Hold My Breath

by Ginger Scott

  “I’ll see you Monday then, I guess,” he says.

  We stare at each other for a few more seconds, my hand poised on the button for my window. Will nods one more time before I push it, and I watch him in my rearview mirror as I drive away. I look at him for as long as I can. He never moves. He never tells me a thing.

  Straight shot my ass.

  Will

  It’s a little over a two-hour drive to Indianapolis. Without Uncle Duncan in the car, I make it just under two. It’s noon when I roll up to her house, right in time for lunch. The van is out front, and I’m glad to see it there. At least one thing I’ve helped Tanya with has gone right.

  I sit at the edge of the driveway for a few minutes thinking about Maddy, but looking at the doorway to my real responsibilities. I’m taking on too much; I know I am. But Tanya’s the one who convinced me to compete again. She said I needed to do one thing for me. And at least while I’m training in Knox, I’ll be able to drive to her house to help with things rather than having her save them up for whenever I can get myself to make the trip. Flights…they’re still hard for me.

  I kill the engine, and the front door opens. She’s wearing sweat pants and a large State T-shirt, her blonde hair twisted in a knot on top of her head. She looks exhausted. I’m not helping enough.

  “Thanks for driving in, Will. I’m really sorry. I know you were just here, but I didn’t expect the lift to come in so quickly. I tried to figure it out, but some of those parts are so dang heavy,” she says.

  I grasp both of her shoulders and slow her down. She closes her eyes and exhales, her shoulders slumping. She blinks them open, and this close, I can really see the circles around them.

  “I don’t mind driving here at all. Ever. Okay?”

  She breathes in again, holding it for a second then huffing out stress that I know will begin rebuilding again in seconds.

  “Okay,” she says, a forced smile stretching into her cheeks.

  “Show me the equipment,” I say.

  Tanya leads me through the living room of the small two-bedroom home, and we pass through boxes of medical supplies and stacks of clean towels, linens, and a few baskets of unfinished laundry. She glances at me sheepishly when I have to step over a pile of more clothes to get into the kitchen.

  “Sometimes it’s hard to keep up,” she says.

  I look around at the state of her house. She looks buried in life.

  “Maybe I should come stay here…just for a little while,” I start, but she laughs to herself and reaches for my hand, squeezing it.

  “I’ll catch up, Will. You can’t come here and drive to train every day,” she says.

  I chew at the inside of my cheek, my mouth tasting of guilt as I nod and agree with her. She’s right. I couldn’t keep up with training at the Shore Club if I lived here. Doesn’t mean it’s not the right thing to do, though.

  “At least let me hire you some help? In-home care, or a nurse, or…”

  She holds up a box labeled LIFT MECHANISM, interrupting me before I can continue offering solutions that will never be enough to fill in for everything she needs. What she needs is me…here…full time.

  “How about you figure this out instead, and then I’ll get Dylan up, and we can try out this whole van thing with his new power chair? You do that, and we’ll call it even,” she says, looking up at me through her lashes.

  I shake my head and take the box in my hand, pulling out a booklet that unfolds into pages of tiny-print instructions. I drop the box to the floor and begin to read, rubbing the back of my neck wondering if I’m smart enough to even know where to begin.

  “See, you do this, and we’re even,” she laughs, stepping around the laundry pile toward her refrigerator.

  “For once, Tanya, I think that sounds fair,” I say, glancing at her then back down to step one of 178.

  “Coffee?” she asks.

  “Lots,” I say.

  It takes me a little more than two hours and six phone calls to my Uncle Duncan to get the lift mechanism working and attached to the van. For such a small part, it serves an incredibly enormous function. We test it on our own a few times before moving the electric wheelchair down the hallway to Dylan’s door.

  “He’s just napping. He gets so tired, and we had therapy this morning,” she whispers.

  I push the door open slowly, and Dylan doesn’t stir until I kneel at the edge of his bed and grab his hand in both of mine. My touch startles him, but the second his eyes focus and he realizes it’s me, he begins to squirm and moan with excitement. His fingers fight against their rigidity, and I force mine into his, massaging his impossible muscles and joints, wishing I knew how to make things okay for him.

