Barely Breathing (24 page)

I sat down at the small table in the spindly chair facing the wall. The legs shifted slightly as my weight settled on it. Evan sat to my right in the sturdiest of the three chairs.

My mother placed bowls of broccoli and mashed sweet potatoes in front of us, then proceeded to fork a chicken breast onto each of our plates.

“What do you want to drink?” I asked Evan, pushing my chair back, the legs slanting with the movement.

“Water’s fine, thank you,” Evan responded, fanning the smoke in front of him in amusement, while my mother and I acted like it was part of the dining experience. Well... it usually was.

As I poured us two glasses of water from the gallon in the refrigerator, my mother settled on the chair across from Evan with a large glass of red wine. I found the bottle on the counter, already two thirds depleted, and eyed her nervously. She still seemed to be okay, although she was busying herself inserting utensils in the bowls.

“Help yourself,” she encouraged, placing a few stocks of broccoli on her plate.

I sat back down as Evan scooped a spoonful of sweet potatoes

“How’s basketball?” my mother asked, ignoring her food to take a sip from her glass. Then she continued in a rush, “I love basketball. It took forever for me to convince Emily to play since she was so obsessed with soccer because of her father. But she's actually pretty good at it. I never played, but I love watching it. Soccer seems so all over the place, and I can never keep up with where the ball is and why they're blowing the whistle."

She stopped, noticing we were staring at her. I had no idea she was nervous until this moment.

"Sorry," she grimaced.

"It's okay," Evan consoled with a smile, giving me quick a glance out of the corner of his eye. I pressed my lips together in apology. He reached for my hand under the table and squeezed it. "Basketball’s great."

"Did you make the playoffs?” I could tell she was trying to concentrate on one sentence at a time, taking a sip after the question. Her cheeks glowed red.

“Barely,” Evan admitted, setting his fork down to answer her. “We have an away game Thursday, and if we survive that, we’ll play at Weslyn on Saturday night.”

“I have to see you play,” my mother returned excitedly. “If you make it ‘til Saturday, I’m there.”

“Great,” Evan replied politely, flashing me another glance as I remained still―trying not to show how disturbed I was to have my mother attend my boyfriend’s basketball game.

“Emma’s playing Friday,” Evan revealed.

“That’s if we win Wednesday,” I rebutted.

“You will. Your team’s favored for the championship.”

“That would be so amazing," my mother burst out. "We'd definitely have to have a party." My eyes widened at the thought, making Evan laugh.

"What?" my mother asked, not understanding the impact of her suggestion.

"Emma and parties don't coexist well," Evan explained with a smirk.

"Come on, Emma," my mother begged. "It would be so much fun."

"Yeah, no" I shook my head adamantly.

"Well, I'm having a party for my birthday in a few weeks," she shared. "You'll be here for that, right?" She looked at both of us eagerly.

"Of course," I answered, not sure what I was agreeing to.

“Evan, did Emily ever tell you about the time she fell out of a tree?” She laughed lightly as I rose with my plate in my hand. My mother pushed her plate away, having barely touched it.

Evan began to stand. “I've got it. You can sit,” I urged, taking his plate. He looked to me for assurance. I smiled with a nod and took the plates to the sink.

“No, I haven’t heard that one,” he answered, lowering back in the chair.

I listened intently while I loaded the dishwasher, not sure if
I
even knew the story she was about to tell.

“Emily was always running around, climbing trees and covered in dirt. That’s why we got her involved in sports, so she wouldn’t kill herself jumping off rocks.”

Evan chuckled at the image. I rinsed the dishes absentmindedly, trying to remember.

“We lived in the woods, surrounded by trees, bugs and whatever other creatures slithered out there―it was pretty awful.” I turned to catch her shudder. "Sorry, I'm not a bug person."

Evan laughed.

“Anyway, one time, she climbed too far up this tree, and the branch broke out from under her. She fell, banging into branches the whole way. I heard her crying and found her hanging about twenty feet up. She’d managed to grab the last branch before she would’ve hit the ground.”

I leaned back against the sink, absorbing a story that I couldn’t connect with. Although there was something about it that opened a hole in the bottom of my stomach.

