Breathe Page 3

  “I had permission from her mother,” Sheriff Wilson tried to argue but Uncle Jim was having none of it and cut him off with a sharp wave of his hand.

  “You know Maggie’s not right in the head. She doesn’t give a shit about—

  Go ahead. Say it, I wanted to shout. It’s not like I didn’t already know. Maggie didn’t care about me. I’d realized that basic fact of life years ago. Why was it so hard for everyone else to admit?

  Maggie had never wanted children. She certainly didn’t want to find herself pregnant, alone, and the subject of scandal a few months before high school graduation. I was a mistake. A problem. Born in the bathroom of a Greyhound bus depot to a mother who lacked the capacity to love me.

  “Just come see me first,” Uncle Jim tried again, lowering his voice. “You owe me that much, Cody.”

  Grabbing my bag, I followed my uncle from the room and wondered about the history between him and the sheriff. What exactly could Sheriff Wilson owe him? It was weird to think of the adults in my life that way. Hard to imagine them as anything other than entities that existed only as related to me. But if I really thought about it they were whole people long before I ever came into the picture. They had lives. Thoughts and dreams of their own that had nothing to do with me or my happiness.

  “How’d you know I was here?” I asked as soon as my feet hit the pavement outside.

  “Your friend Garrett called the bar. Said Cody picked you up at school.” He paused mid-stride and rounded upon me. “If there’s something you gotta tell me, I need ya to do it now. Am I clear?”

  I shook my head. There was nothing I could honestly tell him about Tom’s death.

  “Good,” he nodded and continued to lead the way back to the bar. “That Garrett’s a decent boy. Always looking out for you. You make sure you keep friends like that, you hear?”

  I laughed and Uncle Jim turned his head again, narrowing his eyes at me. His light brown hair swung into his eyes ever so slightly and he smashed his lips together, forming a hard, straight line.

  My uncle had been a handsome man in his younger years. I’d seen pictures of him from high school. Stared at his kind, smiling eyes and thought that he must have been a heartbreaker. Now, even though he was good-looking in a nearly forty kind of way, his eyes were intense and lined from years of Maggie-related stress. I knew that look well. I was pretty sure I wore the same one most of the time.

  “I’m serious,” he urged. “You may think you can take care of yourself, and I don’t doubt it, darling. But life’s hard when you try to go it alone.”

  Life’s hard either way, I thought. People make it harder. They tether you to them. Make it difficult to breathe and damn-near impossible to leave.

  ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

  I let my head sink beneath the water, enjoying the feeling of complete submersion. There’s a sensation that I would get right before my body’s instinct to survive kicked in and forced me to surface. A disconnect from real life, as if I belonged there in the water’s depths. As if it was the most natural thing in the world.

  Uncle Jim always told everyone that I’d taken to the water like a fish desperate to return to its home. Called me his little mermaid. He thought it was natural talent. Some innate athletic ability passed down from his side of the family. Uncle Jim had been an athlete himself from an early age and a tight end for the high school football team. He didn’t know about the accident. About Maggie driving us into the river. That I’d only learned to swim because my life had depended on it. He’d have never forgiven her if he had.

  My lungs screamed for air and I knew I could just let go. It would have been so easy. Open my mouth. Breathe in.

  Startled by my own thoughts, I sat up and allowed the water to pour down my body back into the bathtub. Then I stood and stepped out onto the tile floor. In the large mirror that hung above the sink, I caught sight of the bruises that ran the length of my torso. They were beginning to heal, turning a mustardy color with bright, purple edges. They were grotesque. Flagrant reminders of a night I would rather have forgotten.

  A wave of nausea threatened to knock me on my ass as my stomach began to churn. I sat down on the edge of the tub and hung my head between my knees. I wasn’t going to cry. I wasn’t a weeper. It wasn’t something Maggie allowed after she’d decided I was too old to act like a child. In fact, the last time I’d cried was nine years prior, on the day I‘d turned eight years old.

