Learning to Breathe

by Janice Lynn Mather

  I don’t answer him, but I retrieve the abandoned purple bike and force myself to start pedaling. I feel every jostle and jolt; my chest hurts every time I go over a bump in the road. I wish it would shake everything that’s inside me loose until it falls out. I stop only once to let another wave of nausea pass, then keep going. I follow Churchy down the side streets and eventually onto Aunt Patrice’s road. The driveway is empty again. I lean the bike against the fence.

  “Thanks,” I say. “For Grammy.”

  “D-d-don’t worry, Indy.” He reaches for my hand. The feel of his fingers around mine is foreign and cool; I want to pull away but I can’t seem to find the right muscles. Just like I couldn’t find them to pull away while Grammy hauled my shirt up. Just like I couldn’t pull away, couldn’t even scream when Gary—

  “I-I-I got a way to fix this.”

  Fix it how? Someplace for me to stay? A job that pays even more? A magic wand? A time machine? “How?”

  “Th-there’s a place that could t-t-take care of this. My sister b-been one time. She help me make an appointment for you.”

  His face is so open, so eager. Churchy isn’t stupid. He isn’t slow. But I don’t think he really understands what he’s saying to me. I don’t know if this is the fix I want. I don’t know what I want to do.

  “W-w-we could go from school,” he carries on, like we’re making plans for a party. “W-we gotta be there t-t-tomorrow at t-two. Y-y-you could trust me.”

  I watch him spin around and ride away, the ding of his bike’s bell a tinny promise of hope, a thread of sunshine filtering through clouds. But when he disappears around the bend, I’m alone again. Alone with the heft of my body, the weight of carrying all this. Alone with this new decision he’s already made for me. Alone with what Grammy said, her voice low and her head ducked down, unable to look at me. “Wasn’t her, Indy. I told your mamma to send you here. I told her to let you go.”

  13

  “TRUST ME.” IT’S THE fourth time Churchy’s said that today, three words that are like someone asking you to love them. You either do or you don’t; the request can’t change things. “M-m-my sister say this place is real good,” Churchy adds, as though he knows trust me isn’t enough, glancing over from behind the wheel of his sister’s boyfriend’s car. I wonder what kind of bribe he had to come up with to borrow it, especially since he doesn’t have a learner’s permit, much less a license.

  Outside, ahead of us, a tall woman is crossing the road with her daughter, who looks five or six. The girl stops, crouched down by the sidewalk, transfixed by something. The mother beckons for the girl to catch up, but the child ignores her and reaches down, comes up with a spray of something green. We pass them by and I see a speck of a flower in the girl’s hand. “Hurry up, man, I ain got all day,” the mother drawls, and the girl runs to her. The mother cuffs her in the back of the head. In the rearview mirror, I see her shaking her finger at the girl. When I look at the mother’s face, she’s barely older than me.

  “D-don’t worry.” Churchy reaches over, resting his hand on mine.

  “Let go.” My voice is a shadow of its usual self. I close my eyes and breathe deep, the way Susan said to. Breathe to make the right moves to get out. I can’t be Mamma. I can’t be that woman. Can’t be Grammy. When I open my eyes, his hand is gone.

  The car stops outside a green building off Collins Avenue. I thought it would look different, run-down or dark, inconspicuous behind a bunch of trees. Grammy told me they were illegal, I said to Churchy. He shrugged. B-b-better you go to a real doctor who ga d-d-do it for you right than you go to some back-of-the-bush person who don’t know what they doing. Well, this place isn’t in the back of the bush. A large sign proclaims the practice of Dr. A. Palmer, Dr. C. Adderley, and Dr. S. Johnson. Above the sign, the sky is a painful blue. I get out of the car, but my feet feel rooted to the pavement.

  Churchy says something, coming over to my side of the car. He puts an arm around my shoulders, walking me, walking us, up the four steps to the door, and I wince as his arm bumps the sore skin under the bra strap. Catch our reflection in the glass, me hobbling along, the purple of my skirt too rich, too bright for the day. Then the door is opened and we disappear. Inside, an air conditioner hums; it’s a freezer in here. At the counter, the receptionist hands me a clipboard.

