Breathe

by C. L. Matthews

  Stupid hormones.

  He’s never seemed happier, and when we make love, it’s fiercer, more passionate, driving us both wild. But what I can’t get over? The way he looks at me as if I’m his queen.

  “Mrs. Hayes?” the nurse calls out, making my heart race. This is it. The moment we’ve been waiting for. We head to a scale, and I’m being weighed. Then she’s settling us into a room and taking my vitals.

  “All seems good,” she says with a grin. “The doctor will be right in.”

  “I can’t believe this is happening, Sous,” Toby chimes, his eyes full of endearing emotions.

  “I know,” I cry, the sentiment hitting me fiercely. He kisses me then, holding my jaw and face, making sure I feel every ounce of love he’s offering.

  “You’re so fucking stunning, Joey. So goddamn perfect and breathtaking. Thank you for making me the happiest man.” He kisses me again, harder, longer, and as I’m about to straddle his lap, the doctor comes in and clears her throat.

  “Hello,” she chirps, her cheeks a little rosy.

  “I’m so sorry,” I apologize with heat flaming every inch of me.

  “It’s quite alright,” she muses. She’s a small thing with black hair pulled back in a ponytail, scrubs, and a stethoscope around her neck. She’s dainty and cute. “Let’s get started, shall we?”

  She pats the table for me to lie back on, grabs the gel and a little white monitor. Rubbing the probe on my stomach, you can hear the whooshing of the insides of my body. She moves it around and again and again. I’m looking at the little black screen, not knowing what to look for. From what I’ve read in books and have watched in movies, this isn’t how I recall any of the descriptions.

  After several seconds, she turns off the machine, wipes my stomach, and before the words leave her lips, I already know what’s wrong.

  “The baby is no longer viable.” The words hit me like a train, and my stomach hurts with realization. No. This can’t be happening. This was our little miracle. Our little baby. The Gumby we were going to love endlessly.

  Tears prick my eyes, and I can’t breathe.

  I can’t breathe.

  I can’t breathe.

  Panic sets in, making me nauseous. The realization of me not being strong enough for our baby overwhelms me, and I’m a mess. As I cry, the doctor talks to Toby, and as he comes over and tries to soothe me, I scream. The pain hurts. It’s deep and visceral. It’s damning and unfair. It hurts and hurts and hurts some more. It stabs at me like a knife, making sure I feel every goddamn puncture, going deeper and deeper. It’s not fair, this life. It took my little Gumby; I wasn’t strong enough. I couldn’t home it. Take care of it. I’m not a good mom. I killed my baby.

  My stomach sinks, and I’m shaking all over. Before I can make it off the table, I puke. Anxiety and hatred lace my every breath.

  I cry myself into exhaustion until I eventually pass out. When I wake up, I’m naked and in the bath as my husband rubs soothing touches across my body. He holds me lovingly. He warms me. But how is he not angry?

  I killed our baby. I ruined our chance. All because I hated my father and had to go to France. I’m such a selfish lech. I’ve ruined everything, and now, we’re paying the price for it.

  I cry more as he washes my sins away, trying to baptize me into a new light, a clearer one. The anger rides me, tells me it’s all fake. We don’t get to have any happiness. I’ve ruined it for us, ruined our lives, killed our baby.

  He doesn’t stop consoling me, even after he’s washed me and dried me. He carries me bridal style to our room and kisses my forehead with so much care it hurts. It’s fucking misery seeing him so calm.

  Break for me.

  Break with me.

  Break, goddammit.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Past

  Toby

  How to be strong 101: Don’t be.

  Like with Lo, I stay here. But internally, I’m screaming.

  How did she do this? Make it through the devastation of knowing something died before it had the chance to breathe? How does anyone ease that kind of pain? How do I make my wife know I love her so much?

  By staying? Done.

  By holding her? Done.

  By not leaving her side? Done.

  I’ve watched her break apart, and I’ve loved her through it. I’ve hugged her and told her how beautiful she is. I cried in the silence of the night when she finally passed out from exhaustion, but is it enough?

