The Breathless
Page 27
Cage yanks down the visor and squints into the sunlight. Next gas station he sees, he’ll pick up a pair of sunglasses. He’ll take another round of painkillers too, because his head is hurting again in a bad way and so is his shoulder. He lifts a hand from the ratty wheel and feels the bandage. It’s dry but still tender.
The road curves, and when it straightens again an exit sign comes into view, a side road heading off into the trees. Tempting, but he’ll wait till the needle’s low. Part of him wants to turn off, head south toward Mexico, work as a fisherman down there for a while. Save up some money to pay back the people he owes and then some.
The tires hum over the pavement and he lets himself think of Mexico, how no one will know him. They won’t know where he comes from, won’t know about his family, about his record, about the things that have been said and unsaid about him. But Mexico doesn’t hold a candle to Mae. Maybe he can work for his uncle in Gulf Shores instead, finish up his last year of high school and visit her now and again. Her dad even apologized to him for getting it wrong. Can’t blame him, not really, though he didn’t have to shoot him in the driveway. Lucky Sonny’s more a fisherman than a hunter, because the shot went wide, just got him in the shoulder. Another scar, but that’s okay with him.
Earlier this week, when they released him from the hospital and he told Mae he needed to go home, she and Elle let him borrow their car. He didn’t want to take it, but they asked him to. Sonny’s exact words were Don’t make me shoot you again, son. Followed by maybe his first smile, ever. Thinking about it now makes Cage grin, and so does thinking about Mae. He remembers how she hugged him before he left. Her not-quite-blond hair, her brown eyes looking up at him. The softness of her lips on his cheek as she stood on her tiptoes to kiss him goodbye.
His head starts aching again, and he lifts a hand to rub his temples. He picks up his water bottle and pours the last of it over himself. The coolness hits his neck and wets his shirt, but the pain doesn’t go away. He squints at the sun and sees splotches of light across the road. It comes over him all at once, and he shoves on his blinker and pulls onto the gravel shoulder. The ballerina hanging from the rearview mirror jostles as he stops.
Breathe, breathe. He squeezes his eyes shut and hunches over the wheel, wanting the pain to pass. But it’s worse now—a tire-iron sort of headache, all the way into his spine. Fresh air, that’s what he needs. He pushes open the door and staggers to the side of the road, steps over the guardrail. Throws up on the gravel, onto the grassy slope beyond. Throws up again, clutching the hot metal rail. The pain feels like it’s splitting his skull, and behind him is the beep of the open car door. Maybe he just needs to sleep it off. He can get into the backseat, close his eyes. One, two, three. Breathe. Get back to the car.
He tries to straighten, but another wave of sickness rushes him and his knees buckle, hitting the gravel, and when he stands back up he loses his balance and then the world tips and he’s sliding down the grass. He shuts his eyes, feels branches snapping past him and small bushes that he grabs at and a rock hits his shoulder and he yells out and then the ground levels and he tumbles to a stop.
He groans and rolls onto his knees, opens his eyes. His arms and legs seem to be moving, so he hasn’t broken anything, but his shoulder bandage is torn off and he’s bleeding. He forces himself to look around, get his bearings. Tree trunks swirl above him and sunlight cuts through green leaves and he shuts his eyes, collapses back onto the dirt. He’ll lie here for a minute. Just a quick minute. But sometimes in life, minutes have a way of turning into hours, and then days, and then…
“Cage,” he hears, and his eyes snap open. The green canopy churns above him, far, far above him.
“Cage.”
Is someone saying his name?
His mouth is dry, and he tries to lick his lips. Starts to get up but can’t. He feels heavy, his limbs like sludge, and when a shadow falls across him he stares up at it, trying to focus.
His heart nearly stops. Actually, it’s already stopped, but he doesn’t know that yet.