  Name.

  I stare at the paper for what feels like years before I write in Mamma’s name. Sharice Ferguson.

  Age.

  “Put nineteen,” Churchy whispers once we are sitting, and when my hand won’t write, he writes for me. He carries my papers back up to the desk. I reach into my pocket and feel for the wad of money Churchy’s taken from the cash register at the restaurant. I-I-I could always pay that back, he’d said when he gave it to me.

  “You can pay after,” the woman at the desk says, taking the clipboard without looking up. I sit back down again.

  There’s another girl sitting against the wall, maybe a year older than me. The woman beside her, probably her mother, glances over at me, frowns, and picks up her phone. I can’t look away from the girl. Even with her mother scowling beside her, the girl seems so peaceful, so sure. I bet that same mother will still drive her home after this, a home where she’s wanted, to a home that’s safe.

  “They’re good here,” the girl says, smiling, unperturbed by my stare. “This my first baby, and they’re good. Set your mind at ease. Look like me and you are almost the same place. How far are you?”

  I can’t fathom the excitement in her voice. “I’m not too sure.”

  “I’m five months. This your first visit?”

  I nod, fraudulently. First visit, and last.

  The girl struggles to her feet and shuffles over a few seats so we’re closer. “Don’t worry,” she says, leaning in. “It isn’t bad. They ask you questions, weigh you, check if everything is normal. You’ll feel better after. Ain nothing to be scared of.”

  The girl’s mother glances over at us, her lips pursed. I can imagine what any mother worth having would think of two pregnant teenage girls swapping stories. The mother gets up, phone pressed to her ear. “I’ll come back in half an hour,” she says, heading for the door. The girl is unbothered; she leans back in her chair, chattering about baby clothes and a due date in September.

  “My back-to-school baby,” she says, like it’s an accessory. Maybe she’s joking. Beside me, Churchy shifts nervously.

  “Marcy Dean,” the nurse calls.

  “Oh, that’s me,” the girl says, looking over.

  “Dr. Johnson is in surgery today, so you’ll be seeing Dr. Palmer,” the nurse tells her. “You can go through to room two; it’ll be about ten minutes, okay?”

  “Coming now,” Marcy answers. “You’ll be all right,” she says to me, giving me a smile as she gets up. “I need to use the bathroom first,” she calls after the nurse, following her down the hallway.

  “Sharice Ferguson?” another nurse calls.

  Hearing Mamma’s name out loud is jarring; maybe we really are the same. Churchy looks over, waiting for me to answer. Do what you gotta do. I force myself up out of the chair and follow the nurse. At the end of the hall, I see Marcy waiting in line for the bathroom behind two other women. The door to the ladies’ room opens and a huge woman waddles out, one hand on her belly, the other on her back. As she passes me, she rolls her eyes and smiles as if we belong to the same special club.

  My nurse shows me into the third room and leaves, closing the door behind her. I change into the cotton gown that’s been left for me, then sit on the examination table alone. The room begins to close in. My head feels light enough to drift away. My chest threatens to collapse in on itself. This is happening. I have to keep my mind occupied, but all I can think about is what will come after I leave. I don’t have any hope of living with Grammy ever again; no one at the home will let her leave to go stay with a teenager, even if I’m her granddaughter, and I certainly can’t move into that place with her. Even if we had
someplace where we could be together, everything’s different, now that I’ve seen that shame in her face, now that I know what she did. Nothing can erase that. I’ll have to go back to Aunt Patrice’s house. Another thought crosses my mind. Maybe if Gary knew what he’s done to me, he’d stop. Maybe he’d leave me alone if he saw my belly. Maybe this thing that’s happened could have protected me. What will protect me now?

  I hear footsteps approaching the door—no, don’t come in. I need to think. Why didn’t I think about this last night? The footsteps pass, but the panic still comes in waves. Air. I need air. I get off the table and scramble toward the window on wobbly legs, cranking it open. Not enough. I crank it farther, leaning on the screen. Still not enough air. All I want is to be able to breathe. Press my face up against the screen and pull, pull, pull that air in. Close my eyes. Imagine sand under my toes, not cold tiles. My chest rises, ocean sweeping up the shore, warm water lapping at my feet. I can feel my shoulders falling, the tide slipping away. Space opens up around me—a seagull calls. I am not here, in this office, in this room, with this thing in my belly, getting ready to do what I’m about to do, then going back to that house, with him, with nothing to stand between me and what he wants. A little more of that good air. I can almost see the outline of a ship bobbing on the horizon. A little more . . . little bit more . . . and then there’s the pop of something coming loose in the window. Sweet fresh air on my face.

