Barely Breathing (37 page)

There was no way I was going to be able to carry her. She was dead weight. I could've dragged her in, but then what? I couldn't leave her covered in puke in the foyer. It appeared I'd come to my last resort.

28. To the Extreme

I sat on the steps and waited for him to arrive. I was tempted to unroll the hose to spray us and the stairs down before he got there, but I had no idea where it was. I was afraid to leave her alone long enough to change and get cleaned up, so I just waited.

I was trying so hard not to cry when he pulled into the driveway. I was frustrated, sad, even a little angry that I was in this predicament. Oh, yeah, and extremely humiliated―especially when I saw him emerge from his truck in a suit.

"Oh shit," I murmured when he neared. "You were out. You had plans. Jonathan, I am so sorry. I shouldn't have called you."

"Yes, you should have," he countered without hesitating. He took us in with his hands on his hips. My mother's tight dress was pushed up so her underwear were showing, her knees were bloody, and her hair was matted with the vomit that was smeared across her cheeks and oozing down her chest. She was collapsed to the side, completely unmoving. At first sight, she appeared to not even be breathing, but I knew that she was because her breath reeked of alcohol and puke.

And then there was me. Slumped and broken, covered in dark red vomit, like someone just heaved their innards all over me. I couldn't move. The cold, slimy, vile substance made me cringe in disgust, sliding across my skin with the slightest movement.

"Bad night?" he observed with a shake of his head.

"Whatever gave you that idea?" I groaned sarcastically.

He took a deep breath and asked, “Is the door unlocked?"

"We didn't make it that far," I told him, handing him the house key. He crept carefully past us and placed his shiny dress shoes on the unscathed sections of wood. Opening the front door and flipping on the foyer lights, he disappeared into the house and reemerged a moment later wearing a fitted t-shirt and the dress pants.

"Go ahead upstairs and get the shower ready for her." He looked me over and added, "And you."

I shuddered when I stood up, my wet jeans sliding along my thighs.

"Don't think about it," Jonathan encouraged when I cringed.

I laid down a towel to kneel on and pulled the shower curtain out of the tub. Jonathan was a minute behind me, carrying my mother in his arms while trying to keep a distance between her and him. He wasn't successful. The dark red vomit from her cheek smeared across his t-shirt as he laid her in the tub.

I grabbed a garbage bag for her clothes as we slid them off of her. I should have been uncomfortable seeing my mother in her underwear with Jonathan beside me, but I'd moved beyond that embarrassment. All I cared about was getting her cleaned up and in bed, so that I could do the same. We sprayed her down with the hand-held shower, doing our best to soap her up and rid her of the vile smell.

Jonathan removed his shirt before he carried her to bed, not wanting to get the puke on her clean skin. I helped him rest her on her side, placing the bathroom's empty trash bucket below her. It wasn't like she would aim for it. She hadn't moved a muscle the entire time. She just breathed heavily and groaned every so often.

"Go ahead and clean yourself up," Jonathan instructed. "I'll stay with her in case she gets sick again."

Nodding silently, I went to my room to get clean clothes. I numbly removed my soiled items and dumped them in the garbage bag, tying it tightly to contain the sour odor. Then I lingered under the hot water, scouring the stench from my body. I didn't realize I was crying until I turned off the water and the hot tears kept streaming down my face.

I sat down in the tub, pulled my legs into me and continued to cry into my folded arms.

"Emma?" Jonathan's voice called to me from outside the door, interrupting my tears. "Are you okay?"

"I'll be out in a minute," I replied, trying to sound as normal as possible. But I know I didn't.

After dressing and rinsing my face with cold water, I grabbed the trash bag and opened the door. Jonathan was sitting on the floor outside of my mother's room, his back pressed against the wooden spindles that lined the top of the stairs. He wore the white dress shirt untucked over his dress pants.

I tried to smile, but there was no use. "Thank you," I said quietly, setting the trash bag on the top step to throw out―deeming its contents unsalvageable. "I'm really sorry for interrupting your night. Please don't tell me you were at a business dinner or," even worse, "on a date."