  “How’s the new therapy going?” I ask, leaning forward and pressing my head to Dylan’s. It calms him when I do this; it always has. He smiles, and I can see he’s grown another tooth. “Hey, buddy,” I whisper to him.

  “It’s hard to tell. We’ve only been at it for three days or so. But you know Dylan; he’s up for anything,” she says.

  “He is,” I say, smiling.

  His hand comes loose from my grip, so I lean back on my heels and let Dylan work to steady himself. His severe cerebral palsy has kept him non-verbal, but the doctors we met with a few days ago told us we weren’t too late to be aggressive with speech therapy.

  “What do you say, Dylan? Wanna take this new chair and van for a ride?” I ask.

  “You’ll need to help him in, but he’s already figured out the forward and back. He doesn’t steer very well, though, so I keep it on the lowest speed,” she says, while I lift his small, struggling body into the seat.

  “I’m good at patching walls. I broke a lot of them roughhousing when I was little,” I chuckle.

  “You and Evan? Hard to imagine,” she says.

  I laugh lightly to myself before giving all of my attention over to Dylan. Tanya was right about his comfort in the chair, and he begins to palm at the controls quickly, his fingers finding the right switch, sending the chair forward. He bangs the corner of the doorjamb only once on his way out and manages to get down the hallway without much trouble. The ramp I built during my last visit seems to be able to handle the weight of the chair, and within a few minutes, with Tanya’s guidance, he’s moved himself to the open door of the van.

  It takes us several tries to line him up just right, but the first time the lift raises him, Dylan begins to hoot loudly and clap his curled hands. I hold a fist to my mouth and pull Tanya to my side, letting her cry at the sight of her son finally being able to go for a ride in something safe. Until now, she’s been carrying him to the backseat of her old car and laying him down, strapping him in with the belts and avoiding major roads, hoping she wouldn’t get in an accident. He’d gotten too heavy for her to carry, and I finally convinced her to let me buy some of the things she so desperately needs. As far as this takes her, though, she still has so many hurdles to overcome. The more times we practice with the lift, the more the weight of it all hits my chest, and the more guilt I feel for letting her do this alone.

  We get Dylan back inside. He watches television in the living room, and I sit with Tanya at the table, finishing the pot of coffee she brewed. I slide my empty cup on the table and pry hers from her hand, holding on to her small fingers.

  “We could make this work. Let me stay here. We’ll just see how it goes,” I say, my eyes pleading with her.

  She runs her thumb across my knuckles and turns my palm over in both of hers, running her fingers along the lines tattooed on my wrist.

  “I count twelve here, Will. That’s amazing. I’m so proud of you,” she says. I look down at my skin, the last line still pink around the edges.

  “I got that last one a little early,” I grimace.

  “You could put a hundred on your arm now. I know you’ll make it,” she says, her eyes tired, and her smile struggling to stick around. If she believes in me so much, I don’t understand why she won’t let me help her now.


  “So then, let me stay,” I say.

  She stares at me for several seconds, maybe considering it. But just as she always does, she cuts me off.

  “We both know it wouldn’t work,” she says. “You’ve got big things to accomplish, Will Hollister. And I’m the one who decided to be a mom.”

  Her words cut, and the taste is bad.

  “You weren’t alone in that,” I say, standing and following her to the sink with my cup. She laughs lightly, turning into me and taking my cup with one hand, patting my chest twice with the other.

  “Sure am now,” she says.

  I step in beside her, taking my cup back from her hand and rinsing it before lifting up a few of the other things piling up in the sink. She wraps her hands around mine and mouths “stop.”

  “At least let me do the damn dishes, Tanya,” I sigh.

  She shakes her head no, cuts the water, and hands me a towel to dry my hands with.

  “I have to do this on my own, Will. You won’t be here all of the time to pick up the slack when I get tired…”

  I start to protest, but she holds up a hand.

