Learning to Breathe

by Janice Lynn Mather

  • • •

  It’s long past dinnertime when I find the bike and pedal away, leaving the quietness behind me. I can’t bring myself to go back to Aunt Patrice’s house—not yet. I circle the neighborhood a few times before I let myself cycle down Churchy’s street. I don’t know why I do it. Maybe I want to believe that he’s not such a bad guy. Maybe I just don’t want to be alone. I park the bike and go up the stairs, gently rapping on his apartment’s window. He opens the door, still in his school uniform, neat as ever.

  “You busy?”

  “N-not really.” He steps aside, letting me in.

  I glance around this part of Churchy’s world for the first time. I don’t know how he could share it with his aunt and uncle; barely looks like there’s enough room for one. It’s got a table, three chairs pushed in neatly around it, and a TV on the opposite side of the room. There’s a tired beige sofa and a coffee table, scratched but cleared off except for a tidy stack of newspapers. A single mattress and box spring is tucked against the wall; on top is a pile of freshly washed and ironed school shirts. The door to the bathroom stands open, taking up even more space.

  “You mind that I came?”

  “I just s-s-surprised.”

  “Oh.” I can imagine Smiley’s voice. What, you don’t know how to flirt? I’m not sure I do, or that I’d ever want to, but I know I want to be here, near Churchy. Right now he’s my closest thing to home. “This is a nice place.”

  “Y-you hungry?”

  “Kind of.”

  “Y-y-you could sit anywhere,” Churchy says. I pick a spot at the table. The pot on the stove chatters and Churchy reaches over for a spoon. He’s deft in the kitchen, snatching up utensils, tasting this, sniffing that.

  “You sure I ain interrupting?”

  “N-n-no. You ain interrupting.” After a few minutes of clinking and clanking, Churchy sets down two plates for us, piled high with food.

  “What is it?”

  He rests a fork on the edge of each plate. “Roasted pumpkin. I p-put ginger and anise on it. Chicken in s-s-sweet lime sauce. Rice and garlic black beans. S-salad greens.”

  “You make all this when you could eat right downstairs?” I dig my fork in, then look over to see his head bowed over his food. I stop guiltily, dipping my head too, glancing over until his lips stop moving.

  “S-sometimes I want something d-d-different.”

  We eat in silence for a few minutes. The food is amazing, the pumpkin steamy inside, the outside sticky and sweet, the chicken crisp, the sauce drizzled over it tangy, the rice seasoned just right. I wish I could shake this guilty feeling. I wish there was some better reason I’m here, something normal. He thinks I’m visiting, just because. What would he say if I told him I can’t go home? That I don’t have a real home to go to? What’s waiting for me at Aunt Patrice’s house? What’s growing inside me?

  “H-h-how it t-taste?”

  “Better than what me and Smiley got from downstairs. Almost as good as Grammy’s food.”

  “Ain only Mariner’s w-woman who could cook,” he says, smiling shyly before taking another bite of rice. I wait for him to ask me why I came. Instead, he turns on the TV, finds a movie that’s starting. After we’ve eaten, we sit awkwardly on the couch, the TV’s light a gentle flicker on our faces. The movie gives us both a break, him from his stuttering, me from real life. While we sit, I can pretend. Pretend there’s no reason to avoid Aunt Patrice’s house, pretend everything’s good with Grammy. Pretend I could go home anytime and be happy to be there, pretend I know what home means now. Pretend I’m like everyone else who’s sixteen, hanging out at a friend’s house. Pretend I’m normal. Halfway through the movie, the front door opens. Churchy’s aunt glances at us as she disappears into the bedroom, wishing him good night. Later, his uncle comes in and ignores us both, closing the bedroom door behind him.

  When the movie ends, Churchy shifts, stretching out on the couch. He isn’t touching me, but I can feel his warmth, the brush of his shirt against my arm. I lean back, lean into normal like it’s a pillow. Like it’s mine.

  “Y-y-you better get home, Indy,” I hear Churchy say. It’s the last thing I remember that night.

  11

  SOFT BREEZE ON MY arms, warm light on my skin. A woman’s voice far away. A lower, less frantic tone than normal. It’s not Aunt Patrice. It’s not Aunt Patrice.

