Hold Me Like a Breath

by Tiffany Schmidt

  “What you guys are doing—this thing you can’t tell Father—it’s really dangerous, isn’t it?”

  Carter gave me a quick grin as he glanced over his shoulder and reversed out of the parking lot. The tires squealed as he threw the car in drive and sped down the street. “If I say it is, will that scare you off?”

  “No,” I said through gritted teeth.

  “I wish it would.” Garrett turned around in his seat. “I’m not going to let anything happen to him or you.” Which was the exactly wrong thing for him to say when he was still holding a gun in his lap.

  “And who’s going to protect you?” I locked eyes with Garrett, each of us daring the other to look away first. I wasn’t going to back down, not even if my gaze laid bare how much I cared about his well-being.

  “Hungry?” Carter asked, and we both jumped. “I’m ready to get my B-B-Q on.”

  “Stop. No. Just stop. We’re not going to dinner right now,” I said. “We’re not going to a restaurant where you’ll use ‘public place’ as an excuse to ignore my questions. I’m not leaving this car until I get some answers.”

  “But I’m starving,” Carter whined.

  “Fine. We can eat. Drive-through. No one is getting out of this car.”

  “I have to pee.” Carter was way too self-amused, and Garrett snickered.

  If I could have kicked the back of their seats without Garrett insisting we pull over so he could check for bruises, I would’ve. I settled for narrowing my eyes. “You’re not funny,” I told Carter.

  “I’m hilarious. Your sense of humor is broken.”

  We both looked to Garrett. “Oh, no. I want no part of this. Stay out of Landlow infighting is the first rule of being a Ward.”

  Was the second about carrying a gun? Seeing him holding it so casually made my stomach clench and my appetite disappear. I shivered in the A/C.

  “What did you shoot?” I asked. “And can you put that away, please?”

  “Car tires,” he answered.

  “Bet they won’t be late again,” Carter said. His eyes were on the road as he merged onto the highway. He didn’t see the way I watched Garrett’s hands on the gun or the way Garrett was watching me in the rearview mirror, his mouth forming an apology. He leaned forward and tucked it back in its holster.

  “So you don’t want to go to the city, Pen? You’d rather do drive-through and head home?” Carter put on his blinker and moved into the right lane.

  Not fair. He knew about my NYC obsession. He knew I rarely saw it on anything other than TV and computer screens. “Fine. Let’s go get dinner.”

  “Sure thing.” He accelerated and merged left, exchanging a look with Garrett that was far too smug.

  “So, did tonight’s errand have anything to do with Everly?” I threw out the word like a challenge, and they both froze.

  “What do you know about the Everlys?” asked Garrett.

  The answer, not that I would ever admit it, was nothing. I didn’t even know to add a “the” in front. It was just a word I’d overheard a few times lately. Always in hushed tones and always with serious expressions.

  But where Garrett looked horrified, Carter grinned like I’d just invented electricity.

  “The Everlys?” I prompted. “Answers?”

  Carter shrugged. “They’re an upstart. A wannabe Family.”

  “And?” I’d eavesdropped enough to know new Families never succeeded. They didn’t have the influence to buy off/blackmail law enforcement and government officials. They didn’t have the pharmaceutical companies in their pockets, so they lacked a steady supply of antirejection meds, steroids, antibiotics, etc. They had a shortage of skilled doctors and were too reckless with recruiting donors. My grandfather had had to deal with all these obstacles when he’d started the Family, way back before Father was born, but he’d had some advantages: money; a family with influence and connections; a half-dozen established spas that could be transformed into clinics without raising suspicion; a wife who was a transplant surgeon and fed up with the days she wasn’t performing surgeries because there weren’t organs available. But, most important, he was first. Not that he hadn’t encountered raids and setbacks, but he’d been able to get up and running, establish safeguards and cover stories, before the Feds even knew the Business existed. Or maybe that wasn’t most important. Maybe the most important thing was a character trait he shared with Father—they were fastidious. Grandfather had had incredible attention to detail, and he demanded it from everyone around him.