  “And I don’t want you to be. I want to know I can claw my way out of holes on my own. And it’s nice to get the practice in while you’re just a phone call away,” she says.

  I hold her gaze, daring her to budge, but I know she won’t.

  “Okay,” I finally say, tossing the dishtowel on the only open counter space nearby and pulling her in for a hug. Despite how exhausted I know she is, she never once broke down in front of me. The only thing that makes her cry is pride in watching her son achieve something.

  “Go make that team, Will,” she says against my chest, her hands patting around me. “And when Dylan learns to talk, he’ll bring his gold-medal winning uncle in for show and tell one day.”

  I roll my eyes at her and laugh, backing toward the kitchen door to leave through the carport.

  “I’ll settle for a participation ribbon,” I say.

  “Dylan would be just as proud,” she says.

  I nod, because she’s right. He would. He’s probably the best Hollister who ever lived.

  I am walking the path of a series of bad ideas. If there is a wrong call to make, I seem to be powerless against taking it. It’s a sign of how unready I am—yet another thought that I’m conveniently ignoring. I can hear the voices of every counselor I’ve had over the last four years all collectively screaming at me to stop, not to swim in temptations, not to add weight to my already drowning soul.

  It was eight thirty by the time I got back from helping Tanya, and my uncle was sleeping in the old, beat-up lounge chair in front of the television—some History Channel show about the first modern irrigation ducts built in the West on loud enough to hear the occasional muttered word. I was lulling myself into ignoring that itch deep inside, trying to focus on the regular pattern of his breathing, when a photo flashed on the screen of a line of girls, all standing in a canal, the skirts of their dresses tied up around their thighs as they bent forward to wash their families’ clothing. The one in the middle—she looked like Maddy.

  Or maybe she didn’t at all. Perhaps I was just waiting for the slightest resemblance to put the rest of the pieces already in my imagination into place. I could have closed my eyes just then and I would have seen her. She was everywhere…waiting.

  Visiting Tanya and Dylan didn’t make me want Maddy any less. If anything, it made me want her more. It made me resent my brother more—for leaving me with his lies. Maddy looks at me and still sees him, she sees the man we all kept on a pedestal. So many times, I’ve wanted to tell her the truth about who he really was, what he did. But that would only crush her. And maybe she wouldn’t even be able to look at me at all then, and that…I can’t go back to that. I missed her too much.

  I can keep the secret. But I can’t avoid getting close to the fire. Temptation and I have always been codependent.

  I dig through the suitcase I’m living out of and find my long-sleeved black shirt. I put on the antique watch Duncan gave me for my birthday and look long and hard at the man in the mirror. I shave quickly and look at him again. I recognize him sometimes, and parts were familiar tonight. There’s enough of the good Will to push the lesser man out the door and down stairs to the front lobby—where I sit now, my back against the doors leading to the pool, my elbows on my knees, and my eyes intent on the front door and lights from the car pulling into the parking lot.

  The window I have to escape is small, and it grows shorter every passing second. My legs stretch and my muscles remind me that they’re strong enough to stand, to run before Maddy gets her key in the door. My ears hear the lock twist. I don’t move, and when she steps inside, the look on her face breaks everything left that was strong inside of me. She was hoping I would be here.

  “Hey,” she says, her voice a raspy whisper.

  She shuts the door quietly then turns to face me again, her arms folded over her chest. There’s a slight sway to her hips, and I laugh to myself because she’s not going to let this go.

  “You get done with all of that…paperwork?” There’s a little bit of gloating to her tone, like she’s caught me. I’m sure she thinks I’ve done something bad, or screwed something up that requires the help of lawyers. I’m fine with her thinking that. It’s so much better than the truth, and if I can protect her from that, then I’ll keep playing the role of the high-profile Indiana screwup.

  I bring my hands up to my face, rubbing my cheeks for feeling to mask my reaction.

  “Yep,” I say. “All done.”

  I keep my answer short, and she shakes her head, tsking. After a few seconds, though, her arms finally fall to her sides, and her posture warms. She’s still irritated with me, and I know this isn’t the end of her prying, but for now…I have a break.

