Breath

by Jackie Morse Kessler

  “Listen to you,” Sue chirped. “So practical! You sound almost grown-up.”

  “Yeah,” she said tiredly. “Yay, me.”

  “Missy . . . are you okay?”

  “I’ve been better,” she admitted. Her wrist throbbed, and she rubbed it absently.

  “Are you . . . ?”

  “No,” Missy said. “I’m not. Not that.”

  “Because if you are,” Sue said quickly, “you can tell me. You know that, right? You can tell me.”

  “Sue,” she said. “I promise. I’m not cutting.”

  A long pause, and then Sue replied, “Okay. Good.”

  “Good,” Missy echoed.

  “Wow,” Sue said. “No job. No boy toy. One more year of college, then you’re out in the cold, cruel world. So tell me, Melissa Miller—what’re you going to do with your life?”

  “I have no idea. Guess I have to figure it out.” Missy couldn’t help it: She laughed. “That’s kind of exciting.”

  Beneath her bed, the lock box with her razorblade grew dusty.

  For Melissa Miller, it was a personal victory.

  Tammy

  Tammy is sitting in front of the vanity mirror in her bedroom, brushing her hair. She smiles at her reflection. For the first time in forever, she likes what she sees. She’s not too fat. She’s not unhealthy. She’s normal. She looks younger than her age, maybe seventeen, still in high school with her whole life waiting for her. Her bedroom is sunny, filled with daylight, and she hums to herself as she keeps brushing her hair.

  Her mother is in her room with her, going through her closet to weed out the things Tammy doesn’t wear any longer. Clothing flies from the closet, landing in a heap on Tammy’s bed. Sweaters, tops, dresses, pants, all sorts of outfits slowly blot out the bright comforter.

  All of the pieces her mother pulls out are black.

  Her sister is sifting through the pants and sweaters and other discarded clothes, grabbing what she likes. Tammy doesn’t mind. She doesn’t need those clothes any longer. But then her sister lifts up a long black coat and holds it up to her, smoothing out the sleeves, and she coos over how good the coat looks.

  Tammy stops brushing her hair.

  “Not that,” she says. “That’s not for you.”

  Her sister pouts. “But you’re not wearing it anymore.”

  Tammy holds the brush, and for a moment she imagines it lengthening and expanding until she’s holding an old-fashioned set of scales, shining brass or maybe bronze, and she feels the hunger of the world pressing heavily against her.

  “It’s still not for you,” Tammy says.

  “Then who is it for?”

  The voice is a rich, booming baritone, and steeped in humor. Tammy turns around in her chair and sees a gray-haired man in a checkered shirt and blue jeans sitting on her bed. Even before she sees his blue, blue eyes, she knows who he really is.

  “You’ve changed,” she says, surprised.

  He shrugs easily. “So I’ve been told. How are you, Tammy?”

  She looks down at her lap. “Confused.”

  “Understandable,” he replies. “When we last met, I was on a runaway train. I hurt you, badly. I’m sorry about that.”

  She doesn’t trust her voice, so she nods.

  “I need to know what you want, Tammy.”

  She lifts her head and meets his gaze. “You mean, do I want to be Famine again?”

  He smiles and says nothing.

  “No,” she says, comprehension dawning. “You mean, do I want to live?”

  “Do you?”

  She turns away from him to stare into her mirror once more. “I don’t know.”

  “I can’t make the decision for you. Well. I could kill you,” he says cheerfully. “But that’s not the same thing.”

  “I’m tired,” she says.

  “I know.”

  “And I’m scared. I’m scared all the time.”

  “I know.”

  She closes her eyes. “Do you want me to live?”

  “Tammy,” he says kindly. “I want everyone to live. But you have to meet me halfway. You have to want to live too.”

  “But I stopped living so long ago,” she whispers. “When you offered me the Scales, I was dying.”

  “Yes.”

  “And when I was Famine, I turned my back on my human life. I walked away from it. My family, my friends, everyone—I lost them all, because of what I did.” Her breath hitches. “I have nothing to go back to.”