Jonathan smiled warmly. "I told you to call me anytime you need me. And I meant it."

I sat down against the frame of her door so I could see her and face Jonathan at the same time.

"What was this about?" he asked, motioning towards my mother with his thumb.

"I have no idea," I sighed. "She left me this weird message after she was already drunk, but I don't know what happened. Everything's been so great lately. We were talking more. I haven't seen her drink in a while, not even a glass of wine after work. She hasn't gone out, well... until last night.

"I just knew something was wrong today. I just knew it." I rubbed the palms of my hands over my eyes. "I don't know what to do anymore."

"You have to talk to her tomorrow. Find out what's going on. She can't keep doing this to you."

I nodded. Not having the energy to think about what I was going to say. I'd hit a wall, and I was exhausted.

"You should get some sleep," Jonathan encouraged, observing my worn face.

"I don't want her throwing up and choking in her sleep." I peered in at my mother, her mouth hanging open, the pillow damp under her wet, dark hair.

"I'll stay with her in her room," he offered. "I'll lay on her floor and keep an eye on her. I'm a light sleeper."

"You don't have to. I can do that."

"You look like you're about to fall over. I have a feeling that when you fall asleep, you won't wake up for a tornado."

I knew he was right. I was so tired, I could barely stand up.

"Thank you again," I told him before shuffling to my room. I didn't bother closing my door, hoping I could help him if needed. I collapsed in my bed and fell asleep instantly.

"Emma." I could hear his voice. "Emma." The side of my bed caved in next to me. "Emma." He ran his cool finger along my cheek, brushing the hair from my face. "Emma, open your eyes."

I pushed them open and Jonathan was above me, sitting on the edge of my bed. "I'm going to leave." I glanced at the clock. It read a little past seven. "I don't think I should be here when she wakes up. She's going to have a pretty miserable day already. Call me later?"

"Okay," I grumbled into my pillow, my eyes barely open. I heard the stairs creak and the glass rattle when he closed front door behind him. I shut my eyes and fell back to sleep.

I opened them again, what felt like a minute later, to the buzzing of my phone rattling on the table next to my bed. I put it to my ear.

"Where are you?" Casey demanded from the other end. I bolted upright and looked at the clock that now read after ten. I was supposed to be at soccer practice. Panic flashed through me, and I whipped back the covers, prepared to rush to the fields, but they were a good half hour away.

"I'm sick," I lied, flopping back down on my pillow. "Sorry."

"That's why you left the party last night, right? That's what Evan said."

"Yeah," I replied, thankful that my lying to Evan was paying off, sort of. "I should have called, but I'm in bed." Which was technically true.

"I'll tell Coach," Casey said. "He's going to yell at me for being on the phone. I should go." Then she added quickly, "If you feel better, you should still come to the game tomorrow. He may still play you."

I knew that was wishful thinking. Missing two practices in a row―I'd be lucky if I started next week, forget about playing tomorrow. I blew out the frustration with a heavy breath and stared at the ceiling. I'd never missed a commitment before, and the thought of making my coach or teammates disappointed in me caused guilt to slither through me. I would go to the game tomorrow, supported by the lie that I was sick, and hope they wouldn’t see right through me.

I might as well get up now
, I thought and rolled out of bed.

My mother's door was open. She was still asleep when I peeked in on her. The bucket next to her remained empty―which made me think of the porch. I cringed at the thought of what it was going to look like in the daylight.

I shoved my feet in a pair of old sneakers and went downstairs, noticing that the garbage bag was gone. I was prepared to toss it in the trash when I went outside. I dug around in the kitchen and found the acrylic pitchers used for the margaritas and filled them with hot soapy water. Then I braced myself and opened the front door―but there was nothing there.

I stepped out onto the porch to investigate further. There was no trace of the putrid mess other than wet stained boards. I noticed the hose on the side of the garage―of course I found it now. Jonathan must have sprayed off the stairs before he left.