  The closer she comes, the more the dim lights from the Swim Club lobby catch her profile. She’s not wearing anything special. It’s a black sundress falling just above her knees. I’m not looking at the dress though. I’m looking at her bronzed legs, the curves proof of her discipline every day of her life for the last decade. As I stand from the ground, I take in her golden shoulders, the way her hair is swept up in a twist, her neck long and soft. The front of the dress is modest, but the line along her chest traces every curve the way I’ve dreamt of doing with my hands. I look at her shoes last, lines of strappy leather that wrap around her feet and ankles, heels tall enough to make her look closer to my height, though I know she’s not. These aren’t her normal shoes, and I know she wore them hoping I’d see them. The message they send is nothing but temptation—the greatest weakness I’ve ever had, too—wanting her.

  “You look absolutely nothing like that girl I snuck into the Mill all those years ago,” I say, my steps slow as I approach her, enough of my wits with me to stop before I get too close. If I breathe any of her in, I will drown.

  “Same girl,” she says through a sideways smile. I hadn’t forgotten how she sometimes talks out of one side of her mouth. I had forgotten how much I liked it.

  “Taller shoes,” I say, raising my eyebrows and glancing down her legs. She turns one foot into the other.

  “First chance I’ve had to wear them,” she says, laughing softly. “I’ll probably be barefoot within the hour.”

  Mental pictures of her leg in my hands, my fingers unbuckling her shoe, sliding it away before my hand runs up her calf, under her knee, to her thigh. I bite the tip of my tongue and smile at her joke, stopping myself before I think too far.

  “When’s the rookie showing up?”

  Maddy pulls her phone from a small purse slung around her body.

  “Ten minutes. I…got here early. I didn’t want her to have to wait outside,” she says.

  I nod once and hold her gaze, reading her until she looks away. Did you come here early for me? I watch her profile, and the way she avoids looking at me straight on fills me with a twisted sort of hope because I shouldn’t want th
is, and probably even more so, neither should she.

  Her head falls to the side eventually, and her mouth twists in a crooked smile while her eyes scan down to my shoes.

  “Pretty much first time I’ve worn these, too,” I say, kicking the toe of the black leather into the ground.

  “Does this mean you’ve changed your mind about joining us?” she asks.

  I pull my lips tight and breathe in through my nose, a tiny pause to make sure I’m really going to follow through before I nod and meet her eyes again.

  “Well, here’s the thing. This new me…he makes an excellent designated driver,” I say, shifting my weight, my hands pushed deep in my pockets again, my right hand gripping my keys.

  We both turn when there’s a soft knock at the front door. Maddy didn’t close it all the way, so it slides open in the middle of Amber’s knock.

  “That’s probably good, Will, because I’m pretty sure I’m drinking,” Maddy says, her voice quiet and her words just for me. Her shoulders are raised, and I hear her exhale as she steps away from me and reaches her arms out to hug the young girl who still looks up to her—even though she beat her today. Maddy has never been good at losing, but she’s gotten better at grace it seems. I know that’s why she invited this girl out tonight, to keep herself from turning her into an enemy, even though on some level, she has. She won’t beat Maddy again, and I bet my old friend shows up nice and early Monday just to make sure her muscles are primed and her starts are the fastest.

  “I wore pants. I hope it’s okay; they’re all I have with me. But my top is nice. Does this work? Will they let me in?”

  Maddy slides her arm through Amber’s, smiling at the young ball of nerves wearing gold glitter, blonde curls and a shirt that falls down one shoulder.

  “You’ll be fine. You look great,” Maddy says, looking over her shoulder at me as she walks back out to the parking lot. Her expression is sad, and I know she wanted me to see it. She’s wishing she wasn’t going to a place with so many memories, and she’s mad at herself for being drawn there. She could have taken this girl out to any of a dozen different bars, but instead she chose this one—the one place that’s significant. I draw in a full breath and feel the burn of it in my chest. Whatever that face she made meant, it’s exactly what I feel, too. I think probably there just aren’t words for it.