  “People can surprise you, Tammy.” A chuckle, and then: “They certainly surprise me. And I’ve been around for a long, long time. What do you say, Tammy? You willing to give it a shot?”

  She’s terrified.

  She wants to say no.

  But a still, small voice whispers that maybe, just maybe, people can surprise her and she’ll find her own reason to keep on living.

  Before she can talk herself out of it, she says, “Yes.”

  “Well then, Tammy. Open your eyes.”

  And Tammy Thompson opens her eyes . . .

  ***

  . . . and she waited for the room to come into focus. It took a minute, but shapes finally settled down and colors snapped to attention. Gray textured ceiling; soothing gray walls. Tammy recognized the sense of sterility and knew she was in a hospital even before she noted the tubes snaking out of her arms. She felt like her body had been wrung out like a sponge. No, that would have been a step up—she actually felt like used chewing gum stuck on the bottom of someone’s shoe. She took a shaky breath and was surprised that it didn’t hurt.

  “Tammy?”

  She tried to sit up, but that was a spectacular failure. She barely managed to rotate her head on her pillow to look at the person who’d spoken.

  Her reply died in her mouth.

  Sitting on a chair next to the hospital bed, Lisabeth Lewis smiled at her. “Hey,” she said, smiling tiredly. “You’re up. Your mom and sister went to get some food, but they’ll be back soon.”

  “You’re here,” Tammy croaked. Her mouth was painfully dry, but it hurt less than looking at the one person whom she’d trusted with everything and who had left her stranded in an uncaring world.

  “I’m here,” Lisa said, still smiling and looking so very sad. “I heard what happened, and I couldn’t not come. You’re going to be okay. The doctors here are going to help you get healthy.”

  She meant, help Tammy get fat.

  Lisabeth Lewis, of all people, was preaching to her about being healthy. The same Lisabeth Lewis who once admired her because she’d been able to stick a finger down her throat and vomit up her food.

  The same Lisabeth Lewis who’d cut Tammy out of her life.

  “You left me,” Tammy said. “You left me. We were best friends, and then you just . . .” Exhausted, she closed her eyes. “You hurt me so much.”

  “I know,” Lisa said quietly. “I had to make a clean break, to get healthy.”

  To get fat.

  “I could’ve done it better,” Lisa admitted. “I did what I had to do, but I was selfish about it. I should’ve talked to you. I should’ve told you that I couldn’t be your friend. When I got out of the clinic, I should have called. I didn’t. That was wrong of me. That was shitty of me. I’m sorry.”

  Tammy wanted to be angry. She wanted to be bitter. And she was both of those things, but tangled in there, too, was a sense of relief, of respite, as if part of her that had been clenched tight for years was finally beginning to loosen.

  “Was that when you stopped eating? When I left?”

  Tammy whispered, “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry,” Lisa said again. “I’m so sorry. If I could take it back, I would.”

  People can surprise you.

  “If you want me to go,” Lisa said, “I’ll understand.” When Tammy didn’t reply, Lisa said, “Please, tell me what you want.”

  I need to know what you want.

  Tammy took a deep breath and opened her eyes again. She look
ed at Lisa—no longer thin, and much more beautiful than Tammy had ever seen her—and she said, “I don’t know what I want. But I’m glad you’re here.”

  Lisa smiled, and she reached over to take her hand. “Me too.”

  Death

  He’d gotten better at separating part of himself. This time, there was barely an earthquake. A number of humans would chalk it up to climate change. And that was as good a way to put it as any.

  The pale steed snorted and stamped its newly made hoof. “Really? You unmade me, and now I’m back?”

  “And better than before.”

  “Please spare a steed and don’t break into song.” The horse glared at him, in the way that horses do. “Unless you don’t do that anymore. New cycle?”

  “Yep.”

  “Humph. You all done feeling sorry for yourself?”

  “Yep.”

  The steed took in his new form. “Not going to do spontaneous manic monologues about your past, are you?”