  I sit up so fast my head spins, and blink against the morning sun. I take in my surroundings; the sofa, Churchy—still in yesterday’s school uniform—curled up at one end. I stayed out. I can’t believe I stayed out. Churchy’s aunt speaks again, and I realize it’s coming from the bedroom. I should go right now, but before I can gather everything together, footsteps approach. I run to the bathroom, closing the door after me. I hear someone go out into the living room.

  “Hey. Get up,” Churchy’s aunt says sharply. “Whose bag this is?”

  Why didn’t I bring it in with me? Why didn’t I just run out the front door? Please don’t let her look through my bag, I pray.

  “Th-th-that ain n-n-nobody own, Auntie,” I hear Churchy protest, and I just know she’s going through my things. The book. What if she finds the book? What if she tells Aunt Patrice? I’m dead. Either way, I’m dead.

  “What foolishness you got goin on in my house? Why the bathroom door close? Don’t you lie to me, boy.”

  “Th-th-that’s just my f-f-friend,” Churchy says, keeping his voice low.

  “Friend? Since when do friends stay all night?”

  “W-w-we miss and f-fall sleep—”

  “Ain no miss an fall sleep.” Churchy’s aunt sounds annoyed, but it’s nothing compared to what Aunt Patrice is gonna unleash on me when I get home.

  “D-d-don’t tell Uncle! Sh-sh-she goin right now.”

  “That’s right,” his aunt says.

  Maybe Aunt Patrice didn’t notice I was gone last night, same way Churchy’s aunt didn’t know, until now. I can’t worry about Aunt Patrice yet; there’s a brisk knock on the bathroom door. I open it. Churchy’s aunt stands outside, as tall as he is. She holds my bag out silently. I take it and dash outside.

  • • •

  Smiley hurries out the front door to meet me as I ride up to the house.

  “Indy!” she squeals, then catches herself and whispers, “Where you been last night?”

  “Aunt Patrice home?” I ask, tucking the bike around the side of the house, out of sight.

  “She in her bathroom. Go round back.” She leads the way, looking at me with a funny expression. Surprise. Even . . . awe.

  “Anybody else home?”

  “Uh-uh. Daddy already left for work, and I ain know where Gary is. She bathin, you better try sneak in now.” Smiley pushes the kitchen door open, peering around the room before she scampers into the depths of the house, through the dining and living rooms and down the hallway. “Hurry up, go in my bathroom.” She comes in with me, closing the door behind her.

  “I thought you said she was in the tub,” I whisper.

  “Yeah, but you can’t be too safe.”

  My sentiments exactly. “You don’t think she’ll be suspicious if she come out and the two of us in here?”

  “Uh-uh. I wan know exactly what happen.”

  “Shhhh.” I reach for my toothbrush. “Happen where?”

  “Don’t play dumb with me. You was by him? You follow my advice or what?”

  “Him who?”

  “You know who I mean, man. Churchy!”

  “Yeah, okay? I was by him.”

  “All night?” Her eyebrows are raised so high her hairline threatens to swallow them.

  “I didn’t mean to.” I reach over and turn on the tap, running water to drown out our voices. “I fell asleep by mistake.”

  “In his bed?”

  I glare at her. “On the sofa. With my clothes on,” I add.

  “Hey, y’all been together the night, that’s enough for Churchy. You know he ain too bright. Sweet, but ain too brig
ht. I bet you he think you’s get baby just from sitting by a girl.”

  “Sometimes, Smiley, I think you’re the one that ain too bright. You better get outta here before your mummy come and hear us two whispering in here.” I push her toward the door.

  “You better tell me everything later,” she warns.

  I intentionally take a long, long shower, killing time until everyone should be gone. I listen for Gary, but the house is silent, the door to his room open. I dash to Smiley’s bedroom, locking the door anyway. I dress in a black shirt and a long skirt, deep red folds flapping around my legs in a warning. I leave the bike and walk to the bus stop instead. Part of me wonders what would happen if Aunt Patrice saw me, out of uniform, in the middle of the day. I sit down in the back, reach into the bag. I bring out Grammy’s book. Today, it opens up to chapter four: “The Second Trimester.” Over the chapter number, Grammy’s words are crammed together; she has plenty to tell me.

