I Breathe You

by Lori L. Clark

  “Rhane? Emmy?” Ian’s voice calls from the kitchen. I feel the tops of my ears begin to heat up at the thought of having to face him. Before I can crawl under the piano, he’s standing in the doorway. He smiles his crooked smile at me, and I narrow my eyes into the deadliest glare I can muster on short notice. His eyebrows dip together in the center. “What was that look for?”

  I dart my eyes to Emmy and back again and mouth, not now.

  Ian reaches for Emmy’s hand and bends at the waist in front of her so that she can read his lips. “Gwen has a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for you in the kitchen. You go on out, I’ll be there in a minute.”

  Emmy smiles and heads toward the kitchen. I move to follow her out, but Ian steps between me and the doorway. “What are you so pissed about?” He folds his arms in front of his chest, waiting for my explanation.

  My jaw clenches so tightly my teeth begin to throb. I fist my hands on my hips. “Are you married?”

  The color drains from his face, and he drags his hand through his hair. “It’s not like it sounds…”

  I hold up my hand to silence him. “Are you, or are you not, married?”

  He stands silently staring down at his boots. Slowly he pulls his eyes up to meet mine. The anguish in his eyes tells me everything I need to know.

  “Unfuckingbelievable.” I shake my head and push past him out of the room. He doesn’t try to stop me, nor does he follow with any explanation. Taking the stairs two at a time, I collapse onto my bed; sobs wrack my body in waves.

  Gwen comes up sometime later to check on me, and I send her away. “I’m fine,” I tell her. Though I’m so not fine.

  I guess the fact that I didn’t lunge at him and rip his throat out with my teeth is a good sign. Do I cope better with anger or with heartache? I don’t know. I hate the spiraling out of control feeling that takes over my body when I’m pissed. Why, for once, can’t I just walk away gracefully like I don’t care and stop letting things break me?

  That’s another conversation I need to have with Dr. Stephens, I guess.

  Chapter 34

  I decide to stop feeling sorry for myself about the time the aroma of whatever Gwen’s prepared for dinner wafts up the stairs. She peers over her shoulder at me when she hears me come into the kitchen. “I thought maybe the smell might entice you to join me,” she smiles thinly.

  I ignore her and try to pull more air into my lungs. I feel as though I’m trying to breathe through a straw. I can’t seem to get enough oxygen. Panting like a dog, taking short, shallow breaths helps only marginally. No way should I be this out of breath from just walking down from my room to the kitchen. I grab a bottle of water from the fridge and help Gwen set the table.

  She randomly glances at me every two seconds. I know it’s only a matter of time before she cracks and asks me about what happened with Ian earlier. I collapse onto a chair and fill a small bowl with some salad greens.

  “Is T coming tonight?” I whisper, assuming that’s why she’s made so much food.

  “He was going to,” she stabs a pork chop from the platter with her fork. “Have you looked outside lately?”

  “No why?”

  She nods toward the kitchen window. “Have a look,” she urges.

  Curious, I hop up and wipe the condensation from the window pane so I can see through. The yard light captures the snowflakes, some as big as quarters. It looks like there’s already about six or seven inches of snow on the ground, and judging from the thunder rumbling overhead, it’s not going to let up anytime soon.

  “Good thing we don’t have to go anywhere,” I sigh.

  “Hopefully we won’t lose power again,” she says.

  The corner of my mouth twists into a scowl thinking about the last time we were without power. Thankfully, Ian’s not here this time since I don’t like him very much right now. “I’ll go check on Mama Dog after I eat.”

  Gwen nods. Tipping her head, she scrutinizes me.

  I set down my fork and ask her, “Why are you gawking at me like that?” I figure she’s dying to ask, so I might as well give her the opening she’s been waiting for.

  She wipes her hands on the napkin in her lap and presses the back of her hand against my forehead. “Do you feel alright?”

  I push her hand away from my face and wrinkle my nose. “I’m just a little short of breath. It’s nothing.”

  Worry etches lines into her forehead as she continues to study me. “Maybe you should go for a checkup. Thomas said you would likely need to have scar tissue removed if your breathing or swallowing becomes difficult.”