  Father said all the upstarts were sloppy—too focused on making a quick profit and ignoring both the minutiae and bigger picture. He said this was why they inevitably got themselves arrested—which actually benefited the real Families because it kept the FBI busy and away from us.

  “The Everlys use cadaver tissue, Pen,” said Carter, “and most of it comes from crematorium or morgue connections.”

  “Like you were talking about earlier,” I said, “in the library.”

  “No! Not at—they’re nothing like that. We’re, we’re nothing like—we would never be like them.”

  Carter was almost incoherent with horror, so I turned to Garrett. “Explain.”

  “There are some … questions about where they get their organs and their clinic conditions. Like, they told this one guy he was getting a teenager’s heart and it was actually a sixty-five-year-old’s. The guy needs another transplant already and he’s DQ’d from the government list. And there have been rumors of patients getting hepatitis from organs. Hep C, I think.”

  “They’re using diseased and misrepresented organs,” said Carter. “I’d never do something like that!”

  “Well, of course not,” I agreed. “Are they a threat?”

  He shook his head. “They shouldn’t be. They should all be arrested or out of the Business soon enough.”

  “So why were you talking about crematoriums earlier? Our Family only does live-donor transplants. Or donors who signed over their bodies while still alive.” I swallowed a “right?” but the statement still sounded like a question.

  “Pen, I’m talking innovations. If Father wants to compete, he’s got to change things up, or we’ll be swallowed by the Zhus and the Vickers.”

  “The Zhus are on the West Coast, the Vickers are in Texas—I hardly feel like they’re about to raid New England and steal our patients.”

  “True,” said Garrett. “But if the Organ Act passes and donation becomes legalized, what’s going to happen to us? We need a backup plan.”

  This might’ve been a time when I could’ve explained exactly what I thought would happen if H.R. 197—aka the Organ Act—miraculously managed to become a law: we’d become a legal industry. Yes, we’d lose significant money per surgery because of the proposed price regulations, but we’d also be able to slash our overhead, cut costs on security and payoffs.

  But that conversation would be endless, and I wanted more answers. “The Organ Act has been stuck in subcommittees for forever. That’s not an immediate threat.”

  “Fine,” said Garrett. “But the Everlys are doing their best to poach our client list, which is dangerous for everyone and another reason we need to innovate.”

  “But Carter just said they weren’t a threat! And what’s the innovation that’s in the trunk?”

  There was a long silence. Garrett played with the stereo; he even turned on the Once Upon a Mattress score … which lasted a whole thirty seconds before Carter changed it. I stared at the back of their seats. Standing, they were the same heights, but Garrett’s shoulders were broader, and Carter was built like Father, all long legs, so seated he looked shorter.

  “Is anyone going to answer me? Don’t stop now, it was finally getting interesting.”

  There was another silence, an exchange of looks. It ended in Garrett swearing under his breath and Carter changing lanes a little too aggressively.

  “Let’s make a deal,” he said. “I’ll drop you and Gare off to pick up dinner, then park a
nd use the bathroom. You guys can meet me, and I’ll tell you what I can.”

  “Meet you where?”

  He grinned. “Remember in middle school when Gare and I had that clubhouse and you were desperate to come in? Well, here’s your chance to see our latest hideaway—we’ve upgraded a bit since then. So … deal?”

  It wasn’t like I really had a choice, but at least he was pretending I did. “On one condition,” I said. “I want pizza. The greasy, delicious kind you see in every NYC movie.”

  Chapter 4

  Carter said he had the “perfect spot,” and I expected somewhere in Little Italy or one of the restaurants I’d seen on a Food Network show, but he dropped us outside a narrow pizza place in Harlem, a couple of blocks past the Apollo Theater. It was loud, busy, crowded with customers—and corners: on the tables, freezer cases, counters. The type of chaos that made Garrett extra-vigilant and me hyper-aware of the distance between my body and all potential bruisers while we waited for our slices to be heated, tossed on paper plates, and slid into a brown paper bag.

