I Breathe You

by Lori L. Clark

  I had caused a scene in the parking ramp. He was embarrassed by people stopping to stare and warned me to shut up. Since I hadn’t gone into a full-blown rage yet, I was able to contain myself long enough to crawl into the passenger seat of Dalton’s car and slam the door behind me.

  These facts had come to me before, becoming more detailed with each reoccurring nightmare. Usually, it was at this point where I woke up, never dreaming past the slamming of the car door. This time, however, the dream continued.

  I stayed calm until we were out of the parking ramp. I even smiled and waved at the onlookers to temporarily appease Dalton’s irrational phobia of public shame.

  As soon as we were out on the highway, I began to unleash a verbal fury on Dalton once again. It was raining so hard the wipers were barely able to clear the windshield. Dalton leaned close to the steering wheel, trying to focus on the lines on the road. Keeping the car from skidding out of control on the nearly bald tires in the monsoon-like rains was taking all of his concentration.

  “You know I’m right, you fucker. Admit it!” I screamed. When my verbal assault wasn’t giving me the satisfaction I sought, I began to use my fists. I punched him, hard, in the shoulder. The car fishtailed, and Dalton eased off the gas, trying to get it back under control.

  I crawl to the toilet and lose Thanksgiving dinner. Sobs wrack my body, and in spite of the chill in the room, I’m sweating profusely. I pull myself to my feet and splash cold water on my face. I swish some mouthwash around to get rid of the vile taste in my mouth and pop two ibuprofen before my knees give out, and I collapse into one hot mess on the bathroom floor.

  Soft footsteps pad across the floor behind me. Ian wraps his arms around me, gently pulling me into his lap. Somehow, he manages to wrap the quilt around us both, cocooning us inside. He gently rocks me back and forth, brushing soft whisper-like kisses in my sweat-dampened hair. I continue to sob and try to regain control of my breathing.

  “It’s okay, Sunshine. I’ve got you,” he murmurs. “Go on and cry like nobody’s watching. I’ll be your rock.”

  Sometime later, my breathing begins to come in calm, short puffs, and the sobs subside into tiny hiccups. Tears still flow down my cheeks, but I’m clawing my way back to regaining my senses. I shift in Ian’s lap and wrap my arms around his neck, burying my face in his shirt. I whisper a heartfelt thank you.

  He leans back and cups my chin in his hand. His eyes are filled with something unreadable. Maybe it’s my pain I see mirrored there. He kisses me on the forehead, and I sink further into him. My hands fist in his hair, and I pull his mouth to mine. I have never needed him to kiss me the way I need him to right now.

  Maybe I imagine that he hesitates for a split-second before his lips finally mold flawlessly against mine. Tentatively, his tongue slides between my lips, exploring the soft folds of my mouth. I wrap my lips around his tongue and pull it deeper into my hungry mouth, gently sucking. His arms tighten around me, and he groans before he pushes to his feet, bringing me with him. He backs me against the bathroom wall.

  I cling hungrily to him, and my long legs naturally slide around his hips, locking behind him. His hands grip my ass, grinding feverishly against me until I’m filled with an ache so deep I’m trembling. I disengage from his mouth and frame his face with my hands. His pupils are large and dark, and there is no misinterpreting the message they are silently conveying.

  “I need you, Ian.” I pant, breathlessly. “Right here, right now. Please.”

  His body stills, and he dips his forehead against mine. “Sunshine, you have no idea how badly I want you right now. But I can’t. We shouldn’t. I just can’t.” His voice is thick and cracks with emotion. My legs uncurl from around him and my feet lightly touch the floor. I try to disentangle from his arms, but he clings to me urgently.

  “It’s okay. I understand.” I clench my teeth, my jaw muscles jump. The fever burning inside of me is unbearable. I feel as though I’m a fragile egg, teetering on a ledge, ready to crack in a million tiny pieces at any second. His rejection stings, but I can’t blame him for not wanting me. I’m broken. I don’t deserve his love.

  I shove down the emotions building inside of me. I try to duck beneath Ian’s arms, desperate to get away from him. I have to put some space between us.