  I shrug and swirl the mashed potatoes and corn around on my plate until they’re an unappetizing, sloppy mess.

  “Are you having trouble swallowing?” she asks, eyeing the dinner I’ve done more playing with than eating.

  “I’m not that hungry, I guess.” I stick a forkful of the potatoes-corn in my mouth and chew slowly on purpose, in an attempt to appease her.

  “Not that it’s any of my business, but what happened between you and Ian today?”

  I shrug. “Nothing much. He just conveniently forgot to mention the fact that there’s a Mrs. Ian Callahan and when I asked him about it, he couldn’t even look me in the eye.”

  Gwen stops mid-chew, staring at me pointedly. “He told you about Emmy’s mother?”

  My eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “What? Did everyone know he was married but me?” A dull ache in my temples begins to throb painfully in time with each beat of my heart. I pinch the bridge of my nose between my thumb and middle finger and squeeze my eyes closed.

  “No, of course not. I mean, I knew he had been married. I just assumed the divorce was probably final by now,” she says. She spreads some butter on her roll and continues, “I had heard he filed months and months ago. Back before she went into the hospital.”

  “She’s been in the hospital for that long? What happened to her?”

  From the pinched look on Gwen’s face, it’s obvious she’s wrestling with what and how much to say. “It’s not really my place to talk out of turn.”

  My hand curls into a fist. I pound on the tabletop hard enough to make the silverware jump three inches. “Tell me!”

  She puts down her fork and leans forward, resting her elbows on the table. “Last spring, Ian served Aubrey with divorce papers, asking for sole custody of Emmy. She didn’t take it well. Before the night was over, Aubrey was taken away in an ambulance.”

  “He beat her?” Jesus. Not only is he a liar, he’s a wife-beater too? Holy bad choices, Batman. Eyes closed, I begin shaking my head back and forth. Inhale, one, two, three. Hold, one, two, three. Exhale, one, two, three.

  “No, no. Nothing like that,” she adds quickly. “Emmy’s mom has been under psychiatric care up in Springfield.”

  I close my eyes and rub my forehead. “Did she try to commit suicide or something?”

  Gwen sighs heavily and tosses her napkin onto the table. “I don’t know the details.”

  “Don’t know? Seriously?” I level her with a heated glare.

  “Aubrey’s had some…some mental problems. Honestly, I don’t know all of the details.” Gwen takes a drink of her water and swirls the liquid around in the glass before continuing. “I’ve heard stories. But I’m not going to repeat them because I don’t know what’s fact and what’s fiction.”

  That’s nice. “Crazy” isn’t merely a term of endearment for Ian’s wife. She is literally, certifiably whacked. “Whatever. The bottom line? He’s still legally married.”

  “I’m sure he didn’t intend to lie to you, Rhane.”

  “Oh, he didn’t lie exactly,” I whisper.

  An omission of facts is the same damn thing if you ask me. Before he stuck his tongue down my throat would have been a good time to mention the whole crazy wife scenario. The chair scrapes against the floor loudly as I shove myself away from the table.

  “I’m going out to check on Mama Dog.”

  “Don’t stay out to
o long, that cold air won’t help your breathing any,” she orders.

  I shrug into my winter coat and slip on the old boots, ignoring her.

  Chapter 35

  Outside, I make a path to the garage by dragging my feet through the shin-deep snow. Tree branches groan and creak in protest against the weight of the heavy, wet snow which is still coming down at a rate of about two to three inches per hour.

  Surprisingly, Mama Dog is inside the doghouse with her four snoozing pups, all five are cozily snuggled together. I guess the piece of canvas Ian tacked over the opening to form a makeshift door, coupled with today’s lousy weather has enticed her to move indoors.

  I hurriedly grab a scoop of the dried kibble and locate her food and water bowls under the porch. I scoop some snow into the water dish and dog food into the other, sticking them behind the curtained door. Mama Dog lifts her head and watches me, no longer growling with each visit. With the heating pad, the covered door, and an old quilt I threw inside, she’s got it pretty good.