  I exhaled my relief when Garrett opened the restaurant’s door and we stepped into the night. I pulled out my phone and opened my favorite NYC map app, adding a flag to mark our spot.

  “I’m dying to see your ‘secret clubhouse’—does this one have Spiderman posters too?” As I skipped down the sidewalk, the toe of my shoe hit a piece of broken bottle and sent it tinkling off into the shadows.

  “Put your phone away.” His expression was tight. “Stay close to me.”

  I understood that order. We walked past cracked windows and graffiti, around split garbage bags and the huddled shapes of the homeless. It was very different being here versus playing with virtual maps—marking walks I hoped to take in some distant, healthy future and planning someday visits to landmarks and museums. Although those walks and places weren’t in this neighborhood.

  Garrett was at my side, one hand not quite touching my elbow, the other clutching the brown bag that was growing grease stains. His eyes were alert and darting but also pointing out things.

  “See that alley? It goes all the way to the next street. That one, the one with the tattoo parlor on the corner? It’s a dead end. Don’t go in that bodega. It’s just a cover for a drug operation. You know how to work the panic button on your phone, right? And how to tell if someone’s following you?”

  “Of course. I might not be ‘hot,’ but I’m not helpless. My father taught me some things too.” I saw him wince, his hand involuntarily patting the back of his shirt.

  “This is a bad idea. I don’t agree with Carter. I don’t think dragging you into any of this is smart or safe.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “Too bad it’s not your decision.”

  “Yeah. Well, I guess it’s too late now anyway. We’re here.”

  I pulled out my phone and added another location flag. This was something big, something important, and I was being included. I felt my eyes go wide with anticipation as he ducked into a dingy doorway. Just a few square feet of dirty gray tile and mangled mailboxes. The inner door was propped open with a container of mints, the same brand my brother had offered us earlier. Garrett picked it up and slid it in his pocket. “Good, Carter’s already here.”

  Passing through the door, we faced another small area. Not even a proper lobby. It smelled of mold and spoiled food. Garrett pointed to a staircase, and we began to climb. Four flights later he knocked on 4B.

  There were sounds of something dragging in the apartment, something slamming.

  Then there were the slides and clicks of locks being turned, and my brother’s face appeared in the doorway. “Hey, come on in.”

  “Your clubhouse is an apartment? Since when do you even like the city? I thought you were all anti-noise or bustle or whatever it was.”

  “You mean back when you were eleven and every time you didn’t get your way, you threatened to run away here so we’d never see you again? People grow up, Pen. You stopped throwing tantrums, and I changed my mind about the city.”

  Except I still threatened that in my head, all the time. And daydreamed about it through every immunoglobulin infusion. How nice of Carter to go ahead and realize my dream for me. “So why are we here? Whose place is this?”

  “It’s my apartment,” Carter stated proudly. “I own it.”

  “No way.” I’d watched far too many real estate reality shows to fall for that. “Nice try. You couldn’t even afford a shoe box in New York City. Not unless you’ve dropped out of school and taken up a lucrative career as—”

  “What would you know about real estate?” The tips of his ears were red, the way they got when he was angry or embarrassed. Or both. “Or money for that matter. You sit behind your computer screen with Daddy’s platinum cards, but when was the last time you even held a dollar bill?”

  Since I couldn’t remember I couldn’t contradict him, so I just glared.

  “Who’s hungry?” asked Garrett, stepping between us and rubbing his hands together. That had to be instinct honed in his family, because there wasn’t any chance Carter and I would actually come to blows.

  “As I was saying,”—Carter gestured around him—“welcome to my place. It’s completely off-grid. No one but Garrett, and now you, knows about it. No Family bugs. No enforcement waiting in the hall. This is my safe space to do whatever I want.”

  “Like what?” I asked. “Like tell me what’s going on? Let’s start with what was making so much noise before you opened the door.”

  “Okay, wee impatient one. Sit. Eat. We’ll fill you in.”