“Cage,” she says, and her smile gets him in the chest. Her hair dangles down, blocking some of the light, so it’s easy to keep his eyes open, straight on her. He won’t look away, even if the pain kills him, but he won’t be feeling any of that anymore.
She holds out her hand. He thinks he must be dreaming, he must, because they all think that at first. He reaches up to touch her hand and his headache disappears all at once—it goes away and his pain goes away and the memories rush from him too, into something vaster, a bay emptying into an ocean, into endless water, and for a moment, this one long moment, the only thing he can feel is her.
This time it’s easier, much easier, to take him home.
Writing a novel is a lot like holding up a match in the dark, hoping you’ll find a path. And the path of this book was lit by some extraordinary people along the way.
Catherine Drayton, thank you for your belief in my work, and for your wisdom, advice, and persistence. I am so grateful to have you and everyone at InkWell Management in my corner.
Many heartfelt thanks to my brilliant editor, Krista Marino. The Breathless wouldn’t be the same without your insight, guidance, and enthusiasm at all the perfect moments. I must have done something right in my life to be working with you.
To the entire team at Random House Children’s Books—Beverly Horowitz, Monica Jean, Jen Prior, Colleen Fellingham, Alison Kolani, Alison Impey—thank you for your support and amazingness.
My deepest gratitude to early readers of The Breathless, especially Mark Harding, Lucas Southworth, Peter Durston, Nancy Winifred Pullin, Paul Shirley, David Irwin, Tim Croft, Brian Buckbee, Candace and Tod Evans, and my family.
Countless thanks to my writing soul mates for the encouragement and attentive eyes and ears. Caroline Graham, I will always want to be your conjoined twin. Here’s to singing (badly) on the road from Darwin to Kununurra, where it all started. You, my friend, are a gift in so many ways. Shady Cosgrove, thank you for the Red Door retreats, endless conversations about writing that inevitably led to dancing, and for all the very “serious” fun.
Merlinda Bobis, thank you for your solidarity and sharpness on the page. Steve Pett, you’re one of the best; I will always remember your class. Page Buck, for teaching me that hard work is worth more than talent. William Pierce and Sven Birkerts, AGNI was the first to publish one of my stories, which gave me hope. Michael Martone, Kate Bernheimer, Wendy Rawlings, Catherine Cole, Joshua Lobb, thank you. And to the University of Alabama, the University of Wollongong, and Varuna, The Writers’ House, for allowing me the time and space to write.
Many thanks to my friends, past and present, for your encouragement over the years and across the continents. You all know who you are.
Special thanks to Hank Spangler, my oldest friend; Courtney Parker, Kristin Irwin, and Katie O’Neill, my musketeers; Joel Naoum, Sophie Hamley, Anna Valdinger, Emma Rafferty, for showing me Sydney publishing; Christine Lindon, for your faith in me; Sean Ottley, for making me laugh; Rosemary Lewey, Paula Sue Burnum Hayes, for your stories about Alabama; Jane Sandor, Lauren Choplin, Nick Parker, Danielle Evans, for your magic; Kerry Kletter, Heather Lazare, Shelly King, for welcoming me into the book crowd in California; Katherine Kendall, for the impromptu author photo; and to my Momentum friends and fellow writers in the 2017 Debuts, and every author I’ve admired since reading my first book. You all inspire me in ways you probably don’t even realize.
Thank you to my entire family, for putting up with me, and for reading, and reading some more. Somehow I scored the best parents and brothers in the world. Thanks also to the Lenths, Porrases, Witczaks, Kiffs, Stumps, Lords, Krauses, Smiths, Lindseys, and Goedjens. And all of my heart to Jack, for being my champion, and to our daughter, Cora. I am blessed in so many ways to have you in my life.
Lastly, many thanks to my readers. This book wouldn’t exist without you.
Tara Goedjen grew up in the South and has a Master o
f Fine Arts from the University of Alabama. The Breathless is her debut novel. To find out more about Tara and her novel, follow @TaraGoedjen on Twitter.
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