  He places his palms flat against the wall on either side of me. “No. I don’t think you understand at all. Babe, my life is all kinds of crazy fucked up. There are days when things start closing in on me and I feel like blowing my brains out,” he says. He turns his back on me and rakes his hands through his hair. “Then I remember Emmy. That beautiful, innocent, little girl. She didn’t sign up for this shit. I’m a selfish fucker, Sunshine. Thinking with my dick has gotten me into so much trouble that I may never dig my way out.”

  Painful, unshed tears burn at the back of my eyes and I blink them away. “No, Ian. I’m the selfish one. This isn’t all about me. I get that. I want you so bad, if I could scream, I would. Every time I see you with Emmy, the ice around my heart thaws a little bit more.”

  “I would love nothing more than to carry you into that bedroom and bury myself inside of you until you’re begging for me to stop,” he hisses. “But I can’t, Sunshine. When it happens between you and me, I promise I won’t be able to walk away from you. And right now, that’s a promise I can’t make.” He turns toward me, closing the distance between us.

  I fall against him. “Sometimes when I think of never seeing you again, I can’t breathe.”

  “It’s alright, Sunshine. I’ll be your oxygen,” he whispers, kissing the top of my head. He sighs. “Let’s get back downstairs before your uncle comes barreling in here, shotgun a-blazing.”

  I nod. “You go first. I’ll be down in a minute.”

  Chapter 32

  The week following what I now refer to as “The Bathroom Incident,” Ian and I have settled into polite avoidance. It isn’t that it’s awkward being close to him. Unless you consider the sexual tension overload awkward. Comparable to being on a strict diet and walking out of your way just to avoid the front window of the cupcake shop. If it’s out of sight, then you’ll be less tempted to succumb to cramming handfuls of the ooey gooey goodness into your starving mouth.

  Did I really just compare Ian to cupcakes? Ooey gooey goodness? Really? Yes. Because I still feel the urge to devour him in every way possible. I know it just isn’t in the cards for us. I’m so far from being ready to get involved with him, or anyone else, at this point in my life, it’s probably a good thing one of us had some morals during “The Bathroom Incident.”

  Gwen is driving me to my appointment. I hold my journal in my lap, and my fingers fiddle with the edges of the cover nervously. When Dr. Stephens suggested I write down my feelings, I was adamant that these pages would never see a single drop of ink. Now, they have slowly filled with emotion-inspired randomness. Words I might one day string together. Lyrics for songs I will never sing.

  I don’t have long to wait before my appointment today, which is good. Sitting in the waiting room makes me anxious. Wanting to bolt out the door and keep on running. I take a seat in the overstuffed leather chair across from Dr. Stephens. He leans forward, elbows resting on his desk, his fingers steepled like a church’s roof, and he smiles warmly at me. “Blonde today?” he comments about my latest hair color choice.

  I nod. “I hear blondes have more fun.”

  He laughs. “Let me know how that works out for you.”

  His laughter is warm and genuine, and I smile back at him. “Okay.”

  His eyes drift to the journal in my lap and he reaches forward, “Care to share?”

  A nervous smile parts my lips and I hand him the book. “I’ve started to write random song lyrics again.”

  “Good,” he says simply. Taking the book from me, he turns to where the satin page marker holds my place and flips backward a few pages before settling on a passage. He reads silently at first. Then he quotes a passage out loud.

 
; If you were a crayon in my box of colors which one would you be?

  Blue for the sky because you are the air that I breathe.

  Red for the passion, rage, all of the emotions you bring out in me.

  Green for your smiles that leaves me with the promise of spring.

  He quirks an eyebrow and peers over the top of the book in my direction. “You’ve associated your feelings with colors.”

  “I guess.” I shrug and pluck at the threads on my t-shirt.

  He skims over a few more pages before closing the journal and handing it back to me. “Your hair color, for instance. Last week, it was blue. Today, you’re blonde,” he observes.

  “Okay.” I’m apparently not feeling overly articulate at the moment.

  “This is good, really,” he smiles kindly. “Maybe next week you’ll come in as a raging redhead. One day the brunette will be back. That, I think, is the day we’ll know Rhane is ready to be Rhane again.”