  “Is this a hold-your-questions-till-the-end type of presentation? Or am I allowed to interrupt?” I asked. Garrett was pulling the pizza out of the bag, so to him I said, “Mine’s the pepperoni.”

  “Does that work for Nolan? Because I didn’t think you were capable of not interrupting.” Carter laughed, and I knew I was forgiven.

  I reached for the plate Garrett was holding out to me, but he froze. Then flung the pizza on the coffee table. He stepped toward me, eyes narrowing, mouth tightening. “What happened to your hand?”

  “What?” I glanced at my fingers, then curled them toward my palm, hid them behind my back. My bracelet slid down my wrist to land just above them and mock my next words, “It’s nothing.”

  “You didn’t have those bruises earlier. What happened?”

  Carter’s smile was gone now too. Erased by the purple stains on the inside of my fingers. “How bad is it, Pen?”

  “I’m fine. It’s really no big deal, just from …” I mentally connected some dots. “From the car door earlier.” Except that made it sound worse—like my counts were so low, closing a door could cause this. “Normal people bruise too. I might have gone a bit ballistic when I heard the gunshots and tried to claw my way out. Which reminds me, child-locking my door is not cool, Carter.”

  “Neither is leaving the car after I told you to stay put.” There was no joking warmth in his eyes. “You couldn’t even follow that simple request?”

  “I-I was worried about you. I heard the gunshots. Is that really a bad thing?”

  “Yes,” they snapped simultaneously.

  “How can I trust you?” asked Carter with a shake of his head. “You really would’ve disobeyed and run directly toward gunshots?”

  “Garrett, back me up, please?” I reached a hand for his arm, but all he did was gently flip my palm and sigh over the purple lines that marred my fingers.

  “Princess, you don’t get it, do you? And you got hurt. You can’t—” He turned to Carter. “We can’t. Don’t you see that? We can’t involve her in this.”

  I snatched my hand away. “These are just regular bruises. The kind anyone could get. My counts are good.” That was supposed to be the magic sentence that unlocked all the doors in my life.

  “Are they?” asked Carter, pointing to my purple fingers, pointing to the inscription on the bracelet right above them:

  PENELOPE LANDLOW

  BLEEDI
NG DISORDER/LOW PLATELETS/ITP

  His question shattered every one of my arguments and retorts, replaced them with all-consuming doubt. Were they? They could flip in an instant, my body suddenly deciding it liked destroying platelets more than being healthy. Maybe this wasn’t the cusp of a remission, but a lull before a big crash. Was he thinking of my worst periods? When I was ten and my counts had been so low we could draw smiley faces on my skin, the lines we traced showing up immediately in purple? Dr. Castillo had not been amused by our ingenuity. Neither had my parents. At the time, my platelet counts were below a thousand. Not much had broken through their wild terror, but I can still remember the way they’d yelled at him, the way he’d radiated guilt and apologies and “I just wanted to make her smile.”

  The expression Carter wore now wasn’t much different. He studied me as if he was in pain, as if looking at me was painful. “Eat your pizza, Pen, then we’ll head home. Unless … do we need to leave now? Take you right to the clinic? Let me see your hand again.” Garrett exhaled a sound of relief and palmed Carter’s keys off the counter.

  “I’m really okay.” I bit back tears and retrieved my plate from the coffee table.

  It was quiet for several minutes. Garrett and Carter frowned and watched me like I might spontaneously bleed all over the apartment. I tried to convince myself that all I’d lost was some Business secret I hadn’t known I wanted when I woke up that morning. My numbers could still be good. How easily and quickly I bruised could be an indicator of lower counts, but it wasn’t like every bruise meant disaster and danger. They were like a smoke alarm—sometimes they meant fire! and sometimes they meant burned toast. These had to be toast.

  Carter cleared his throat and forced a smile. “So, what do you think of the apartment?”

  The pizza rasped like sandpaper when I tried to swallow. “It’s nice.”

  It wasn’t quite a lie. Nothing in the apartment was new or top-notch, but it had a look. Things went together to create a style. It showed an eye for design that I’d never imagined my brother had.