  Baaam! Baaam! Baaam! An alarm bursts to life, slapping me back to reality. Cold tiles under my feet, my fingers on the window’s lever, a security system wire dangling out of place. I jump back from the window—what if they come in and see it was me?—and I open the door, stepping into the hallway as nurses bustle past.

  “Look out!” one calls, nearly bumping into me. “Just wait in the room, someone will be in.”

  Then I am alone in the hallway again. Across from me, room two’s door is still open. Down the hall, the bathroom door is closed. I don’t know if Marcy’s in there, but I take a chance. I step into her room.

  It’s empty. I close the door behind me, leaning against it. The alarm’s clang keeps sounding, sounding, then abruptly stops. I can hear voices from the reception area; someone laughs with relief, worlds away. I hear a knock, then the door starts to open against me. I step away as a woman peers in. She must be a doctor; she has on a long white coat over her dark jeans and loose, flowery top. She’s short and plump, her skin a rich brown, her hair pulled up in a bun.

  “Marcy? You okay in there?”

  My voice swells in my throat. I want it to be true. Want Marcy’s happy, her excitement, her certainty. I want her life. “Yes.”

  “I’m Dr. Palmer.” She holds out a hand to shake mine. “Looks like someone opened the window in room three.” She rolls her eyes. “Set off the whole security system in here. Trying to make all these pregnant women have their babies early.” She closes the door behind her. “All right, let’s get you comfortable on the examination table. Come on.” She takes hold of my arm, helping me up, then turns to the sink to wash her hands. “I’m filling in for your regular doctor today. So when you see him, don’t tell him we tried to give you a heart attack with the alarm.” She gives me a warm smile I don’t deserve and picks up a folder that’s laid on the counter, scanning the pages inside. “How have you been feeling since your last visit, Marcy?”

  “I’m not—” The words almost tumble out. I’m not Marcy, I’m Indy, except you think I’m Sharice. I came for the abortion, and I pulled the alarm, and Marcy could come in here any minute, and I wanted to feel what she feels, even just for a little while.

  “Hmm.” Dr. Palmer frowns. “The nurse hasn’t taken your vitals yet today, so you aren’t quite ready to see me. All this excitement must have thrown things off. Wait here for a minute, I’ll send her in to check you.” She smiles as she steps back out into the hallway. As she closes the door, I hear her say, “No, someone’s in there. You are? Okay, come out to the waiting area and have a seat, we’ll get you sorted. We got two Marcys today. Busy busy.”

  Any minute now they’ll figure out what I’ve done; I have to get out. When the hallway sounds clear, I crack the door open. No one’s in sight. I sneak back over to room three and quickly change into my clothes. When I come out, a man in a doctor’s coat is striding toward me.

  “Sharice? We’ve been looking for you—”

  I hurry away from him, down the hall, then through the waiting room, past Marcy, who sits patiently, still waiting to be seen.

  “Wh-wh-wh-wh-what happened?” Churchy calls, springing up as I approach him. “Y-y-you finish already? Th-th-they ain charge you nothin?”

  I keep going, pushing the door open. I can’t get outside fast enough. I almost run out of the parking lot, but despite my fears, every time I glance back, no doctors are chasing me. It’s only Churchy.

  “D-D-Dee?” he stutters.

  I couldn’t do it, I imagine myself saying, calm and sure. I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t even stay in the right room. Except I can’t turn around, can’t even face Churchy. Part of me is mad at him; he brought me here, he made me lie, he didn’t even let me decide. And part of me feels I’ve let him down. He arranged everything, called his sister, got the number for the doctor, made the appointment, borrowed a car. He texted me last night and again this morning to make sure I knew where to be and when. If Smiley was here, she’d tell me not to be stupid. Tell me to talk to Churchy sweet so he’ll stay. Right now, though, all I want is to get as far as I can from this office.