  She broke in my arms.

  I broke in the emptiness of my living room.

  She hurts so much. How can my hurt compare? Yes, I lost a child I didn’t get to meet. I didn’t get to hear its heartbeat, or see whether it’d be a boy or a girl.

  But her? My strong fucking wife? She lost a part of herself. She had to experience the aftermath in her body while I stay idly by, not knowing what she needed. Her words didn’t exist, but her pain screamed constantly. The way she shut down tore me up inside. It literally wrenched my heart out and pulverized it while I tried not to push her. She deserves to be happy and have a baby and be a mom. She’d be the best mom.

  Tears stream down my face. It hurts to know I can’t fix a single goddamn thing about our situation. I cry for what feels like hours, wishing I could do it in front of her. But my pain shouldn’t rise above hers. I’ll grieve in silence when she’s least vulnerable, and when she needs me, I’ll be there.

  Dialing my mom’s number, I yearn for her voice. Her guidance. Her love.

  “Tobias?” she says, her voice filled with sleep and exhaustion.

  “Ma,” I whisper, and I crack. Just hearing her soft voice and breathing, I entirely shatter.

  “What’s wrong, baby boy?”

  It’s like I’m ten years old again, and I’ve fucked up my ankle by trying to catch up with Jase and all his friends, breaking my bones in the process.

  “I-I,” I stumble over the words. The hot feeling of guilt builds inside me, spilling from my eyes and taking my heart again. What’s left of it? There’s nothing fucking left. “I lost a baby a couple of days ago.” With those words, I slam the gavel down. I ax the words as if they’re wood I need to chop. It’s hurtful and effervescent, so fucking raw. Admitting my loss makes it so much more real.

  “Oh, baby. I’m so sorry.”

  I can hear it, the way she sniffles. Ma and I are alike in that sense. She holds in the pain, sucking it all up from the person who’s hurting and absorbing it so they don’t suffer alone.

  “It hurts so much,” I cry. My voice doesn’t even sound like it belongs to me. It’s so small and little—so sad. I’m so strong. Joey always told me that, and so did Lo, but right now, I can’t be. I wanted that baby so fucking much.

  Fate had other plans.

  Destiny too.

  My heart hammers in my chest, reminding me I’m alive, but what about the soul? Is that still intact? Does it and can it exist when death knocks on its door, stealing from it, making sure nothing but pain is left in its wake?

  “I had a miscarriage after you were born,” Mom explains after I sit and cry. “You were twelve years old.”

  Right as she says my age, I’m thrown back to a memory so brutal, my body trembles.

  I was twelve when I drank my first bottle of whiskey.

  It wasn’t just a sip like most kids do their first time, not simply a taste, or curiosity. No, it was the entire fucking bottle.

  Unlike most, it did occur to me what it’d bring.

  Dad always drank his life away. Repercussions weren’t unbeknownst to me.

  All the information needed, I possessed.

  Going into that cabinet wasn’t with lack of purpose. Every step, breath, and swallow of that woodsy liquid was intentional.

  Me nearly dying in the end didn’t matter. Only the purpose behind the action did. Escape. Freedom. Peace.

  My hands trace the wood, my eyes scan the bottles, and my body hums with intention.

  My dad finally snappe
d tonight, using me as his biggest punching bag. Then I had the unbearable sight of him forcing my mom onto her knees as he sodomized her. She cried—tears streaming from her eyes, the black from her mascara made crude marks over her sharp cheekbones.

  I cried with her.

  He finally let me leave, which is how I found myself perusing his cabinet. He only let me leave after forcing me to watch them. Something inside him is broken. It doesn’t make sense to me, but I can’t fix him. After I walked away, I went straight to the hutch in his office.

  Grabbing some bottle that’s green and tan and red, I shake it and bring it to my lips. Without thinking twice or smelling it, I chug. The first gulp makes me choke; I cough out the liquid. But that doesn’t stop my pursuit. I take another sip, then another drink, eventually I’m sucking it down like my life depends on it until I’m feeling light-headed.