  The candles had blazed atop my birthday cake and all around me eager eyes waited. They’d already sung an obligatory round of ‘Happy Birthday’. It was my turn to act. Strangers filled my uncle’s bar. Some family members. Some regular customers. But the one person I’d wanted to be there was noticeably absent. I scanned the crowd for her anyway, for probably the hundredth time, giving her one last chance to avoid disappointing me.

  “What are you waiting for?” Uncle Jim had asked me from the other side of the round table. “Go on, blow ‘em out.”

  Another minute passed and I looked up to meet my uncle’s eyes. They were kinder, less tired back then. But they were sad eyes, sunken and lifeless, mirroring all the pain I felt. He’d nodded encouragement and I leaned over the cake, whistling at the flames.

  As the last one had extinguished, Maggie stumbled through the door, a bottle of Jack Daniels hanging from one hand and the other slung round the neck of an equally intoxicated man. She giggled, tucked a strand of her long bottle-blond hair behind one ear, and turned her body into his, wrapping one leg around his thighs.

  With a wink in my direction, Uncle Jim turned and walked toward the happy couple. I watched him grip her upper arm in one of his massive hands and yank her away from the drunken man. They spoke in harsh, hushed tones but I caught snippets of their conversation. They were talking about me. At one point Uncle Jim called Maggie a whore. It was the first time I’d heard the word and although I had no idea what it meant, I knew it had to be bad. Knew it from the way Maggie recoiled when he’d said it.

  She’d wrenched her arm back, pressed her palms against his chest and pushed him away. If Maggie had been drunk, there was no longer any sign of it. All that had remained was rage. White hot burning fury. I’d never before heard Uncle Jim speak a foul word toward Maggie, let alone raise a hand to her, but the way his eyes flashed that day, I would’ve sworn then that he was tempted to strike her.

  I’d slid from my seat. Moved to wrap my arms around my mother’s waist. She never took her eyes off Uncle Jim, she just pushed me away, almost absentmindedly, with one arm. I’m sure it was harder than she intended but my rear end hit the floor and my back crashed against the table. The cake plate teetered a moment on the edge before falling and shattering against the floor.

  “It’s okay, Mama.” I’d scrambled to my knees and attempted to clean the mess, pushing shards of glass and crumbled cake into a haphazard pile. Becca knelt down to help me. A broken piece of china snagged my finger and drew blood. I slipped it into my mouth as Maggie yanked me to my feet by the collar of my shirt.

  “Damn right, it’s okay.” She was still glaring at my uncle as she pulled me along with her toward the exit. “She’s my kid Jim, not yours,” she’d screamed and pointed an accusing finger in his direction. “It’s not like I asked to be saddled with this.”

  Later, at home, Maggie had baked me a lopsided cake that she set before me on the table and made me frost myself. She’d called it a game. Assured me it would be fun. What she really wanted was to distract me from the scene unfolding in the living room. The kitchen and living room were separated only by a half-wall with a countertop. From where I sat, I could see everything—the hairy, greasy man pawing at my mother. And when they retired to her bedroom, closing the door behind them, I was left to eat my cake alone.

  The next morning when I’d left my bedroom, I ran into him again in the kitchen. His back was to me, the coffee carafe in one of his hands and a mug in the other. A large mountain lion tattoo crawled down his shoulder toward the edge of hi
s boxers. He jumped a little when he turned, startled by my presence. “Jesus,” he swore, dropping the carafe to the floor and sending scalding liquid over my feet and up my legs. Tears stung my eyes and a wail escaped my throat.

  The man just stood there tugging at his hair and swearing under his breath. By the time Maggie emerged from the bedroom wearing only her underwear and a lace camisole, my crying had intensified. Her friend paced the room while she toweled off my legs. “I’m gonna go get some medicine, okay sugarplum?” she told me. Her voice was low and sweet, a tone she saved for those rare moments when she tried to care.

  After she left, I continued to cry. The skin on my legs, I could see, was red and swollen. “Stop it,” the man shouted at me. “Dear God just stop it already.” He’d turned away and continued to scream in the direction of the bathroom. “Make her stop.” But I wouldn’t. I couldn’t. I was hurt and I was just young enough to think the whole world needed to know it.