“Derek had to use a ladder to get her down,” she laughed, like the sight of me dangling from the tree, needing to be rescued by my father, was humorous. “She didn’t break anything but was covered with bruises from head to toe. And, she never climbed a tree again.”

Then she directed her attention toward me. “Are you still afraid of heights?”

I stared at her, recognizing the gap in the bottom of my stomach was triggered by fear. I swallowed and returned, “I don’t love them.”

“I didn’t know you had a problem with heights,” Evan noted, examining my pale face. “You did okay when we went rappelling last year.”

“I was pretty convinced I was going to fall to my death,” I admitted. “I wasn’t about to tell you that. Besides, I didn't really have to look
down
, just for the next step. But we never did it again, right?”

“No, we didn’t,” Evan considered. “I had no idea.”

I could only shrug, since I hadn’t known why I was afraid of heights until I was blindsided by the memory. I couldn’t recall a single second of it―but the emotions were there. The fear and desperation. I knew her story was true.

My mother continued with childhood stories. I should've been embarrassed, but it didn't feel like she was talking about me. It became apparent that I didn't have a single recollection of my childhood, and it was unsettling. That time completely escaped me, leaving me in the present without a past.

When the cleaning up was done, so was my mother’s bottle of wine―producing a giggly mess.

“Want to go for a walk?” I asked Evan. He stood from the table, smiling at another unrecollectable moment about some haircut I’d insisted on when I was eight that made people think I was a boy.

“Sure,” Evan responded. “Thank you for dinner.”

“My pleasure,” she grinned fondly.

After wrapping a scarf around my neck and pulling on my gloves, Evan and I escaped into the cool crisp air of the lingering winter. It hadn’t snowed in a while, but what was left wasn’t going anywhere fast.

I stared silently at the ground with my hands in my pockets.

“That bothered you,” he concluded, drawing my attention. “It wasn’t that bad from where I was sitting.”

I shrugged. "No, it was fine." And it was partly true. I wasn’t really bothered by my mother's nervous chattering, even after a bottle of wine. Evan waited, but I didn't continue.

“Are you going to tell me what you’re thinking?”

I breathed in deeply, sifting through what I wanted to say. “I don’t remember our house the way she does.” I paused in thought before continuing. “I remember loving it, but I don’t remember anything about it at the same time. All I can picture is lots of sun and trees. I felt safe there, so it couldn’t have been as horrible as she’s making it out to be.”

I directed us toward the park, and we followed a worn path to the playground. I sat on the chilled seat of a swing. The black plastic hugged my hips. “I didn’t realize how blank that time was for me until she was talking about it.”

“You were young,” Evan offered.

“Not
that
young,” I countered. “You’d think I’d remember something as traumatic as falling out of a tree.”

Evan sat next to me, watching as I rocked the swing gently with my feet on the ground. I stared at the flattened snow, still troubled. I'd locked everything up, blocking out the good with the bad, leaving myself with not much of anything to hold on to.

“I do remember one thing,” I said, gazing at him with a soft smile on my face.

“What’s that?” Evan encouraged.

“My dad made me this swing out of a piece of wood that he hung from one of the trees. I would pump so high my toes would touch the branch above. I’d tilt my head back and close my eyes; it was the most amazing rush. I was convinced that’s what flying must feel like. I spent hours on that swing.”

Evan smiled affectionately. I allowed the warmth of the memory to fill the emptiness.

“Sometimes, I wish I were back there, when everything was perfect and I was happy, swinging my life away."

19. Waiting for Friday

"Did I totally screw up last night?" my mother asked as she poured her coffee. "I did. I completely embarrassed you. I was nervous, and I drank too much wine, then told too many stories. I am so sorry, Emily. Tell Evan―"

"Mom, I mean, Rachel." She looked up at me with her lips pressed together. "It was fine. I promise."

"You didn't look fine," she recalled, eyeing me nervously. "You looked mortified."

"I wasn't." I smiled in attempt to make her feel better.

Her nervous guilt got the better of her, so she questioned, "Are you sure?"

I didn't know how else to convince her, so I just nodded.