  Ten minutes later, I’m sitting here, a bottle nestled between my palms, drinking it away like it’s the purest form of grace.

  I think of that night and wonder if it’s the same one Mom is referring to. “I’m sorry you experienced that, Ma.”

  “Sometimes, it’s best to think it is meant to be. No matter how emptying those words sound, God wouldn’t take your baby unless it was—”

  “Stop, Ma. Just stop.”

  “Toby, I’m just trying to say—”

  “I don’t want to hear it. Please. I just... I have to go.”

  I hang up. Not even a minute later, I’m rifling through my whiskey cabinet and see my favorite bottle of Jameson. My stomach clenches in anticipation of its burn.

  If I’d known all those years ago that an amber liquid would drown me, take away all of my power, and watch me fall to my knees for it, would I have still drank it? Allow myself to become consumed by it? After knowing what it has done, how I allowed it to own me, and how it breaks me with every fucking drop, think I’d have walked away from it?

  They have warning labels, so humans—as faulty as they are—will second-guess a choice. Alcohol isn’t like that. There are whiskey commercials that make people look sophisticated and happy, sexy and sensual, and people talk about the reprieve it offers. What about warning us that it’ll rip you apart eventually? A sign that it’ll take and take and take until the only thing left is worthlessness?

  What about the self-loathing?

  The anger.

  Bitterness.

  Resentment.

  The lost time?

  The cold glass of the bottle touches my lips, whispering sweet nothings, promising to hide away my pain. That succulent titter, offering nothing more than regret, but lying all the same.

  I open wide, guzzling another mouthful. Once, this burned. It ached as it sloshed down my esophagus. Now, it’s a tantalizing zing, a high like no other, and as it weasels its way into my stomach, comfort confides in me, begging me for more, more, more.

  I was almost three years sober.

  Three goddamn years.

  Who knew it’d take one loss to break me?

  Joey saved me.

  Now, it’s Jameson’s turn.

  Part III

  Detoxify

  Spirals. We all have them. From afar, we can see the telltale signs and try to catch them for other people. What about for the ones who are experiencing it first-hand?

  We try to put the bottle down.

  We try to clean our palette of addiction.

  We try to be better.

  What if the sole person who had endless hope for you becomes hopeless?

  You spiral.

  I’m spiraling.

  I’m spinning.

  I’m dying.

  Is it too late?

  - Toby

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Present

  Toby

  My jaw clenches with the extent of pressure I’m putting on it, my eyes strain to unfeel everything up until this moment. Love hurts. If I’ve learned anything from Loren, it’s that it can be the utmost exciting part of life while the most detrimental in the same breath.

  It’s exhaustive.

  A cheat.

  Rebellious in nature.

  You can have many loves. They don’t even have to be romantic. But the kind embedded in the soul that are on a deeper level than friendship, that bow inside until they seep through the pores, that’s the love we fight for. It’s the love we want and search for. On the same token, it’s the one we take for granted, abuse, and wish to live without because it can calm as much as destruct. It can ensure pain and ease it. Kiss the heart and sink its teeth in. It wholeheartedly owns all the power and that is its right. It’s not a privilege, nothing earned or borrowed, because love bends for no one, it doesn’t malleate to what is needed, it is a reckless substance no one can control. Love chooses its own path, and like the saps we are, we follow willingly.

  Her mom slept for hours. When she came to, I had a concierge doctor on hand. She’d be going through rehab in my goddamn house, I’ll make sure of it. Joey hasn’t left our room, and I don’t blame her. Imagine the turmoil she must be experiencing knowing her mom is fine and only left because shooting up was more important than being a mother.

  How fucked in the head is she?

  To leave someone as beautiful, loving, and strong as my wife.

  She missed out on seeing the most spectacular woman grow and thrive. Joey did it without her, Clay, and even without me. She blossomed with freedom and ease, she crushed all expectations, and is fighting for a top chef title.