  “Nope. At least, not for a while. The urge might overtake me.”

  “You realize I’m angry with you, right?”

  He patted his steed’s neck. “You have every right to be. I’ll strive to make amends.”

  The horse blew out a satisfied breath. “For starters, buy a steed a cheeseburger. Getting remade makes a horse hungry.”

  “Any particular place?”

  The horse considered. “The one with all the health-code violations.”

  “That narrows it down . . .”

  “You know the one. The meat is questionable and the bread is soggy, but oh, those fries . . .”

  “Ah. Yes, I know the one. Shall we?”

  “Just like that? What about work? All those souls to see?”

  He shrugged, smiled. “They can wait.”

  Part Seven

  CREATION

  The primary imagination I hold to be the living power and prime agent of all human perception, and as a repetition in the finite mind of the eternal act of creation in the infinite I Am.

  —Samuel Taylor Coleridge

  Xander

  By the time his parents got home, Xander was a mess. His head was pounding like there was no tomorrow, and he kept hearing a high-pitched beep shrilling in his mind like an alarm clock on helium. When he’d first noticed the beeping, he’d looked to see if one of the smoke detectors was on the fritz, but no, everything was fine.

  Everything was fine.

  So he ignored the weird intermittent beeping and rubbed his head, but when that did nothing to ease his headache, he went for the aspirin. And then for the beer. He’d known that his parents would give him hell about the drinking, but he’d spent part of the night talking to a suicidal Death. He thought he’d earned a drink.

  When his mom and dad walked in, Xander was curled up on the den sofa, staring blankly at an old episode of Doctor Who as he thought about Ashley Davidson. It had been six years ago that he’d learned Ashley had died. Xander’s first beer of the evening had been a toast to his first crush; the second was to the Amazingly Perfect Riley Jones.

  Who still hadn’t returned his text.

  That had been why Xander had chugged the second beer. And left the empties on the coffee table. Along with the packages of pretzels, chips, and peanuts. And all the crumbs. He had a third beer to drown the unsettling feeling he’d been starting to get about Riley. Now he was pleasantly buzzed, and thinking about poor dead Ashley and how first loves were always doomed, and then his mom was yelling at him.

  “Xander Atwood!”

  He knew he was in trouble when his mom bellowed his last name along with his first, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Ashley was dead, Riley wasn’t returning his texts, and he’d been schmoozing with Death. He had enough on his plate already; he just couldn’t be bothered to think about his mom. Who was now shouting:

  “Have you been drinking?”

  Sort of rhetorical, given the empty cans littering the table.

  His mother hissed in a breath, and he realized he’d said his thought out loud. Oops.

  “Oh my God,” his mom proclaimed, “you’re drunk!”

  He muttered, “’Course not. Only had three beers.” It took a good five or so to get him plastered.

  “Son,” his dad said in a very fatherly voice, “I think you should go to bed.”

  So Dad was good cop for the night. Okay, Xander knew how to play that game. He grinned up at his father. “Sure, Dad. Just wanna finish this episode first.”

  “I said you should go to bed,” his dad replied, sounding less and less like the good cop. “Now.”

  “Jeez. Keep your voice down,” Xander said, wincing. “You wanna wake the baby?”

  His mother and father exchanged a look.

  “The baby,” his dad repeated.

  “Uh, hello? Lex?” When his parents just stared at him, he said, “You know, the screaming ball of joy currently inhabiting the crib in the nursery?”

  His dad said, “Son . . .”

  Xander rolled his eyes. “Man, you two go out on a dinner date, you forget about all your responsibilities. Nice. Very role modelish.”

  “You’re drunk,” his mother snapped.

  “Yeah, you already said that.”

  She bared her teeth. She had very white teeth. “Go. To. Bed.”

  “Yeah, yeah, whatever.” Xander started to pull himself off the sofa, but his father yanked him up by his shirt collar and got right in his face.

  “You don’t talk to your mother like that!” his dad snarled. “I don’t give a damn if you’re drunk or not, but you will speak to your mother with respect!”