  His eyes flashed back in my direction. “Shut up,” he ordered through gritted teeth.

  My screams filled the air between us until the back of his hand landed against my cheekbone. It was enough to silence me and to stop Maggie in her tracks. She stood halfway between the kitchen and the bathroom. In one hand, she held the antibiotic ointment and gauze pads. With the other, she pointed at the front door. “Get out,” she demanded without raising her voice. It was Maggie’s calm anger that scared me the most. Like a brewing storm or the eye of a hurricane, I always knew the worst was yet to come.

  “Maggie, baby,” he pleaded. “Come on. I just wanted her to stop…”

  “I said get out,” she repeated, louder this time.

  The man searched her steely resolve and finding no cracks through which he could weasel his way back in, he threw his hands in the air. “Fine,” he growled and looked pointedly at me. “I didn’t sign up for this shit anyway.”

  Maggie entered the kitchen ignoring the slamming of the door as her guest left, my pain and my injury now the last thing on her mind. She pushed me to my knees and from the table grabbed the towel she’d used to clean my legs. “You’re too old to be crying like a baby for no good reason,” she’d told me. “I don’t want to hear it again. Do you understand?” I nodded and she threw the towel to the floor beside me. “Clean up that mess,” she ordered.

  “Mama, I’m sorry,” I’d whispered.

  There had been no forgiveness in her voice when she spoke next. Just cold, hard, unyielding steel. “You ruin everything,” she told me. That was the first time one of Maggie’s boyfriends hit me and the last time I’d ever cried about it.

  ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

  I left the bathroom and looked down the hallway toward the living room. “Anyone home?” I called even though I knew Maggie would be at the bar, her wrists wrapped in gauze, waiting for someone to tell her how sorry they were about Tom’s death.

  I waited a few breaths, waited for my heart to beat slower, and then headed for my bedroom. The outfit I wore that night hid in the farthest recesses of my closet, stuffed in a plastic bag beneath a pile of outdated winter clothes. Getting rid of it wouldn’t be easy, but I had an idea of how to do it.

  Chapter Three

  Garrett

  Every so often, Abby would accuse me of not noticing that she was a girl. Like the time I planned a paintball outing for her sixteenth birthday. Or when I pushed her too hard during our morning run. Clearly, she was out of her mind. Abby loved paintball. I still wasn’t sure why that birthday hadn’t gone over so well.

  And, to be honest, I was all too aware of the fact that she was a girl from the first day we met. I mean, potentially mortifyingly aware.

  Parked outside her apartment, I waited in my pickup. Night had fallen and the rain had come and gone. A cool breeze blew in from the river through the open windows and as she approached—her steps as sure and quick against the concrete as her strokes in the water—I made note of her appearance. Low-rise jeans. A tight, tiny blue-green top covered with a plain white hoodie zipped halfway so her cleavage was still visible. Yes, Abby was very much a girl. Even if she tried to hide it.

  Friday nights in Little Bend never changed. In the fall and winter, there was football. And in the spring and summer or when the weather was still warm, like tonight, there was drinking down by the river.

  She climbed in beside me and I offered a small smile. “You got enough layers on there?” I asked and color rose to her cheeks. She lowered her green eyes, looked at her outfit, and gave a slight shrug. “It’s seventy degrees outside, Ab.”

  “It’s October. I’m cold.”

  She was lying. I could tell by the way she avoided my eyes and stared at her hands. But I didn’t push. With Abby, it was best never to push. That’s why we hadn’t talked about what happened the other night. I wanted to, but Abby didn’t bring it up and I never pushed.

  I just shook my head, grinned again, and steered my pickup onto the street. I stole quick glances at her as I drove, wondering what she saw when she looked at me now. Did she see me the same way she did when we first met? Or even the way she did before Tom Ford? To look at her you’d think nothing had happened. Nothing had changed.

  “Where’s Zoe?” she asked while we waited for a red light to turn green.