  Now don’t mind what the books say. There’s no rule on what you can do. Just listen to what you feel. I was on my hands and knees, scrubbing the wood floor, straight through my middle months, and my mother worked in the field with all of us. Mind, my oldest sister didn’t do a lick with her last one. Just sat up in bed drinking herb tea and eating oatmeal cookies and rainbow cake, and when the baby came, it was a month early and we didn’t think it would live, though it did. I don’t tell you that to scare you. Her baby was fine in the end, big Defence Force officer in Nassau now, six foot three and have to get his uniform specially made. Point is, every woman is different, believe me.

  I don’t know about working no field, but helping out at the retreat? That I could do, at least for now. The question of Aunt Patrice still hangs over my head. If she throws me out, even the little bit of money I can earn at the retreat won’t save me. I read over Grammy’s words again and again, looking for the answer I need, but every time, I only get more confused. The words in the book always sound like they’re meant to help, but that doesn’t make sense. If she knew I’d need this book, why did she let Mamma send me here? If she ever even half-loved me, why would she think I’d end up this way? What would Grammy really say if she saw me? Probably not every woman is different. Would she ask why? Or would she point over to the book, as proof of fulfilled fate?

  • • •

  The 10 a.m. yoga class is twenty minutes in when I steal up the path to the deck. A massive silk cotton tree stretches its branches overhead, its bulky trunk hiding me. Susan, the tall teacher whose class I stepped right into that first day, is leading again. The students seem at ease with her; they smile as she smiles, even while they’re moving through the poses. Comfortable as they are, I can’t imagine myself ever being one of them up there. Not me. It was one thing in Mariner’s, with just a few people, but here, I belong on the pathways, between those cottages, on the wall looking over the water, on the rocks, with my feet in the sea. Even in the pavilion, with all those mysterious foods being dished up, I know what to do. Eating is simple. But that deck full of lean bodies in clingy pants and snug shirts, all moving in unison, somehow anticipating where Susan’s going, gliding into positions before she’s even said what comes next? That’s no place for me. They are too perfect. None of them has to fend off some freak, none has a secret growing beneath those Lycra clothes.

  From down on the grass, peeping around the tree, I can follow the class just as well. This isn’t lurking, not exactly. Besides, from this angle I’m sort of in line with Susan instead of facing her. Hopefully she won’t see. Won’t think to look. I watch as Susan raises her arms above her head, bends at the waist, and brings her hands down to the floor. Then she’s stepping back on one side, then the other, following the same routine Dion did that day on the street. I look around, making sure no one’s watching me. When Susan and her flock of students begin the next round of moves, I join in.

  When Dion did the postures that day, his breathing was even. The same thing with Joe. Here, I can’t stop huffing and puffing. When I bend forward, I feel dizzy. When I straighten up, my back is sore. Hands at my chest, I can’t get my thumbs in the right place. Either they’re too high up, or I feel like they’re fighting to reach my breastbone. Now they’re in some sort of push-up position. By the time I get there, everyone else has moved on to downward dog. I manage the lunge on time, at least, before they’ve swooped back up, arms raised.

  “When we getting to the sitting still part?” I mutter, hauling my arms up, then stopping short, as the bottom edge of the new bra nips into the irritated skin. I’ve barely caught my breath before they’re off again. And you’re supposed to feel calm through all this too? I think, sinking down to the grass. Sitting still, closing my eyes, I breathe. That much I can do. It’s rough and choppy at first, but then it slows, growing deeper. I breathe and I imagine. What if I was one of them? Dancing my way, graceful, through what I should do.

  I hear footsteps coming closer and turn around to see Joe. She’s moving purposefully, and I hope she doesn’t see me, but sure enough, she steps off the path, heading my way. I brace myself for a tirade.

  “Susan’s our best teacher,” she says instead. “She’s a good person to learn from.”

  “Oh.”

  “Dion told me you’re going to be around here more often.”

  “Yes.”