  “So deep, doc. What makes you so sure Rhane ever wants to be Rhane again?” I smile faintly, speaking of myself in the third person.

  “That’s why I get paid the big bucks,” he comments offhandedly.

  I roll my eyes and hug the journal to my chest like it’s my most favorite prized possession. “I remembered.” I watch him through lowered lashes.

  His eyes spark with interest. “Everything?” he asks incredulously.

  I shake my head. “Enough.”

  “So, why don’t you tell me?” he encourages with sympathetic eyes.

  I pause, let out a deep breath, and dart my eyes up toward the ceiling to avoid looking at him. Pausing uncomfortably long before finally blurting, “It was my fault. The accident. It was because of my anger Dalton crashed the car that night. I killed him. I mean, I wasn’t driving the car or anything, but the accident was definitely my fault.”

  Dr. Stephens stands and walks around to the front of his desk. He hops on top and I find it slightly disconcerting having him tower over me. “Go on,” he prods. “What else?”

  “There’s nothing else. I mean, isn’t that enough? I woke from a dream. In a cold sweat, terrified, disgusted with myself, because now I know that I killed Dalton just as sure as if I had pulled the ring from a hand grenade and handed it to him to hold.”

  He taps his fingertips against his lips before speaking again, “Do you want to talk about why you believe the accident was your fault?”

  I glare at him. The familiar stirrings of agitation begin to build inside of me. “Um, because I was pissed? We were fighting? No scratch that. I was fighting, and he was trying to drive the damn car. He wouldn’t fight back…so I punched him. He lost control of the car. The car skidded out of control. We crashed. I killed the only guy I’ve ever loved. The end.” I hiss the words as loudly as my fractured voice box will allow. My throat, raw and achy, feels like it is on the verge of closing up and cutting off my oxygen completely.

  Tears I’ve struggled to keep at bay claw and burn their way out of my eyes. I stand, suddenly feeling unable to sit still. I desperately need to dispel some of the adrenaline pumping through me. My hands curl into fists so tightly that my fingernails dig into my palms.

  “Wow. That sucks,” he says.

  I spin on my heels, gaping at him. “I just admitted to murdering my boyfriend and your best educated response is ‘That sucks,’?”

  “What would you like for me to say?” he asks. His eyes are narrowed, studying me, as though he’s waiting for the volcano that is my rage to erupt and scald us both to death.

  I open my mouth, snap it shut, open it once more, before finally snapping it shut again. My brain gears begin to engage and for once, I’m thinking before speaking or acting. He’s right. What the hell did I want him to say? I’m sorry?

  Inappropriate, rotten-timed laughter bubbles up from the bottom of my stomach. My shoulders begin to laugh with silent snorts. Great. Well, at least if I’m going to lose it completely, I’ve come to the right place.

  He holds a box of tissues toward me, like a peace offering. I snatch a few and blow my nose, a few more and wipe my eyes while silently repeating my mantra. Inhale, one, two, three. Hold, one, two, three. Exhale, one, two, three. Repeat.

  When the tears finally subside, I glance at the timer on Dr. Stephens’ desk. The fine grains of sand have made their final descent indicating that my allotted time is up for another week. I’m agitated, and filled with tension. Not even certain why, I’m in desperate need of some form of non-destructive release. Hungry for a serving of make-up sex with a side order of mind-blowing orgasms.

  He clears his throat and my face heats. Obviously, I need to go to a different restaurant.

  I toss the used tissues into the trash basket and tell him I might come back next week. If I can fit it into my busy schedule. He laughs and I leave.

  Chapter 33

  Practicing sign language feels awkward and a little bit like I’m swatting away pesky gnats or picking imaginary floaters out of the air. Emmy is more patient than anyone I’ve ever met. I could take lessons from her on a lot of things. Today, when she arrives, I will have a surprise for her. I’ve learned how to sign our names.

  I’m waiting for her in the piano room. The day is colorless, and I spotted a few snowflakes falling sporadically earlier when I went out to feed Mama Dog and kin. The fire inside feels cozy while I sit quietly writing in my journal.