I didn't bother to return to bed, but curled up on the couch, pulling a blanket over me. My phone had a text from Evan and a missed call from Sara. I replied to both of them with a text promising to call them later. I wasn't sure I'd be a very convincing liar at that moment, and I needed time to decide what to tell them. But I wasn't ready to tell them the truth.

I returned Vivian's phone call, since it was time sensitive, and left her a voice message saying that I'd be happy to meet her for brunch in the morning. I could pull myself back together and be presentable by then... I hoped.

I closed my eyes and fell asleep. I was still so tired. I felt like I could sleep for three days straight.

The creaking stairs woke me. The room was bright, with the afternoon sun pouring in the windows. I squinted, trying to focus.

My mother had emerged dressed in sweatpants and a t-shirt, practically crumpling down the stairs, her eyes slits and her hand holding her head. I sat up. She looked to me and held up her hand.

"Don't want to talk about it right now," she groaned, the anticipation evident on my face.

"Want me to get you something?"

"Aspirin, coffee, and please cut my head off," she croaked.

I followed her into the kitchen and found the aspirin in the cabinet above the sink. I set two tablets in front of her with a glass of water while I started brewing the coffee. She rested her head on her folded arms on top of the kitchen table. She made careful movements to take the aspirin, grimacing when she swallowed them down.

I set a cup of coffee in front of her and sat across from her, waiting. She took a sip of the coffee and reluctantly looked my way.

"You want to talk about it, don't you?"

"I think we should," I replied, anxiously picking at my thumb. "Before you say anything though, I have to ask you one thing."

"What's that?" The pain from her hangover was evident in her glassy, bloodshot eyes. She could barely open them.

"Don't ever drive again if you've been drinking," I told her. I meant it to be a request, but it came out harsher than I’d intended. She picked her head up at my tone. "If something happened to you... or someone else..." I shook my head, unable to say it. My jaw tensed just thinking it.

"I won't," she whispered. "That was stupid. I shouldn't have driven home."

"You can always call me."

My mother let out a laugh that sounded more like a cough. "Not last night. I was so mad at you. There was no way I was going to ask you for anything."

I sat back in my chair, stunned by her words. "Why?"

"Don't pretend like you're innocent," she accused, her eyes boring into me. "I hear you talking to him in the middle of the night. I saw the texts on your phone. Why are you still talking to Jonathan, like every day?"

She was
still
angry with me. It was evident in her glare. But the crack in her voice made it obvious that she was hurt too. I lowered my eyes, wringing my fingers under the table.

"I didn't mean to hurt you," I told her, not sure how to explain my friendship with Jonathan. "We just talk... that's all."

She shook her head. “Didn't you even think for one second how much that would hurt me? Emily, I was in love with him. I thought I'd finally found the person that would help me move on.

"I knew he was leaving, and all I wanted was the summer. I'd hoped by the end he'd consider asking me to go to California with him. Why wouldn't I want to move? He'd be there, and so would you. But..." She paused and pressed her fingers across her eyes.

"He was more concerned about
you
the night of my birthday," she continued in a low shaky voice. "He didn't even care that I was upset too. You forgave me. I don't understand why he can't. So, don't you realize how much you hurt me by still talking to him? It's like you don't care about me." She sniffled and closed her eyes. My mouth hung open in silent utterances. I felt like I'd been punched in the stomach and all of the air was forced out of me.

She stood with her coffee cup in her hand and walked out of the kitchen.

I never really thought how my friendship with Jonathan would affect anyone around me. It wasn't like I was intentionally keeping that relationship a secret.

I sat in the empty kitchen, staring at the chair across from me, finally admitting that I
did
keep him a secret. And I refused to consider how it would make her feel if she found out. He was the only one who understood that dark part of me, and I could tell him things I couldn't tell anyone else―selfishly, I didn't want to give him up.

I covered my face with my hands and breathed in. Guilt devoured my insides like acid. I felt like I was going to be sick.

"Are you kidding me?" she screamed from the top of the stairs. I rushed into the foyer to find her clutching his white t-shirt. "He was here last night? What the fuck, Emily?!"