  She gives me a brusque, almost curt pat on the shoulder. “Don’t let us down.”

  • • •

  I’m under the tree outside school, waiting for Smiley to appear after her volleyball practice. Meet me at 4:30. We have to talk!! her text said. Now I’m stuck hovering around the last place I want to be. It’s ten to five; they must be running late. I fiddle with the bike’s handlebars, praying no one I know will see me. What’s taking so long?

  “Hey, Doubles!”

  I look up to see Raisin Legs and Raquel, prim in their tucked-in uniforms, each with a few books in their hands.

  “You’re waiting for Smiley?” Raisin Legs casually glances at my midsection. I wish I hadn’t been cleaning all day. A bead of sweat drips down the small of my back.

  “How come you keep missing school?” Raquel says.

  “Is it true, what everybody sayin?” Raisin Legs blurts out before I can reply. Raquel elbows her in the ribs, but she waits just as expectantly, eager for an answer. They remind me of Gary. Interested in me only for themselves. Hovering, like I’m something to eat. Like I’m exactly the meal they expected. I close my eyes, breathe in deep. Breathe out.

  “She zonin out, ay?” Raisin Legs asks.

  I breathe in, open my eyes. “What everybody sayin?”

  “You know.” Raquel shifts uncomfortably, reluctant to say the words.

  “I do?”

  “That you pregnant, man,” Raisin Legs says, impatient.

  “Why you wanna know?”

  Raisin Legs glances at Raquel. “Well, everybody say—and then that book—”

  “Yeah, but why do you want to know? Why you care if I am or not?”

  “We was only—”

  “We’re not friends.” I take my time with the words. “You never used to talk to me before. Now you want to know all the details of my life. Why does it matter to you?”

  “Hey!” Smiley calls, jogging up to us, rescuing me. They sidle away, heads together, whispering already.

  “I been here twenty minutes.”

  “Yeah, volleyball ran overtime. We gotta hurry before Mummy come for me. I told her five-fifteen.”

  “What’s the emergency?”

  “What you think? I wanna hear all the dirt from last night. Away from the house, so we could talk.”

  Good choice, Smiley. No eavesdropping’s ever happened in a school yard. “Ain no dirt. I went by, he cooked, and after we ate we was watching TV and I fell asleep, didn’t wake up till this morning. The end.”

  “So did y’all do anything? Y’all at least kiss?”

  I grip the handlebars. This is what she had me come here for, what I left the retrea
t early for? “I gotta go.”

  “I only tryin to help you. You better hurry up and sleep with that boy, or too much time ga pass.”

  “I probably five months along, dummy. I think he could at least count that far.”

  “Yeah, but you ain got that much time. And especially since you skipping school now. Everybody talking, and Ms. Wilson really on the warpath for you—”

  I plop down on the seat of my bike and start pedaling away. I’m mad she wasted my time. But I’m madder she keeps thinking I’m going to set up Churchy. Mad she thinks that’s who I am. I might be pregnant. I might not know what to do. But I’m not a liar and I’m not going to be with a guy to get something out of him. Not money, not safety, not some illusion that things are all right. That’s not who I am. Right?

  • • •

  Watching Churchy cook is both familiar and weird. It reminds me of being with Grammy in her kitchen; his gangliness is transformed into a kind of fluid purpose. He glances over at me as he shakes rice into boiling water. There’s something so comforting, so simple about that motion.

  “I have to tell you something.”

  He salts the rice, then stirs it, not missing a beat. Nods, as though it’s part of the cooking process.

  “And you sure your parents ain home?”

  Churchy shakes his head. “Uncle downstairs. M-M-My aunt gone to the store. You all right.”

  I take a breath in, then spit it out. “I’m pregnant.”

  He sets the spoon down on the stove, slow, so methodical I don’t know if he heard me, or if he’s about to go all psycho. He turns around, looking at me with clear, wide eyes. Nothing in between us, no distraction of cutlery or stirring. “P-p-pregnant? H-h-how?” The words sputter out. “W-w-we only kiss—”

  “No, no, not you. Not from you. I’m five months, at least.”

  “W-w-w-w-w-wow. W-wow.”