  I hear the front door open and soft footsteps trot down the hallway toward where I wait. Emmy opens the door and skips over to where I’m seated. Her eyes grow big. She points to my head and tentatively reaches for a lock of my blonde hair. This is the first time she’s seen the new color. I smile and ask “Do you like it?”

  The corner of her mouth hikes up, and she tilts her head to the side. Her eyes drift to the floor. She wants to say something, and I can tell that the side of her that has been brought up to be polite doesn’t want to say something that might offend me. Soon, her eyes meet mine. She spreads her hand in front of her face, as though she were praying with one hand. Using her thumb, she taps against her chin twice.

  Now it’s my turn to do the head tilt thing. My eyes narrow slightly, and I say “I don’t understand.”

  She mimics writing in the air and I hand her the whiteboard from the table beside me.

  She writes mommy.

  I still don’t understand what she’s trying to tell me, and the glazed-over expression on my face must give me away. She sighs and rubs out the original word, starting over. When she’s done writing, she holds the board up so that I can read it. She’s written you look like my mommy.

  Oh. Didn’t see that coming.

  Emmy points to my hair again.

  “Oh, your mommy has blonde hair?”

  She casts her eyes to the floor and nods slowly. I reach forward instinctively and tip her chin up to face me. “I’m sure she’s very pretty,” I tell her. Inside, I’m not sure of any such thing. In my mind, the woman flies around on a broom, has pet monkeys, and is deathly afraid of water.

  I don’t see her much. Emmy writes.

  I assume it’s a custody thing, and Ian obviously has primary physical care. Emmy must only get to visit her mother during pre-arranged times. Curiosity prompts me to ask, “Do you go stay with your mommy on the weekends?”

  Emmy’s forehead wrinkles, along with her little nose. She shakes her head and writes slowly and carefully, stopping briefly at the big word at the end, trying to remember how it’s spelled. She lives at the hospital.

  “Oh.” This is something I hadn’t expected.

  Emmy uses her sweater to erase the whiteboard and writes another long sentence. She will live with us soon.

  Super. Now I feel nauseous. I think my intestines just reversed direction. “She’s coming to live with you and your dad?”

  A small smile slides across her face and she nods again. With a typical childlike attention span, she drops the whiteboard and reaches for my hand, dragging me over to the piano. Thoughts race
through my mind like a thoroughbred out of the starting gate at the Kentucky Derby and I briefly wonder how to sign, “Lying. Cheating. Bastard.”

  Are Ian and Emmy’s mom married? Why has she been in a hospital? What kind of hospital? She’s moving in with them? Each assumption is less pleasant than the one before. No wonder he wouldn’t go any further with me. What the hell was he doing even kissing me? Not to mention the way his eyes undress me whenever we’re in the same room.

  My head swims and my pulse thunders in my ears. Emmy tugs on my sleeve to get my attention. I swallow a few times and attempt to regain control of my thoughts. I feel faint and would love nothing better than to break something so that I can get a grip on the anger I feel roiling.

  Emmy yanks again, and I do my best to put on a happy face for her sake. One more question and then I’ll shut up. “You must be happy your mommy is moving back home.” Is it bad that I secretly want her to say that she isn’t happy at all?

  Emmy shrugs.

  “Your mommy and daddy must love each other.” Okay, so I lied. This is the last question, I swear.

  Her eyes light up and her head bobs up and down.

  Lovely. Now any remaining questions I might have been thinking of are all congealing at the bottom of my stomach along with the answers to the ones I wish I’d never asked.

  Emmy sits at the piano practicing her part of the “Heart and Soul” duet I taught her. She looks up at me questioningly. I slide beside her on the bench and run my fingers through my hair, toying with the idea of tearing it all out and trying on the bald look for a change.

  She’s becoming quite good at playing the piano; her long fingers glide over the smooth keys effortlessly. A baseball of emotion forms at the back of my throat when I think about how she’ll never be able to hear herself play.

  After she plays for a while, she turns toward me and signs my name. We’ve been working on the letters of the alphabet and when she takes it slow, I can figure out the letters she’s signing. Stringing them into short words will take me a little while.