  Standing, I stare up into the falling snow, the large flakes kissing my face. I sigh and move toward the front door of the house, stomping my feet free of the excess snow before going inside. Contrary to Gwen’s warning, it was no more difficult for me to breathe in the cold air than it is standing here in the warmth of the kitchen.

  The thought of going back into the hospital for surgery spreads icy fingers down the back of my neck. I shudder and take off my snow-covered coat and boots.

  “Want some ice cream?” Gwen asks. She’s in front of the refrigerator with the freezer door open, staring in silent debate. She glances over her shoulder at me for my answer.

  “Ice cream? It’s freezing out there.” I point behind me.

  “So? It’s never too cold for ice cream. Ice cream is God’s gift to lonely, bored, and angry women everywhere.” She removes the carton from the freezer and sits it on the counter.

  She has a point. “Okay.”

  Later, we’re in the music room enjoying our ice cream with rich, piping hot cocoa. It sounds like a strange combination, I know, but I think I’ve just found the next best thing to sex for unknotting my tension-filled muscles.

  Gwen works her crossword puzzle and I stare at a blank page in my journal. I tap the pen against my lips in silent contemplation. Concentration plows furrows into my forehead. Sentences are fleeting; as soon as one moves rapid-fire through my thoughts, another contradictory one takes its place. My head is too jumbled up with errant gibberish to even think about composing anything comprehensible.

  I snap the book closed in my lap and stare into the fireplace. The flames are meditative in a way. The experts claim that to meditate, you should try to empty your mind of all thoughts and just be. Try explaining that to an overactive brain moving faster than the speed of light.

  I curl up on the sofa and pull the afghan over my legs. Not that I’m cold, I just want the feeling of security it gives me. I’m one of those people who — no matter how hot it is — has to sleep with at least a sheet draped over them. I drift into a fitful slumber and begin to dream.

  I’m floating through the warm water, gliding effortlessly toward the bottom. Something shiny captures my attention and I swim closer. Just as I reach out to grasp whatever it is, it drifts away from my outstretched hand.

  My limbs are tired from swimming. I stop for a second to rest. My lungs burn from the lack of oxygen. I search for the bottom of the pool, desperate for something to push off of and propel myself toward the light at the surface which seems to be a million miles away. I begin to panic. I’m too far from a bottom I cannot see, and my arms are too heavy and weak to pull me up and out of the water. Wearily, I thrash about, desperate to breathe.

  I sink lower and lower until the hands of a faceless stranger begin shaking me.

  “Rhane, can you hear me?” Gwen repeats frantically. “Wake up! You’re having a bad dream.”

  I kick wildly, trying to free my tangled legs.

  She slaps me hard across the face, and it jolts me awake. No longer floating in the watery prison, I gasp, hungrily trying to swallow air into my searing lungs. It’s no good. There’s not enough air. I feel like I’m trying to catch my breath after jogging up a mountainside. The air rushes into my mouth in big gulps, but I’m unable to extract enough oxygen.

  My chest heaves and I begin to silently whimper in fear.

  “Rhane, I need you to listen to me,” Gwen urges. “You need to try and relax. Do your breathing exercises. Can you do that for me?”

  Tears slide down my cheeks, certain I’m about to die, I nod my head. Inhale, one, two, three. Hold, one, two, three. Exhale, one, two, three. Repeat.

  “I’ll be right back. I’m going to contact Life Alert!” she calls to me from over her shoulder, already running toward the kitchen.

  That’s the last thing I remember before regaining semi-consciousness. There’s a high-pitched whine followed by a whoop-whoop-whoop. My eyes flutter open. Something uncomfortably foreign covers my nose and mouth. A young woman I’ve never seen before hovers over me. “Just relax. You’re going to be okay. We’ll have you at County in a few minutes.”

  My eyes dart around the small space. Gwen is beside me, squeezing my hand. I hear someone yell, “Secure. Take ‘er up.”