  My wife.

  The amazing woman.

  The one who hates me.

  The one I’m starting to realize I don’t hate.

  The one who ruined me for good reason.

  I don’t deserve her, but I’ll be damned if I don’t try.

  It may have taken me seeing her a mess last night, breaking in front of me, but thinking of our unborn baby, the pain, the suffering, and I’m willing to break the mold and be better. Would she say yes? Does her hatred run too deep?

  Try.

  A simple word.

  One syllable.

  Something everyone does on a daily basis.

  Try to be successful.

  Try to push harder.

  Try to smile more.

  Try not to break.

  Try not to allow hurt to win.

  Try not to die.

  There are many things that propel others to change. The problem with change is you have to choose to take the actions necessary to be better. You can’t do the same thing and expect it to work. You can hope for the best and not actually put forth the effort.

  You have to want to make a difference. You have to actually fight and not give up.

  It’s simple to give in to the easiness. Take a bottle, chug it, fuck some random woman, be the mistake because it’s something you’re used to being. That’s what I did. My dad beat me, and I allowed myself to be the mistake from that point on. Every problem I’ve had leads back to that excuse. My childhood sucked, so why can’t I suck too?

  Seeing my wife break beneath my fingertips isn’t something I ever want to experience again. Not unless she’s breaking for me in a way that brings her pleasure. We’re bonded through our hatred; it’s something that tethers us together. That hatred we’ve both clung to kept us here and continues to thrust us together. No matter how volatile or desperate our actions may be, it’s us that always ends with one another.

  “Mr. Hayes?” the doctor interrupts my chasm of mindlessness. I’m sitting on the lounger in the living room, holding a bottle of Jameson, wondering if he’d make today easier or just push me further down a hole of no return.

  “Yes?” I ask, looking up. He watches me as I stare at the bottle.

  “Addiction isn’t something you can just throw away.”

  “Didn’t ask you, now did I?”

  He nods, pursing his lips. “No, but I’m a doctor who made an oath. Whether or not you want to hear it, I’ll tell you.” A sardonic laugh leaves me. This motherfucker.<
br />
  “That anger rising inside you from me just offering you some advise only further proves my point.”

  “And pray tell, Doc, what might that be.”

  “You need help, Mr. Hayes. Not the kind you think that bottle brings, but the kind that takes the bottle out of the equation.”

  My nostrils flare as I barely contain the unnatural rage inside me. It feels like a tea kettle whistling, barely a breath away from explosion. It’s not healthy, but I can’t seem to wish it away.

  “Is that what you came out here to say?” I avoid his caring tactics. I’ll win this by myself.

  I will.

  “No, but it’s not something I can avoid.” I stare up at him and the pensive expression he’s toting. He pulls out his wallet and a card. “This is Natalie, my sponsor.” His sponsor. It dawns on me that whether he was a doctor or not, he’d spot me from a mile away. Broken people find broken people. They heal and help, or they tarnish and torture. Toxicity can go one of two ways. It can burn and fester, bringing you to your knees. Or, it can be a blessing in disguise, making your low go even lower than you imagined possible and, in that sense, brings you light, enough to get you detoxified.

  Detox.

  That’s what I need.

  A detox of pain. Of alcohol. My self-pity.

  Take it all.

  “I have a sponsor,” I respond, peering into his icy eyes that remind me of my wife’s when she’s frigid and unfeeling. “She’s probably done with me by now. A few months ago, she stopped reaching out.”

  “That’s the thing about addicts, whether they’re sponsors or not, it’s hard to give up. Our vices own us, but it’s up to us to choose to alter our lifestyle to soothe that. Your sponsor, is she a recovering addict?”

  I nod, thinking of Bobbie, wondering how she’s doing and if I’ve driven her to madness. Her love for Lo’s little brother always brought me a sense of peace, knowing it was more than a job to her. That I mattered, not just my progress. And that’s why she and I connected.

  “She doesn’t struggle like many of us.”