"I'm sorry I can't make it to your game this afternoon."

"I understand. You have to work."

"Do you mind that I invited myself to Evan's game? Was that a bad idea? I really want to see him play. I was honest about that."

"It's okay," I laughed, wanting her to take a breath before she fell over. "You were great. Really. And I don't mind if you go to his game on Saturday. You can bring Jonathan too, if you want."

Her eyes shifted away from me and fell to her coffee cup.

"What?" I pushed, noticing the pinch between her brows.

"I'm not sure what's going on with him," she murmured. "I think he's keeping something from me." My chest panged to see her so distraught. "Does he say anything to you, you know, when you're up at night?"

I shook my head, not confident that I could answer her. After all, I would be lying.

"What do you talk about?” She asked it like she was being left out of a secret club or something.

"Not much really," I offered. "Sports, commercials, how we wish we could sleep."

"Do you know why he can't sleep?" She watched me closely. I shrugged and looked away. "He doesn't tell me anything. We don't really talk about our pasts. It's good, you know, because it hurts me to think about it, but I wish he could trust me enough to tell me
something
."

I nodded, my voice paralyzed with guilt. I felt like the worst daughter in the world. I should have told her that he was moving to California. That he had a painful past too that was hard for him to share. I should have let her know that it had nothing to do with her and that he really cared about her. But she'd probably wonder why he was telling me all this and not her. And then I wouldn't know what to say
―
especially since I wasn't sure how to explain why I've talked with him about things I've been avoiding with anyone else in my life. So I stayed silent, watching her face twist with uncertainty and doubt.

"When do you see him again?"

"Friday," she answered with a sigh. "I'll ask him about the game then."

"I'm sure it's nothing," I finally said, feeling even more horrible for trying to comfort her with a lie.

"Well, I should go," she acknowledged, looking at the microwave clock. "Text me the score, okay?"

I nodded, and as I watched her walk out of the kitchen, I could feel the heat turning in my gut. I was angry with Jonathan. Angry that he put me in this situation. Angry that my mother was being tormented by his inability to just tell her the truth.

I pulled out my phone and texted him,
You have to tell her!

I received a response when I arrived at school,
In NYC til Friday―I will, promise!

Friday couldn't come fast enough.

"Hey!" I heard when I opened the door that night. "So happy you won!" I found my mother on the couch, curled up with a wine glass in her hand, still in her work clothes.

"Hi," I responded solemnly, dropping my things by the stairs.

"That's an excited face," she noted sarcastically, leaning forward to pick up the wine bottle and empty it into her glass. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah," I replied unconvincingly. I wasn't up for talking about seeing Analise by Evan's side after the game tonight, and how miserable I was that he'd offered to drive her home when I was hoping to spend some time with him. I didn't want to feel this way... jealous. And there wasn't any reason I should. But the rationale didn't relieve the slithering in my stomach every time she looked up at him with her big Bambi eyes. So, I deflected, "How are you doing?"

My mother laughed humorlessly. "I'm fucking great."

She couldn't see my face as I closed my eyes and grit my teeth, picking up the intonation in her voice. She was drunk.

Instead of going to my room to work on my English paper as I had intended, I joined her on the couch, hoping to comfort her enough so she wouldn't keep drinking.

"It was my highest scoring game," I told her, trying to assess just how far over the edge she was. Her head swiveled toward me, rocking slightly. She smiled lazily, the effort pushing her eyes into slits. She was pretty far gone.

"That's awesome, Emily," she praised in her drunken drawl. "I wish I could have seen it." She took a long sip of her wine, keeping her eyes closed for a moment after she'd removed the glass.

"Sorry about this," she gestured to herself. "I didn't have dinner, so it got to me."

I nodded, wanting to take the wine glass out of her hand. Instead, she drained it in two large gulps. I widened my eyes as she tipped her head back, determined to get every last drop.

"I'll take that for you," I offered, holding out my hand.

"Thanks," she smiled, her teeth tinged purple. She handed me the glass and I took it into the kitchen, finding a second empty bottle on the counter. I sighed with a shake of my head and set the glass in the sink.