  Xander squirmed out of his father’s grip. “Fine!” He barreled past his mom and out of the den. Jesus, his parents were so uptight! He stomped down the hallway, not caring if he woke the baby. That would serve his parents right. Let them calm their precious baby Lex, get him to stop screaming and go back to sleep.

  A sound, like a screech of tires.

  Xander slammed his bedroom door behind him and flung himself onto his bed. He heard his parents arguing—man, they really didn’t give a crap if they woke Lex—and he felt only a little guilty that they were shouting at each other about him. The walls were thin, and his parents were loud, so he was able to get the gist of it, even with his door closed. There was a lot of backing and forthing, but it all came back to his one-hit wonder, the gift that kept on giving: He’d screwed up with Carnegie Mellon.

  Well, yeah. Reneging on early acceptance wasn’t something he’d recommend.

  The room had started spinning, so he shoved his pillow over his head.

  As he began to doze, one thought pecked at him like the proverbial early bird hunting for the elusive worm: He didn’t remember telling his parents about how he’d changed his college plans without their consent. He must have, because why else would they be shouting about it now? So they must also know about Stanford.

  Which was why he couldn’t understand why his mother was sobbing over how he’d thrown his life away.

  Whatever. He’d worry about it tomorrow.

  In his pocket, his lucky penny waited.

  ***

  Xander woke in the middle of the night, startled and disoriented. He could have sworn that Lex was crying, but as he listened, the only sound he heard was his own frantic breathing.

  Xander stared at the digital clock on his nightstand, then he burrowed under the blanket and tried to go back to sleep. No good; he just couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was crying.

  Uneasy, he yanked the blanket back down. He listened again, thinking that he’d hear his mom go into Lex’s room for her nightly calm-the-baby motions, but he didn’t hear a thing.

  In the apartment, no one moved.

  His head began to hurt, a steady, almost rhythmic throb in his temples. Xander stumbled out of bed and into the bathroom, where he popped two aspirin and washed them down with a few handfuls of water. He looked at himself in the mirror, stared at his dark reflecti
on there in the unlit room, and told himself to get a grip. It was oh-my-god o’clock in the morning, and he had to get his butt back to bed. Tomorrow was a school day.

  Tomorrow was the day.

  He’d see Riley and find out why he hadn’t gotten a return text. It was probably nothing—maybe Riley’s phone had run out of juice—but part of Xander wouldn’t rest easy until he knew for certain that everything was fine.

  Everything was fine.

  And he’d also find out why Ted and Suzie and Izzy were acting so weird around him; ever since Marcie’s party—

  (open your eyes, Zan)

  —the three of them had been off-center. Different. If Xander didn’t know better, he’d almost think they were talking about him behind his back. Something had changed. He just didn’t know what.

  He walked out of the bathroom and paused outside the nursery. It was painfully quiet.

  Deathly quiet.

  (today’s the day the world ends)

  Xander blinked as the thought triggered a memory—no, a dream from last night. He had been standing on the balcony, trying to talk Death off the railing. Or something like that. It was a little fuzzy now. Maybe he’d remember it come morning.

  He had a sudden, overwhelming urge to see Lex, to brush his fingertips across the baby’s cheek, just a soft touch to let Lex know that his big brother was there and all was right with the world.

  Xander opened the nursery door and stuck his head inside.

  And he saw a storage room.

  He blinked and blinked again, and then he felt panic welling up inside him as the nursery firmly remained a storage room. No changing table atop a bureau; no rocker-glider. No nightstand with a lamp and his mother’s paperback novel lying dog-eared and well worn.

  No crib.

  Xander must have cried out, because his parents’ bedroom door flung open and his mother came crashing into the hallway.

  “Zan?” she said, sounding frantic. “What’s wrong?”

  “Where’s the baby?” he shouted. “What happened to Lex?”

  His mother stared at him, wide-eyed, mouth gaping, and then she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Xander. Honey. You’re having a nightmare.”