  “You’re going to take a little helicopter ride. We’ll have you there in no time,” someone says. The roar of the blades is deafening as the chopper begins to lift off the ground. I squeeze my eyes closed, trying not to let my fear of flying rob me of my precious oxygen.

  I’m only vaguely aware of the conversation taking place around me. Talk of intubation, oxygen saturation, heart rate, blood pressure and other vitals float from out of nowhere. Everyone seems to be talking from very far away, which makes no sense. The belly of the helicopter is not that big.

  I’m so very tired. I just need to rest. Tears seep from the corners of my eyes.

  Someone leans close, telling me to hang in there. “Stay with us, Rhane. Can you hear me?”

  Go away! I want to scream. Let me sleep! Why won’t they leave me alone?

  Chapter 36

  I’ve been in this hospital for three days. At least I’m in my own room now, instead of the ICU. The slop they served for breakfast sits untouched on the tray beside the bed.

  Since arriving here, I’ve been poked, prodded, operated on to remove scar tissue from my windpipe, and I even had the pleasure of a tiny camera being inserted down my throat so Dr. Lee could get a better look at the damage.

  Dr. Lee believes he can fix me. Give me a voice again. I asked him if I’d be able to sing like before and he told me no. I told Dr. Lee thanks but no thanks. I’m not interested in any surgery, which might give me the ability to talk louder than the whisper I have now. I don’t think he liked my answer.

  I should be in a good mood since I’m going home later this morning. But I’m not really. I stare out the window at the brick building that is my view. I’m on the fourth floor and there are bars on the windows. My imagination taunts me into believing that they’ve actually locked me up in the psych ward and the bars are to prevent me from jumping out.

  I’m not sure who’s coming to bring me home today. All I know is that they can’t get here fast enough. I’m beyond ready. So, imagine my surprise when the person I least expect to see at my door, is at my door.

  My jaw nearly unhinges, and all I can manage to do for a few seconds is gape at him disbelievingly. His mouth tilts into a crooked grin.

  “Oh. Hell. No.” I cross my arms in front of me and glare at him.

  The smile on his face falters momentarily. He makes no effort to enter the room, choosing instead to fill the doorway. “I’m sure I’m just about the last person in the world you want to see right now.”

  “Then why are you here? If you’re my ride, I’ll call a cab.” I pull my eyes from his face and turn back to the window.

  His footsteps echo across the tile floor, coming to a stop behind me. He doesn’t touch
me. He doesn’t need to for me to know just how close he is. The familiar, warm scent of cinnamon envelopes me. Heat radiates off his body, effectively raising the room temperature by at least ten degrees. Shit, shit, shit. I can’t bring myself to turn and look at him, and I squirm under the weight of his stare. I don’t trust that my heart won’t try and overrule my head where he’s concerned.

  “Gwen’s on her way here now. She’s driving you home,” he says softly. The sound of his voice causes the hair on my arms to lift and I rub them as though I’m chilled.

  “Then why are you here?” I repeat, turning toward him.

  He edges closer, stepping between me and the window. I give him a look filled with as much disdain as I can muster. He drops down so that we’re eye level. I know I should get up and walk away from him, but I’m rooted to the spot. He reaches for my hand, and I recoil. For an instant, his eyes flicker, and I want to believe that it’s hurt I see there.

  “Gwen and your Uncle Thomas both suggested I not upset you, that your body can’t handle any more stress right now,” he says, staring at the floor.

  “So you just show up anyway? How thoughtful of you to think only of yourself. Oh wait, that’s what you’ve done all along, isn’t it?”

  “You’ve got to believe me when I say that I wanted to tell you the whole story from the beginning. If nothing else, I can tell you in good faith that my intentions were honorable,” he pauses and shakes his head. “I could never seem to find the right time or words…or the balls…to do it.”

  I roll my eyes at him. “That’s okay. None of that matters now. The truth’s out. Don’t worry about me. I’ll get over it.” I stare at him coldly. “I never liked you that much anyway.”

  His head jerks as though my words have physically slapped him. He pushes to his feet and mutters, “I still owe you the truth.”

  “You don’t owe me a damn thing.” I wave my hand, hoping to dismiss him from my life.