  “I think she got a ride with Shannon.” It was the truth. No need to elaborate. That would be pushing. The light turned green, I pressed on the accelerator, and we were moving again. “You sure you wanna do this?” I asked.

  “Normal, remember?”

  Normal. Yes. That was the only thing we’d discussed. The one thing we’d agreed on. She’d made me swear to it down by the river.

  “Promise me,” she’d pleaded.

  “Abby…” I’d tried to argue, but one look into her enormous green eyes and I went mute. I would do as she asked. I would always do anything she asked.

  I knew we couldn’t deviate from our usual routine. It would draw unnecessary attention. So during the week that meant swim, school, swim. And on Friday nights we’d watch football and then party down by the river.

  A few minutes later, I pulled into the school parking area and scoped out a spot amongst the vehicles that packed the senior lot. Revelers drank and grilled on the folded-down tailgates of SUVs and pickup trucks. Voices rang out—loud, drunken, excited. Everyone in town attended home games. My father and Abby’s Uncle Jim would both be there. As would Sheriff Wilson.

  We exited the truck and met at the rear. Unlike Zoe, Abby never waited in the passenger seat for me to open her door. Often, I wished she would.

  “Hey Rhoades,” a voice called over the roar of the crowd. I looked across the parking lot to find Jeff Walker wearing blue and gold—our school colors—and striding in our direction. My jaw clenched and I tried to pretend I wasn’t pissed. Jeff was an okay guy. Decent student. Average swimmer. Had a major crush on Abby.

  “We missed you at practice,” he said to Abby when he reached us. “But you look like you’re feeling better.”

  “Thanks,” she replied, trying to mask her confusion behind an uncertain smile.

  Right. I should’ve warned her that I’d told Coach she missed practice because she was sick. To be honest I didn’t want him knowing she was with the sheriff.

  The silence grew awkward and Jeff raked a hand through hi long, dark hair while he shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. He wanted me to leave so he could talk to Abby alone. Probably wanted to invite her to be his date to the homecoming dance next Friday. I knew it but it didn’t make me any more inclined to budge from where I stood. “Well,” he finally said. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

  When he was out of earshot, I let out a chuckle. “He likes you.” Poor guy. I’d never met anyone who had any luck with Abby.

  “Yeah, right,” she replied as if she didn’t believe me. “And what was that all about anyway?”

  “Um, yeah, you were sick today.”

  “Really?”

  “Deathly ill.”


  She gave a short laugh. “And Coach bought that?”

  “Probably not,” I admitted. Abby hadn’t missed a practice once in the five years I’d known her. Even when she fell off the monkey bars at the park and broke her wrist, she still got in the pool every day.

  But Coach hadn’t said anything about it. I’m not sure why. Maybe he knew about Tom’s death. Maybe he figured she was upset. Or maybe, somehow, he knew what we were hiding. Would a thing like that have visible signs? Something for parents to detect?

  The urge to take her hand overcame me and for a second when she moved closer, I thought she might be the one to reach out. But she didn’t. That wouldn’t be very Abby-like.

  We walked side-by-side into the stadium. Close, but not touching. It was always distance with Abby. The distance we could cover in our runs. The distance we could swim in the pool in under a minute. The distance that existed between us even though I was her closest friend. A constant tug-of-war that kept us eternally linked but always apart.

  The football players warmed up on the field beneath the bright lights and Zoe and Shannon stretched along the sidelines, their bodies tight and hot in the blue and gold uniforms that covered little more than the teeny bikinis they wore in the summer. At least they were dressed for the temperature, unlike Abby.

  Shannon caught my eye and waved while Zoe glanced over, scowled, then returned to her stretching. So much for remaining friends. If Abby noticed the silent exchange, she didn’t mention it as we searched for a spot on the bleachers. “There,” I said and pointed her in the direction of an empty space near the top. Abby led the way, elbowing me when she took her seat.

  “What?” I asked.

  She flicked her head toward the person beside her so I leaned forward, pressing my forearms against my thighs, and peeked at her neighbor. It took all my will not to laugh and to give him a small two-fingered salute when he looked in my direction. “Hey Jeff,” I said.