  I reach into my pocket, pull out the money, and give it back to him. I want to tell him about Gary, want him to believe me, to care, to have an answer, a way out for me. There’s so much Churchy doesn’t understand that I don’t know where to begin. “Sorry” is all I can choke out before I start walking away. He walks beside me for a minute or two on those long legs before he falls back, giving up. I keep going, hear the roar of the car’s engine, then a honk. Through the open window I see Churchy’s face, hurt, confused. Then he speeds up and pulls away.

  • • •

  The house is empty when I come in. Lock the door, drop my bag in the front room. In the kitchen, dishes are piled up in the sink, more waiting on the counter. Leave those things out, you might as well send a handwritten invitation to the roaches, Grammy would say. I turn the hot water on and reach for the soap. Dishes. Like scrubbing scum off tiles. Like stuffing thyme into vinegar, baking soda on anything. Reliable. A problem so simple to fix. Pick them up, wash them off, rinse them, fill up the drainer. If only everything was so easy. If only anything was. I’m so caught up I don’t hear the key turn, only hear the door slamming shut. I glance at the clock. Almost five. Must be Smiley home from school.

  “Hey, practice run late again?” I ask, half turning, a plate still in my hand. Gary stands there in his chef’s pants and shirt, holding a long pan covered over with foil.

  A half-smile on his lips. He opens the fridge, shoving the pan in. “You home by yourself?”

  Aunt Patrice’s car isn’t in the driveway. Uncle is out of town for his work. Smiley has practice this afternoon. He knows all this. The plate slips out of my hand, clattering into the sink. My eyes dart to the back door, then to the doorway leading to the dining room and beyond. I have to get out of here; which way to run?

  I make a dash for the back door but he’s faster, blocking my way out. Before I can try to get to the dining room, he moves toward me. I back up until I feel the counter’s edge pressing against my behind.

  “You miss me?” He plants his hands on the countertop so his arms wall me in on either side, caging me. He towers over me, so close I can smell the lemon starch on his uniform, the food he’s cooked today. Boiled fish, sautéed onions, sickly-sweet icing.

  “Let me go.”

  “I talkin to you.”

  “Stop it, don’t touch me!”

  “Ain nobody touchin you.”

  Garlic, too, and burnt oil. No one’s coming to help me�
��no one ever does. But maybe if he knew, he’d leave me alone this time. I pull my shirt against my stomach. “You can’t.”

  He stays where he is. His expression hardly changes. He barely moves, nothing more than a flicker of his eyes, down, then back up. “You getting fat,” he says, but the slight shake in his voice tells me he understands. This is my chance, he’s off balance; I try pushing past him but he’s expecting it, now, arms rigid, locked into place. He throws his body forward, pinning me against the counter, knocking the breath out of me.

  “Where you think you goin? You just like ya ma, you know.” His voice is steady now. “Always getting in problems. Y’all too slack for ya own good. I know you sleepin around. How was he? Your friend in the jeep? And that little boy you got comin round here with the bike? You got plenty friends. Hey, Sharice?”

  “Stop! You did this to me!” I’ve never yelled so loud. Now, when it’s daytime and there’s nobody to wake up, to hear me.

  “What you yellin for? Quiet, man. You ain gotta carry on. You ain gotta get all feisty like you did in the truck. You still owe me something, from then, ya know.” He takes a step back, but his arms don’t move. “Turn around. Turn. I know you don’t want hurt that little thing in there.”

  I struggle against him one last time, pounding my fists against his chest and arms, but I can’t break free. He’s too strong for me. He grabs my arms, forcing them down to my sides.

  “Turn around.”

  I can’t run. I can’t fight. I can’t even move.

  He wrenches my body around so my back is to him.

  Out the window, the bougainvillea rustles in a slight breeze. And then his whole weight slams against me. Pressed into the counter until I am it, it is me. This isn’t happening. The ssshk ssshk of coarse polyester pants rubbing up against old cotton skirt. “Look at you, big up an ain even seventeen yet. Just like ya ma.”