I looked at you and your eyes were squeezed shut.

  Father stood up, his chair croaking as it slid across the floor.

  The slap was like a thunderclap.

  Father was looming over you. You were holding your cheek. Your shoulders were heaving in little breaths and then your eyes flicked up to the ceiling and found mine through the vent. I started to get to my knees so I could run downstairs to see if you were okay, but with the slightest shake of your head I knew that I had to stay where I was. I had to just watch and do nothing. I held my breath.

  Father grabbed a fistful of your hair and then nuzzled your neck. “Don’t think I don’t know who you are, Regina. You left me once. You won’t leave me again.” You closed your eyes and gave a tiny nod. His voice went lower. “If you try, Regina, I swear, if you try to chase mountains or chase daydreams … I will chase you. I will find you. And you will regret stepping out of this house.”

  Then he kissed you, only to break away to say, “You are mine and you aren’t going anywhere.”

  And we didn’t.

  That was the first day you wore your doll face.

  The violence snuck into our home slowly and all I could do was look away and hide.

  A grab. A slap. A shove against the wall.

  He’d beat you and then when you were done hiccupping tears in the bathroom with the shower running so no one could hear you, he’d come back and stroke your hair. He’d whisper apologies and nuzzle your neck. He’d make promises that he’d never keep and you sniffled and still let him make them just so he would stroke your hair a little longer.

  It is easy to give yourself away. You do it little by little until you are left with nothing but your bones in your hands and you wonder how so much was taken without you noticing. You painted on a face to pretend. You painted on a face so you didn’t have to see the lies looking back at you.

  “Momma, why can’t we leave?” I asked one night from under my covers. You had been stroking my hair.

  You paused your stroking and took in a deep breath. “We will, one day. I promise.” Your voice was a whisper and when you saw the look on my face, you kept speaking in hushed tones. “When I first met your father, I fell in love with him. I never thought he would hurt me. But then, when I got pregnant with you … he
changed. He was violent. He was … controlling. He scared me and I ran away. But I didn’t know he’d chase me. Chase us. Wherever we went, he was always just a few steps behind. And when he finally found us here, he seemed to have changed. I was wrong. So wrong. But when we leave, we have to be ready. We have to be able to go far, far away. I am afraid of what he might do if he finds us the next time.”

  * * *

  I am knocked back. The thread of memories tangles up around my heart and tugs so tight I feel like it leaves cuts. I can’t feel your cheek now, but I remember falling asleep as you stroked mine that same night. The night of the promise in the dark.

  It was just a lullaby to soothe me, but as you fall asleep now, hiccupping little breaths, there is no one here to soothe you. I hear my bedroom door creak and Father is there. I want to rush him, beat my hands against his chest, but he just walks over to my bed and scoops you up into his arms and carries you back down the hall to your bedroom.

  You either don’t wake up or pretend to still be asleep.

  Pain had followed us like a shadow.

  And now I am following my life like one too.

  10

  Words,

  I remember now when I first believed that I could change our lives—it was because of you.

  You didn’t always fit easily in my mouth. When I was younger, I would fumble with your letters and mispronounce your syllables. I slammed a book shut in second grade because of my white-hot frustration when I tried to read you. I had been in the school library for mandatory reading time. It was the worst hour of the school day and I resented feeling stupid and lacking.

  The librarian saw my aggression toward one of her beloved books and came over and sat next to me. I thought she would scold me. She had a pinched face and a severe jawline that was perfectly made for reprimands. I braced myself.

  Instead she tapped the book and whispered, “When I was little, it was hard for me to read.”